Part 17 (1/2)
”No,” said he; ”I am heart-whole save for a few lingering fancies which are fast becoming vanis.h.i.+ng dreams.”
He seemed to have lived years since entering this room.
”Your heart will not be disturbed now,” commented Felix. ”I have seen the girl. I went there on purpose a year ago. She's as pale as a snow-drop and as listless. You will not be obliged to recall to mind the gay smiles of Parisian ladies to be proof against her charms.”
Thomas shrugged his shoulders.
”She must be made to know the full intoxication of hope,” Felix proceeded in his clear and cutting voice. ”To realize despair she must first experience every delight that comes with satisfied love. Have you the skill as well as heart to play to the end a role which will take patience as well as dissimulation, courage as well as subtlety, and that union of will and implacability which finds its food in tears and is strengthened, rather than lessened, by the suffering of its victim?”
”I have the skill,” murmured Thomas, ”but--”
”You lack the incentive,” finished Felix. ”Well, well, we must have patience with your doubts and hesitations. Our hate has been fostered by memories of her whom, as you say, you have never seen. Look, then, Thomas. Look at your sister as she was, as she is for us. Look at her, and think of her as despoiled, killed, forgotten by Poindexter. Have you ever gazed upon a more moving countenance, or one in which beauty contends with a keener prophecy of woe?”
Not knowing what to expect, antic.i.p.ating almost to be met by her shade, Thomas followed the direction of his brother's lifted hand, and beheld, where but a minute before that dismal curtain had hung, a blaze of light, in the midst of which he saw a charming, but tragic, figure, such as no gallery in all Europe had ever shown him, possibly because no other limned face or form had ever appealed to his heart. It did not seem a picture, it seemed her very self, a gentle, loving self that breathed forth all the tenderness he had vainly sought for in his living relatives; and falling at her feet, he cried out:
”Do not look at me so reproachfully, sweet Evelyn. I was born to avenge you, and I will. John Poindexter shall never go down in peace to his tomb.”
A sigh of utter contentment came from the direction of the bed.
”Swear it!” cried his father, holding out his arms before him in the form of a cross.
”Yes, swear it!” repeated Felix, laying his own hand on those crossed arms.
Thomas drew near, and laid his hand beside that of Felix.
”I swear,” he began, raising his voice above the tempest, which poured gust after gust against the house. ”I swear to win the affections of Eva Poindexter, and then, when her heart is all mine, to cast her back in anguish and contumely on the breast of John Poindexter.”
”Good!” came from what seemed to him an immeasurable distance. Then the darkness, which since the taking of this oath had settled over his senses, fell, and he sank insensible at the feet of his dying father.
Amos Cadwalader died that night; but not without one awful scene more. About midnight he roused from the sleep which had followed the exciting incidents I have just related, and glancing from Thomas to Felix, sitting on either side of the bed, fixed his eyes with a strange gleam upon the door.
”Ah!” he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed, ”a visitor! John Poindexter! He comes to ask my forgiveness before I set out on my dismal journey.”
The sarcasm of his tone, the courtesy of his manner, caused the hair to stir on the heads of his two sons. That he saw his enemy as plainly as he saw them, neither could doubt.
”Does he dread my meeting with Evelyn? Does he wish to placate me before I am joined to that pathetic shade? He shall not be disappointed. I forgive you, John Poindexter! I forgive you my daughter's shame, my blighted life. I am dying; but I leave one behind who will not forgive you. I have a son, an avenger of the dead, who yet lives to-to--”
He fell back. With these words, which seemed to seal Thomas to his task, Amos Cadwalader died.
CHAPTER III.
EVA.
Felix had not inherited his father's incapacity for making money. In the twenty years that had pa.s.sed since Thomas had been abroad he had built up a fortune, which he could not induce his father to share, but which that father was perfectly willing to see devoted to their mutual revenge. There was meaning, therefore, in the injunction Felix gave his brother on his departure for Montgomery:
”I have money; spend it; spend what you will, and when your task is completed, there will still be some left for your amus.e.m.e.nt.”
Thomas bowed. ”The laborer is worthy of his hire,” was his thought. ”And you?” he asked, looking about the scanty walls, which seemed to have lost their very excuse for being now that his father had died. ”Will you remain here?”
Felix's answer was abrupt, but positive. ”No; I go to New York to-morrow. I have rented a house there, which you may one day wish to share. The name under which I have leased it is Adams, Felix Adams. As such you will address me. Cadwalader is a name that must not leave your lips in Montgomery, nor must you forget that my person is known there, otherwise we might not have been dependent on you for the success of our revenge.” And he smiled, fully conscious of being the handsomer man of the two. ”And now how about those introductions we enjoined you to bring from Paris?”
The history of the next few weeks can best be understood by reading certain letters sent by Thomas to Felix, by examining a diary drawn up by the same writer for his own relief and satisfaction. The letters will be found on the left, and the diary on the right, of the double columns hereby submitted. The former are a summary of facts; the latter is a summary of feelings. Both are necessary to a right comprehension of the situation.