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It was a dark and stormy night in the month of November, 18—. To simply say it was dark and stormy, conveys but a faint idea of what the night was in reality. The clouds were pall black, and charged with a vapor which, freezing as it descended, spread an icy mantle over every thing exposed. The wind was easterly and fierce, and drove the sleety hail with a velocity that made it any thing but pleasant to be abroad. Signs creaked, windows rattled, lamps flickered and became dim, casting here and there long ghostly shadows, that seemed to dance fantastically to the music of the rushing winds, as they whistled through some crevice, moaned down some chimney, or howled along some deserted alley on their mad career. It was, take it all in all, a dismal night, and such an one as, with a comfortable shelter over our heads and a cheerful fire before us, is apt to make us thank God we are not forced to be abroad like the poor houseless wretches who have no place to lay their heads. It is too much the case at such times, that we congratule ourselves on being far better off than they, without taking into consideration it is our duty, as humane beings, to render them as comfortable as our circumstances will permit. But who thinks of the poor? God cares for them, say the rich, and that is enough.
But dark and disagreeable as was the night alluded to, there was one who strode rapidly through the almost deserted streets of New York, seemingly unmindful of the storm, and wholly occupied with thoughts of his own, whether bright and cheerful, or dark and gloomy as the storm itself, will presently be seen.
At the moment we have chosen to introduce him to the reader, he was picking his way along a narrow, dark and filthy street, which leads from the vicinity of Five Points to a more open thoroughfare, that, crossing it at right angles, traverses a great portion of the city between the North and East rivers. On reaching this latter, known as Grand street, he turned to the left, and in a few minutes was standing at its junction with the still larger and more fashionable thoroughfare of Broadway. Here he made a momentary pause, and cast his eyes to the right and left, while something like a heavy sigh escaped him. All was gloomy as before; for though an early hour in the evening, even Broadway was nearly deserted; and only a few stragglers, with here and there an omnibus or close shut hack rattling swiftly past, as if the drivers cared little to pause or seek for passengers, met his eager gaze. Turning to the right, our wayfarer pushed up Broadway with a quickened pace, as if reminded by some inward monitor he had been moving too tardily. Looking now neither to his right hand nor left, but with his head bowed on his bosom to avoid the peltings of the storm, he still pressed on for several squares, when he came to a beautiful street, made more retired than some of its neighbors by being composed of splendid private residences. Here again he paused for a few seconds, and looked wistfully down its now deserted walks, as if he felt a secret hesitation in going farther. Then, as if suddenly acted upon by another thought, he darted more rapidly than ever along the slippery pavement, and in less than five minutes stood before a splendid mansion—the secluded abode of wealth, ease and refinement. As he halted at the foot of the marble steps, and cast his eyes up to a window where a soft light faintly stole through a rich damask silk curtain, he sighed audibly, ran his hand quickly across his forehead, and seemed even then almost uncertain whether to advance or retire. But his decision was soon made, and springing up the steps in haste, he rang the bell with a hand made nervous by agitation.
In due time, a sleek, well-dressed, wellfed negro, some thirty years of age, whose general characteristics bespoke the darky dandy, cautiously opened the door, as if either fearful of the storm or the visiter; but no sooner was it open, than the young man--for such the light of the hall revealed him to be—sprang inside, to the no little dismay and astonishment of the black, who was about to make some impertinent remark, but which the other perceiving, said hastily:
"Excuse me, Jeff; I have no time to stand on ceremonies. Is your master at home?"
It is impossible to portray the look of indignant scorn with which the negro heard and responded to this abrupt apology and interrogation. Drawing himself up with a proud air, he cast a supercilious glance over the person of the intruder, from head to foot and from foot to head, looking hard at his thread-bare garments, the remnants of better days, and then answered rather disdainfully:
"See here, Edgar Courtly, you fo'get you'sef. When I's wid my ekals, I's called Misser Jeffrey Pomfret, and none of dem familiar Jeff's, only by gemmen as is gemmen. And as to massa, I's hab you know as how dis child hab nothin to do wid dem vulgar names. I is free nigger now, and massa am done gone long time ago."
The pale features of the young man flushed, his dark eyes flashed, his hand opened and shut convulsively, as he heard these insulting words, and for a moment he seemed on the point of punishing the negro for his insolence; but then, remembering where he was, and the object he had in coming hither, he smothered his indignation and calmly replied:
"Once, Mr. Jeffrey Pomfret, as you are pleased to term yourself, such language from you to me would have cost you a severe chastisement; but things have altered since, and so let it pass. Is Mr. Goldfinch at home?"
"'Spose he am?" returned Jeff, doggedly.
"Then tell him I wish to speak with him without a moment's delay."
"You-you tink he see you?" asked Jeff, shaking his head.
"Do as you are bid," rejoined the young man, sharply, "or, be the consequences what they may, I will teach you a lesson you will not soon forget;" and clenching his hand, he took a step or two towards the negro, who, perceiving matters were approaching a crisis, slowly departed on his errand, muttering as he went something about the impertinence of poor relations, until his person had disappeared up the stairs leading from the hall to the chambers above.
As soon as he was out of sight, young Courtly folded his arms on his breast, and with brows rather closely knit, in silence awaited his return. In a short time the negro made his appearance, and in a rather pompous tone said:
"Misser Gol'finch says you please excuse him, case he am engaged."
"I will not excuse him," returned young Edgar, in a sharp tone of indignation, while his face reddened and his dark eyes flashed defiance. "I came here to see him, and I will not depart without. Tell him so!"
"No! no! I'll no goes near him wid dat message," returned Jeff, "case dis child's head would be done gone brokum."
"Then I will seek him where he is," rejoined Edgar Courtly. "Show me his apartment!"
"Bess not go, Misser Edgar!"
"Do as I bid you!"
"Well, den, fust room on de leff."
With this the young man advanced to the staircase, and ascended it with an unfaltering step. On reaching the floor above, he paused at the first door on the left and rapped. On hearing a voice say "Come in," he entered a splendidly furnished apartment, whose bright and cheerful appearance formed an imposing contrast to the howling, dismal night without. Every thing of refined comfort was here profusely displayed; but as all tastefully arranged apartments are much alike, it will be unnecessary for us to describe it minutely. A bright coal fire was burning in the grate, in front of which, at some little distance, stood an elegant marble center-table, strewn with books and papers, and supporting a large alabaster lamp, whence issued a flood of soft, bewitching light. By this table, on the entrance of Edgar Courtly, sat two persons—a lady just blooming into womanhood, and a gentleman some forty-five years of age--the former engaged in reading a book, and the latter in perusing a newspaper. The eyes of both simultaneously rested upon the intruder, when the lady, rising from her seat, passed out of the room by a side door, leaving the gentlemen alone to themselves. With their eyes bent sternly on each other, and a frown gathering on the brow of each, for a short time the occupant of the apartment and his unwelcome guest remained silent—a period we will improve in describing their personal appearance.
We have said that the gentleman by the table was a man some forty-five years of age, and consequently scarcely turned the full vigor of intellectual manhood. His appearance, however, was, in some respects, in advance of his years; for his head was partially bald, and partially covered with thin, gray hairs. Whether this was the result of unassisted nature, or brought about by perplexity, fright, grief trouble, scheming or care, we shall not pause here to determine, but simply chronicle the fact. His features, generally, were regular, and of that peculiar cast which would make them prepossessing or otherwise, according to the mood or will of the owner. There was no lack of intellect in the prevailing expression of the countenance, and the forehead was high and broad. His eyes were of a clear, cold blue, that would not be likely to impress you favorably, unless rather softly twinkling under the veil of hypocrisy, which none could better and more readily assume than he. His mouth and chin were rather handsome, and the former well filled with white, regular teeth, visible at every smile, and which smile was often present to cover some hidden, devilish design. Take him all in all, Oliver Goldfinch was a character you would need to study long and well to properly understand; and even then, with a deep knowledge of human nature, and a keen, quick perception of the true state of the heart from outward signs, ten to one you would give him credit for being a far better man than would his recording angel. But it is not our design to point out here his virtues, his faults, nor his characteristics. He must speak and act throughout our story in propria persona, and the reader can be his own judge in the end. With the additional statement that in person be was portly, and of an air to command respect among strangers, we turn to Edgar Courtly.
In stature the latter was slightly above medium, possessing a fine, manly form, and a dignified bearing that would have befitted one his senior by ten years. No one, not even the most casual observer, could ever mistake him for a common character— for one of that herd of human beings who are as much alike as the pebbles on the sea-washed beach. His featurer were pale and haggard, as if from some corroding, inward struggle--a painful, constant labor of the mind, which bears the body on to premature decay. Yet this appearance did not set ill upon him, but rather increased that look of lofty, noble intellectuality, which lighted his countenance and shone in his dark, eloquent, hazel eye. His forehead was broad and massive, and though not remarkably high, was expressive of brilliant and vigorous thought. As he stood before the other, his eye fixed intently on him, there was a slight contraction of his handsome brows, and a compression of his thin, bloodless lips, expressive of a determination to push to the end the task he had imposed upon himself in thus coming unannounced into the presence of one, who, if not an absolute foe, could by no means be regarded as a friend. And as the two stood and stared upon each other, the selfish, scheming look of the worldly man found as great a contrast in the bold, noble, open, yet passionate countenance of the youth, as did his elegant broadcloth, starched linen, and white, systematically-tied neckcloth, in the negligent, threadbare, faded garments of the other.
"Well, sir?" said Mr. Goldfinch at length, throwing down his paper with an angry gesture, and pausing as if for the other to state his business. "Well, sir," he resumed in a sharper tone, as the young man, dropping his eyes to the floor, did not seem in haste to reply, "to what am I indebted for this intrusion of Edgar Courtly?"
"Pardon me!" answered the young man, in a subdued tone, closing the door and taking a few steps forward, but still with his eyes cast down. "I am sorry, sir, that circumstances have forced me to intrude myself in this manner, but—"
"Stop!" interrupted the other, bluntly; "you make use of wrong phrases. There are no circumstances, young man, let me tell you, which can force a person, well brought up, beyond the rules of good breeding. No man of honor, sir, with a spark of the gentleman in him, could by any means be induced to intrude himself on another, when previously informed of that other's desire not to be disturbed."
"Well, sir, as you will—but at present I have more urgent matters than a disputation on a trifling point of etiquette. I came here, to this house, sir, to see you, sent a message to you to that effect, and not succeeding by that means in bringing you to me, have taken the liberty of calling on you in your own apartment."
"At the risk of being kicked down stairs for your trouble," retorted the other, flushing with anger.
"No, I do not think I ran any such risk," rejoined Edgar, giving the other such a firm, cool, determined look, that he moved uneasily in his seat, let his eyes sink to the floor, and slightly coughed, by way of filling up the unpleasant interval and reassuring himself. "I hardly think I ran any such risk," pursued the young man, approaching the table, and even bending over toward the other, as he added the sarcastic interrogation: "Do you, Mr. Goldfinch?"
"Ahem!" growled the other, "ahe-e-m! Come, come—what does all this mean?— What is it you want here with me at this time of night, Edgar Courtly?"
"Justice," answered young Edgar, promptly.
"How, sir? in what way? what do you mean?"
"My mother, sir, I fear is dying."
"Well?" was the cold response.
"Well, say you!" cried the other, with a burst of indignation. "Well, say you! By heavens, sir, it is not well, but most wofully ill! My mother, I say, I fear is dying, and without the comforts of life, without medicine, without proper food, and without fire. Think of that on such a night as this!"
"Well?" was the rejoinder again.
"I came here for money, sir—the filthy dross of the earth, which, by its potent charm, can command all mortal aid."
"And why here? why came you to me? Have I not forbid you my house?"
"And why to you?" repeated the other. indignantly, taking no heed of the last insult; "because, unfortunately, the blood of my mother runs in your veins. She is your sister."
"'Tis false!" cried the man of wealth; "false as a two-faced evil spirit. She is not my sister: I have disowned her: I did so on the day she threw herself away upon your father."
The young man reddened at this, bit his lips, and for a few minutes seemed almost vainly struggling to command his temper. He succeeded, however, at last, and then said in a low tone, with forced calmness:
"Ay, you did disown her, as you say; and well for her and all others concerned had you stopped there, and not carried your dark, double-dealing villiany any farther. You disowned her for a time, played the villian openly, and afterwards acted the still more villainous part of a hypocrite. You disowned your sister because she had married a poor man; but when you found, by good fortune, energy and perseverance, my father was in a fair way to amass a handsome competence, you thought it wise to play the fawning sycophant, that you might ingratiate yourself into his favor, and rob him of his honest earnings. You played the penitent—said you had been hasty—that you regretted what you had done, and hoped all would be overlooked. In short, you worked upon the noble nature of my father, until he was led to think you a conscientious, honest man, and took you into his confidence, only to be stung at last, as when one clasps a serpent to his bosom. Yes, sir, my father was wealthy, as you know, and as you alone know to what extent. Reposing at last every confidence in you, he left you in charge of all his affairs and went abroad on business. The vessel he sailed in was lost, and all perished; and when this news reached you, then it was you showed your cloven foot; then it was you threw off in part the mask, and in part revealed yourself a devil incarnate. Suddenly then you discovered my father had left a will, by which, after a small pittance to my mother, sister and myself, you became sole heir to his vast possessions. You grieved sorely about his death, as every one could see by your solemn, pale face and sable robes, and by the punctilious manner in which you administered on his last will and testament, claiming to a cent every thing to which you had now a legal right, even to the mansion my nearly distracted mother then inhabited. All this you did with a smooth, oily tongue, but wobegone countenance, saying it was not for the property you sought— that you cared nothing about that—but that all you did was simply done to carry out the desires of your dearly adored, but unfortunate brother; that when every thing should have become satisfactorily settled, you would present your sister the estate, and every thing should go on as smoothly as before. Did you do this? Ask your own self-condemning conscience, if you have one. Did you do this? Let the widow's prayers and orphans' tears answer. Did you do this? Turn to the great Register of Heaven, on which all good and evil deeds are written, and see if you can trace aught there commendable. Did you do this? No, base hypocrite! as I now tell you to your teeth you are, you did no such thing. On one pretence and another you disposed of the property and removed to this city, where you have been, and are still, living on your ill-gotten gains; and where you promised, if my mother would follow, you would support her handsomely. Thinking you might have a particle of humanity in your composition, and would restore her in part what was rightfully her own, she sold her effects and came hither, only to find herself and children beggars, and wholly disowned by a miscreant brother."
The young man was still on the point of proceeding farther, when the other, unable to endure more, sprang from his seat, and with demoniac rage depicted on his countenance, exclaimed:
"Hold, rash boy! or, by the living powers, I'll have you ejected from my presence as I would an assassin!"
"Nay," returned Edgar, coolly, "do not get in a passion, Mr. Goldfinch—uncle I will not call you, since you deny relationship,— do not be uneasy, sir, but sit down and hear me out, for the worst is still to come. Nay, no frowns, for they will not intimidate me in the least, and can therefore do you no service. Nay, furthermore, do not attempt to leave the room, nor to call assistance here, or I will not be answerable for the consequences—and just now I am somewhat of a desperate individual, Mr. Goldfinch. There, that is right," he added, as, after some hesitation, the other at length resumed his seat; "now I will proceed in brief:
"I have said, Mr. Goldfinch, that so soon as it was ascertained my father was dead, you somehow mysteriously discovered a will, which made you principal heir to his possessions. Now, although this was found in due form, bearing his signature and that of several witnesses, and although in turning to the court register it was found entered the day previous to his setting sail for the continent, still, good Mr. Goldfinch, since I must speak the truth, I grieve to say there were not wanting those base enough to insinuate to my mother and myself, that Ethan Courtly, my sainted father, never had the honor of reading a line of it, or in fact of knowing he had set his hand to any such document."
"But—but," gasped the other, turning pale with excitement, "you—you—"
"Pray do not get in a passion," pursued Edgar. "Keep cool, Mr. Goldfinch, keep cool. I know you would ask if I believe any such base insinuations. The fact is, you see, just now it is perfectly immaterial what I believe. I have no time to say farther, than that I came here for money, and money I must have—or, mark me, Mr. Goldfinch, the most heavy of consequences shall rest on your head. If you ever did any wrong in your life—mind, now, I say if—(and the dark hazle eye of young Edgar was fixed piercingly upon the other, as if to read his very soul,) you doubtless had some assistance; and it sometimes happens that tools turn traitors. Some things are known. Do you understand me? I came for money. Can I have it?"
The abrupt manner in which the young man concluded, the peculiar emphasis he laid upon certain words, and the peculiar look which accompanied them, implied he knew far more than he chose then to reveal, and produced a curious effect upon his uncle, insomuch that he changed color often, dropped his eyes to the ground, moved uneasily in his seat, and allowed himself to be perceptibly embarrassed.— At the last question he started suddenly, and answered rather quickly:
"Certainly, certainly—how much do you want?" And then, bethinking he had thrown himself off his guard, he as quickly added: "That is—I—I must say—that— that—I am willing to assist my sister— or your mother, I should say—some—but do not feel able to do so to any great extent at present: in fact, to tell the truth, have no funds at all about me—but if you will call—"
"Nay," interrupted the other, "I will manage that. Just give me your check for a certain amount."
"Certainly I would—but—" began the other, and then stopping, as a sudden thought struck him, (which must have been prompted by the devil, if one might judge by the deep, sinister smile that curled for a moment around his mouth, shone in his eyes, and then vanished like one's breath from a mirror,) he added: "Certainly I will—let me see!—yes, I will do it;" and going to his escritoire, he wrote a few lines and handed them to the young man, with the injunction to trouble him no more, but hie to his mother and relieve her as soon as possible.
Glancing at the paper, Edgar Courtly was surprised to discover it a check for one thousand dollars on a banker in Wall street. The first impulse of his generous soul, was to seize his uncle's hand and crave pardon for all he had said, and own he had done him wrong; but then, remembering the peculiar manner by which the other had been wrought to this liberality, he altered his intention and simply said:
"Sir, I thank you! Good night!" and with the last words he opened the door and disappeared.
"Ha, ha!" laughed Oliver Goldfinch, as the form he hated quitted his sight; "you thank me, do you, you little know for what. Well, Edgar Courtly, you triumph now in your own conceit; but my turn will come next; and then—and then—" and shaking his head, with a dark smile, but leaving the sentence unfinished, he resumed his seat at the table, and turned again to his paper, as though nothing had occurred to disturb his equanimity.
In a dingy, filthy street, known to those familiar with New York as Mott, there stood, among a great many others of the same class, an old, dilapidated, wooden structure, which, though it could scarcely bear the title of dwelling, was used as such, or rather as an abode, by a few miserable tenants, whose poverty precluded the possibility of their seeking one more pleasant and commodious. Since its erection, the street whereon it stood had been somewhat raised, which gave to the building the appearance of having sunk into the earth some two or three feet. Its windows could hardly boast a sound pane of glass— in some cases not any—and the door of entrance was broken from its hinges. There was no fear of thieves here, for the simple reason there was nothing within worth the trouble of stealing; and hence the tenants lived less in dread of their neighbors than the elements, whose cold penetration, on such a night as we have described in the opening chapter, was any thing but agreeable. Between this building and a similar one on the left, ran a narrow, filthy alley, communicating with a miserable hovel in the rear, containing only two apartments, badly ventillated and worse lighted. To this latter we must for the present direct our attention.
In the front apartment—or at least in that apartment nearest the street, for neither, strickly speaking, could be called front—on the night our story opens, there were two occupants—a mother and daughter— the former lying upon a rude bed, worn down almost to a skeleton, and in the agonies of a disease which was fast bearing her to a world that knows no sorrow, and the latter kneeling by her side on the damp floor, clasping her thin hand, and weeping the bitterest tears a mortal can feel. The elder was a woman slightly turned of forty, but bearing the marks of sixty years—the third score being added by trouble rather than time. Although, as previously stated, sadly wasted by sorrow and disease, yet the outlines of her pale, sunken features and a glance of her deep blue eye, which was scarcely shorn of its wonted luster, showed she had once been a very beautiful being—beautiful by reason of intellect as well as person. In sooth, what is beauty of person without intellect, but the cold expressionless wax figure, or the equally inanimate doll?
The features and form of the daughter bore a strong resemblance to those of her mother in her palmiest days. Her skin was fine and clear, and her deep blue eyes beamed with a soft and tender light, showing a soul full of all the sweetest, purest and holiest feelings of humanity. Her hair was a light brown, and parted over a smooth, handsome forehead, which gave to her a noble and benevolent appearance. In fine, combine the whole features— which to define singly would almost be impossible, as the strong points for which the painter would seek were every where wanting—and you beheld one of those angelic creatures that seem formed to convey to us an accurate conception of beings too lovely to dwell in a place so cold and heartless, unless for a brief period, to soften, as it were, by the sunshine of their presence, the dark and cheerless aspect which must otherwise surround us. Her form, not above medium, was airy and graceful as that of sylph; while her tiny feet and white delicate hands would have won favor from the most fastidious connossieur. Add to this, that her age was just eighteen, and with a little imagination you can place her accurately before your mind's eye.
Lovely as she was in person, not less so was she in those virtues which most adorn her sex. There was nothing in her disposition of a cold, haughty, repulsive nature; but, on the contrary, she was ardent, mild and affectionate, forgiving to a fault, and full of all those sweet and holy sympathies which sometimes make us pause and wonder why earth is permitted to contain a being so illy suited to its jars and discords. But a little reflection will show us that this is a wise ordination of that Great Being who set the wheels of creation in motion—for what would our world be without occasionally such spirits to produce a harmony with the rough chords of life? Without such gentle spirits, what would earth be but pandemonium— a darkened sphere of gloom and sorrow, illumined by no ray of happiness?
The apartment where these two beings were, was unfurnished, or at least so scantily as to be unworthy of the name. A few rough chairs, an old worm-eaten bureau, a deal table, on which stood a sickly, tallow candle, sending forth a dismal light, that rather served to show than dispel the darkness, together with the bed and a few of the most common articles in use, completed the list. In the fire-place lingered a few embers, fast going out for lack of fuel to renew the flame.
And this cold, dismal, dungeon-like place, was the present abode of those whose every look and gesture, to say nothing of their language, told that to them it was a new life, or rather a living wretchedness to which they had never been accustomed. Oh, what a gloomy scene was this! what a terrible trial for those to undergo who had heretofore been used to wealth, ease and refinement! What are the sufferings of the miserable wretches who have never known aught but poverty, compared with those who feel it for the first time? In any case such condition is hard enough to be borne, Heaven knows; but the horrors thereof are increased ten-fold, when it falls upon such as have been born and bred in the halls of wealth. How the sensitive soul shudders and shrinks within itself, and even longs to escape its frail tenement of clay, and soar to that world of bliss where sorrow never enters, and all is bright and glorious sunshine forever!
And here were these unfortunate beings, alone by themselves, on a dismal night, when the storm without was howling in fury, shaking their frail abode even to its foundation, as it whistled and moaned through the crevices with a wail like the voices of imprisoned spirits seeking to escape their bell of torture. And why were they here on such a night as this? Let the wrongs of humanity answer. Let the crimes of those who sit in high places answer. Let him, no matter who nor where, who has robbed the widow and the orphan of their last mite, answer—ay, answer before that Great Tribunal where Justice alone sits Judge, and Power and Wealth and Position stand but as chaff before the gale. As this poor widow and her daughter were on the night we introduce them, so have thousands been both before and since; and from the same cause, the wrongs of those who have occupied, and do occu py, a high place in the eyes of the worldly wise. But look to it, ye Wrongers, and tremble! for surely as the sun shines at noon day, that the stars are above us in the night, or that death will overtake you, so surely will there come a day of retribution— of fearful reckoning—when your canting hypocrisy will avail you not— when the "silver vail" will be stripped from your vile features, and you will stand forth before the eye of Almighty God in your own natural, hideous deformity! Look to it, we repeat, and tremble! for it will be a fearful, a terribly fearful moment to you.
For a few moments mother and daughter remained as introduced, with hands clasped in each other's, while the quick breathings of the invalid, the sobbings of the younger, and the raging of the storm, were the only sounds audible. It was a damp, cold night, and yet they were almost without fire, and both so thinly covered that they shivered in spite of their efforts to the contrary.
"Do not weep, my child!" said the invalid at length; "do not weep, Virginia! for your tears make my sufferings intense."
"Oh! how can I help it, mother?" returned the other, lifting her soft, wet eyes to her parent, with a fresh burst of grief. "How can I help it, mother, when I behold you thus, on a bed of sickness and pain, and—and—perhaps death, (she shuddered at the last dreadful word,) without even the ordinary comforts of life to relieve in part your sufferings? Oh! it is too much—too much!" and she again sobbed aloud with grief.
"It is hard, my daughter, I know," rejoined the other; "very, very hard; but then, my sweet Virginia, we should remember it is the will of God, who does all things for the best."
"So I try to think, dear mother; and so I do think, and know; and I have struggled long and hard to be composed, and not excite you with my grief—but in vain. My cup of bitterness seems over full, and these tears will come in spite of all my efforts to the contrary When I think of how we were once, and what we now are, and to what we owe our misfortunes, it is impossible for me to restrain myself, and it seems as if my brain were on fire and I must go mad."
"But," pursued the other, "you must not give way, my child! I feel certain our afflictions are all for the best, if we, poor, weak, short-sighted mortals, could but see into the great futurity. We are chastened, and most severely, but it is by the hand of our Maker, and for some good end— perhaps that we may wean our thoughts and affections from the world, and place them on more holy things."
"Ah! dear mother," returned the daughter, affectionately, "it is gratifying to hear you talk thus—you who have suffered so much—to see you so resigned to the will of Him who holds our destinies in his hands; for did you indeed repine, I am sure my reason would desert me. But still, for all, dear mother, I cannot restrain these tears—tears that come to relieve the overcharged soul—and I thank my God I can weep. You are sick, dear mother— you are suffering, perhaps with the pangs of death—and yet without aught to relieve you—with no kind friends but your own unfortunate children to shed a tear or feel an emotion for your fate.— And we, alas! cannot assist you. Look round this desolate apartment, and say, can I help but weep? It is cold, and dismal, and our scanty fire is going out. Oh! mother," she cried, with a new burst of grief, "you are dying for want of the ordinary comforts of life!"
"But I trust all will be better soon, my sweet Virginia! Edgar, you know, has gone to see his uncle, who, however unmindful of our necessities he may have been, will surely not reject his petition when he learns our present condition."
"Hope for nothing there, mother—hope for nothing from him!" rejoined the other; "for he who was so base as to rob us of all we had, and then so shamefully deceive us, is devoid of all pity."
"Well, well, my child, do not despond, for God is good, though man be base. Is it not most time for Edgar to return? I wish he would come—for I—I—feel—very —very weak;" and her voice died away to a whisper.
Virginia sprang to her feet, with a look of alarm.
"Oh, mother!" she cried, wildly, observing a marked change in the features of the invalid—a kind of deathly sinking about the eyes, and a lividness on the lips: "Oh, mother! dear mother! you surely are not dying?"
For a few moments Mrs. Courtly vainly struggled to speak. At last she gasped, rather than said:
"I—I—trust not, Vir-gin-ia; but—I— am very—we—weak—and—and—feel strangely."
"Oh, God!" burst from the terrified Virginia. "Dying, and no one by! Heaven help me! Oh, Merciful Father, help me! Oh, you must not die, mother!" she continued, wildly. "Pray take something to revive you! Here," she cried, seizing a small tin cup that rested on the table, and hurriedly applying it to the lips of the other, "take a draught of water!"
Poor creature! God help her! it was all she had to give.
With a slight motion of the hand, the invalid waved it away, saying, in a feeble tone:
"I wish Edgar would come. Ah! how dark it grows! Has the candle gone out, Virginia?"
"No, mother, it is still burning, but feebly."
"Then my sight must be failing, for I can hardly see."
"Oh, this is terrible!" shrieked Virginia, sinking upon her knees and burying her face in the miserable covering of the bed.
A groan from the sufferer made her again spring to her feet. "Are you dying, mother?" she asked, wildly; "really dying, think you?"
"Alas!" sighed the other, "that is more than I can say. I feel strangely—perhaps the hand of death is on me."
Virginia instantly caught hold of her hands. They felt cold. She then tried her temples and feet. They were cold also. Then she began chafing different parts of her body, while her own bosom heaved with emotions too deep for language to express. While thus occupied, there came a rap upon the door.
"Ha!" exclaimed Mrs. Courtly, with something like returning animation, "God grant it be Edgar!" and as Virginia sprang forward to give him admittance, she added, in an under tone: "for I would see him again ere I depart to return no more."
"And how is mother now?" were the first words Edgar spoke as he crossed the threshold.
"Alas! I fear she is dying," whispered his sister.
"Dying?" cried Edgar; and with one bound he stood beside the bed of his mother, and would have embraced her, only that he remembered in time his garments were dripping water.
"I am glad you have come, Edgar," spoke Mrs. Courtly, in a very weak, husky tone, "for I was afraid I should never behold you again."
"Are you then much worse, dear mother?" inquired Edgar, in a tremulous voice, striving to master his feelings so as not to appear agitated.
"Yes, Edgar," was the reply, "mortal aid I fear can avail me nothing now. I feel the hand of death upon me. My sight has already failed me. I cannot see you.— Give me your hand. And now yours, Virginia;" and as they both silently complied, she continued:
"My dear children, you must not weep and mourn for my loss, for you know I shall be better off in the land to which I am hastening. True, I could have desired to live longer, to comfort you with my counsel in these your darkest hours of adversity— but it is not permitted, and I will not murmur. You know what is right and proper; and I trust, when I am gone, you will not swerve from the path of duty and rectitude. However sorely you may be tried, and God alone knows to what extent that will be, I beseech you, with a dying prayer, never to do wrong! never to be led from the path of virtue into that of vice! I know you will have many temptations before you—will have examples of how the wicked prosper—but still be firm to your dying mother's injunctions, and all will in the end be well. My children, I charge you, with my last breath, to value honor and virtue more than life! I would say more, but my strength is failing me so fast I cannot."
While speaking, both Edgar and Virgina stood gazing upon the countenance of their dying parent in silence, but with breasts heaving with feelings too deep and potent for the pen to record. As she ceased, Edgar exclaimed:
"Oh! mother! do not say your are dying! Perhaps it is only a faintness—a want of food—or of some reviving cordial. Cheer up, dear mother! you shall have every thing. I am rich now, dearest mother. I succeeded in my errand. See here! I have my uncle's check for a thousand dollars;" and he held the paper up before her.
"Then you will not starve, my children, God be thanked!" cried Mrs. Courtly, fervently, with energy. "I can die happier now for the thought. But it comes too late for me—for already I stand on the brink of death."
"Nay, mother, perhaps net. Stay! something must be done! I will run for a physician. I know I shall not be refused when I show this."
As he spoke, he turned hurriedly away and darted to the door to execute his purpose, but the feeble voice of his mother arrested his progress.
"Stay, Edgar," she said, "stay, I implore you! for if you leave me now, you will never behold me again on earth. I am more and more convinced every moment that I am dying—that I shall speedily pass away."
Edgar slowly returned, and again taking her hand, the manly tears he could no longer restrain followed each other mournfully down his anguished features; while his sister, placing her head on her mother's pillow, sobbed aloud. It was a heart-rending and dismal scene.
Without the winds did fiercely blow— Within were desolation—wo.For a few moments no voice broke the cheerless monotony of the driving storm. Then the invalid feebly said:
"Kneel, my children, and pray!"
Both silently obeyed; and as they arose from their knees and bent over their mother, each drew back with a start. The next moment a wild shriek from Virginia told the fearful tale.
Their mother was dead. During that prayer her spirit had passed away—gone from earth—returned to God who gave it.
It is a terrible thing to be alone in spirit. To feel, while surrounded by a multitude, there is not a single heart vibrating in sympathy with your own. To feel you are encompassed by cold, heartless strangers; that there is no tie to bind you to earth; no inducement for you to cling to a life already burdensome, unless it be the solemn dread of the uncertain change in throwing off this "mortal coil." How many have felt thus! How many still feel! How many have stood beside the bed of death and seen the eyes that ever looked bright on them, close; the lips which murmured in their last action naught but words of hope and comfort to them, sealed forever; the breath which seemed the Promethean spark of their own existence, cease; and the soul, which was the life of their life, wing its flight for aye beyond the shores of time, and felt that their last and only friend was eternally gone to that realm whence no mortal power can summon back. How many have felt thus, and in their anguish and despondency have sunk down and prayed that God would soon let them follow. Millions have felt thus; millions still feel; and millions unborn shall suffer yet the same. The world is full of misery. There is no such thing as unalloyed happiness here. Our very joys derive their chiefest pleasure from the strong contrast they present to our sorrows— the while our heaviest sorrows are lightened by the joys built on the hopes of the future. Perhaps it is this variety— this sunshine and storm—that gives to life its greatest zest—its fairest attractions; for it is a well established fact, we can only know pleasure from having experienced pain.
It was thus, but not wholly thus, with Edgar and Virginia. They were alone in the wide world, yet not wholly alone.— They had each other to live for, each other to weep for, each other to pray for, each other to console and be in turn consoled. But still they were as lopped branches from the withered trunk. Their mother, their only parent, in whom the deepest affections of both centered, was dead; and their young hearts felt anguish-stricken and desolate. They felt and knew she at least was better for the change; and yet, though they prized her happiness above their own, they wept passionately, bitterly, their irreparable loss; for such is the selfishness of even the most unselfish of mankind.
It was a sight to wring the heart of a stoic, to behold them stand, on that ill-fated, gloomy night, by the corpse of her whose whole soul in life had breathed naught but love and tenderness, and vainly implore her in touching accents to look upon them once more—to let them again hear the sound of her sweet, beloved voice— while the only answer returned was the seemingly fiercer howl of the Storm Spirit. Oh! who shall tell the anguish of that youth and maiden, as they grasped the hands of her they best loved in life, and passionately pressed them to their hearts— but found them cold and inactive—found them give no pressure in return!
For a few minutes after the sufferer had breathed her last, both Edgar and Virginia occupied themselves as just described; and then, finding too truly she was dead, the latter threw herself upon the corpse, and again and again kissed her cold livid lips, and wept, and groaned, and sobbed alternately; while the former, sinking upon a seat, buried his face in his hands, and rocked to fro like a strong oak shaken by the tempest. For a time he was unable to shed a tear, and his heart crept to his throat and almost strangled him, and his brain seemed parched and withered. In this state he rose and paced the floor for some minutes, during which the working of his features showed that his soul was on the rack of agony the most intense.— At last, greatly to his relief, he burst into tears, and again seating himself, for a long time he wept freely.
An hour passed, and both Edgar and Virginia had become more calm. In sooth, the latter had lain herself down by the corpse, and with one arm thrown over its breast, and her face partly buried in the clothes, had cried herself into a kind of dreamy stupor, from which she only arroused occasionally to draw a long, sobbing breath. Edgar, on regaining somewhat his former composure, approached the bed, and bending over his much loved sister, gently whispered her name; but finding she took no heed of him, he resolved not to disturb her, and reseating himself near her, he took a hand of the corpse in his own, and was soon lost in a painful revery.
An hour and then another went by, and still Edgar sat as before, motionless and silent, with features so rigid, that, but for his breathing, he might naturally enough have been mistaken for one of the dead himself. Meanwhile the sobbing of Virginia had became less and less frequent, until at last her breathing announced that, for a short time, she had forgot her troubles in a quiet sleep. Again arousing himself, Edgar now arose, and collecting all the loose clothes he could find, gently spread them over his sister, and then bending down, and pressing his lips to her forehead, softly murmured:
"God bless thee, thou sweet but fragile flower, and let thy sleep be long, that some misery may be spared thee!" and then taking his position as before, he remained the sad and lonely watcher of the night.
Towards morning the storm abated; and though shivering with the cold, for his garments had not been changed and the fire had long since gone out, Edgar, overcome by fatigue and excitement, at last dropped off into a feverish slumber, constantly broken by sudden starts, and as constantly renewed by exhausted nature. And thus passed that eventful night.
The gray of morning was just stream ing through the dingy window and crevices of the old hovel, as Edgar, arousing himself with a start and shaking off his drowsiness, turned to his sister. Much to his gratification he found her still asleep; and again stealing a kiss and pressing his lips to the cold cheek of his mother, he sallied forth to procure fuel and food, and make arrangements for the last sad rite he would ever be called upon to perform for her who had given him existence. By this time the storm had ceased entirely; but still it was cold and damp, and the pavements slippery with ice. Only a few persons were abroad in the street, and most of the houses were closed and looked as cold and cheerless as he felt at heart.
Moving on for a square and a-half, Edgar came to a small, miserable looking grocery, (numbers of which can be seen at all times in all parts of New York, where a little of every thing is kept and doled out to the poor in any quantity, from the value of a cent upwards,) the owner of which was just taking down his shutters, preparatory to his morning's sale. Here Edgar knew he could procure every thing he desired at present, even to a few sticks of wood, or a small measure of coal; and approaching the grocer, a rough, coarse looking Dutchman, he said, blandly:
"I wish to purchase a few necessary articles, and in the course of the day will call and settle for them."
The Dutchman shrugged his shoulders and gave him a contemptuous look, as he replied:
"I never trusts nopodys, and den nopodys don't never sheats me."
"But, my good sir," pursued Edgar, reddening, "I do not intend to cheat you. I will call, I pledge you my honor, and pay you every cent between this and night. I have a check about me for a large amount, which, so soon as business opens in Wall street, I will have cashed, and then I can settle for a thousand times the value of all I now require."
"Vare you lives?" querried the Dutchman; and as Edgar informed him, he continued: "Vy you has der sheck and not der moneys?"
"I only procured it last night, and have not since had an opportunity of disposing of it."
"What for den you wants der trusts now?" asked the still unsatisfied grocer. "Vy you don't vaits till you sells him, and comes mit der cash?"
"Because," answered Edgar, humoring him, in the hope he would grant his request, "it is necessary I should have a few articles now. My home is entirely deyoid of every thing one needs. My poor mother (and here in spite of himself his eyes became filled with tears, and his voice faltered and grew husky,) last night breathed her last in this abode of wretchedness, without fire, food, or medicine—for our last cent had been expended and its purchase exhausted—and now my poor sister, whom I have left alone with her, will sorely suffer, unless I procure something immediately."
The Dutchman shook his head with a frown, as he rejoined:
"It won't do. You tells a goot story— quite petter ash nopody else; but it ish all a tam lie, mit der sheck and all. You tries agin, and somepody ash don't know much, you makes believe him. You shust go, mit your dead motter and shister, and your great sheck, vich you han't got more nor as I, mitout you stole him;" and saying this, the hard-hearted grocer turned his back on Edgar, and coolly proceeded to finish taking down his shutters.
For a few moments, Edgar stood as one stupified with amazement, at the gross insult to himself, coupled as it was with such cool indifference. Then his hand clenched, his teeth closed tightly, his lips quivered, his eyes flashed fierce indignation, and he took a step forward, with the full determination of punishing the other for his insolence; but then, bethinking himself he would only become involved in a quarrel—which, to say the least, would now be most imprudent—he turned away, muttering:
"Such is the selfish, uncharitable world— and why should I quarrel with what I cannot alter! Oh, why was I born to come in contact with such base spirits! God of the orphan and friendless, protect and direct me! for wild thoughts are busy in my brain, and my heart seems turning to stone, like those of the wretches around me."
In a few minutes Edgar had entered another of these miserable groceries, where he met with the same success as before, with the exception that the owner simply refused to trust, without farther insulting him. Sadly dispirited and chagrined, he tried another, and still another, but in each met the same cold reply—all refused to credit his tale—and he slowly retraced his steps to his desolate abode, overwhelmed with grief, crushed in spirit and nearly heart-broken.
"I must perforce wait," he said, bitterly, "till I can procure the means to satisfy their uncharitable, avaricious natures. But poor, poor Virginia! how she will suffer;" and he groaned at the thought.
As he said this, he felt for his check, to be certain he still had resources to depend upon. To his surprise it was not where he expected to find it. Alarmed at this, he made an eager search of his garments; and then, who shall judge of his dismay and horror, when he discovered it was missing—that his last and only stay of support, in this his most trying hour, was gone!
"Oh, God!" he groaned, "if that be lost, what will become of us?" and almost maddened with excitement, he hurried back to his wretched abode, in the hope he might there find it.
The door was slightly ajar, and as he rushed into the chamber of death, he found Virginia bending over the corpse of her mother, wringing her delicate hands and weeping bitterly, while beside her stood a female, but a few years her senior striving by gentle words to console her.
"Do not weep and take on so, fair girl!" he heard uttered as he crossed the threshhold.
"Oh, Edgar, my dear brother!" cried Virginia, as she heard his step; and springing forward, she threw her arms around his neck, buried her face upon his bosom, and sobbed grievously.
"My poor, sweet Virginia!" murmured Edgar, tenderly, straining her to his heart, while his eyes grew dim with scalding tears.
"I heard her cry of agony, sir," said the strange female, apologetically, "and thinking it some person in sore distress, I hurried to her relief, which accounts for my presence here."
"For which God bless you!" returned Edgar, in that deep, earnest, passionate tone which carries with it the unmistakable evidence of sincerity.
The visiter, gave him one heartfelt look of gratitude, and then, much to his surprise, covered her eyes with her hands, sunk into a seat, and burst into tears. Before Edgar could ask for an explanation of this singular conduct, she rose, and hastily wiping her eyes, as if ashamed of her emotion, said, in a sad, earnest, tremulous voice:
"You are surprised to witness this to you strange ebulition of feeling; but, sir, it is a long time since I have heard God's blessing invoked upon my guilty head;" and again, in spite of herself, the tears pressed through her eyelids.
Edgar looked kindly but sadly upon her ere he made a reply, and even Virginia for the moment forgot her own grief, and turning her head, beamed upon her guest a curious but tender expression from her soft blue eyes, which touched the other to the very soul. Both she and her brother now instantly became aware that their guest belonged to that class of poor unfortunates whom the world takes pride in despising, rather than reclaiming, the while it harbors and pampers the damnable villains that make them what they are.
She had once been a lovely creature, but though scarcely turned of twenty years, there was a sad look of grief, and care, and heart-desolation in her appearance. Her once fine, noble looking features were pale and almost haggard, and her bright dark eye had lost some of its wonted brilliant luster. Still she was handsome, though in a measure the wreck of what she had been. Her features were fine and regular, and there predominated over all an expression of feeling—of sympathy with the sorrows of others, and a kind benevolence—which rendered her an object of interest and pity to such as could properly appreciate these high-born quali ties. Her compexion was an olive, and her hair, black and shiny as the raven's plume, was neatly parted and arranged with care, though the loose wrapper she wore, told she had just risen and had not yet completed her morning toilet.
"And you, too, fair lady, have felt the wrongs of mankind most bitterly!" said Edgar, in a soothing, sympathetic tone, accompanied with an expression in keeping with the words he uttered.
"Suffered!" returned the other, shuddering at the thought; "yes, I have indeed suffered, and God only knows how much."
"Then," rejoined Virginia, tenderly, "we can the better sympathise with one another, for we have felt the bitterest pangs of wo."
"Oh, no, not the bitterest, I trust!" returned the other, with energy; "not the bitterest. You have felt not the excruciating pangs of a guilty conscience; for I can see, by your open, generous countenance, you have suffered innocently—that the oppressive weight of guilt is not on your stainless soul, weighing you down to the lowest depths of degradation."
"No, thank God!" returned Virginia, "I have as yet been spared that."
"And well may you thank God," rejoined the other, with spirit; "for all the other ills of this life are nothing in compare with it. Once, sweet lady, I was as good and pure, perhaps, as yourself; but the tempter came, and—(here her voice grew tremulous, and she turned away her head to conceal her emotion—) and in an unguarded moment I fell, and now—" She paused, and then suddenly added; "But of what am I thinking, to trouble you with my sorrows, when you have such weighty griefs of your own to contend with;" and she glanced mournfully toward the bed, where still lay the corpse of Mrs. Courtly, as she had breathed her last the night before.
"My mother!" burst from Virginia, while the tears gushed forth afresh; and approaching the bed, she knelt on the floor, took one of the cold hands of the corpse in her own, pressed it to her lips, and then seemed lost in prayer.
Both Edgar and the stranger gazed upon her in solemn silence, each busy with painful thoughts, till at length she arose, and turning to her brother, in a calmer mood than she had hitherto exhibited, said:
"And why did you leave me, Edgar, without telling me you were going? and where have you been? I awoke, and not finding you here, and seeing my dead mother by my side, I felt so wretchedly desolute, that in my anguish of spirit I uttered the cry of agony which brought this kind lady to me."
"I thought I should return ere you awoke," answered Edgar; "and I went for fuel and food. But I failed to get either," he continued, bitterly, "because the cold-hearted wretches to whom I applied would not sell to me without the money, and that you know I had not. And that reminds me," he added, with a start, "that I have missed the check of my uncle, my sole dependence now, without which we must starve. Did I not drop it here on the floor last night? Have you not seen it, Virginia?" and he began an eager search of the apartment, assisted by his trembling sister.
"Alas! what will become of us now!" he groaned, as, after a fruitless search, he gave up in despair, and sinking hopelessly upon a seat, covered his face with his hands, as if to shut out the dread contemplation.
"If it be money you need," said his guest, "thank Heaven! I can assist you, and will, if you will accept my poor offering. Here! here!" she pursued, with vehemence, drawing forth her purse, "here is gold; take it, take it, I beg, I implore of you! for it will be a relief to my conscience to feel I have done one good act."
"No, no! I dare not take it," returned Edgar, mournfully, motioning her back with his hand, "for I might never be able to repay you."
"The deed will repay itself," pursued the other, energetically, thrusting it upon Edgar. "The gold is valueless to me; and if it will ease one sorrow of yours, I shall deem myself tenfold rewarded."
"God bless you, lady!" cried Virginia, springing forward and seizing her hand, which she bathed with grateful tears: "God bless you! for whatever your faults may have been, you still possess some of the holiest attributes of the angels."
"There, there!" rejoined the other, affected to tears; "say no more!—you praise me far beyond my deserts."
"It may possibly be in my power at some future time," said Edgar, rising, and speaking in a voice made husky by deep emotion, "to repay this overwhelming debt of kindness; and if so, rest assured that my very life will be at your command. Your generosity—"
"Enough! enough!" interrupted the other. "Say no more, I beg of you! for you have more weighty matters to think of at present, and I am fitter for the scoffs and jibes of mankind than such words as these. Your mother must be laid out and interred; and then you must leave this wretched, filthy abode, which is no place for such as you. I will send those to you who will rightly perform the last sad offices to her mortal remains. Meanwhile, procure such things as you need, and if you desire more money, let me know. My quarters are just over the way, in yonder brick building. Adieu, for the present. I will soon be with you again, and superintend the laying out of the corpse myself. Here is my card;" and placing it in the hand of Virginia, which she pressed with warmth, she hurried out of the apartment, as if fearful of being detained by farther expressions of gratitude.
Both Edgar and his sister turned to the card, and beheld simply the name of Ellen Douglas, written in a plain, neat hand.
It is unnecessary for us to longer dwell upon this painful scene. Suffice it, therefore, that Ellen kept her word with regard to the funeral arrangements of Mrs. Courtly, and that ere the sun had sunk to rest, her remains were followed to their last resting place by a small group, composed principally of the clergyman, Ellen and the chief mourners, the latter of whom bedewed her humble grave with tears, as she was being buried forever from their sight.
Ere we proceed farther with our story, it is important we should touch somewhat upon the past, in order to show the train of circumstances which placed some of our characters in the position they occupied when introduced to the reader. In doing this, we shall endeavor to be as brief as possible, well knowing that, to most, long details of such matters prove excessively tedious. To begin then at the beginning, let us go back some twenty-five years, to the marriage of Ethan Courtly and Mary Goldfinch, the parents of Edgar and Virginia. From some remarks dropped by Edgar to his uncle, recorded in the opening chapter, the reader has already had an inkling of what is to come; but still there are many things not yet mentioned, which, as a faithful chronicler, we deem it our duty here to set forth.
At the time the marriage in question took place, Mary and her brother were orphans, living on a small estate bequeathed them by their father, who had died a year or two previous, and who had himself been a widower some three or four years. Their place of residence was near a small village, in the state of Maryland, distant about thirty miles from the city of Baltimore.— But notwithstanding they remained on the farm or plantation of their late father, we would not have the reader infer they were awkward country rustics, who had never mingled in refined society. On the contrary, their doating father had taken every pains to give both an education and polish superior to those by whom they were surrounded. Oliver had entered college very young, and graduated in his twentieth year; and Mary had left boarding school a ripe scholar at the age of sixteen. In fine, so lavish had been the expenditures of their father on them, that he had much impoverished his small estate, and besides encumbering a part with mortgage, had been obliged to dispose of all his negroes but two, in order to liquidate the more pressing debts.
At his death, Oliver took charge of the estate, and, by close management, and a sale of a few acres, succeeded in raising the mortgage and becoming sole proprietor; for though his sister was entitled to a portion, he took no other notice of her claims, than to offer her a home so long as she might remain unmarried.
Mary was not well pleased, for the disposition of her brother was illy suited to render her happy. He was morose and haughty to those he considered his dependents, or held in his power, though fawning enough to his superiors, or such as he expected by hypocritical manoeuvers to profit by. He was, withal, very ambitious, grasping and avaricious—so that those who knew him best, shunned him as they would a viper, and scandalized him much whenever his name chanced to be mentioned. But he had a faculty of making his dupes think him perfect; and those on whom he had a design, who had as yet only seen the bright side, could not be brought to believe that the refined, softspoken, smiling, agreeable young Goldfinch, could be the base hypocrite men reported him. No! it was wilful, malignant slander, to injure a high-minded, honorable young man; and their sympathies being aroused in consequence, they were only the more fully and blindly drawn into the net he had prepared for them, and which they seldom if ever discovered until too late to escape. He was a man without principle, who would stoop to any meanness to accomplish his end; though, to casually see and hear him converse, one would suppose him the very quintessence of nobleness and honor.
The first thing that sorely troubled Mary, and opened her eyes to his real nature— for having both been sent to school at an early age, she had seen little of him until her return—was his importuning her to inveigle and marry some rich young man; and this, too, ere their father had been six months in his grave, and while she was deeply mourning his death.
"Now do not have any false notions, Mary," he would say to her, "but follow my instructions, and you will soon be mistress of a splendid mansion. I have several acquaintances who are rich, and, though a little wild, that need not matter, for they will be the easier entangled, if the card be rightly played, and be the less likely to look close into the affair afterwards; and so you get plenty of money, and live in elegant style, what need you care? Come! I will invite them here, and trust me, I will soon see you settled as becomes my sister."
At first Mary thought him in jest, and laughed at his to her curious ideas of what should make a proper husband; but discovering soon her mistake, she mildly reproved him for being so worldly, and firmly declared she would not see his friends alone, much more listen to any proposals of the nature he required, even should they be never so strenuous in urging suit. In vain her brother sought, by all the false reasoning he could invent, to turn her from her resolve. The more he importuned the firmer she grew, until at last, so repugnant became the subject to her feelings, and so ardent her desire to convince her brother she would never relent, that she took a solemn oath, calling Heaven to witness, she would never, knowingly, marry a man of wealth. Oliver, who had seen enough of his sister to know she would keep her vow, now let the matter drop, and appeared to acquiesce in her decision— though in reality he was secretly laying a plan to entrap her, by introducing to her a young man of wealth, and concealing from her the fact. This plan he put in execution, and the young man apparently proving an agreeable suitor, the affair seemed likely to terminate as he desired.
Month upon month rolled away, and still the friend of Oliver paid his visits regularly to Mary; and, as is usual in such cases, Rumor, with her thousand tongues, said it would be a match. Oliver was delighted that his scheme was about to succeed; and on the strength of it, he borrowed of his intended brother-in-law a large sum of money, by which to prosecute a suit of his own, in Baltimore, with an heiress.
But there were two persons who had no faith in the reported marriage ever taking place. One of these was Mary herself, and the name of the other has already been mentioned in these pages, and will soon occur again. With Mary's ostensible lover, it also began to grow doubtful; for whenever he asked the important question, she would always desire farther time to consider. At last he grew desperate, and said he would not be put off any longer; that she must answer Yes or No at the end of a week, which he farther granted her of his own accord. She calmly replied, that if he would call a week from that night, he should have her positive answer.
At the time appointed the young man came, and was handed a note by the servent, which contained a direct, though respectful, refusal of his hand. Chagrined at this, he sought young Oliver, who had been the means of bringing him there, and who had often encouraged his addresses, by telling him his sister was passionately in love with him. When Oliver saw the note, he became very much enraged, and inquired for his sister. The servant said she had that evening gone out with the village schoolmaster, Ethan Courtly.
"By —!" cried Oliver Goldfinch, stamping his foot in a paroxism of anger, "I see it all. I thought that young scape-grace, whom I have frequently seen here of late, was after no good. They have eloped!— My horse! my horse! I must overtake the runaways."
But Oliver, and his friend who accompanied him, proved too late. Ere the former found his sister, she was the lawful wife of Ethan Courtly; and cursing her in the most vindictive language he could invent, and swearing roundly he would ever after disown her, and sometime be revenged, he turned upon his heel, and, accompanied by his friend, departed in haste.
Greatly were the good people of Sandville— for so we will call the village—astonished at hearing of the runaway nuptials of Ethan Courtly and Mary Goldfinch; for so cautiously had both managed, and so blindly had all given credence to the report of her engagement with another, that the news fell upon them like a thunder bolt.
About a year previous to this marriage, Ethan Courtly, a young man of education this time Ethan Courtly arranged to embark on one of his own vessels for a foreign clime, but with the intention and expectation of returning to his beloved family within a twelve-month from setting sail. Before he departed, Oliver was very strenuous in urging him to make his will; to which he remonstrated, by saying he did not deem such a proceeding necessary, as, in case he died intestate, of course the property would fall to his rightful heirs, which was all he desired. But the wily schemer, after much quiet reasoning, gained his point, as in fact he ever did with his single-minded brother-in-law, and was deputed to employ a lawyer and have all settled in due form.
It is needless to say more than that the will was drawn, attested, and placed upon record the day previous to the departure of Ethan Courtly.
We now skip a period of five months, during which Oliver Goldfinch assiduously attended to the affairs of his absent relative, when suddenly, with the shock of a thunderbolt falling from a cloudless sky, there came the painful intelligence that the Mary Helen, on which Ethan Courtly had embarked, had been wrecked off the the coast of France, and that every soul aboard of her had perished.
We pass over the effect of this news upon Mrs. Courtly and her children, both of whom were recalled from school to bitterly mourn the loss of a beloved and indulgent parent.
On the receipt of the tidings regarding the sad fate of his brother-in-law, Oliver Goldfinch went into mourning; and with a pale, sanctimonious face, and eyes made red by wiping, if not by weeping, managed to appear the most disconsolate of mourners; so much so, that it was often remarked by those who knew not the heart of the dissembler, that he must have loved his relative dearly to take his death so hard.
After a proper time given to sorrow, Oliver notified his sister that it would now be necessary to have the estate of his dear brother Ethan settled according to law, and that as he was aware the deceased had made a will, it would be proper to have it brought forward and read. To this, of course, Mrs. Courtly assented; but judge of her astonishment, and that of her friends, on learning that out of the vast estate of her late husband, only five thousand dollars had been bequeathed to herself and children; while the balance, amounting at the least calculation to many hundred thousand dollars, including the splendid home mansion, had been bestowed upon Oliver—with the provise, that should he die childless, it must revert to Edgar and Virginia and their issue—or, in case of their demise without issue, to the next heir or heirs at law.
Surprised and shocked as she was at this stunning intelligence, Mrs. Courtly doubted not it was all correct; and believing that her late husband, whom she completely idolized, had had a proper motive for what he had done, and that it would all prove for the best in the end, she never once attempted to dispute the claim of Oliver, or break the will and sue for her thirds, as all her friends advised her to do.
"No," she would say, in answer to the many solicitations that she would do so and so; "Ethan knew what was best, and far be it from me to alter what he designed. My happiness consists in conforming to his desires."
Finding her determined on the matter, her friends soon ceased to importune her, and Oliver had it all his own way. Knowing it required the most skillful management to effect his avaricious purpose, without wounding the sensitive nature of his sister, he redoubled his grief and duplicity, and went about bemoaning to her his hard fate, in being obliged to dispose of this thing and that, to carry out the desires of his dearly beloved brother, and always ended by saying, that when the estate should have become properly settled, he would give her a deed of the homestead, and settle upon her an independency for life. This promised providence for her future wants satisfied Mrs. Courtly, and she saw her fine home sold over her head, without a murmur, firmly believing her brother would keep his word, and in due time restore her all. In sooth, though she knew her brother had once been very worldlyminded, yet of late years he had been so guarded in her presence, so sanctimonious and demure, that she, poor woman, now truly believed there had been a wonderful reformation at heart.
It was at least a year or more from the reported death of Ethan Courtly, ere Oliver Goldfinch had settled every thing to his satisfaction. By this time, estates, ships, negroes, goods and chattels, each and all, had been disposed of; and with the money they brought in his possession, Oliver informed his sister that she might now remain contented in her home; that all had been arranged to her desire; and that he, with his wife and children, with the first of whom he had now become reconciled, were on the point of leaving for New York, where they hoped to have the pleasure of her society occasionally.
Thus they parted; and never for a moment did Mrs. Courtly doubt the word of her brother, until notified, about six months after he had left, that she must vacate the premises she then occupied, as the mansion, appartenances and grounds had been purchased by a gentleman who was now desirous of taking immediate possession. For some time Mrs. Courtly could not be brought to believe her brother had acted so base and ungrateful a part; and she at once wrote to him, asking an explanation. After considerable delay she received an answer, to the effect that he was very sorry to say the matter of sale was true; that he had done it to oblige a friend, who had set his heart upon having that residence; but that to compensate his sister, he was already negotiating for a residence, every way its superior, which, in case she resolved to come to New York, he would certainly purchase and present her.
For the first time the truth flashed upon Mrs. Courtly, that both she and her lamented husband had been the blind dupes of an artful and ungrateful villain; and so sudden, powerful and heart-sickening was the shock of this conviction, which she gained on reading his letter, that, clasping her forehead and staggering back, she sunk senseless to the ground, and a delirious fever followed, which nearly cost her her life at the time, and from the effects of which she never fully recovered.
We must now hurry to the close of this history, which we fear has already become tedious to the reader, but with which, notwithstanding, it was all important he should be made acquainted.
For a long time Mrs. Courtly did not deign an answer to the epistle of her brother. As soon as able, she quitted her once loved home with a breaking heart, yielding it up to strangers, and seeking a more humble abode for herself—both her children now being at school—and she fully determined to spend every cent, if necessary, in giving them what could not take wings and fly away—a good education.
And it did take every cent; and at last Mrs. Courtly was obliged to recall Edgar and Virginia, for want of means to longer support them abroad. Two years now passed, and then, reduced almost to beggary, she wrote to her brother, detailing her wants, cares and anxieties. Having waited an almost interminable long while, and receiving no answer, Mrs. Courtly determined on proceeding to New York herself, and making an appeal to him in propria personTo carry out this design, she sold her few remaining effects, and with the proceeds set out on her journey, accompanied by Edgar and Virginia. We have not space here to follow her through all her weary trials and disappointments, after her arrival in New York, up to the moment she was brought before the reader; but suffice, that to her horror and despair, she found herself disowned by him from whom she expected aid, and in a strange land, among strangers, cast upon a cold, heartless world, and doomed to suffer all the misery an innocent being can feel. Several times did Edgar call upon his uncle and ask for aid— but always to be insulted and refused; and even the negro servant, once his father's slave, having caught the infection, prided himself on his equality with the poor relations of his present master, as has already been shown by his conduct and language in the opening chapter. Vainly did Edgar seek for employment from day to day. Nothing could he obtain, for the reason that, having done nothing through life, he could not bring experience to back his suit. Day by day did the Courtlys find themselves becoming more and more reduced— for though very economical now, every little they spent made a wide breach in their limited means. To render matters still worse, the health of Mrs. Courtly began to fail rapidly; and it soon became painfully evident to her children, that unless a great change took place for the better, they would ere long be orphans.
But notwithstanding her ailings, Mrs. Courtly would not consent to see a physician, because of the extra expense which would thus be incurred, and which they were now so illy fitted to bear. As it was, they were obliged to dispose of their jewelry, old family relics, and finally the greater part of their wardrobe, to pay their rent and procure the necessaries of life. Even these failed them at last; and only a few days previous to our introduction of them to the reader, their stonyhearted landlord seized upon and sold their furniture, and turned them into the street, with only a few remaining articles. The hovel where we found them seemed the only retreat now open; and into this they gathered their remaining effects, prefering even this to begging for a better. Their last cent was now soon spent for fuel and food, and the reader has seen even the last of these. The health of Mrs. Courtly now failed more and more rapidly, until exhausted nature could sustain her no longer; and suffering with cold, dampness, want of food, proper nursing and medical attendance, together with grief, care and anxiety for her children, she literally died of starvation and a broken heart.
The day following the funeral of Mrs. Courtly, saw Edgar and his sister located in small but comfortable lodgings, some three or four squares from their previously wretched abode. This was effected at the instance of Ellen, who insisted they should at once remove to better quarters, and for this purpose generously provided then with farther means to do so. She had many delicate scruples to overcome in effecting this change; for though excessively in need, Edgar was naturally very proud, and could not bear the idea of being under farther pecuniary obligations to one on whom he had no claim; nor would he, in fact, have consented to the arrangement at all, but for his sweet sister, whom it sorely wrung his heart to behold suffering the pangs of poverty. For himself he knew he could provide in some way—but what meantime would become of Virginia?— and this the generous Ellen pleaded as an inducement to his accepting her proposition. It was galling, too, to one bred in the affluence he had been, to be indebted to the wages of sin—to money earned by guilt—for the bettering of his condition; but poverty and circumstances are many times powerful combatants of sensitive scruples, and so they proved in the present instance.
"I will accept her aid as a loan," he at last said, "until kind Providence furnishes me with the means of repaying the debt with interest—for beggars must certainly not be choosers—and without this assistance, now that my check is irrecoverably lost, starvation stares us in the face. And why," he farther reasoned, "should I decline the means which doubtless Heaven has placed in my way for a wise purpose? Who knows but in accepting, I shall eventually be the instrument, in the hands of Providence, of reclaiming an erring one from the perdition to which she is fast hastening?"
Having thus settled the matter in his own mind, he went zealously to work, and a couple of hours search put him in possession of two very pleasant rooms, located in the second story of a small private dwelling on Elizabeth street, to which access could be had by a flight of stairs from without—so that he was as much secluded from a forced contact with others, as if occupying the entire premises. Hither he at once removed his sister, and what little furniture was still remaining; and then by a judicious purchase of a few second-hand articles in Chatham Square, among which was a carpet for the floor, he succeeded, at a very small outlay, in giving the apartments an air of comfort and tidiness, to which both himself and sister had of late been strangers—and which, contrasting with their previously wretched abode, made the present one seem a paradise.— Edgar next purchased a few groceries and some fuel, and Virginia prepared the evening meal—for by this time the day was drawing to a close—and as they sorrowfully partook of their first morsel since breaking fast in the morning, and thought of their poor, dead mother, no longer with them to share their griefs or joys, both wept freely, in silence—but wept as those who, not altogether despairing, feel there is something still to live for—as those who have some hope in the future, and believe that day is again dawning upon a night of rayless gloom.
Poor, bitterly wronged orphans! Who can sum up and realize their misery, without experience of the same kind! Alone upon the wide world, without home or friends, and indebted to the charity of a frail female stranger for bread to keep them from starvation! And these, too, they who once rolled in all the luxury wealth can give, whose hands were never soiled by labor, and whose exalted position in society ever held them aloot from the mercenary, coarse and vulgar minds with which they must now be brought in contact. Do no let the reader here misunderstand us, by supposing we intend to convey the idea that they were better for never having labored. No, Heaven forbid! for labor is ever honorable, while indolence is reprehensible. We only designed to impress more strongly the suffering they must perforce endure, from the great contrast of their present with the past.
For a long time both thought and wept in silence, neither intruding an observation upon the grief of the other. Edgar was the first to speak. Rising from the table, after having ate sparingly, he approached his sister, and throwing an arm around her neck and drawing her gently to him, said, tenderly:
"Let us try to weep no more, my sweet sister! Let us dry our tears, and prepare, like philosophers, to enact our parts, and pass through the ordeals of fate without a murmur. Life at the longest is not long, and death will come at last to relieve us of our sorrows."
"But, Edgar," sobbed Virginia, "I am thinking of our dear, dear mother."
"I know it, sweet sister, and so am I. But the thought has struck me, it is useless and cruel to mourn for one who has exchanged our wretchedness for the happiness of Heaven."
"Ah!" sighed the other, "I see I am selfish; for it is not so much for her I mourn, as for myself; not for her loss, but my own. Oh! how we both will miss her sage advice and prayerful counsel!"
"But she is in Heaven," pursued Edgar. "Let that thought be uppermost, and dry your eyes. I would not recall her if I could—for she, at least, drank sorrow to the dregs, and should forever more be spared the bitter cup."
After a pause of a few minutes, during which Virginia gradually became more calm, Edgar resumed:
"And now, my sister, let us speak on another subject, but one I fear scarcely less painful. By the kindness of one I can never forget, we have been enabled to exchange utter wretchedness and starvation for something like comfort; but still the very thought of how this has been effected, gives me pain. To think we have taken money, earned by guilt, to better our condition, is revolting to my nature; and I can never rest until it be returned, and she who so generously assisted us be reclaimed. To effect the former, I must seek and find employment, with wages more than sufficient to support us, while the latter I leave to you; and let us both set about our tasks with right good will, and energies that will not allow us to fail. To-morrow, early, if God spares my life, I shall make a bold move. Surely, in this great city, supporting its three hundred thousand inhabitants, there is something I can find whereby to gain an honorable living. True, I have tried before and failed; but that is no reasen I must again; and something whispers me I shall succeed. So cheer up, my sweet sister! for it is an old saying, the darkest hour but barely precedes the dawn. To-morrow, probably, while I am away, Ellen will be here to see you; and you must use your best abilities to induce her to quit the terrible life she is at present leading. Begin with her gently and feelingly, as you best know how, and gradually progress until your righteous purpose be accomplished— which done, I shall feel that we have not wholly lived in vain."
"Ah! dear brother," cried Virginia, with a burst of affection, throwing her arms around his neck and pressing her lips to his, "how much you are like our dear, dear mother, in your counsels! I will do all you ask of me, and ten times more if it be in my power. Poor Ellen! If I can be the humble means of reclaiming her, filling her heart with happiness again, I feel I can then smile at my own misery, and thank God it has been for some useful end. But more than this, dear brother, I must assist you. I, too, perhaps, can find employment—"
"Nay," interrupted Edgar, "I could not see you labor. I could not see your delicate constitution broken down by toil, and thus prepared for an early grave. No, Virginia, you were never bred to work, and it would kill you."
"And you, Edgar—you who have been brought up in the same manner as myself— how then will you bear it?"
"I am a man, Virginia, with an iron constitution, and am by nature fitted for the rough scenes of life—at least far more so than you. No, no, Virginia—leave all to me; I can provide for both; but to see you toil would render me miserable."
In like conversation the evening passed away—Virginia insisting it was her duty, in their altered circumstances, to assist her brother, and he contending to the contrary most strennously. At an early hour both retired to rest, and with the gray of morning both were again astir. Making a hasty breakfast, Edgar kissed and bade his sister be of good cheer in his absence— as in all probability he would return with welcome tidings—and then sailied forth to seek employment in the great metropolis, prepared to put his hand to any honest pursuit that would return a fitting recompense.
As yet the sun had scarcely risen; but still the great city was swarming with citizens, mostly of the laboring class, all pushing forward to their daily task—some with pale, sickly, sorrowful visages, and some with countenances cheerful and gay— each an index of the heart within. Venders of all kinds were abroad, each loudly crying his particular article of traffic, which, from long habit, had become rather a peculiar, discordant scream, than any sound or word a stranger might find inteligible. Omnibusses, hacks, drays, coalcarts, bread-carts, market-wagons, and numerous other kinds of vehicles rumbled over the stony pavements, blocked up the crossings, occasionally startled the footpassers, and thundered out the fact that the business of the day had truly begun.
As Edgar slowly pursued his way down the Bowery into Chatham Square, down Chatham Street toward Park Row, and noted that every one he met seemed to have some employment, either present or prospective, he thought to himself how happy was their condition compared with his, who had nothing but trouble to occupy his mind. Ah! little did he know that many who passed him with rapid steps, were hurrying to a daily task, that, while it was literally crushing them under its iron burthen, barely returned a pittance sufficient to keep soul and body together. Little did he know that those who seemed better off than he, were dying by inches under excessive toil, that the poor beings they loved, and who were solely dependent on them, might eke out a miserable existence. Little did he know this, or he might have been more contented with his own situation, trying as it was, and felt he had less cause to complain than they. We are too prone to think our own troubles and afflictions the most severe; and this because we know and feel our own, while those of others are wholly shut from us.
For a long time Edgar could not summon resolution to ask for employment at the different places where there seemed a possibility of his obtaining it, lest he should be refused in a way to wound his sensitive feelings. And then, what occupation should he ask for? and what experience or recommendation could he bring to aid him, even should the services of one like himself be desired? He had done nothing through life, and consequently knew no more of one business than another; but the fancy struck him, that could he obtain a place as salesman in some kind of a store, he could easily make himself useful and give satisfaction to his employer. With the design of seeking something of this kind, he passed the various shops of traffic, with many a wistful look, but still without venturing within to make the necessary inquiries. At last, after traversing the entire extent of Chatham street and Square for the third time, and knowing that nothing would ever be accomplished in this way, he made bold to address a middle-aged gentleman, who was standing in the door of a furniture ware-room
"Sir," he said, "can you inform me where a young man like myself can find employment?"
"What to do?" asked the other.
"Any thing that is honorable."
"For the matter of that," returned the other, "almost any thing is honorable, that a body can make a living at these times. Did you ever act as salesman?"
"I never have, but think I could soon give my employer satisfaction."
"Umph! perhaps. You look like a young man of good address. I suppose you can write?"
"Certainly," answered Edgar, promptly; "I have been blessed with a good education."
"Can bring good references, I suppose?"
"Why, unfortunately," replied Edgar, coloring, "I am a stranger in the city, and have no friend here to refer to."
"Umph! that's bad!" rejoined the other. "So much cheating going on now-a-days. so many dishonest persons about, that one don't like to take a stranger into one's service without knowing something about him. Now if you only had experience, and good references, and could come here at six in the morning and work till nine and ten at night, and do every thing that would be asked of you, without grumbling, I have no doubt you would suit me, for just such a person I want, and would be willing to pay such an one good wages. But as you are deficient in at least two of these requisites, why, I suppose I shall have to look farther."
"And supposing I were all you desire, what would be my salary!" asked Edgar.
"Why, in that case, I could afford to be rather liberal; and say you boarded yourself, allow you from two and a half to three dollars per week—at least through the busy season."
"And this you call liberality?" returned Edgar: "God help the poor!" and he walked away with a desponding heart.
For an hour or more, Edgar traversed the streets in a very unpleasant state of mind, ere venturing on a second application. And when at last he did make another trial, it was only to meet with a result similar to the first. Grown somewhat desperate and less sensitive through failing, Edgar now determined, that in case he did not succeed, it should not be his fault, and consequently went boldly to work, pushing his suit wherever there seemed a possibility of success. For hours he pursued this course; but meeting every where with disappointment, and being nearly overcome with fatigue and anxiety, he finally gave up in despair, and strolling into Tammany Hall, threw himself down upon a seat, with the air of one who feels his last hope has departed.
"It is no use to longer strive," he muttered, despondingly. "I can accomplish nothing. I am doomed to fail where others succeed. Oh! why was I born! Mother, thou saint in Heaven, I would I were with thee! Come, Death! dread monster as thou art called—thou terrifying Invisible— come here and strike! strike to the heart at once! and thou shalt behold a rare sight—a human face that will not blanch—a human form that will not tremble at thy summons."
As he said this half aloud, his eye chanced upon a newspaper lying on a seat beside him; and mechanically raising it, he glanced over the columns in a listless manner, as one who reads while the mind is occupied with other matters. For several minutes he sat gazing upon the paper, sometimes distinguishing a word, and sometimes beholding the letters all blurred and indistinct. At length something appeared to arrest his attention—for he straightened himself in his seat, drew the paper nearer to him, while his eyes brightened and no longer exhibited a vacant stare. The cause of this change in his appearance, was an advertisement which read as follows:
"Poets, Attention! A gentleman requires a poetical address, for a certain purpose, for which, if suitable, he will pay handsomely. The length, subject and remuneration will be made known to applicants. Address C. B. E. — office."
Edgar was by nature a poet, and in his leisure hours had written some beautiful stanzas, which his modesty had thus far concealed from the public. His talents in this line he had never thought of turning to account until now.
"Perhaps!" he exclaimed, starting up with an energy that drew many eyes upon him: "Perhaps!" and immediately procuring pen, ink and paper, he wrote a few lines and left in haste for — office, where he deposited the note, superscribed in accordance with the advertisement.— Having done this he departed, with the intention of returning home; but he had scarcely gone fifty yards, when a hand on his shoulder arrested him, and turning, he beheld an elegantly dressed gentleman, with the billet he had just deposited, open in his hand.
"I beg pardon!" said the stranger, blandly; "but have I the pleasure of addressing the writer of this, Edgar Courtly?"
"That is my name, at your service," returned Edgar, with a graceful and dignified inclination of the head.
"I chanced to be in the office and saw you leave it, addressed to my initials," pursued the other, explanatory, "and hastened to overtake you, that the matter in question might be the more speedily arranged."
"I am most happy, sir," rejoined Edgar, "to make your acquaintance so much sooner than I anticipated."
"I perceive by this," continued the gentleman, whom we shall call Elmer, pointing to the epistle, "that you have had experience in poetical composition."
"I have written some little," replied Edgar, blushing; "but perhaps I am incompetent to perform what you require."
"That," rejoined Mr. Elmer, "must be decided hereafter. I am, as you must know, an actor, at present fulfilling an engagement at the Park. One week from to night my engagement closes—the last prior to my departure for Europe. Now what I desire is this: I wish to take leave with a poetical address, of from seventy-five to one hundred lines, expressive of my feelings." Here he explained, explicitly, what he wanted, and wound up by saying: "And now for the best address of this kind, sent me within five days, I am willing to pay the sum of fifty dollars—certainly, to my thinking, a liberal remuneration."
"It is indeed!" returned Edgar, much excited at the prospect of obtaining the reward. "Sir, I will do my best to please you."
"But I must warn you of competition," pursued the other. "I have had several interviews with poets already, each of whom has promised a trial, and I shall perhaps have many more, so that he who gains the prize must do so by merit alone."
On hearing this, the countenance of Edgar somewhat fell—for he thought to himself, "What chance have I among so many? But then," he reasoned, "I can but fail at the worst, and may succeed—in which event—" Here his feelings becoming powerfully excited, he hastily inquired the residence of Elmer, shook his hand and turned away, with the observation that he would soon hear from him again.
With a fluttering heart, palpitating between hope and fear, Edgar hurried through the crowded streets, heedless of all he met or passed, his mind occupied with one joyful thought, that of cheering the drooping spirits of his sweet sister with his new hopes and expectations. Arrived at his new home, he sprang lightly up the stairs and into his own apartments, expecting to take his sister by surprise.
The next moment he felt a chilling sensation creep over him—a sensation as awful as the coming of death. Wherefore the cause?
The rooms were tenantless—his sister was gone—and echo alone answered to his call.
Throwing himself upon a seat, in a state of mind full of alarm and strange misgivings, insomuch that he soon found himself in a profuse perspiration, Edgar sought to invent a cause for the absence of Virginia. It was so singular she should absent herself while he was away, and leave the house unfastened. Surely, she could not have gone far, and would soon return! Somewhat consoling himself with this idea, he waited rather impatiently for her appearance, hoping and expecting every moment she would enter; but as minute after minute glided by, and no Virginia came, he began to grow alarmed in earnest, and rising from his seat, paced rapidly to and fro the apartment. At length, when a half hour had passed, bringing no intelligence of the missing one, the excitement of Edgar had reached such an intensity, that he could no longer content himself in remaining idle. Something had happened, he felt sure, and his heart fairly sunk within him at the thought. Rushing down the stairs with the haste of a madman, he made eager inquiries of the people living in the lower story, and of whom he rented his apartments. But they could give him no satisfactory information. They had seen his sister go out about an hour and a half before, alone, taking the direction of the Bowery, and that was all they knew.
It was passed the hour of noon, and Edgar was fatigued and hungry; but forgetful of every thing but his sister, whom he somehow fancied was lost, he darted away in search of her. Fortunately, he had not to go far, ere, to his great joy, he met her returning, accompanied by a young man of genteel appearance, who walked respectfully by her side, carrying a small bundle wrapped with paper. Edgar was not surprised at this, for he fancied she had been shopping, and that the purchased articles were being sent home as is customary.
"O, Virginia!" he exclaimed, springing forward and seizing her hand, "how could you so alarm me! For the last half hour I have been on the rack of agony. Why could you not have deferred this business till my return?"
"I thought to give you a gentle surprise," replied Virginia; "expecting, when I left, to return before you; but I have been disappointed, and shall not again attempt the like, for already my folly has found a punishment."
"As how?" queried Edgar, eagerly.
"I have been insulted."
"Insulted!" repeated her brother; and his dark eyes flushed angrily upon the stranger.
"Nay," interposed Virginia, divining his thoughts, "not by him, Edgar. This gentleman has proved my deliverer."
"I crave pardon, sir!" said Edgar,quickly, changing his manner and cordially extending the other his hand. "Let me thank you in my sister's behalf, and trust we may be friends!'
"The latter, most certainly!" returned the youngman with warmth, and a hearty shake of the hand; "but as to thanks, I know not that one deserves them for simply doing his duty. I saw this lady annoyed by one whom I had reason to suppose entertained evil intentions, and I hastened to her protection. You should have seen how the offender slunk away as he beheld my visage, with a half uttered apology and look of shame—for well he knew me and I him—though for various reasons I hardly feel myself at liberty to give his name at present. I could not again leave the lady unprotected, and so am I here."
"But how happened this, Virginia!"— eagerly inquired Edgar.
"I cannot tell you here," answered Virginia, somewhat excited. "Let us first go home, it is but a few steps, and I will explain all."
Here the stranger was about to take his leave, but Edgar and Virginia both insisted he should accompany them, and accordingly all proceeded to the house together.
"And now," said Virginia, with a bright flush that heightened the beauty of her lovely features, "I will tell you, dear brother, how it all happened, if you will promise, before you hear my story, to pardon any error I may have committed."
"My pardon I know you will have," answered Edgar, "no matter what you have done, and so I may as well grant it first as last. Proceed!"
"Well, then, you must know, as I have before told you, I thought to give you a gentle surprise, and for this purpose determined, according to my argument last night, to render you what assistance I could in the way of earning a living."
"But, Virginia—"
"Do not interrupt me, and do not frown, for you know I have your pardon already Well, half the night I pondered on what I could do, and this morning was still undecided, when I chanced to see a woman pass, carrying a bundle of shirts. Accosting her, I learned that she was making them for a large manufacturer, whose address she gave me. I thought to myself I could do as well as she, and as soon as she was gone, hurried round to the place, expecting to return within half an hour. The result is, I succeeded in getting some work to do; but not until I had been kept waiting a full hour, and had been quetioned as closely as if I were a thief. Several times I was on the point of indignantly leaving—but then I thought of you, dear brother, and felt, after all, it was little to endure for your sake."
"And what were you to get for all this labor?" asked Edgar.
"A dime for each shirt," replied Virginia.
"And how many do you fancy you could complete in a day?"
"One, at least."
"One, my sweet sister! And you would work off your fingers, dim your eyes and ruin your health, for the paltry sum of a dime a day, and all to aid me! God bless you, dear Virginia, for a noble soul!—but I cannot allow such a sacrifice. Thank Heaven! I have brighter prospects in view, of which I will tell you anon. A dime a day!" he pursued; "how pitiful! And yet I suppose there are hundreds— perhaps thousands—forced to toil for even this."
"Indeed there are, sir!" chimed in the young man, who on his way hither had given his name as Dudley, and learned those of his new acquaintances in return: "Indeed there are, Mr. Courtly; thousands, who are not only forced to toil for this meagre sum, but are glad to get even this, to keep them from starvation."
"Ah! what a world!" sighed Edgar, musingly. What mighty contrasts! It does not seem as though we all had one Heavenly Father, as our divines inform us from the pulpit we have. Alas! God help the poor!"
"Ay," rejoined Dudley, "God help them indeed! for He is all the friend they have to look to."
"But you have not finished your story, Virginia," said Edgar, turning to her.
"While waiting for work," resumed Virginia, "and passing the ordeal of rather insulting interrogatives, I noticed a gaudily dressed fellow loitering about the door, who occasionally stared at me in an ungentlemanly manner; but I thought no more of it, until, having regained the street and gone a few yards, I found him walking by my side. Thinking it accidental, I slackened my pace that he might pass; but to my indignant surprise, I found he suited his to mine. He then requested permission to carry my bundle, as he was going the same way. I coldly thanked, and informed him I had no occasion for his services.
" `But you must, my angel,' he said.
" `Sir!' returned I, haughtily, coming to an abrupt halt, `you are insulting! Go your way, and leave me to go mine.'
"'Pon my word.' he answered, with a leer, `you talk prettily, and are really too lovely to walk the streets alone. Come, let us be companions.'
" `Leave me!' I cried, indignantly, `for you are no gentleman.'
" `Ay, leave, sir—begone!' said a voice behind me; and turning, I beheld this gen—a—I should say Mr. Dudley, since we have become slightly acquainted," concluded Virginia, blushing modestly.
"Of which acquaintance," chimed in Dudley, gallantly, with a polite bow to Virginia, "I am most proud, and sincerely trust it may be of long duration."
"The feeling is mutual, I assure you," responded Edgar. And then he added, apologetically: "We were not always as we now are, sir. Born to wealth, we never knew the want of money until after our father's death, when our uncle, his manager, came into possession of nearly all his property, as I have strong reason to believe most villainously.
Here Edgar proceeded to briefly sketch some of the prominent events of the past five years, winding up with an account of his last visit to his uncle, the manner in which he obtained the check and its subsequent loss, together with the death of his mother, adding at the conclusion:
"And now, sir, I must say, I feel I have been almost too confiding to one so late an utter stranger; but there is a something in your countenance and manner, which, step by step, has drawn me on to the full revelation."
"I thank you, Mr. Courtly, for the high compliment thus paid me," returned Dudley, warmly; "and assure you, you will never have cause to regret your confidence as misplaced. But a question, if I may be permitted to ask one; for since you have told me your story, I feel a deep interest in your welfare, and will do all in my power to aid you. Will you give me the name of your uncle!"
Edgar mused a moment, and then said:
"I do not know why I should withold it. It is Oliver Goldfinch."
"What! the millionaire!" cried Dudley in surprise: "Oliver Goldfinch, the millionaire! Is it possible? No, it cannot be— there must be some mistake!"
"Then you know him?" said Edgar, quickly.
"But do you mean Oliver Goldfinch of— street?"
"The same, Mr. Dudley."
"Know him? Ay, I know him well, and very few that do not,either personally or by reputation. Why, he is one of our most prominent citizens, although he has been but a few years among us. There is scarcely a charitable association but is indebted to him for a handsome donation— or a charity-subscription paper afloat, that is not led off by his name, with a round sum attached. Besides, he is a member of one of our most popular churches, and is every where spoken of as a rich, but truly pious and benevolent gentleman."
"The hypocrite!" muttered Edgar, grinding his teeth. "O, that I could unmask him! but that I may never be able to do— for he is deep, cunning and far-reaching. Had I the money I wrung from him, I would quit the city and molest him no more."
"Really, I am all amazement," mused Dudley, "and hardly know what to think. You say he gave you a check, which you lost, and which, had you now, would relieve you from all embarassment. On whom was it drawn?"
"If I remember rightly, John Peyton of Wall street."
"You of course have been to stop payment?"
"Good heavens!" ejaculated Edgar, with a start, "I have overlooked that." And then, after a pause, he added: "But it matters not—for some poor wretch may as well have it as Goldfinch."
"But by stopping payment, and applying again to your uncle, you may procure another."
Edgar shook his head.
"I would rather starve," he answered, "than again enter his hateful presence as a suitor. No! no!—let it go—let it go. There will perhaps be some way opened, by which my dear sister and I can live without begging favors of rich relations;" and as he spoke, he threw an arm fondly around Virginia, drew her to him, and pressed a kiss upon her lips.
Dudley followed the movement with his eyes, and his features expressed something like envy of the brother; and the color deepened on his cheeks, and those of Virginia, as, at the moment, they accidentally, as it were, exchanged glances.
What were the fancies, the feelings, the emotions in the breasts of each, we shall not here pause to divine. Suffice, that in refinement of thought and language, grace of manner, dignity of mien and personal appearance, each was well calculated to inspire the other with at least a sentiment of high regard. Mr. Dudley was what in common parlance would be called a handsome man. His age was about twenty-five, and in stature he was full six feet, but with proportions so symmetrical as not to appear awkward or over-size. He seemed formed by nature for a model, with not a pound too much or too little. And then his features were as comely as his person, with a forehead, nose, mouth, and chin of the Grecian cast. In his countenance were no sinister lines—no sly curves, where a sneer might lurk, or hypocracy find a foothold. No! all was open, and frank, and honest; and a single glance showed you he was a man after God's own image. In repose, his face exhibited a stern, thoughtful benevolence, as one who would do a good act for the act itself, and not for the reward that might accrue to the doer. Much of this expression was in the eye, a dark gray, which rarely changed its aspect--never, unless altered by some one of the strong passions of his soul. His complexion was light, with light brown, curly hair, that added much to his good looks. Partly covering and under his chin he wore his beard unshaved, but neatly trimmed, which for him was very becoming.
In dress he had excellent taste. He wore nothing showy or gaudy, and yet every garment was rich, and fitted his person with the utmost exactness. No rings, chains, or breast-pins were displayed as ornaments, he seeming to fancy that nature and the tailor had done enough for him.— And this was a true index to his mind—as in fact dress generally is—showing him to be severely chaste and strictly correct in principle. And in fine it was this correct principle which effected his acquaintance with Virginia and her brother—an acquaintance of which neither party as yet dreamed the import. It was not her beauty, as some might suppose, which led him to her protection. No! he saw not that till afterwards. He only saw a female grossly insulted, and distressed by the attentions of a villain, and he hastened to her relief; and had she been old and exceesively ugly, his correct principle of gallantry would have caused him to do precisely as he did. Not that we would imply he had no choice between ugliness and beauty; that he would have felt the same interest in Virginia, had she possessed no personal charms; by no means: we only wish to say, that in the former instance a sense of duty would have urged him to do with pleasure, what he now performed with great delight.
After some farther conversation of a nature similar to that detailed, Dudley rose to take his leave. Turning to Edgar, he took his hand and said:
"Our meeting and acquaintance, Mr. Courtly, I trust may prove of mutual advantage. You may think it a little strange, that having confided to me some important secrets of your life, I, in return, tell you nothing of myself. But you must not think hard of me, if I reveal nothing now. I shall soon see you again, and sometime you shall know more. I have my reasons for concealment. Consider me, however, your friend; and should you need my aid in any manner, have no scruples in so telling me, for it will prove a pleasure to me to do you a service.— Meantime, I will make your affairs in some measure my own; and depend upon it, if wrong has been done you, in the manner you suppose, the guilty shall be made to feel it, no matter how lofty their station. You may think me boasting, my friend— but time will show; and when time has shown, I trust you will have little cause to regret having gained my friendship."
With these somewhat mysterious words, Dudley again shook Edgar's hand warmly, and bowing gracefully to Virginia, withdrew.
For some time after his departure, Edgar and his sister conversed about the stranger, or Dudley as he had termed himself, and then the former proceeded to detail all that had occurred in his absence, and the sanguine expectations he had of obtaining the prize. Both were young, and notwithstanding the terrible trials they had experienced both were full of hope. Friends seemed to rise up to their aid where they least expected them, and the longer they talked, the lighter grew their hearts.
Poor, bitterly wronged orphans! Let us hope that day is again dawning upon their long, dark and dismal night of adversity.
In the same elegant apartment where we first introduced him to the reader, sat the lordly millionaire, the smooth-faced, oily-tongued, hypocritical Oliver Goldfinch. He sat in an easy chair, gazing thoughtfully into the fire—perhaps reflecting upon his past career, and listening to the still small voice of conscience—or perhaps devising some villainous scheme whereby to grind the faces of the poor, put wealth in his coffers, heap wrong upon wrong, the while he would make the world believe him unexceptionable in piety and benevolence. The latter, most likely; for Oliver Goldfinch was not one to regret what he had done, so long as he could keep his cloven foot concealed; and even in case of exposure, would care less for the crime than its publicity. If the truth were all told, he had many and black-hearted sins to answer for; but these only troubled when they menaced him. With him, as with many others, crime was not in the commission, but detection; and he ever took all possible means to guard against the latter, by rearing a pinacle of virtue behind which to screen himself—well knowing that the world looks to the deed, and not the motive, which latter may be deeply buried from human knowledge. For this he belonged to a popular church, and, like the Pharasee of old, made long prayers before his fellow-men, and wore a saint-like vissage of humility and attendant virtues. For this he gave liberally to benevolent societies, where there seemed a likelihood his name would be publicly displayed. For this he preached the virtues of a God, while he plotted vices Satan might envy, and which were fast bearing him down to his own damnation. Beware! thou opulent hypocrite!—beware! There is a boundary to all things; and thou, of all men, should'st beware thou dost not overstep thy limits!
For a quarter of an hour, Oliver Goldfinch removed not his gaze from the fire; but during that time his countenance often varied with the thoughts of his plotting brain. Now his brow would contract, and a dark shade steal athwart his features, as something seemed to perplex and annoy him; and anon his eye would softly twinkle, and a peculiar smile of deep meaning usurp its place, as though he had triumphed over a difficult obstacle. What his thoughts were—whether on a new scheme or old one—we shall not pause to investigate, but let them appear for themselves in the voice of the thinker.
Ringing a small bell on the table beside him, the black servant appeared in the door-way.
"Has Wesley come, Jeff!" he questioned.
"Yes, massa, him waiting," answered the negro, who, notwithstanding his arrogance to Edgar, and his boast of freedom, did not venture on dropping the usual term of slavery-servitude, by saying mister.
"Bid him come in!"
The black bowed and withdrew, and his place at the door was soon supplied by a white man, carrying in his hand a green bag, who doffed his hat with defference, and halted as if for an order to advance. The rich man had again fixed his gaze on the fire, and for a short time appeared unconscious of the other's presence. Let us take advantage of this quietude, to slightly glance at the new comer.
In person he was small and slender, and very ungainly, both in form and feature— in the latter particular possessing a cunning, sinister, hang-dog look. His black, coarse hair fell far over a low, villainous forehead, from under which, and long black eye-brows that met over his snub nose, two dark, fiery eyes gleamed out maliciously, and with an ever restless expression and movement, as if the possessor were continually on the lookout to guard against a sudden attack. To compensate in some measure, as it were, for his extreme ugliness and repulsive appearance, nature had endowed him with a soft, musical voice, and the faculty of smiling in such a way as to win favor and conceal the blackness of his heart. And this made him a dangerous character; for without this mask, he was too plainly marked as a villain to deceive even a novice in human nature; whereas, with it, the most experienced were sometimes made his dupes. He had round shoulders, bow-legs, and very long arms, terminating in bony hands and fingers. His age was thirty, though it might have been forty, for any thing by which one could safely judge otherwise. He was rather richly dressed in a suit of black, and wore a gold chain and diamond breast-pin— all of which served much to relieve his person of sheer ugliness—especially with those (and these comprise the greater portion of mankind) who look more to outward display than the inner man.
"Ah, you're here!" said the plottingman at length, turning his eyes upon the other. "Advance!" and he pointed to a seat beside the table. "So! what news?"
"Nothing particularly valuable," replied Wesley, as he quietly seated himself and placed his bag on the table.
"Any thing of Wall street?"
"Nothing—no."
"Strange!" mused Goldfinch, glancing at the fire; "I expected something before this."
"I did," responded the other.
"Have you seen him since!"
"Not since," replied Wesley, who, if it were possible, always answered a question by repeating the closing portion of it.
"And why, Wesley?"
"Couldn't find him."
"Ha! has he gone?"
"Gone."
"The old bird, too, Wesley?"
"The old bird, too. She's flown upward, the rest elsewhere."
"I do not understand you."
"She's dead, then, and the others have left."
"Dead, Wesley?" and the rich man gave a start of surprise. "Dead, say you?"
"Dead."
"And the others have removed?"
"Removed."
"And you don't know where?"
"Don't exactly."
"Out of the city?"
"Think not."
"Well, you must hunt him out. If in the city, mark me! you must find him. In case the first trap don't catch him, we must construct another, and put on a different bait. You understand, Wesley?"
"Understand."
"He is dangerous, I fear, for he threw out some very unpleasant hints. In short, he either knows or suspects too much, and must be silenced. Must, Wesley," repeatGoldfinch, with emphasis — "mark you that!"
"Exactly that."
"And now to other matters. Did you succeed in purchasing the Middleton property?"
"Succeeded," grinned Wesley.
"Good!" returned Goldfinch, smiling and rubbing his hands. "And, Wesley, did the ruse take, eh?"
"Took," nodded Wesley.
"Good again—good again!" exclaimed the rich man, in an ecstacy of delight rarely by him displayed. "Revenge and ten thousand dollars at one stroke is rather a good hit—eh! Wesley?"
In his happiest moods, Goldfinch sometimes, as now, threw off his usually dignified reserve, and allowed himself to be rather familiar with his attorney, counsellor, agent and private secretary, all of which offices Wesley filled.
"Good hit," grinned Wesley again.
"The old man," continued Goldfinch, with a sardonis smile of deep import, "old Middleton, little dreamed of the consequence of his attempt to crush me—to ruin my reputation, the villain! Ah, I had him. I cried him down by my agents, bought his paper at a discount, and then, best of all, bought his property at a sacrifice, by making his title appear doubtful, and paid him in his own notes at par. Well done, Oliver Goldfinch—well done!" This was spoken in a low tone, and evidently not intended for the ears of the attorney; but the latter was sharp of hearing, and he heard it, though not a single look of his betrayed the fact.— "What next, Wesley?" querried the millionaire.
"Widow Malone can't pay rent."
"Into the street with her then—you know my invariable rule in all cases of this kind."
"I did it."
"Ri h! Did she go quietly?"
"She called you a villain—cursed you."
"Humph! that little troubles me, you know."
"I know," grinned the attorney.
"What next?"
"Old Shuffler's sick and all his family— won't be able to pay rent, I reckon."