The Lights o' Gotham; or, The Gilded Villain — page 9: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

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You—you were not married then, and—I hoped to make you my wife.’ ‘* Why recall the past?” she said, sorrowfully, but not in the jeast apprehensively. _** Let me, Alice—let me,” he eagerly rejoined—‘‘for your sake as well as mine. I do not want to harma hair of your head; Ido not want to cause you the slightest grief—but let me, I beg, let ' me rehabilitate myself in your eyes. Your child is there in the cradle; its sleeping innocence is your guard and shield.”’ ‘*Won’t you take a seat?’ she said, indicating a chair, while she herself sat down near the light, at the table, and took up some needle-work. ‘‘No, thank you,” he replied, in a husky voice; ‘‘I would pre- fer to stand.” ‘ : He nervously twitched at his hat for a moment, and then con- tinued: ‘You gave me back my ring, and told me that you could not risk your happiness with me—that my nature was two weak— that though I had promised you not to drink any more, I had, more than once, broken my promise. You did not wish to be- come a drunkard’s wife. I was angry, Alice, mad. I heaped reproaches upon you; I accused you of being faithless, fickle, false. But you were not so; you loved me truly, and it cost you bitter pain to give back your plighted troth. But you were right.” ‘‘T am very sorry for you, Tom,” said Alice, sincerely. ‘You are an angel, Alice, he tremulously continued. ‘‘ But drink was my only vice, Alice; I could be tempted into that, but not into anything else. And if,” he added, gazing imploringly at her, ‘‘if, when I heard that you had learned to love another, and had given him your hand in marriage, if, in my momentary anguish, I uttered any threats against him, you would not be- lieve that I meant them, much less could execute them? Tell me that you do not believe that I would harm your husband!” ‘‘Harm my husband!” cried Alice, dropping her work and springing to her feet, while her face became as pale as death. ‘‘ Great Heavens! tell me has anything happened to him? Do you know anything? Has your visit here to-night anything to do with him?” Be calm, Alice, be calm, I beg you,’ he implored, although he himself was scarcely less agitated than she. ‘‘I only spoke of threats that I have uttered, but I did not mean them. In my heart I knew that Ernest Minturn was worthier of you than I was, that you would be happier with him than you could be with me. And drunken sot that I was, I watched your happi- ness from day to day, unknown to you, unseen by you, and I was glad that you were happy, happy in the love of your hus- band and your child. It made me happy to think of you so, and if { dared to approach the throne of Heaven with my pray- ers it was to pray that you would always remain so, or é: He paused for a moment choked with emotion, and then ut- tered the fatal phrase: ‘‘Or if it pleased Heaven to aiide you unhappy that you would receive my humble services to befriend and avenge you.” ‘*Avenge me!”’ cried Alice, clasping her hands in terror, ‘‘for what, against what? Oh, do not keep me in this suspense! My husband, you know it, tell me, will he not come back to me?” Tom could not utter a word. He sorrowfully shook his head. Alice uttered a shriek of agony. ‘‘Ernest not come back!” she fairly screamed. must be dead.” Tom burst into tears. ‘‘ Bear it bravely, Alice,” he stammered. ‘‘Remember there is a God in heaven above us. Direct your widow’s prayers to Him; teach your fatherless child to turn to Him for comfort. You have no husband now, your babe no father. Ernest Min- turn has been foully murdered, but I know the fiend who did it, and I consecrate my life to avenge the inhuman deed.”’ ‘Then he CHAPTER VL. DIAMOND CUT DIAMOND. If John Baxter, or rather Colonel Austen, of San Francisco, as we shall hereafter call him, was gratified not to find his crime as yet mentioned in the papers, Mr. 'Thorndyke was equally pleased to discover no word of the bank-robbery in the morning journals he was reading. Clad in an elegant morning-robe he was sitting in his easy- chair beside the table on which were the remains of the dainty breakfast he had just partaken of. He rose from his chair with the intention of summoning his valet to assist him in his toilet, when there came a knock at the door, and a sweet, childish voice exclaimed: ‘* May I come in, papa?” Without waiting for the permission, the speaker threw open the door, and a bright-eyed, curly haired boy of about six years of age bounded into the room and impulsively flung himself into his father’s arms. ‘‘Good-morning, papa,” he said, as he kissed him. ‘‘Good-morning, Walter,”’ said his father, returning the salute with unusual fervor. Mr. Thorndyke fairly idolized his child. The banker had married rather late in life, and this was his only offspring, his wife haying died shortly after Walter’s birth. The boy had inherited his father’s sharp intellect, and all his mother’s gentle qualities, and pure, noble instincts. As the boy kissed his father a noise in the street attracted his attention, and he ran to the window to feast his eyes on the pure, white snow lying without, and soon exclaimed: ‘‘There’s a carriage stopping in front of the door.”’ ‘¢ A carriage?”’ ‘‘Yes, and a gentleman is getting out. Oh, such a fine-look- ing gentleman.”’ ‘‘Gan it be a visitor for us?” ‘‘Tt must be. He is coming up the steps. There goes the bell.” Child-like he ran out of the room to open the front door be- fore the servant could do so. ‘©A yisitor for me,” muttered Mr. Thorndyke. ‘‘ At this early hour of the morning. ‘This is rather inconvenient, as 1 want to get down town. Who can it be?”’ Little Walter opened the door and, with the stately de- meanor of the English butler, entered the room, bearing a card on a silver tray. He made a ceremonivus bow to his father, as he presented the tray to him. The banker took the gilt-edged pasteboard and read it: ‘‘Qolonel Edward M. Austen,”’ he muttered; ‘‘I don’t know any such man. And from San Francisco, too! What can he want of me?” Colonel Austen had followed the boy, and, standing on the threshold, had overheard his last words. “JT want to see you only for a few minutes, on business, Mr. Thorndyke,” he said, advancing into the room. The banker gave a mistrustful glance at the bold, adventur- —ous-looking stranger. “This is h@¥dly the place,” he said, rather gruffly, ‘to speak to me on business. I reserve all such discussions for my office, ‘ - : a - ‘ . / . . : ¢ ’ . ; Ly 7 7 ‘ a F ne ‘ - wy ' i ; 4 - ad . e > . par i A. & . ty =a) ‘a"AS : f" 4 - 6% ; é > \ PAA Me 5 A, AP Ms , 1 i 7 < et. c - » * * i A ‘2 * ‘ « ~ wT sf x ae ie . ~ ; x! “ « a comichnakecom