Determined to see me at all hazards, he hurried to town, but, too late! The steamer had sailed; her flag fluttered in the air, far down the bay, as standing on the battery, Ernest followed her course, with an almost maddened gaze. Sorrowfully he returned to the country and informed his father of my sudden departure for Europe.
"Can she have forgotten us?" said the old man.
"O, father, this letter," replied Ernest, showing the long letter which I had written, "this will show you that she has not forgotten us, but that her heart beats warmly as ever—that she is the same."
And he read the letter to the good old man, who frequently interrupted him, with "God bless her! God bless my child!"
Soon afterward Ernest came to New York and entered his name in the office of an eminent lawyer. Determining to make the law his profession, he hoped to complete his studies before my return from Paris. He lived in New York, and began to move in the circles of its varied society. Among the acquaintances which he made were certain authors and artists who, once a month, in company with a few select friends, gave a social supper at a prominent hotel.
At one of these suppers Ernest was a guest. The wine passed round, wit sparkled, and the enjoyment of the festival did not begin to flag even when midnight drew near.
While one of the guests was singing, a portly gentleman (once well known as a man of fashion, the very Brummel of the sidewalk) began to converse with Ernest in a low voice.
He described a lady—a young widow with a large fortune—who at that time occupied a large portion of the interest of certain circles in New York. She was exceedingly beautiful. She was witty, accomplished, eloquent. She rivaled in fascination Ninon and Aspasia. Nightly, to a select circle, she presided over festivals whose voluptuousness was masked in flowers. Her previous history was unknown, but she had suddenly entered the orbit of New York social life—of a peculiar kind of social life—as a star of the first magnitude. His blood heated by wine, his imagination warmed by the description of his fashionable friend, Ernest manifested great curiosity to behold this singular lady.
"You shall see her to-night—at once," whispered the fashionable gentleman. "She gives a select party to-night. Let us glide off from the company unobserved."
They passed from the company, took their hats and cloaks—it was a clear, cold winter night—and entered a carriage.
"I will introduce you by the name of Johnson—Fred. Johnson, a rich southern planter," said the fashionable gentleman. "You need not call me by my real name. Call me Lawson."
"But why this concealment?" asked Ernest, as the carriage rolled on.
"O, well, never mind," added Lawson (as he desired to be called), and then continued: "We'll soon be near her mansion, or palace is the more appropriate word. We will find some of the first gentlemen and finest ladies of New York under her roof. I tell you, she'll set you half wild, this 'Midnight Queen!'"
"Midnight Queen!" echoed Ernest.
"That's what we call her. A 'Midnight Queen' indeed, as mysterious and voluptuous as the midnight moon shining in an Italian sky."
They arrived in front of a lofty mansion, situated in one of the most aristocratic parts of New York. Its exterior was dark and silent as the winter midnight itself.
"A light hid under a bushel—outside dark enough, but inside bright as a new dollar," whispered Lawson, ascending the marble steps and ringing the bell.
The door was opened for the space of six inches or more—
"Who's there?" said a voice from within.
Lawson bent his face near to the aperture and whispered a few words inaudible to Ernest. The door was opened wide, and carefully closed and bolted behind them, as soon as they crossed the threshold. They stood in a vast hall lighted by a hanging lamp.
"Leave hats and cloaks here—and come." Lawson took Ernest by the hand and pushed open a door.
They entered a range of parlors, brilliantly lighted by two chandeliers, as brilliantly furnished with chairs and sofas and mirrors, and adorned with glowing pictures and statues of white marble. A piano stood in a recess, and in the last parlor of the three a supper-table was spread. These parlors were crowded by some thirty guests, men and women, some of whom, seated on chairs and sofas, were occupied in low whispered conversation, while others took wine at the supper-table, and others again were grouped round the piano, listening to the voice of an exceedingly beautiful woman.
Ernest uttered an ejaculation. Never had he seen a spectacle like this, never seen before, grouped under one roof, so many beautiful women. Beautiful women, richly dressed, their arms and shoulders bare, or vailed only by mist-like lace, which gave new fascination to their charms. It did not by any means decrease the surprise of Ernest when he discovered that some of the ladies—those whose necks and shoulders glowed most white and beautiful in the light—wore masks.
"What is this place?" he whispered to Lawson, as apparently unheeded by the guests, they passed through the parlors.
"Hush! not so loud," whispered his companion. "Take a glass of wine, my boy, and your eyesight will be clearer. This place is a quiet little retreat in which certain gentlemen and ladies of New York, by no means lacking in wealth or position, endeavor to carry the Koran into practice, and create, even in our cold climate, a paradise worthy of Mahomet. In a word, it is the residence of a widowed lady, who, blest with fortune and all the good things which fortune brings, delights in surrounding herself with beautiful women and intellectual men. How do you like that wine? There are at least a hundred gentlemen in New York, who would give a cool five hundred to stand where you stand now, or even cross the threshold of this mansion. I'm an old stager, and have brought you here in order to enjoy the effect which a scene like this produces on one so inexperienced as you. But you must remember one law which governs this place and all who enter it—"
"That condition?"
"All that is said or done here remains a secret forever within the compass of these walls; and you must never recognize, in any other place, any person whom you have first encountered here. This is a matter of honor, Walworth."
"And where is the 'Midnight Queen?'"
"She is not with her guests, I see—but I will give you an answer in a moment," and Lawson left the room.
Drinking glass after glass of champagne, Ernest stood by the supper-table, a silent spectator of that scene, whose voluptuous enchantment gradually inflamed his imagination and fired his blood. He seemed to have been suddenly transported from dull matter-of-fact, every-day life, to a scene in some far oriental city, in the days of Haroun Alraschid. And he surrendered himself to the enchantment of the place, like one for the first time enjoying the intoxication of opium.
Lawson returned, and came quietly to his side—
"Would you like to see the 'Midnight Queen,'—alone—in her parlor?" he whispered.
"Of all things in the world. You have roused my curiosity. I am like a man in a delicious dream."
"Understand me—she is chary of her smiles to an old stager like me—but I think, that there is something in you that will interest her. She awaits you in her apartments. You are a young English lord on your travels (better than a planter), Lord Stanley Fitz Herbert. With that black dress and somber face of yours you will take her wonderfully."
"But can I indeed see her?"
"Leave