Poor Anderson! tears gushed from his eyes and streamed down his cheeks while he was writing one of the letters, which, as I afterwards ascertained, was addressed to a young lady to whom he was engaged to be married. He wrote two letters, folded, sealed and directed them; these he handed to me, saying--
"Have the kindness to deliver these letters to the persons to whom they are addressed. Will you faithfully promise to do this?"
I promised, of course; he shook hands with me, and bade me farewell; then, calmly turning towards Romaine, he announced his readiness to die.
Up to that moment, I had tried to persuade myself that Anderson"s life would be spared, thinking that Romaine must have had enough of blood after slaying his wife in that barbarous manner. But I was doomed to be terribly disappointed. Scarcely had Anderson muttered the words, "I am ready to die," when Romaine pulled the trigger of the upraised pistol, and the young merchant fell dead upon the floor, the bullet having penetrated his brain.
"Now I am satisfied, for I have had my revenge," said the murderer, coolly, as he wiped the perspiration from his pallid brow.
"Blood-thirsty villain!" exclaimed I, unable longer to restrain my indignation--"you will swing upon the gallows for this night"s work!"
"Not so," rejoined Romaine, calmly, "for I do not intend to survive this wholesale butchery, and did not, from the first. I was determined that Anderson should die, at all events. _He won the pistol_, for the coin fell with the tail uppermost. Had he stooped to examine it, I would have blown out his brains, just the same. But hark! the boarders and inmates of the house have been aroused by the report of the pistol, and they are hastening here. The gallows--no, no, I must avoid _that_! They shall not take me alive. Now, may heaven have mercy upon my guilty soul!"
With these words the unhappy man seized the Bowie knife and plunged it into his heart, thus adding the crime of suicide to the two atrocious murders which he had just committed.
Scarcely had this crowning point of the fearful tragedy been enacted, when a crowd of people, half-dressed and excited, rushed into the room.
Among them was the beautiful widow, Mrs. Raymond. On seeing the bleeding corpse of Romaine stretched upon the floor, she gave utterance to a piercing scream and fell down insensible.
In the horror and confusion that prevailed, I was unnoticed. I determined to leave the house, never to return, for I dreaded being brought before the public, as a witness, being a great hater of notoriety in any shape. (The reader may smile at this last remark; but I a.s.sure him, or her, that my frequent appearance before the public as a writer, has been the result of necessity--not of inclination.)
Accordingly, I left the house un.o.bserved, and took lodgings for the remainder of the night at a hotel. But sleep visited me not, for my mind was too deeply engrossed with the b.l.o.o.d.y scenes which I had witnessed, to suffer the approach of "tired nature"s sweet restorer." In the morning I arose early, and investigated the condition of my finances.
The result of this examination was highly satisfactory, for I found that I was the possessor of a considerable sum of money.
I walked about the city until noon, uncertain how to act. I felt a strong disposition to travel, and see the world;--but I could not make up my mind in what direction to go. After a sumptuous dinner at Sandy Welch"s "Terrapin Lunch,"--one of the most famous _restaurants_ of the day--I indulged in a contemplative walk up Broadway. Such thoughts as these ran through my mind:--"I cannot help contrasting my present situation with the position I was in, three years ago. Then I was almost penniless, and gladly breakfasted on dry bread at a street pump; now I have three hundred dollars in my pocket, and have just dined like an epicurean prince. Then I was clad in garments that were coa.r.s.e and cheap; now I am dressed in the finest raiment that money could procure.
Then I had no trade; now I have a profession which will be to me an unfailing means of support. But, alas! then I was comparatively innocent, and ignorant of the wicked ways of the world; now, although only fifteen years of age, I am too thoroughly posted up on all the mysteries of city follies and vices. No matter: there"s nothing like experience, after all."
Comforting myself with this philosophical reflection, I strolled on. A newsboy came along, bawling out, at the top of his voice--"Here"s the extra _Sun_, with a full account of the two murders and suicide in William street last night--only one cent!" Of course I purchased a copy; and, upon perusing the account, I could not help smiling at the ludicrous and absurd exaggerations which it contained. It was a perfect modern tragedy of _Oth.e.l.lo_, with Romaine as the Moor, Mrs. Romaine as Desdemona, and Anderson as a sort of cross between Iago and Michael Ca.s.sio. I was not alluded to in any way whatever, which caused me to rejoice exceedingly.[D]
Suddenly remembering the two letters which had been confided to my care by the unfortunate Anderson, I resolved to deliver them immediately. One was directed to a Mr. Sargent, in Pine street. I soon found the place, which was a large mercantile establishment. Over the door was the sign "_Anderson & Sargent_." This had been poor Anderson"s place of business, and Sargent had been his partner. I entered, found Mr. Sargent in the counting-room, and delivered to him the letter. He opened it, read it through coolly, shrugged his shoulders, and said--
"I have already been made acquainted with the full particulars of this melancholy affair. Anderson was a clever fellow, and I"m sorry he"s gone, although his death will certainly promote my interests. He gives me, in this letter, every necessary instruction as to the disposition of his property, and he also directs me to present you with the sum of two hundred dollars, both as an acknowledgement of your services and as a token of his friendship. I will fill out a check for the amount immediately."
This instance of Anderson"s kindness and generosity, almost at the very moment of his death, deeply affected me; and, at the same time, I could not help feeling disgusted with the heartlessness displayed by Sargent, who regarded the tragical death of his partner merely as an event calculated to advance his own interests.
Having received the check, I withdrew from the august presence of Mr.
Sargent, who was a tall, thin, hook-nosed personage, of unwholesome aspect and abrupt manners. I drew the money at the bank, and then hastened to deliver the other letter, which was addressed to Miss Grace Arlington, whose residence was designated as being situated in one of the fashionable squares up-town. I had no difficulty in finding the house, which was of the most elegant and aristocratic appearance. My appeal to the doorbell was responded to by a smart-looking female domestic, who, on learning my errand, ushered me into the presence of her mistress. Miss Grace Arlington was a very lovely and delicate young lady, whose soft eyes beamed with tenderness and sensibility, whose voice was as sweet as the music of an angel"s harp, while her step was as light as the tread of a fairy whose tiny feet will not crush the leaves of a rose. When I handed her the letter, and she recognized the well known handwriting, she bestowed upon me a winning and grateful smile which I shall never forget. My heart misgave me as she opened the missive, for I could well divine its contents; and I almost reproached myself for being the messenger of such evil tidings. I watched her closely as she read. She was naturally somewhat pale, but I saw her face grow ghastly white before she had read two lines. When she had finished the perusal of the fatal letter, she pressed her hand upon her breast, murmured "Oh G.o.d!" and would have fallen to the floor if I had not caught her in my arms.
"Curses on my stupidity!" I muttered, as I placed her insensible form upon a sofa--"I ought to have prepared her gradually for the terrible announcement which I knew that letter to contain!"
I rang the bell furiously, and the almost deafening summons was answered by half-a-dozen female servants, who, on seeing the condition of their young Mistress, set up a loud chorus of screams. The uproar brought Mr.
Arlington, the father of the young lady, to the scene. He was a fine-looking old gentleman, a retired merchant and a _millionaire_. I hastened to explain to him all that had occurred, and Anderson"s letter, which lay upon the floor, confirmed my statements. Mr. Arlington was horror-struck, for he, as well as his daughter, had until that moment been in happy ignorance of the b.l.o.o.d.y affair. The old gentleman had first established Anderson in business, and he had always cherished for that unfortunate young man the warmest friendship. No wonder, then, that he was overpowered when he became aware of the tragical end of him whom he had expected so shortly to become his son-in-law.
A celebrated physician, who resided next door, was sent for. He happened to be at home, and arrived almost instantly. He knelt down beside the broken-hearted girl, and, as his fingers touched her wrist, a look of profound grief settled upon his benevolent face.
"Well, Doctor," exclaimed Mr. Arlington, breathlessly, "what is the matter with my child? She will recover soon, will she not? It is merely a fainting fit produced by the reception of unwelcome news."
"Alas, sir!" replied the Doctor, in a tone of deep sympathy, as he brushed away the tears from his eyes--"I may as well tell you the melancholy truth at once. The sudden shock caused by the unwelcome news you speak of, has proved fatal; your daughter is dead!"
Poor old Arlington staggered to a seat, covered his face with his hands, and moaned in the agony of his spirits. Notwithstanding all his wealth, how I pitied him!
Seeing that I could be of no service whatever, I left the house of mourning and walked down town in a very thoughtful mood. I had already begun to enter upon an experience such as few youths of fifteen are ever called upon to encounter; and I wondered what the dim, uncertain Future had in store for me.
However, as the reader will see in the next chapter, I did not long suffer my mind to be intruded upon by melancholy reflections.
FOOTNOTES:
[D] Many of my New York readers will remember the "William Street Tragedy," to which I have alluded. The b.l.o.o.d.y event created the most intense excitement at the time of its occurrence. Having witnessed the horrible affair, I have truly related all the facts concerning it.
CHAPTER IV
_In which I set forth upon my travels, and met with a great misfortune._
Having plenty of means at my disposal, I determined to enjoy myself to the full extent of my physical and intellectual capacity, for I remembered the graceful words of the charming poet who sung--
"Go it while you"re young: For, when you get old, you can"t!"
Behold me, at the age of fifteen, fairly launched upon all the dissipations of a corrupt and licentious city! It is not without a feeling of shame that I make these confessions; but truth compels me to do so. I soon became thoroughly initiated into all the mysteries of high and low life in New York. In my daily and nightly peregrinations I frequently encountered my old friend Jack Slack; we never spoke, but on the contrary regarded each other with looks of enmity and defiance.
Stronger and stronger within me grew the presentiment that this mysterious youth was destined to become my evil genius and the cause of a great misfortune. Therefore, whenever I met him, I could not help shuddering with dread.
Three years pa.s.sed away in this manner, and I had reached the age of eighteen, with an unimpaired const.i.tution and a firm belief that I was destined to exist for ever. I had lived luxuriously upon the earnings of my pen, for I was a regular contributor to the Knickerbroker Magazine and other popular periodicals. Having acc.u.mulated considerable money, notwithstanding my extravagance, I resolved to take a Southern tour, visiting Philadelphia, Washington, and other cities of note.
Accordingly, one fine day, I found myself established in comfortable quarters, at the most fashionable hotel in the "city of brotherly love."
I became a regular frequenter of the theatres and other places of amus.e.m.e.nt, and formed the acquaintance of many actors and literary people. It was here that I had the honor of being introduced to Booth, the great tragedian, now dead; to "Ned Forrest," the American favorite; to "Uncle" J.R. Scott, as fine a man as ever drank a noggin of ale or ate a "dozen raw," and to Major Richardson, the author of "Wacousta,"
and the "Monk Knight of St. John," the latter being one of the most voluptuous works ever written. Poor Major! his was a melancholy end. He was formerly a Major in the British army, and was a gentleman by birth, education and principle. Possessing a fine person, a generous heart and the most winning manners, he was a general favorite with his a.s.sociates.
He became the victim of rapacious publishers, and grew poor. Too proud to accept of a.s.sistance from his friends, he retired to obscure lodgings and there endeavored to support himself by the productions of his pen.
But his spirit was broken and his intellect crushed by the base ingrat.i.tude of those who should have been his warmest friends. Often have I visited him in his garret--for he actually occupied one; and, with a bottle of whiskey before us, we have condemned the world as being full of selfishness, ingrat.i.tude and villainy. Winter came on, and the Major had no fuel, nor the means of procuring any. I have repeatedly called upon him and found him sitting in the intensely cold atmosphere of his miserable apartment, wrapped in a blanket and busily engaged in writing with a hand that was blue and trembled with the cold. He firmly refused to receive aid, in any shape, from his friends; and they were obliged to witness his gradual decay with sad hearts. The gallant Major always persisted in denying that he needed anything; he swore his garret was the most comfortable place in the world, and that the introduction of a fire would have been preposterous; he always affirmed with a round military oath, that he "lived like a fighting-c.o.c.k," and was never without his bottle of wine at dinner; yet I once came upon him rather unexpectedly, and found him dining upon a crust of bread and a red herring. Sometimes, but rarely, he appeared at the theatres, and, upon such occasions, he was always scrupulously well-dressed, for Major Richardson would never appear abroad otherwise than as a gentleman.
Want, privation and disappointment finally conquered him; he grew thin, and haggard, and melancholy, and reserved, and discouraged the visits of his friends who used to love to a.s.semble at his humble lodgings and avail themselves of his splendid conversational powers, or listen to his personal reminiscences and racy anecdotes of military life. One morning he was found dead in his bed; and his death caused the most profound grief in the b.r.e.a.s.t.s of all who knew him as he deserved to be known, and who respected him for his many excellent qualities of head and heart.
His remains received a handsome and appropriate burial; and many a tear was shed o"er the grave of him who had been a gallant soldier and a celebrated author, but a truly wronged and most unfortunate man.
The reader will, I am sure, pardon this digression, for I was anxious to do justice to the memory of a much-valued friend and literary brother. I now resume the direct course of my narrative, and come to the darkest portion of my career.
One night, in a billiard room, I had a very unpleasant encounter with an old acquaintance. I observed, at one of the tables, a young man whose countenance seemed strangely familiar to me, although I did not immediately recognize him. He was dressed in the extreme of fashion, and his upper lip was darkened by an incipient moustache--the result, doubtless, of many months of industrious cultivation. A cigar was in his mouth, and a billiard-cue was in his hand; and he profusely adorned his conversation with the most extravagant oaths. Altogether, he seemed to be a very "fast" young man; and I puzzled my brain in endeavoring to remember where I had met him before.
Suddenly, he raised his eyes, and their gaze encountered mine; then I wondered that I had not before recognized "my old friend," Jack Slack!
"This fellow is my evil genius; he follows me everywhere," thought I, turning to leave the saloon. Would to heaven that I had never entered it! But regrets are useless now.
Jack stepped after me, and detained me. I instantly saw that trouble was about to come.
"Greenhorn," said Jack, with an air of angry reproach, as he laid his hand upon my shoulder--"why do you so continually avoid me? What in the devil"s name have I ever done to deserve this treatment? Have I ever injured you in any way? d.a.m.n it, we are equal in age, and in disposition--let us be friends. I can put you in a way, in this city, to enjoy the tallest kind of sport. Give me your hand, and let"s go up to the bar and take a social drink."
"Jack," said I, seriously and very calmly--"I will shake hands with you in friendship, but I candidly confess that I do not like you; and I believe that it will be better for us both not to a.s.sociate together at all. Observe me!--I have no hard feelings against you;--you are a clever fellow, and generous to a fault; but something whispers to me that we must not be companions, and I therefore respectfully desire you not to speak to me again. Good night."[E]
I turned to go, but Jack placed himself directly in my path, and said, in a voice that was hoa.r.s.e with pa.s.sion--
"Stay and hear me. We must not part in this way. Do you think that I will tamely submit to be _cut_ in a manner so disgraceful? Do you think that I am going to remain the object of an unfounded and ridiculous prejudice? Explain yourself, and apologize, or by G----, it will be the worse for you!"