Her hair, escaping from the ribbon which bound it, streamed freely over her shoulders, and caught the rays of the light on every glossy wave.
She leaned her forehead upon her head, and—thought.
Hard she had tried to keep a home for the poor Idiot, who sat in the chair—very hard. She had tried her pencil, and gained bread for awhile, thus; but her drawings ceased to command a price at the picture store, and this means of subsistence failed her. She had taught music, and had been a miserable dependent upon the rich; been insulted by their daughters, and been made the object of the insulting offers of their sons. And forced at length by the condition of her Idiot Father, to remain with him, in their own home—to be constantly near him, day and night—she had sought work at the shirt store on Canal street, and been robbed of the treasure which she had accumulated through the summer; an immense treasure—Five Dollars.
She had not a penny; there was no bread in the closet; there was no fire in the sheet iron stove which stood in one corner; her Idiot Father, her iron fate were before her—harsh and bitter realities.
She was thinking.
Apply to those rich relations, who had known her father in days of prosperity? No. Better death than that.
She was thinking. Her forehead on her hand, her hair streaming over her shoulders, her bosom which had never known even the thought of pollution, heaving and swelling within her calico gown—she was thinking.
And as she thought, and thought her hair began to burn, and her blood to bound rapidly in her veins.
Her face is shaded by her hand, and a portion of her hair falls over that hand; therefore you cannot tell her thoughts by the changes of her countenance.
I would not like to know her thoughts.
For there is a point of misery, at which but two doors of escape open to the gaze of a beautiful woman, who struggles with the last extreme of poverty: one door has the grave behind it, and the other——
Yes, there are some thoughts which it is not good to write on paper. It was in the midst of this current of dark and bitter thoughts, that the eye of the young woman wandered absently to the faded shawl which she had thrown across the table.
"What is this? A letter! Pinned to my shawl—by whom?"
It was indeed a letter, addressed to her, and pinned to her shawl by an unknown hand.
She seized it eagerly, and opened it, and read.
Her face, her neck, and the glimpse of her bosom, opening above her dress, all became scarlet with the same blush. Still her eyes grew brighter as she read the letter, and incoherent ejaculations passed from her lips.
The letter was written—so it said—by the man who had taken her from the store on Canal street. Its contents we may not guess, save from the broken words of the agitated girl.
"'At twelve o'clock, at "the Temple," whose street and number you will find on the inclosed card.'"
And a card dropped from the letter upon the table. She seized it eagerly and clasped it as though it was so much gold.
"'The Temple,'" she murmured again, and her eyes instinctively wandered to the face of her father.
Then she burst into a flood of tears.
For three hours, while the candle burned toward its socket, she meditated upon the contents of that letter.
At last she rose, and took from a closet near the door, a mantilla of black velvet, the only garment which the pawnbroker had spared. It was old and faded; it was the only relic of better days. She resumed her bonnet and wound the mantilla about her shoulders and kissed her Idiot Father on the lips and brow. He had fallen into a dull, dreamless sleep, and looked like a dead man with his fallen lip and half-shut eyes.
"'The Temple!'" she exclaimed and attentively perused the card.
Then extinguishing the candle, she wound a coverlet about her father's form and left him there alone in the garret. She passed the threshold and went down the marble stairs. God pity her.
Yes, God pity her!
CHAPTER III.
"DO THEY ROAR?"
At nine o'clock, on the night of December 23d, 1844——
"Do they roar?" said Israel Yorke, passing his hand through his gray whiskers, as he sat at the head of a large table covered with green baize.
It was in a large square room, on the second story of his Banking House—if Israel's place of business can be designated by that name. The gas-light disclosed the floor covered with matting, and the high walls, overspread with lithographs of unknown cities and imaginary copper-mines. There were also three lithographs of the towns in which Israel's principal Banks were situated. There was Chow Bank and Muddy Run, and there in all its glory was Terrapin Hollow. In each of these distant towns, located somewhere in New Jersey or Pennsylvania—or Heaven only knows where—Israel owned a Bank, a live Bank, chartered by a State Legislature, and provided with a convenient President and Cashier. Israel was a host of stockholders in himself. He had an office in New York for the redemption of the notes of the three Banks; it is in the room above this office that we now behold him.
"Do they roar?" he asked, and arranged his spectacles on his turn up nose, and grinned to himself until his little black eyes shone again.
"Do they roar?" answered the voice of Israel's man of business, who sat at the lower end of the green baize table—"Just go to the window and hear 'em! Hark! There it goes again. It sounds like fourth of July."
Truth to say, a strange ominous murmur came from the street—a murmur composed of about an equal quantity of curses and groans.
"There's six thousand of 'em," said the man of business; "The street is black with 'em. And all sorts o' nasty little boys go about with placards on which such words are inscribed: 'Here's an orphan—one o' them that was cheated by Israel Yorke and his Three Banks.' Hark! There it goes again!"
The man of business was a phlegmatic individual of about forty years; a dull heavy face adorned with green spectacles, and propped by a huge black stock and a pair of immense shirt collars. Mr. Fetch was indeed Israel's Man; he in some measure supplied the place of the late lamented Jedediah Buggles, Esq., 'whose dignity of character and strict integrity,' etc., etc., (for the rest, see obituaries on Buggles in the daily papers).
"Fetch, they do roar," responded Israel. "Was there notice of the failure in the afternoon papers?"
"Had it put in myself. Dilated upon the robbery which was committed on you last night, in the cars; and spoke of your disposition to redeem the notes of Chow Bank, Muddy Run and Terrapin Hollow, as soon as—you could make it convenient."
"Yes, Fetch, in about a week these notes can be bought for ten cents on the dollar," calmly remarked Yorke, "they're mostly in the hands of market people, mechanics, day-laborers, servant-maids, and those kind of people, who can't afford to wait. Well, Fetch, what were they sellin' at to-day?"
"Three shillings on the dollar. You know we only failed this mornin'," answered Fetch.
"Yes, yes, about a week will do it"—Israel drew forth a gold pencil, and made a calculation on a card—"In about a week they'll be down to ten cents on the dollar. We must buy 'em in quietly at that rate; our friends on Wall street will help us, you know. Well, let's see how the profit will stand—there are in circulation $300,000 of Chow Bank notes—"
"And $150,000 of Muddy Run," interrupted Fetch.
"And $200,000 of Terrapin Hollow," continued Yorke—"Now supposin' that there are