Fashion and Famine - Ann S. Stephens

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as a name her lips had not uttered for years was thus suddenly pronounced.

      "I inquired the way, and went to the police office at once: it is in the Park, ma'm, under the City Hall. Wal, there I found the chief, a smart, active fellow as I ever set eyes on; I told him what brought me there, and who I wanted to find. He called a young man from the out room; wrote on a slip of paper; gave it to the man, and asked me to sit down. Wal, I sat down, and we began to talk about my travels, and things in gineral, like old acquaintances, till by-and-bye in came the very policeman that I had seen on the wharf.

      "'Mr. Johnson,' says the chief, 'a Southern vessel arrived to-day at the same wharf where the steamer lies. Did you observe a tall gentlemen with a young lady on his arm, leave that vessel?'

      "'Dark hair; large eyes; a black coat?' says the man, looking at me.

      "'Exactly,' says I.

      "'The lady beautiful; eyes you could hardly tell the color of; lashes always down; black silk dress; cashmere scarf; cottage-bonnet!' says he, again.

      "'Jist so!' says I.

      "'Yes,' says he to the chief, 'I saw them.'

      "'Where did they go?' questions the chief.

      "'Hack No. 117 took three fares from the vessel and steamer, one to the City Hall, one to the New York, one to the Astor. This was the second, he went to the Astor.'"

      "And the young girl—did she go with him?" cried the lady, striving in vain to conceal the keen interest which prompted the question.

      "That was just what the chief asked," was the reply.

      "And the answer—was she with him?"

      "Wal, the chief put that question, only a little steadier; and the man answered that the young lady——"

      "Well."

      "That the coachman first took the young lady to a house in—I believe it was Ninth street, or Tenth, or——"

      "No matter, so she was not with him," answered the lady, drawing a deep breath, while an expression of exquisite relief, came to her features; "and he is there alone at the Astor House. And I in the same city! Does nothing tell him?—has his heart no voice that clamors as mine does? The Astor House! Jacob, how far is the Astor House from this?"

      "More than a mile—two miles. I don't exactly know how far it is."

      "A mile, perhaps two, and that is all that divides us. Oh! God, would that it were all!" she cried, suddenly clasping her hands with a burst of wild agony.

      The servant man recoiled as he witnessed this burst of passion, wherefore it were difficult to say; for he remained silent, and the twilight had gathered fast and deep in the room. For several minutes no word was spoken between the two persons so unlike in looks, in mind, in station, and yet linked together by a bond of sympathy strong enough to sweep off these inequalities into the dust. At length the lady lifted her head, and looked at the man almost beseechingly through the twilight.

      The storm was still fierce. The wind shook and tore through the foliage of the trees; and the rain swept by in sheets, now and then torn with lightning, and shaken with loud bursts of thunder.

      "The weather is terrible!" said the lady, with a sad, winning smile, and with her beautiful eyes bent upon the man.

      He thought that she was terrified by the lightning, and this brought his kind nature back again.

      "This—oh! this is nothing, madam. Think of the storms we used to have in the Alps, and at sea."

      A beautiful brilliancy came into the lady's eyes.

      "True, this is nothing compared to them: and the evening, it is not yet entirely dark!"

      "The storm makes it dark—that is all. It isn't far off from sun-down by the time!" answered Jacob, taking out an old silver watch, and examining it by the window.

      "Jacob, are you very tired?"

      "Tired, ma'm! What on earth should make me tired? One would think I had been hoeing all day, to hear such questions!"

      The lady hesitated. She seemed ashamed to speak again, and her voice faltered as she at length forced herself to say—

      "Then, Jacob, as you are not quite worn out—perhaps you will get me a carriage—there must be stables in the neighborhood."

      "A carriage!" answered the man, evidently overwhelmed with surprise: "a carriage, madam, to-night, in all this rain!"

      "Jacob—Jacob, I must see him—I must see him now, to-night—this hour! The thought of delay suffocates me—I am not myself—do you not see it? All power over myself is gone. Jacob, I must see him now, or die!"

      "But the storm, madam," urged poor Jacob, from some cause almost as pale as his mistress.

      "The better—all the better. It gives me courage. How can we two meet, save in storm and strife? I tell you the tempest will give me strength."

      "I beg of you, I—I——"

      "Jacob, be kind—get me the carriage!" pleaded the lady, gently interrupting him: "urge nothing more, I entreat you; but instead of opposing, help me. Heaven knows, but for you I am helpless enough!"

      There was no resisting that voice, the pleading eloquence of those eyes. A deep sigh was smothered in that faithful breast, and then he went forth perfectly heedless of the rain; which, to do him justice, had never been considered in connection with his own personal comfort.

      He returned after a brief absence; and a dark object before the iron gate, over which the rain was dripping in streams, bespoke the success of his errand. The lady had meantime changed her dress to one of black silk, perfectly plain, and giving no evidence of position, by which a stranger might judge to what class of society she belonged; a neat straw bonnet and a shawl completed her modest costume.

      "I am ready, waiting!" she cried, as Jacob presented himself at the door, and drawing down her veil that he might not see all that was written in her face, she passed him and went forth.

      But Jacob caught one glance of that countenance with all its eloquent feeling, for a small lamp had been lighted in the boudoir during his absence; and that look was enough. He followed her in silence.

       Table of Contents

      When woman sinneth with her heart,

      Some trace of heaven still lingers there;

      The angels may not all depart

      And yield her up to dark despair.

      But man—alas, when thought and brain

      Can sin, and leave the soul at ease:

      Can sneer at truth and scoff at pain!—

      God's angels shrink from sins like these!

      Alone in one of the most sumptuous chambers of the Astor House, sat the man who had made an impression so powerful upon little Julia Warren that morning. Though the chill of that stormy night penetrated even the massive walls of the hotel, it had no power to throw a shadow upon the comforts with which this man had found means to surround himself. A fire blazed in the grate, shedding a glow upon the rug where his feet were planted, till the embroidered slippers that encased them seemed buried in a bed of forest moss.

      The curtains were drawn close, and the whole room had an air of snugness and seclusion seldom found at a hotel. Here stood an open dressing-case of ebony, with its gold mounted and glittering equipments exposed; there was a travelling desk of ebony, inlaid with mother-of-pearl, opal-tinted and glittering like gems in the uncertain light. Upon the mantel-piece stood a small picture-frame, carved to a perfect

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