The uncrowned prince

Preface

To the Reader :

There stands an old yellow brick structure — no matter where — remarkable for its architectural design. Perhaps you have passed by it, and wondered with the author, “What on earth was that built for?'’ No business is done there, and seldom any one is seen around it, so that it always appears deserted. On one corner attached to it rises a tall, oddly-fashioned old yellow brick house with a great high tower — no less peculiar than the building beside it. Some call it the “ Yellow Manse ” to distinguish it from the main pile. The structure altogether is as strange to the oldest as the latest arrival in the neighborhood. Mothers frighten their children by telling them that unless they are good they will put them in the old Yellow Manse. This is the name by which the buildings are generally known, and a mystery enshrouds their existence.

The Author.

Contents

I. A Heal Dark Night 1

II. The Abduction 31

III. A Unique Burial 59

Chapter I. A Real Dark Night

“ O’er all there hung a shadow and a fear ;

A sense of mystery the spirit daunted,

\nd said as plain as whisper in the ear,

The place is haunted.”

IGHT is slowly setting over one of onr large cities. All day long the rain poured down in torrents upon the dingy old tenements that stand as spectres in the fading western sunlight. The tortuous and murky old river winds its crooked course hard by that sort of factories in which human life is slowly but surely sacrificed for a miserable sustenance. The streets, deep with mud, which had been well-nigh deserted all day, fairly swarm with life as the loud clamoring of bells and the monotonous tones of the husky shop whistles set up a deafening roar. Crowds of women shabbily dressed, bearing on their weary heads a few pieces of wood, scramble out of the large mills that stand by the river. Now comes a promiscuous rush of old broken-down men laden with sixty or more years of toil ; young men, too, whose brows already tell the hard strain of labor they must endure ; and finally, little boys and girls with dirt-begrimed faces — children whose lives might be prolonged and rendered infinitely more useful to themselves, their parents, and to the city that gave them birth, were it not that the base hand of Monopoly bade them leave the nursery of their homes, their schools, aye, their very God, to put an additional dollar into the simonious coffers of Trusts. O Truth, everlasting witness of wrongs, behold the condition of these sweltering wretches, and declare in all sincerity, if it is not the hand of civil avarice rung by the rich man’s shake, that is the cause of these existing evils, so plainly visible to any one that has a spark of philanthrophy in his veins. It may be objected that parents desire their children of such tender years to spend their days of youth prisoners in sweat-box manufactories ? Oh, how the natural love of a mother has changed from what God made it ! The mother, whom Christ Himself said, when teaching the multitude, could not forget the child of her womb ; and yet we see this strong argument fall by the pernicious act of a mother forgetting her offspring so far, and unsexing all that is noble in motherhood, by virtually casting aside the child of her bosom for the sake of a few paltry pennies that it might earn ? Surely the adversaries of the poor would deem this worthy of the greatest con-

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sideration, if it were not known by men of common sense that parents nowadays are placed in a sad dilemma with their children. Starvation stares them in the face in two degrees : one mean, the other extreme. They choose the lesser of two evils, and a life of poverty is the onty inheritance a laborer leaves to his child. While thus viewing the wear and tear of life in its dreariest aspect, Father Rogers, the saintly old shepherd of St. Mary’s parish, reflected deeply on the scene that met his gaze. This amiable and friendly old gentleman, during the period of more than thirty years, watched the interests of his flock with unceasing care. He saw the tide of misery sweep by his door day after day, and none more than he, understood what his parishioners had to undergo endeavoring to eke out a livelihood under an unscrupulous municipality. Here on the veranda of the quaint rectory he was wont to sit when free from the labors of his priestly office, and with words full of sympathy and encouragement, extend to all his neighbors — Catholics and Protestants alike — wise counsels whereby to learn how to bear up manfully under their sufferings. The sun which had now sunk to rest, left a dull, heavy-looking mist hanging over the river, and this mist increased to a hazy vaporous atmosphere that arose from the meadows which stretched over the lower section of the city. The rain which had ceased toward evening, began to descend again, at first slowly, but soon faster and faster, until it came down in torrents. Luckily, the workingmen had an opportunity to seek shelter before the storm was at its height. Safe on the porch, hidden by two large extending willows that threw their ominous shadows over the old parsonage, sat the genial rector. His large full face, contrary to the ordinary Yankee ( for his reverence was thoroughly American ), lighted up by two large blue eyes, expressed the warmth of feeling that dwelt in his broad, well-shaped bosom. A tinge of sadness broke upon his countenance as now and then the lightning flashed more sharply, or the dull peal of thunder bellowed more fiercely in the great black sky above. In one of these gloomy moments, Father Delon, who had been travelling in Europe for some months, issued quietly from the sitting-room, and tapped the pastor gently upon the shoulder. Instantly the old priest turned round, and seeing his assistant, he stretched forth his hand, and with a kind, jovial smile beaming on his countenance, addressed the young priest : “ Why, George, how did you enjoy your trip ? Welcome back ! I have been lonely without you.”

Before the curate could answer a question, he was asked at least twenty, and finally when the opportunity came, he paused a few moments, as if fearing to speak. The pastor observing the confusion of his friend, continued : “ I know, George, why you hesitate. You saw I was in a sad mood when you arrived. Ha ! ha ! don’t mind that, my boy, I’m probably in my dotage ; ” and the silvery voice of the whole-souled priest broke into a merry laugh.

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“ Father, why did you look so downcast as I made my appearance ? ”

“My dear child, I was thinking about a mystery.”

“ A mystery ! ”

“ Come now, George, I don’t wantjyou to get a blue spell after such a pleasant journey. How are your parents ? ”

“Father, I will never more be happy,” was the sad reply.

“ What is the matter, pray ? Has anything happened to your folks at home ? ”

Big tears stood in the black eyes of the assistant as he ventured to say : “ I have no home.”

“Impossible, my young friend,” said his aged friend, “ are your mother and father dead? ”

The curate could not control the emotion that choked his utterance, and he went on in reply to the rector’s question, weeping bitterly all the while : “Father, I am a stranger to myself. A mystery enshrouds my soul. I am — I am not George Delon.”

“ Have you lost your reason, my friend. Do, I entreat you, tell me what has happened to you abroad ? ’

Silence passed between the two for some minutes. One dared not to interrogate further ; the other was so overwhelmed with grief that he could not declare the bitter contest that was raging within him. At last he sufficiently mastered himself to say : “ Father, this ' note will explain all, save the violent sufferings which I endure in my soul.”

He then handed the pastor a letter, which the latter opened hastily and read as follows :

“Dear George: Alas! we must part forever. I whom you considered to be your mother, am such only in name, though God is a witness that I have tried to be in reality a mother to you. My husband, whom you designated ‘Father,’ is not so by nature, being, like myself, only related to you by adoption. Farewell ! darling ; I am dying. Perhaps it is better that you do not know all. Good-bye, and may God bless you!

“ Madame Delon.”

When Father Rogers concluded reading this strange epistle, he looked pitifully at his young friend. “ Queer case this, my boy. What had your adopted father to say about the letter ? ”

“ I had no chance of talking to him, he having long since left the country.”

“ He is the only person, George, that can reveal your identity. Console yourself, dear friend ; I will in truth be a father to you until that time comes when all will be made manifest. I am deeply interested in your case, George, and in the present instance of my life I need your co-operation badly. Pastors, as a rule, don’t appreciate their curates till they have left them ; but as I have always thought well of you and your services, George, you must now help me out of a difficulty. ”

“ Pray, what may it be ? ”

“ Enough of these matters for the present. What about Rome, and Venice, and Paris ? ”

The direct manner in which the rector spoke had

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tlie effect of rendering the disposition of the curate more cool and collected. The pastor listened to the narrative of his fellow-priest attentively, and the latter having abruptly finished, the two priests relapsed into a taciturn mood.

This was at last broken when the curate unconsciously muttered, “ difficulty. ” At this significant utterance, Father Rogers rose quickly to his feet and vehemently replied : “ Difficulty ! aye, and more — a

mystery ! Father Delon, God willing, it shall be, and must be solved ! ” Quickly going toward the sitting-room, he slammed the door behind him. The sudden departure, and the strange expression of the old gentleman’s face, whose evenness of temperament he had never before seen ruffied, though ofttimes sorely tried, excited the imagination of the young Frenchman. While the storm raged with incessant fury, lost to all the fierceness of the elements, the curate though t only of the mystery of his own existence, and the peculiar actions of his venerated friend, the pastor. Suddenly the tall form of the rector appeared in the doorway, and taking the chair he had occupied a moment previous, sat down, apparently fatigued. The assistant moved toward him and stood by his side. All was as dark as midnight, though the clock just struck the hour of seven. The talk in which the priests indulged was scarcely audible above the tempest. The vivid flashes of light revealed their presence. A finer picture could not have been sketched than that which these two clergymen presented. The one, a man of stately physique and of nearly seventy winters, with snow-white locks flowing gracefully down upon his broad shoulders, slightly bent ; the other, a tall, rather dark-complexioned young man, with large black eyes and exquisite facial appearance. What a contrast by the side of the elder ! His hair was as black as his eyes, and hung in abundance round a well-shaped head. A long nose set off thin rose-colored lips. His cheeks, of a graceful cut, and a chin smaller and rounder than the medium, completed the physiognomy of the handsome French priest. They resembled father and son rather than strangers related to each other by the clerical tie, and a promise. Father Delon scanned the worried features of the rector without being observed. After a long interval, during which not a word was spoken, the curate, realizing the danger of standing on a platform which was open on every side to gusts of wind, any of which might invite an electric current and its subsequent damages to enter the parsonage, made his exit through the sitting-room to the parlor, where he lighted the lamp for the benefit of the pastor, who followed him. Beneath the dimlyburning light could be described four oaken chairs placed around a square oaken table. A desk, an old dilapidated sofa, and a few pictures hanging upon the clean white walls, completed the furniture of the room. Silence reigned supreme, while the old gentleman peered out of the large bay-window that looked out on the principal street of the city. The curate watched his actions with the greatest attention. Al-

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most immediately after they had been seated, the fixed gaze of Father Rogers grew more perplexed. His large blue eyes expanded far beyond their normal size ; his cheeks, always of a healthy glow, grew redder ; and his thick lips clinched tightly to his teeth. In this attitude, with his form as straight as an arrow, the rector sat, gazing fiercely out into the storm. The white silken hair seemed to rise from his forehead, and the picture he presented struck intermingled terror and admiration in the heart of the young dark-eyed assistant. “ Mystery ! mystery ! ” he shouted, evidently unconscious of the curate’s presence. The misgiving Father Delon felt when he approached the pastor in the early evening, now took a greater hold upon him as the hours sped by. “What,” thought he, “is the pastor mad? Oh, I have made him thus by the tale of my sad life.” The pastor was extremely sensitive to all that appertained to the welfare of others ; forgetting himself, he suffered all for the friend he loved. “ Father Rogers is mad,” the curate repeated again and again. Father Delon’s head was whirring round with thoughts that he could not control nor drive away. He prayed for relief, but none came. The sad look which the pastor had shown when he narrated the tale of his life was now changed to one of terrible fury. “ He is mad. There is positive proof in his visage.” The curate could not otherwise account for the strange phenomena that had taken hold of the pastor than in the awful declaration, “ He is mad.”

Some solution must soon be forthcoming, else the young priest could no longer stand the strain which the pitiful peculiarities of his superior had stirred up within his brain. All the fearful uprisings that lay siege to an afflicted mind presented themselves, as he meditated upon his own strange revelation. “ Whose child am 1 ? God knows,” he sadly murmured. A violent shudder shook his frame from head to foot, as he began to soliloquize further : “ Maybe I have judged wrongly ; perchance, I am mad myself ! ” He dared not approach his elder, though he kept his eyes fixedly upon him. While thus in anxious expectation to know what might be the cause of his rector’s troubles, a tremendous clap of thunder shook the rectory to its very foundation. Dazed by the crash, Father Eogers glanced about him with an affrighted stare, only to discover that his young assistant was anxiously awaiting his return to consciousness from the re very, if such it might be called, that had taken possession of him. “ Well, well, George, you heard me say that I had a difficulty to solve ; you have one also ; both are wrapped up in a deeply hidden mystery. George, with that house yonder rests a tale that we must investigate. It may, perhaps, throw some light upon yourself as well as on me.” The curate looked amazed at the white-haired speaker, who, lost in deep contemplation, peered through the rain and mist in the direction of the Omar Mansion, which stood opposite the parochial residence, hidden, like it, in a forest of tall willows and elms. “ Mystery, Father ? Please explain.”

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The venerable priest had by this time recovered from the dreadful lethargy which had held his powers of intellect so firmly concentrated that he had completely lost his senses, and once more resuming that good-natured disposition which every one loved to speak of, he rejoined : “ Look yonder at the ‘ Yellow Manse ’ — the house of Omar.”

Father Delon did as he was commanded to do, but saw nothing, except the rain that splashed against the window.

“ Do you see nothing? ”

“ Nothing, save the rain.”

“ Behold the shimmering light that darts at intervals from the tree tops above ; follow its course as it descends.”

“I now see a window in Omar’s mansion.”

“ Look at right angles above it, and tell me what you perceive.”

No sooner had the assistant beheld the window that was pointed out to him, than his body shook with convulsions. The sight which met his gaze can only be obscurely repeated. Toward the end of the jetted roof, which was sharp-sloping, there appeared a little window of triangular shape. Over it was a second window of the same style, placed in a transversal order, so that the light that shone from both formed a star. The curate, like one transfixed, glared at the curiously-framed window. His black eyes glistened like fire, and his rosy-colored cheeks, now pale from fright, showed that sterner nature that lay under an accustomed gleeful smile. Tlie former rigidness of Father Rogers’ expression was tempered somewhat by his venerable appearance, but the black visage of the younger clergyman lacked this to overshadow the boldness that was now so heavily imprinted on it. What power had thus affected him ? By his side was now standing his best friend, as meek and lovely as an angel. His white locks fell generously over his shoulders, while now and then a slight breeze curled over his white face, brightened by its characteristic cheerfulness. He who but a moment ago was so savage looking, now possessed such powers of veneration that the holy and just alone can have. “ Angel and devil ! ” No ; there was no devil, nor perhaps an angel ; but yet two priests, one overcome by the heavenly grace which beams upon a man accustomed to the practice of virtue, the other charmed, rather cursed, by some mysterious working. Father Rogers watched with kindly eyes the awful countenance of his young assistant, which, the latter finally perceiving, turned his glanced from the enchanted window, bearing on his lips a curl of scorn and contempt at the proceedings he had been compelled to witness. The spell was broken. No sooner had his eyes been taken from the “ Yellow Manse ” than they lost their fevered glow, and like one who had received a strong current of electricity, his body stiffened out for an instant, and then grew lax. Father Rogers bore him to a chair, and having procured stimulants from an outer room, after much work, at length revived him.

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“ What has happened, Father? ”

“ I saw that frightful window. I saw the difficulty, the mystery — dark and deep as hell is that.”

Father Delon stared persistently into the large blue eyes of the genial rector, and awaited a reply.

“ George, I know what you wish me to do,” said the pastor, stroking the black curly hair of the curate, “ reveal a mystery ; and the same I require you to do for me. This is the reason why 1 pointed out to you the wonderful window across the way. Now as you have obtained nearly as much information as myself in regard to the queer workings in that mansion, perhaps you can put a better construction on the whole thing. We must put our heads together, and if there is any solution to the wonderful things we have seen, we must work it out.” The curate enthusiastically responded : “ We will, Father, we will.” Saying this, the young priest moved two chairs to the bay-window of the rectory, and both priests sat down to try to unravel the mysterious workings they had seen in the window opposite.

“ You think, then, that the devil has set up his workshop in the Yellow Manse ; you believe somewhat in the superstition — the nearer the church, the further from God.”

“ Father,” responded the youthful priest, “ I am not superstitious, neither am I too credulous to trust stories that have an oddity about them ; but what I have seen with my own eyes cannot well deceive me. I dare not look in the direction of that awful spectacle again. That window is bewitched. No sooner do you consent freely to gaze upon it than free will is at an end, and you are compelled to behold those uncanny sights that make the heart grow sick with fear.”

Both avoided a view of the window simultaneously. There was no cessation to the storm. It would evidently last, from the present indications, for the night. The wind which until now was comparatively mild, began to blow somewhat fiercely. The shutters of the neighboring tenements registered a high wind, as many were loosened from their fastenings and strewn along the muddy streets. The cries of infants, suffocating in small rooms where seldom a good breeze penetrates, or a ray of sunlight gleams, combined with the turmoil that issued from the factories, and other weird noises for which the night is remarkable, added to the fury of the roaring wind — and all these various cadences were anything but pleasant to the silent, listening ears of the good fathers, as they watch the lurid glare of the heavens and talked over the Mystery of the Yellow Manse.

“ What mystifying power can be stored away in that mansion, I wonder ? ” spoke Father Rogers, as he lighted a long clay pipe that had given solace to his woes on many previous occasions.

“ The first time an idea struck me that anything was being enacted there, was on last Thursday. I had just entered my room after attending to a sick call (it was nearly midnight), when I heard a harsh,

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grating noise. I looked in tlie direction whence it came, and saw a tall white-bearded old man enter the iron gate of the Yellow Manse. His presence, I assure you, filled me with conflicting thoughts. What purpose had brought this man at so late an hour to that mansion? I am living in this vicinity over thirty years, and never did I behold such a strange visitor around the premises.”

“ Father, was it the appearance of the caller that interested you?”

“ Aye, George, exactly, and you know the house ? ” “ No, sir ; I understand absolutely nothing of the place. Is it not deserted ? ”

“ Why, by no means, good friend, it is much alive within ; but, of course, as you see without, it appears lonely enough. A large family lives there.”

“ What, a family ! This is certainly news to me. I was under the impression that it was long unoccupied ; and who are the members of it ? ”

“ The father of the household, I believe, is dead, although I cannot say positively that such is the case, for I have no reason in asserting this, other than, no mankind has ever been seen there.”

“ Perhaps the old man is the parent,” rejoined the curate. “ Who else constitutes the family ? ”

“ The mistress is a French lady of royal blood.”

“ A French lady of royal blood ! So I understand that fair France is represented in this city, nay, even in our own parish ? I beg you to introduce me, that I may have an interview with her.”

“ An interview ! Why, George she is as much a stranger to me as she is to you.”

“ A stranger ! Is she not a Catholic ? ”

“ WTty, my child, everyone within the limits of our parish is not a member of our Church.”

“ But, Father, I do not grasp your meaning. A French lady, and of kingly blood, and not a Catholic ! Hump ! a Protestant ! that surely cannot be.”

“ Think you, my son, that there are not French Protestants ? ”

“No, sir; French and Protestants are contradictorylterms. French people may be bad Catholics— some even become infidels — but they never turn Protestant. It is folly to consider aFrenchman the follower of sects. He is at least always true to his convictions. He never protests against the truth, and you know that Protestants aTe always protesting. No, no ; Frenchmen are Catholics or infidels, and they are logical in this sense indeed.”

Father Delon expressed the sentiments he felt with impassioned eloquence. As he concluded, the pastor remarked : “ Be they Protestant or infidel, I am not prepared to say, but I can vouch that a more beautiful and better bred group of children, it has not often been my good fortune to come in contact with, than those that reside in the shadowy precincts of that mystical old Manse.”

“ How many are there ? ”

“ I have seen three, but I presume there are at least two others. One, alone, am I to any extent

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acquainted with — namely, Miss Angelina. The name, “ little angel,” expresses but little of the real worth of this estimable young lady.”

“ How chanced you to meet her ? ”

“ One morning about five years ago, I cannot now exactly recall how long, I was on my way to give the Holy Viaticum to a patient who, I was informed, was at the point of death. The weather was extremely cold, and I had just descended from the door-steps of the church, when I espied the young lady of whom I speak coming across the street, driving a fine horse attached to an elegant carriage. Driving nigh to the curb, she bade me enter. This I did, not daring to speak in presence of my God. Understanding her mission, the young girl drove rapidly to the suburbs, where she halted before a low thatched hut. Having alighted, she opened the carriage, and motioned me to enter. Here I found the poor wasted form of an intelligent-looking old man, who had apparently seen better days. Sister Marguerite, who was attending him, suddenly withdrew as I approached the bedside to prepare him for another and better world. After I had done all in my power to relieve the sufferer, I called Sister Marguerite and Miss Angelina into the room. The patient was semi-conscious. He glanced alternately at the faces of the nun and the young lady, both of whose eyes were suffused with tears. He wished to say something, but his tongue only uttered a few incoherent words, which made the women turn deadly pale. I have attended the death-bed of hundreds during my mission as a priest, but I assure you, that I never saw such agony depicted in the glances of a dying mortal, as he stared in the eyes of Sister Marguerite and Miss Angelina. After a little while, his breathing became shorter, until with one motion of his glassy eyes, and one lisp of his parched tongue, he gasped out : ‘ Murder, robbery, divorce and infidelity,’ and falling back on his pillow with a heavy moan, he was a corpse. I had been completely unnerved by the tale he told in those four last words, and sick at heart, I made my way to the door. The young lady followed. I jumped into the coach, and was driven rapidly to the rectory. Here we stopped, and without even thanking the lady who had been so kind to me, I sought refuge from the agonizing sight that I had witnessed, in sudden flight to my room. Falling upon my couch, I heard the rumble of the vehicle die away, and then I thought — too late — to ask something of the strange death of the old man. This is in brief my acquaintance with the lady of the Manse.”

“ Did you never see her again ?” inquired the curate, who had listened to the strange episode with pronounced attention.

“ Yes ; but I never had an opportunity to converse with her. The occasional glimpse I caught of her afterward was when I passed by the mansion, when she would smile mournfully, and then I began to consider that something mysterious might have surrounded the old man’s death,”

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“ Could not Sister Marguerite enlighten you upon it?”

“ Alas ! the poor Sister was from that day heart-broken. I learned that after I had left the hut, ten strange-looking red man, disguised as Turks, forced their way in, and seizing the body, bore it away, leaving the terror-stricken Sister behind. The nun informed me that the young lady did not return to the hut after she had left me at the parsonage. Sister Marguerite made her way sorrowfully homeward, and to this day, 1 have not been able to obtain a complete story of the whole sad affair. I know that the young lady is closely watched in the Yellow Manse, and not permitted to leave it on any consideration.”