The dreary days rolled on; the health of Mrs. Clayton declined so rapidly that a small stove was found necessary to the comfort of her contracted bedroom, which freed me from the unpleasant necessity of her actual presence. The stocking-basket was set aside, the gingerbread nuts were neglected, and the noise of constant crunching, as of bones, came no more from my dragon’s den; nor yet the smell of Stilton cheese and porter, wherewith she had so frequently regaled herself and nauseated me between-meals, and in the night-season. I used to call her a chronic eater a symptom, I believe, of the worst sort of dyspepsia, as well as too often its occasion.

I prefer, myself, the Indian notion of eating, seldom, and enough at a time. After all, is there any despot equal to the stomach and its requisitions? What an injustice it seems to all the rest of the organs, the royal brain especially, that this selfish, sensual sybarite should exact tribute, and even enforce concession, whenever denied its customary demands!

There are human beings, the poor of the earth, as we know, who pass their whole lives, merge their immortal souls in ministering to its absolute necessities, who go cold, ill-clad, and ignorant, to keep off the pangs of hunger; who sacrifice pride and affection at its miserable altar. There are others, fewer in number, it is true, but scarcely less to be pitied, who exceed this enforced servility in the most abject fashion of voluntary adulation; who flatter, persuade, and bring rich tribute to this smiling Moloch, only waiting his own time to turn upon and destroy his idolaters. For the pampered stomach, like all other spoiled potentates, is treacherous and ungrateful beyond belief.

Yet the philosophers tell us man’s necessity for food lies at the root of civilization, and that the desire for a sufficiency and variety of aliment alone keeps up our energies! I cannot think so; I believe it is the stone about our necks that drags us down, and is intended to do so, and which keeps us truly from being “but a little lower than the angels.”

“Revenons a nos moutons!”

The good-hearted vulgarian, who, whatever she was, and however detestable the part she was playing, was at least possessed of womanly sympathy, came frequently to see me during those weary days. Her engagement to Mr. Bainrothe was never by her acknowledged, or by me alluded to, and she seemed to have taken up the impression in some way that I was the victim of an unfortunate attachment to that subtle person, which had degenerated into a morbid and causeless hatred on my part, leading to mania.

Had she stated this conviction plainly, I might have been tempted to undeceive her; as it was, I suffered the error to continue, knowing that no condition of belief would influence her half so kindly toward me. Women as a class have a sincere friendship for those who have undergone slighting treatment at the hands of their lovers and husbands; and we all know what a common trick of trade it is with men who have been unsuccessful in their attempts to gain a woman’s affections, or worse, in their evil designs on her honor, to give out such mendacious impressions!

Yet, to the end of time, the vanity and credulity of women will lead them to lend credence to such statements, rather than look matters firmly in the face, with the eyes of common-sense and experience. I, for one, am a very skeptic on this subject of manly dislike growing out of female susceptibility, and usually take the conservative view of the question.

During one of these condescending visits of the “Lady Anastasia,” whose position toward Bainrothe I perfectly comprehended, through the inadvertence, it may be remembered, of Mrs. Clayton, I ventured to ask her whether she had met with her betrothed, as she had expected to do on landing at New York, and when her marriage was to take place.

“Whenever you come out of this retirement, dear; not before. You see I have set my heart on ‘aving you for my bridesmaid, with your friends’ permission.”

“Then Mr. Bainrothe has concluded to annul the condition of my marriage before leaving the asylum.”

“Oh, I had forgotten about that! Well, we will have the ceremony performed together, if you prefer; down in Dr. Englehart’s drawing-rooms.”

“You reside here, then?” I questioned; “you are at home in this house, whosesoever it may be?”

“Oh, no, you quite misunderstand me. I am staying with friends, and Mr. Bainrothe is over at home with his son and daughter-in-law” with a jerk of her head in the right direction “in the other city, I mean; I am such a stranger I. forget names sometimes. This, you know, is solely Dr. Englehart’s establishment.”

“I suppose that gentleman is absent, as I have not seen him lately,” I continued.

“He has been absent, but has just returned. He speaks of calling, I believe, very soon, to see you on the part of Mr. Gregory. How happy you are to inspire such a passion in the heart of that splendid man!” and she rolled her eyes, and drew up her square, flat shoulders expressively. “Do tell me where you knew him, and all about it; I am sure he is much more suitable to you, in age and intellect, than than even Mr. Bainrothe.”

“There is no question of him now,” I responded, gravely, purposely misunderstanding her; “he has been married some time to my step-sister, Evelyn Erie, and, I suppose, with many of my other friends, believes me dead!”

“Oh, no, I assure you,” she rejoined, with some confusion, “it is a mistake altogether. Both Mr. and Mrs. Claude Bainrothe are perfectly aware of your seclusion, and he, especially, recommended and contrived it.”

“There was contrivance, then; you admit that!” I said, impressively.

At this juncture a feeble voice from the adjoining room was heard calling aloud, and I listened to it, uplifted as it was, evidently, in tones of remonstrance and reproof, for some moments afterward the Lady Anastasia having hastened, with dutiful alacrity, to the bedside of her soi-disant servant.

I became aware, after this visit, that Mrs. Raymond had become my jailer as well as her mother’s. She came regularly at supper-time thereafter to superintend Dinah’s arrangements, to give Mrs. Clayton her night-draught, which did not assuage her direful vigilance one particle, but rather seemed to infuse new powers of wakefulness in those ever-watchful eyes, until sunrise, when, protected by the knowledge that others besides herself were on the watch, she permitted sleep to take possession of her senses.

I earnestly believe that no one ever so effectually controlled the predisposition to slumber as did this woman.

After locking us up regularly for the night, the “Lady Anastasia” withdrew, followed by Dinah; and I would hear, later, sounds of festivity, in which her well-known laugh was blended, in the dining-room below, where, with Bainrothe and his friends, she held wassail, frequently, until after midnight. The groans of Mrs. Clayton would then commence, and, with little intermission, last until morning’s light.

Yet it was something to be rid of Mrs. Raymond’s surveillance during those very hours I had selected for my second effort to escape. This must be hazarded, I knew, between eight and ten o’clock of the evening, during which time I had reason to suppose the house-door remained unlocked. The risk of encountering some one in the hall below for there was constant passing and repassing of footsteps during those hours constituted my chief danger; but, at all hazards, the experiment must then, if at all, be made.

October was fast drifting away, and I knew that at its close my course would be decided for me, should I not anticipate such despotism by setting it at naught, in the only possible way that of flying from the scene of my oppression.

How to do this, and when, became the one problem of my existence; and it was well for me that Mrs. Clayton was too great a sufferer to notice beyond my external safety, or she might have seen clear indications of some strange change at work, stamped upon my features.

My unsettled intentions were suddenly brought to a crisis by the contents of a letter handed to me, as usual, in the shadows of the evening, by the long-absent Dr. Englehart, who came in person, in accordance with Mrs. Raymond’s announcement (arriving, as it chanced, while Mrs. Clayton slumbered), to deliver it.

Gregory wrote a large, clear hand, not difficult to decipher, even by the dim light of a moonlight lamp; and, while Dr. Englehart stood regarding me in the shadow, anxiously enough, I perceived, to keep me entirely on my guard, I perused, with mingled derision and terror, this truly characteristic epistle. My running commentaries, as I read entirely sotto voce, of course, for one does not care to rouse the wrath of a tiger on the crouch, by flinging pebbles in the jungle may give some idea of the impression it made upon me, and the emotions it excited.

“BELOVED MIRIAM” (insolent cur!) “for by this tender title I am permitted to address you at last” (by whom?) “I cannot flatter myself that, in concurring with the wishes of your friends, you return my fervent passion” (you are mistaken there; I do return it with the seal unbroken); “but will you not suffer me to hope that the deep, disinterested devotion of months may undo the past, and dissolve those bitter prejudices which I feel well aware were instilled into your heart by one of the coldest and most time-serving of men” (of course, hope is free to all; it is no longer kept in a box, as in the days of Pandora)? “When I assure you that Wentworth, with a perfect knowledge of your present situation, has repudiated the past, you will more perfectly understand my reference” (I will believe this when he tells me so, not before; your assertion simply reassures me). “It is not, however, to place my own devotion in contrast with his perfidy, that I now address you” (Nature drew the contrast, fortunately for him, without your assistance), “but to beseech you, for your own sake, to let nothing turn you from your recently-formed resolution” (I don’t intend to let any thing turn me, if I can help it, this time!). “It remains with you to live a free and happy life, adored and indulged by one who would give his heart’s blood to serve you” (a poor gift, I take it), “or pass your whole existence in the cell of a lunatic, cut off from every being who could care for or protect you.” (Great Heavens! what can the wretch mean?) “Should you refuse to become my wife, and affix your signature to the papers in your possession, I have reason to know that Bainrothe designs to make, or rather continue, you dead, and imprison you in a lonely house on the sea-coast, which he owns, where others of his victims have before now lived and died unknown!” (Very melodramatic, truly; but I don’t believe Cagliostro would dare to do it.) “To convince you of the truth of my allegations. Dr. Engelehart is instructed to place in your hands a note recently intercepted by me from that arch-conspirator to his son, which please return to him, my truest friend” (direst enemy, you mean), “along with this letter, as I send you both documents at my own peril, and dare not leave them in your hands” (how magnanimous!); and here I dropped the letter on the table, and extended my hand mutely to Dr. Englehart for the note, which was ready for me, in the hollow of his pudgy palm.

It did, indeed, most clearly confirm the statement, true or false, of the ubiquitous Gregory. Returning it to the physician pro tem., I then continued the perusal of this singular love-letter to the end, in which the lawyer and knave predominated in spite of Eros! Yet there was food for consideration here, and extremest terror.

“How long before this ultimatum is proposed to me, which Mr. Gregory seemed to anticipate, and with which you, no doubt, are acquainted?” I asked, coldly, after consideration.

“Ten days will close up de whole transaction, as I understand,” was the no less cool reply, made in those husky, inimitable tones, peculiar to the man of petty pills.

“Ten days! It would seem a short time wherein to get up a reasonable trousseau, even!”

“True true! but nosing of dat kind is necessaire under dese circumstances only your mos’ gracious and graceful consent!” He spoke eagerly, with bowed head and clasped hands, standing mutely before me when he had concluded.

“If Mr. Gregory loved me truly, he would not limit me thus,” I hazarded. “He would give me time to learn to return his affection, as I must try to do, and to forget the past! He would not strike hands with my persecutors, but insist on my liberation or obtain it, as he could readily do, without their cooeperation, through you, Dr. Englehart, who seem to be his friend and ally, and who have already run such risks for his sake in bringing me these two dangerous letters,” and as I spoke I pushed them across the table, to be gathered up and concealed with well-affected eagerness.

How perfectly he played his part, and how cunningly Bainrothe had contrived to convey to me his menace real, or assumed for effect, I could not tell which, for my judgment spoke one language, my cowardice another! Yet, I confess, that the panic was complete, though I concealed it from the enemy.

“Women usually, at least romantic and incredulous women like me, demand some proof of a lover’s devotion,” I resumed, as coolly as I could, “before yielding him their faith and fealty; but Mr. Gregory has given me no evidence so far of the sincerity of his passion; I confess I find it difficult, under the circumstances, to believe in its existence.”

He drew near to me, bent eagerly above me, then again concealed himself, as it was wise for him to do, in shadow; and I could hear his hissing breath, as it passed between his closed teeth like that of a roused serpent. The impulse of the man came near betraying him, but he rallied and refrained from an exposure, as he would have supposed it, that must have been fatal to his success as a lover, even if it confirmed his power of possession.

His tones, low and deep, were unmistakably those of suppressed passion when he spoke again, and he had almost dropped his accent, so wonderfully assumed.

“When shall he come to you, and speak for himself? Let me take to him some word of encouragement from your lips for de love of whom he languishes he dies! All other passions of his life have proved like cobwebs, compared to this avarice, ambition, revenge, all yield before it! He is your slave! Do not trample on a fervent heart, thus laid at your feet! Have mercy on this unfortunate!”

“Strange language from a captor to a captive mocking language, that I find unendurable! Let Mr. Gregory remain where he is until the extreme limit of the interval granted me by Basil Bainrothe as breathing-space before execution; and before hope expires in thick darkness then let him come and take what he will find of the victim of so much perfidy!”

“You do not you cannot meditate personal violence, self-murder?” He spoke in a voice of agony, that could scarcely be restrained from breaking into its natural tones.

“No no do not flatter yourselves that I could be driven by you by any one to such God-offending,” I hastened to say, for I felt the importance of keeping this barrier of disguise, of ice, between Gregory and myself as a means of safety for a season, and determined that he should not transcend it, if I could prevent an expose, such as his excited feelings made imminent. “My hopes are dead say this to Mr. Gregory and I have reason to believe I should fare as well in his hands as in any other’s, knowing him as I know him to be ” and I hesitated here for a moment “gentle, compassionate, faithful, where his feelings are fairly enlisted.”

“He thanks you, through my lips, most lovely lady, for dis great proof of consideration; dis’ message, which I shall truthfully deliver, will fill his heart with joy, long a stranger to his breast, for he has feared your hatred.”

“Now go, Dr. Englehart, and let no one come to me without previous warning, for I need all my strength to bear me up in this emergency. Nor would I meet Mr. Gregory without due preparation even of apparel,” and I glanced at my dress of spotted lawn, faded and unseasonable as it seemed in the autumn weather. “I know his fastidiousness on this subject, and from this time it ought to, it must be my study to try to please him.”

Why was not the fate of Ananias or Sapphira mine after that false utterance? Why did I triumph in the strength of guile that desperation gave me, rather than sink abashed and penitent beneath it? And this was the woman who had once lectured on duplicity and expediency, and deemed herself above them!

Bitter and nauseous as was this bowl to me, I drank it without a grimace; so much depended on the measure of deceit hope, love, honor, life itself perhaps for my terrors whispered that even such warnings as those Gregory had given were not to be disregarded where there was question of success or failure to Basil Bainrothe! But one alternative presented itself escape! Delay, I scarce could hope for, and, even if granted, how could it avail me in the end? Those words “He will make you dead!” rang in my ears, and seemed written on the wall. They confronted me everywhere. It was so easy to do this so easy to repeat what the papers had already told the world so easy to confine me in a maniac’s cell under an assumed name, and by the aid of my own gold, and say, “She perished at sea!”

It would be to the interest of all who knew it, to preserve the secret, except the poor ship’s captain, and he had been a dupe, and would scarcely recognize his folly, or, if he did, be the first to boast of and publish it. Besides that, should the matter be inquired into, how easy for Bainrothe to allege that my own family had sanctioned his course to save my reputation! For innuendo was over on this disgraceful subject. He had declared openly his base design.

Years might elapse before the final exposition, years of utter ruin to my prospects and my hopes. Wentworth might be married by that time, or indifferent, or dead; Ernie too old to make the matter of a year or two of consequence in the carrying out of the nefarious scheme to sustain which it would be so easy to summon and suborn witnesses.

All these possibilities represented themselves to me with frightful distinctness; my mind became imbued with them to the exclusion of all else of reason even. I was literally panic-stricken, and nothing but flight could satisfy my instinct, my impulse of self-preservation. I must go, even if blown like a leaf before the gales of heaven; must fly, if even to certainty of destruction. I had felt this necessity once before, be it remembered, but never so stringently, so morbidly as now. I was yielding under the agony, the anxiety incident to my condition; my nervous system, too severely taxed, was breaking down, and it would succumb entirely, unless relief came to me (of this I felt convinced), before another weary month should roll away. Had I been imprisoned for a certain term of years as an expiation for crimes, I think I could have borne it better; but the injustice, the uncertainty of these proceedings were more than I could sustain.

I fell asleep, I remember, on the night of my interview with Gregory alias Englehart to dream confusedly of Baron Trenck and his iron collar, and the Princess Amelia and her unmitigated grief, and it seemed to me that I was given to drink from a cup the poor prisoner had carved (as memoirs tell us he carved and sold many such), filled with a sort of bitter wine, by the man in the iron mask so vividly did Fancy, mixing her ingredients, typify the anguish of my waking moments, and reproduce its anxieties, in dreams of night that could not be controlled.

When I awoke in the morning it was to lie quietly, and listen to the doleful voice of Sabra, for such had been Dinah’s Congo name, uplifted in what she called a “speritual” as she cleaned the brass mountings of the grate and kindled its tardy fires. With very slight alteration and adjustment, this picturesque and dramatic Obi hymn is given in this place, just as I jotted it down in my diary, thus imprinting it on my memory from her own dolphin-like lips and bellows-like lungs. Her forefathers, she informed me with considerable pride, had been snake-worshipers, and she certainly inherited their tendency to treat the worst enemy of mankind with respectful adoration.

It served to divert my mind from its one fixed idea for a little time to arrange this singular hymn, which, together with those she had given voice to on the raft, proved her poetic powers. For Sabra assured me that this gift of sacred song had come to her one day when she was washing her master’s linen, and that she had felt it run cold streaks down her back and through her brain, and that from that time she was uplifted to sing “sperituals” by spells and seasons. This, her longest and most successful inspiration, I now lay before the reader:

SABRA’S SPERITUAL.

We’s on de road to Zion,
We’s on de paf’ to Zion,
But dar’s a roarin’ lion,
For Satan stops de way.
Oh! lef’ us pass, ole Masta,
Oh! lef’ us pass, strong Masta,
Oh! lef’ us pass, rich Masta
It am near de break ob day!

We’s on de road to Zion,
We’s on de paf’ to Zion,
But wid his red-hot iron
He bars de hebbenly gate!
Oh! lef’ us pass, ole Masta,
Oh! lef’ us pass, kin’ Masta,
Oh! lef’ us pass, sweet Masta,
For we is mighty late!

Does you hear de rain a-fallin’?
Does you hear de prophets callin’?
Does you hear de cherubs squallin’
Wat’s settin’ on de gate?
Oh! lef us pass, ole Masta,
Oh! step dis side, kin’ Masta,
Unbar de do’, dear Masta,
We dar’ no longer wait!

Does you hear de win’ a blowin’?
Does you hear de chickens crowin’?
Does you see de niggars hoein’?
It am de break ob day!
Oh! lef us by, good Masta,
Oh! stan’ aside, ole Masta,
Oh! light your lamp, sweet Sabiour,
For we done los’ our way!

We’ll gib you all our money,
We’ll fotch you yams and honey,
We’ll fill your pipe wid ’baccer,
An’ twiss your tail wid hay!
We’ll shod your hoofs wid copper,
We’ll knob your horns wid silber,
We’ll cook you rice and gopher,
Ef you will clar de way!

He’s gwine away, my bredderin,
He’s stepped aside, my sisterin,
He’s clared de track, my chillun,
Now make de trumpets bray!
We tanks you kindly, Masta,
We gibs you tanks, ole Masta,
You is a buckra Masta,
Whateber white folks say!