CHAPTER I.
THE SECRET OF THE CADWALADERS.
Thomas Cadwalader suggested rather than told his story. We dare notimitate him in this, nor would it be just to your interest to relatethese facts with all the baldness and lack of detail imposed upon thisunhappy man by the hurry and anxiety of the occasion. Remarkabletragedies have their birth in remarkable facts, and as such facts arebut the outcome of human passions, we must enter into those passions ifwe would understand either the facts or their appalling consequences. Inthis case, the first link of the chain which led to Felix Adams'sviolent death was forged before the birth of the woman who struck him.We must begin, then, with almost forgotten days, and tell the story, asher pleader did, from the standpoint of Felix and Thomas Cadwalader.
Thomas Cadwalader--now called Adams--never knew his mother; she died inhis early infancy. Nor could he be said to have known his father, havingbeen brought up in France by an old Scotch lawyer, who, being related tohis mother, sometimes spoke of her, but never of his father, till Thomashad reached his fifteenth year. Then he put certain books into hishands, with this remarkable injunction:
"Here are romances, Thomas. Read them; but remember that none of them,no matter how thrilling in matter or effect, will ever equal the storyof your father's bitterly wronged and suffering life."
"My father!" he cried; "tell me about him; I have never heard."
But his guardian, satisfied with an allusion which he knew must bearfruit in the extremely susceptible nature of this isolated boy, said nomore that day, and Thomas turned to the books. But nothing after thatcould ever take his mind away from his father. He had scarcely thoughtof him for years, but now that that father had been placed before him inthe light of a wronged man, he found himself continually hunting back inthe deepest recesses of his memory for some long-forgotten recollectionof that father's features calculated to restore his image to his eyes.Sometimes he succeeded in this, or thought he did; but this image, ifimage it was, was so speedily lost in a sensation of something strangeand awe-compelling enveloping it, that he found himself more absorbed bythe intangible impressions associated with this memory than by thememory itself. What were these impressions, and in what had theyoriginated? In vain he tried to determine. They were as vague as theywere persistent. A stretch of darkness--two bars of orange light, alwaysshining, always the same--black lines against these bars, like the topsof distant gables--an inner thrill--a vague affright--a rush about himas of a swooping wind--all this came with his father's image, only tofade away with it, leaving him troubled, uneasy, and perplexed. Findingthese impressions persistent, and receiving no explanation of them inhis own mind, he finally asked his guardian what they meant. But thatguardian was as ignorant as himself on this topic; and satisfied withhaving roused the boy's imagination, confined himself to hints, droppednow and then with a judiciousness which proved the existence of adeliberate purpose, of some duty which awaited him on the other side ofthe water, a duty which would explain his long exile from his onlyparent and for which he must fit himself by study and the acquirement ofsuch accomplishments as render a young man a positive power in society,whether that society be of the Old World or the New. He showed hisshrewdness in thus dealing with this pliable and deeply affectionatenature. From this time forth Thomas felt himself leading a life ofmystery and interest.
To feel himself appointed for a work whose unknown character onlyheightened its importance gave point to every effort now made by thisyoung man, and lent to his studies that vague touch of romance whichmade them a delight, and him an adept in many things he might otherwisehave cared little about. At eighteen he was a graduate from theSorbonne, and a musical virtuoso as well. He could fence, ride, andcarry off the prize in games requiring physical prowess as well asmental fitness. He was, in fact, a prodigy in many ways, and was soconsidered by his fellow-students. He, however, was not perfect; helacked social charm, and in so far failed of being the completegentleman. This he was made to realize in the following way:
One morning his guardian came to him with a letter from his father, inwhich, together with some words of commendation for his presentattainments, that father expressed a certain dissatisfaction with hisgeneral manner as being too abrupt and self-satisfied with those of hisown sex, and much too timid and deprecatory with those of the other.Thomas felt the criticism and recognized its justice; but how had hisfather, proved by his letter to be no longer a myth, become acquaintedwith defects which Thomas instinctively felt could never have attractedthe attention of his far from polished guardian?
His questions on this point elicited a response that confounded him. Hewas not the only son of his father; he had a brother living, and thisbrother, older than himself by some twenty years or more, had just beenin Paris, where, in all probability, he had met him, talked with him,and perhaps pressed his hand.
It was a discovery calculated to deepen the impression already made uponThomas's mind. Only a purpose of the greatest importance could accountfor so much mystery. What could it be? What was he destined to do or sayor be? He was not told, but while awaiting enlightenment he was resolvednot to be a disappointment to the two anxious souls who watched hiscareer so eagerly and exacted from him such perfection. He consequentlymoderated his manner, and during the following year acquired by constantassociation with the gilded youth about him that indescribable charm ofthe perfect gentleman which he was led to believe would alone meet withthe approval of those he now felt bound to please. At the end of theyear he found himself a finished man of the world. How truly so, hebegan to realize when he noted the blush with which his presence washailed by women and the respect shown him by men of his own stamp. Inthe midst of the satisfaction thus experienced his guardian paid him afinal visit.
"You are now ready," said he, "for your father's summons. It will comein a few weeks. Be careful, then. Form no ties you cannot readily break;for, once recalled from France, you are not likely to return here. Whatyour father's purpose concerning you may be I do not know, but it is noordinary one. You will have money, a well-appointed home, familyaffection, all that you have hitherto craved in vain, and in return youwill carry solace to a heart which has awaited your healing touch fortwenty years. So much I am ordered to say; the rest you will hear fromyour father's own lips."
Aroused, encouraged, animated by the wildest hopes, the most extravagantanticipations, Thomas awaited his father's call with feverishimpatience, and when it came, hastened to respond to it by an immediatevoyage to America. This was some six months previous to the tragedy in---- Street. On his arrival at the wharf in New York he was met, not byhis brother, as he had every reason to expect, but by a messenger inwhose face evil tidings were apparent before he spoke. Thomas was soonmade acquainted with them. His father, who he now learned was calledCadwalader (he himself had always been called Adams), was ill, possiblydying. He must therefore hasten, and, being provided with minuteinstructions as to his way, took the train at once for a small villagein northern Pennsylvania.
All that followed was a dream to him. He was hurried through the night,with the motion of the ship still in his blood, to meet--what? He darednot think. He swam in a veritable nightmare. Then came a stop, ahurrying from the train, a halt on a platform reeking with rain (for thenight was stormy), a call from some one to hurry, the sight of a pantinghorse steaming under a lamp whose blowing flame he often woke in afternights to see, a push from a persuasive hand, then a ride over a countryroad the darkness of which seemed impenetrable, and, finally, thestartling vision of an open door, with a Meg Merrilies of a womanstanding in it, holding a flaming candle in her hand. The candle wentout while he looked at it, and left only a voice to guide him--a voicewhich, in tones shaken by chill or feeling, he could not tell which,cried eagerly:
"Is that you, laddie? Come awa in. Come awa in. Dinna heed the rain. Themaister's been crying on you a' day. I'm glad you're no ower late."
He got down, followed the voice, and, stumbling up a step or two,entered a narrow door, which w
as with difficulty held open behind him,and which swung to with a loud noise the minute he crossed thethreshold. This or the dreariness of the place in which he found himselfdisturbed him greatly. Bare floors, stained walls, meagre doorways, anda common pine staircase, lighted only by the miserable candle which theold woman had relit--were these the appointments of the palatial home hehad been led to expect? These the surroundings, this the abode of himwho had exacted such perfection on his part, and to satisfy whosestandard he had devoted years of hourly, daily effort, in everydepartment of art and science? A sickening revolt seized him, aggravatedby the smiles of the old woman, who dipped and courtesied before him insenile delight. She may have divined his feelings, for, drawing himinside, she relieved him of his overcoat, crying all the while, with anextravagant welcome more repulsive than all the rest:
"O the fine laddie! Wad your puir mither could see you the noo! Bonnieand clever! No your faither's bairn ava! All mither, laddie, allmither!"
The room was no better than the hall.
"Where is my father?" he asked, authoritatively, striving to keep downhis strong repugnance.
"Dinna ye hear him? He's crying on ye. Puir man, he's wearying to seeye."
Hear him? He could scarcely hear her. The driving rain, the swish ofsome great boughs against the house, the rattling of casements anddoors, and the shrieking of wind in the chimney made all other soundswellnigh inaudible. Yet as he listened he seemed to catch the accents ofa far-off voice calling, now wistfully, now imperatively, "Thomas!Thomas!" And, thrilled with an emotion almost superstitious in itsintensity, he moved hastily toward the staircase.
But the old woman was there before him. "Na! Na!" she cried. "Come in byand eat something first."
But Thomas shook his head. It seemed to him at that moment as if henever could eat or sleep again, the disillusion was so bitter, hisdisappointment so keen.
"You will na? Then haste ye--haste ye. But it's a peety you wadna ha'eeaten something. Ye'll need it, laddie; ye'll need it."
"Thomas! Thomas!" wailed the voice.
He tore himself away. He forced himself to go upstairs, following thecry, which at every moment grew louder. At the top he cast a finalglance below. The old woman stood at the stair-foot, shading the candlefrom the draught with a hand that shook with something more than age.She was gazing after him in vague affright, and with the shadow of thisfear darkening her weazen face, formed a picture from which he was gladto escape.
Plunging on, he found himself before a window whose small panes drippedand groaned under a rain that was fast becoming a torrent. Chilled bythe sight, he turned toward the door faintly outlined beside it, and inthe semi-darkness seized an old-fashioned latch rattling in the windthat permeated every passageway, and softly raised it.
Instantly the door fell back, and two eyes blazing with fever and thatfire of the soul of which fever is the mere physical symbol greeted himfrom the midst of a huge bed drawn up against the opposite wall. Thentwo arms rose, and the moaning cry of "Thomas! Thomas!" changed to ashout, and he knew himself to be in the presence of his father.
Falling on his knees in speechless emotion, he grasped the wasted handsheld out to him. Such a face, rugged though it was and far fromfulfilling the promise held out to him in his dreams, could not but moveany man. As he gazed into it and pressed the hands in which the lifeblood only seemed to linger for this last, this only embrace, all hisfilial instincts were aroused and he forgot the common surroundings, thedepressing rain, his own fatigue and bitter disappointment, in hislifelong craving for love and family recognition.
But the old man on whose breast he fell showed other emotions than thoseby which he was himself actuated. It was not an embrace he craved, butan opportunity to satisfy an almost frenzied curiosity as to theappearance and attributes of the son who had grown to manhood underother eyes. Pushing him gently back, he bade him stand in the light ofthe lamp burning on a small pine table, and surveyed him, as it were,from the verge of his own fast failing life, with moans of mingled painand weariness, amid which Thomas thought he heard the accents of asupreme satisfaction.
Meanwhile in Thomas himself, as he stood there, the sense of completedesolation filled his breast almost to bursting. To have come home forthis! To find a father only to be weighed in the scales of that father'sjudgment! To be admired, instead of loved!
As he realized his position and listened to the shrieking of the windand rain, he felt that the wail of the elements but echoed the cry ofhis own affections, thus strangled in their birth. Indeed the sensationsof that moment made so deep an impression upon him that he was neverafterward able to hear a furious gust of wind or rain without thepicture rising up before him of this great hollow room, with thetrembling figure of his father struggling in the grasp of death andholding it at bay, while he gauged with worldly wisdom the physical,mental, and moral advantages of the son so long banished and so latelyrestored to his arms.
A rush of impetuous words followed by the collapse of his father's formupon the pillow showed that the examination was over. Rushing forward,he grasped again that father's hands, but soon shrank back, stunned bywhat he heard and the prospect it opened before him. A few of hisfather's words will interpret the rest. They came in a flood, and amongothers Thomas caught these:
"The grace of God be thanked! Our efforts have not failed. Handsome,strong, noble in look and character, we could ask nothing more, hope fornothing more. My revenge will succeed! John Poindexter will find that hehas a heart, and that that heart can be wrung. I do not need to live tosee it. For me it exists now; it exists here!" And he struck his breastwith hands that seemed to have reserved their last strength for thissupreme gesture.
John Poindexter! Who was he? It was a new name to Thomas. Venturing tosay so, he reeled under the look he received from his father's eyes.
"You do not know who John Poindexter is, and what he has done to me andmine? They have kept their promise well, too well, but God will accordme strength to tell you what has been left unsaid by them. He would notbring me up to this hour to let me perish before you have heard thestory destined to make you the avenger of innocence upon that enemy ofyour race. Listen, Thomas. With the hand of death encircling my heart, Ispeak, and if the story find you cold--But it will not. Your name isCadwalader, and it will not."
Constrained by passions such as he had never imagined even in dreams,Thomas fell upon his knees. He could not listen otherwise. His father,gasping for breath, fixed him with his hollow eyes, in which the lastflickering flames of life flared up in fitful brightness.
"Thomas"--the pause was brief--"you are not my only child."
"I know it," fell from Thomas's white lips. "I have a brother; his nameis Felix."
The father shook his head with a look suggestive of impatience.
"Not him! Not him!" he cried. "A sister! a sister, who died before youwere born--beautiful, good, with a voice like an angel's and aheart--she should be standing by my side to-day, and she would have beenif--if he--but none of that. I have no breath to waste. Facts, facts,just facts! Afterward may come emotions, hatred, denunciation, not now.This is my story, Thomas.
"John Poindexter and I were friends. From boyhood we shared each other'sbed, food, and pleasures, and when he came to seek his fortune inAmerica I accompanied him. He was an able man, but cold. I was of anaffectionate nature, but without any business capacity. As proof ofthis, in fifteen years he was rich, esteemed, the master of a finehouse, and the owner of half a dozen horses; while I was the same nobodyI had been at first, or would have been had not Providence given me twobeautiful children and blessed, or rather cursed, me with the friendshipof this prosperous man. When Felix was fourteen and Evelyn three yearsolder, their mother died. Soon after, the little money I had vanished inan unfortunate enterprise, and life began to promise ill, both formyself and for my growing children. John Poindexter, who was honestenough then, or let me hope so, and who had no children of his own,though he had been long married, offered to take one of mine
to educate.But I did not consent to this till the war of the rebellion broke out;then I sent him both son and daughter, and went into the army. For fouryears I fought for the flag, suffering all that a man can suffer andlive, and being at last released from Libby Prison, came home with aheart full of gratitude and with every affection keyed up by a longseries of unspeakable experiences, to greet my son and clasp once morewithin my wasted arms the idolized form of my deeply loved daughter.What did I find? A funeral in the streets--hers--and Felix, yourbrother, walking like a guard between her speechless corpse and the manunder whose protection I had placed her youth and innocence.
"Betrayed!" shrieked the now frenzied parent, rising on his pillow. "Herinnocence! Her sweetness! And he, cold as the stone we laid upon hergrave, had seen her perish with the anguish and shame of it, without asign of grief or a word of contrition."
"O God!" burst from lips the old man was watching with frenzied cunning.
"Ay, God!" repeated the father, shaking his head as if in defiancebefore he fell back on his pillow. "He allowed it and I--But this doesnot tell the story. I must keep to facts as Felix did--Felix, who wasbut fifteen years old and yet found himself the only confidant andsolace of this young girl betrayed by her protector. It was after herburial----"
"Cease!" cried a voice, smooth, fresh, and yet strangely commanding,from over Thomas's shoulder. "Let me tell the rest. No man can tell therest as I can."
"Felix!" ejaculated Amos Cadwalader below his breath.
"Felix!" repeated Thomas, shaken to his very heart by this new presence.But when he sought to rise, to turn, he felt the pressure of a hand onhis shoulder and heard that voice again, saying softly, butperemptorily:
"Wait! Wait till you hear what I have to say. Think not of me, thinkonly of her. It is she you are called upon to avenge; your sister,Evelyn."
Thomas yielded to him as he had to his father. He sank down beneath thatinsistent hand, and his brother took up the tale.
"Evelyn had a voice like a bird. In those days before father's return,she used to fill old John Poindexter's house with melody. I, who, as aboy, was studious, rather than artistic, thought she sang too much for agirl whose father was rotting away in a Southern prison. But when aboutto rebuke her, I remembered Edward Kissam, and was silent. For it washis love which made her glad, and to him I wished every happiness, forhe was good, and honest, and kind to me. She was eighteen then, andbeautiful, or so I was bound to believe, since every man looked at her,even old John Poindexter, though he never looked at any other woman, noteven his own wife. And she was good, too, and pure, I swear, for herblue eyes never faltered in looking into mine until one day when--myGod! how well I remember it!--they not only faltered, but shrank beforeme in such terror, that, boy though I was, I knew that somethingterrible, something unprecedented had happened, and thinking my onethought, I asked if she had received bad news from father. Her answerwas a horrified moan, but it might have been a shriek. 'Our father! PrayGod we may never see him or hear from him again. If you love him, if youlove me, pray he may die in prison rather than return here to see me asI am now.'
"I thought she had gone mad, and perhaps she had for a moment; for at mylook of startled distress a change took place in her. She remembered myyouth, and laughing, or trying to laugh away her frenzy, uttered somehurried words I failed to understand, and then, sinking at my knee, laidher head against my side, crying that she was not well; that she hadexperienced for a long time secret pains and great inward distress, andthat she sometimes feared she was not going to live long, for all hersongs and merry ways and seeming health and spirits.
"'Not live, Evelyn?' It was an inconceivable thought to me, a boy. Ilooked at her, and seeing how pale, how incomprehensibly pale she was,my heart failed me, for nothing but mortal sickness could make such achange in any one in a week, in a day. Yet how could death reach her,loved as she was by Edward, by her father, and by me. Thinking to rouseher, I spoke the former's name. But it was the last word I should haveuttered. Crouching as if I had given her a blow, she put her two handsout, shrieking faintly: 'Not that! Never that! Do not speak his name.Let me never hear of him or see him again. I am dead--do you notunderstand me?--dead to all the world from this day--except to you!' shesuddenly sobbed, 'except to you!' And still I did not comprehend her.But when I understood, as I soon did, that no mention was to be made ofher illness; that her door was to be shut and no one allowed to enter,not even Mrs. Poindexter or her guardian--least of all, her guardian--Ibegan to catch the first intimation of that horror which was to end myyouth and fill my whole after life with but one thought--revenge. But Isaid nothing, only watched and waited. Seeing that she was really ill, Iconstituted myself her nurse, and sat by her night and day till hersymptoms became so alarming that the whole household was aroused and wecould no longer keep the doctor from her. Then I sat at her door, andwith one ear turned to catch her lightest moan, listened for the stepshe most dreaded, but which, though it sometimes approached, neverpassed the opening of the hall leading to her chamber. For one wholeweek I sat there, watching her life go slowly out like a flame, withnothing to feed it; then as the great shadow fell, and life seemedbreaking up within me, I dashed from the place, and confronting himwhere I found him walking, pale and disturbed, in his own hall, told himthat my father was coming; that I had had a dream, and in that dream Ihad seen my father with his face turned toward this place. Was heprepared to meet him? Had he an answer ready when Amos Cadwalader shouldask him what had become of his child?
"I had meant to shock the truth from this man, and I did so. As Imentioned my father's name, Poindexter blanched, and my fears becamecertainty. Dropping my youthful manner, for I was a boy no longer, Iflung his crime in his face, and begged him to deny it if he could. Hecould not, but he did what neither he nor any other man could do in mypresence now and live--he smiled. Then when he saw me crouching for aspring--for, young as I was, I knew but one impulse, and that was to flyat his throat--he put out his powerful hand, and pinning me to theground, uttered a few short sentences in my ear.
"They were terrible ones. They made me see that nothing I might then docould obliterate the fact that she was lost if the world knew what Iknew, or even so much as suspected it; that any betrayal on my part oract of contrition on his would only pile the earth on her innocentbreast and sink her deeper and deeper into the grave she was thendigging for herself; that all dreams were falsities; that Southernprisons seldom gave up their victims alive; and that if my father shouldescape the jaws of Libby and return, it was for me to be glad if hefound a quiet grave instead of a dishonored daughter. Further, that if Icrossed him, who was power itself, by any boyish exhibition of hate, Iwould find that any odium I might invoke would fall on her and not onhim, making me an abhorrence, not only to the world at large, but to thevery father in whose interest I might pretend to act.
"I was young and without worldly experience. I yielded to thesearguments, but I cursed him where he stood. With his hand pressingheavily upon me, I cursed him to his face; then I went back to mysister.
"Had she, by some supernatural power, listened to our talk, or had shereally been visited by some dream, that she looked so changed? There wasa feverish light in her eye, and something like the shadow of a smile onher lips. Mrs. Poindexter was with her; Mrs. Poindexter, whose face wasa mask we never tried to penetrate. But when she had left us aloneagain, then Evelyn spoke, and I saw what her dream had been.
"'Felix,' she cried as I approached her trembling with my own emotionsand half afraid of hers, 'there is still one hope for me. It has come tome while you have been away. Edward--he loves me--did--perhaps he wouldforgive. If he would take me into his protection (I see you know it all,Felix) then I might grow happy again--well--strong--good. Do youthink--oh, you are a child, what do you know?--but--but before I turn myface forever to the wall try if he will see me--try, try--with yourboy's wit--your clever schemes, to get him here unknown to--to--the oneI fear, I hate--and then, then, if he bids me live, I will live, an
d ifhe bids me die, I will die; and all will be ended.'
"I was an ignorant boy. I knew men no more than I knew women, andyielding to her importunities, I promised to see Edward and plan for aninterview without her guardian's knowledge. I was, as Evelyn had said,keen in those days and full of resources, and I easily managed it.Edward, who had watched from the garden as I had from the door, waseasily persuaded to climb her lattice in search of what he had everyreason to believe would be his last earthly interview with his darling.As his eager form bounded into the room I tottered forth, carrying withme a vision of her face as she rose to meet--what? I dared not think orattempt to foresee. Falling on my knees I waited the issue. Alas! It wasa speedy one. A stifled moan from her, the sound of a hoarse farewellfrom him, told me that his love had failed her, and that her doom wassealed. Creeping back to her side as quickly as my failing courageadmitted, I found her face turned to the wall, from which it never againlooked back; while presently, before the hour was passed, shouts ringingthrough the town proclaimed that young Kissam had shot himself. Sheheard, and died that night. In her last hour she had fancies. Shethought she saw her father, and her prayers for mercy wereheart-rending. Then she thought she saw him, that demon, herexecutioner, and cringed and moaned against the wall.
"But enough of this. Two days after, I walked between him and her silentfigure outstretched for burial. I had promised that no eye but mineshould look upon her, no other hand touch her, and I kept my word, evenwhen the impossible happened and her father rose up in the street beforeus. Quietly, and in honor, she was carried to her grave, and then--then,in the solitude of the retreat I had found for him, I told our fatherall, and why I had denied him the only comfort which seemed left tohim--a last look at his darling daughter's face."