Oliver Goldfinch; or, The Hypocrite
by Emerson Bennett
CHAPTER I. THE HYPOCRITE UNMASKED.
CHAPTER II. THE HOUSE OF DEATH.
CHAPTER III. THE LIVING MOURNERS.
CHAPTER IV. THE PAST RECALLED.
CHAPTER V. PLANS FOR THE FUTURE.
CHAPTER VI. AN UNEXPECTED FRIEND.
CHAPTER VII. THE HYPOCRITE AND HIS TOOL.
CHAPTER VIII. NEW AND STRANGE ADVENTURES.
CHAPTER IX. THE ABODE OF THE UNFORTUNATE.
CHAPTER X. THE BETRAYER AND HIS VICTIM.
CHAPTER XI. THE REWARD OF DARING
CHAPTER XII. FORTUNE STILL PROPITIOUS.
CHAPTER XIII. THE PLOT THICKENS.
CHAPTER XIV. THE ARREST.
CHAPTER XV. THE PLOT AND THE TRAITOR.
CHAPTER XVI. THE ABDUCTION.
CHAPTER XVII. THE HAPPY DELIVERANCE.
CHAPTER XVIII. DIAMOND CUT DIAMOND.
CHAPTER XIX. THE EXAMINATION.
CHAPTER XX. THE DAMNING DEED.
CHAPTER XXI. THE INQUEST.
CHAPTER XXII. THE GUILTY IN TROUBLE.
CHAPTER XXIII. THE MURDERER AND THE MURDERED.
CHAPTER XXIV. HYPOCRISY AND CRIME.
CHAPTER XXV. THE FORGERY.
CHAPTER XXVI. THE LOVERS.
CHAPTER XXVII. CONCLUSION.
CHAPTER I.
THE HYPOCRITE UNMASKED.
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 manh ood. 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.
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