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<p align="center">&nbsp;</p>


<h1>Oliver Goldfinch; or, The Hypocrite</h1>

<h4>by</h4>

<h1>Emerson Bennett</h1>

<hr align="center" width="50%">
<ul>
<li><a href="#1_0_2">CHAPTER I. THE HYPOCRITE UNMASKED.</a></li>

<li><a href="#1_0_3">CHAPTER II. THE HOUSE OF DEATH.</a></li>

<li><a href="#1_0_4">CHAPTER III. THE LIVING MOURNERS.</a></li>

<li><a href="#1_0_5">CHAPTER IV. THE PAST RECALLED.</a></li>

<li><a href="#1_0_6">CHAPTER V. PLANS FOR THE FUTURE.</a></li>

<li><a href="#1_0_7">CHAPTER VI. AN UNEXPECTED FRIEND.</a></li>

<li><a href="#1_0_8">CHAPTER VII. THE HYPOCRITE AND HIS TOOL.</a></li>

<li><a href="#1_0_9">CHAPTER VIII. NEW AND STRANGE ADVENTURES.</a></li>

<li><a href="#1_0_10">CHAPTER IX. THE ABODE OF THE UNFORTUNATE.</a></li>

<li><a href="#1_0_11">CHAPTER X. THE BETRAYER AND HIS VICTIM.</a></li>

<li><a href="#1_0_12">CHAPTER XI. THE REWARD OF DARING</a></li>

<li><a href="#1_0_13">CHAPTER XII. FORTUNE STILL PROPITIOUS.</a></li>

<li><a href="#1_0_14">CHAPTER XIII. THE PLOT THICKENS.</a></li>

<li><a href="#1_0_15">CHAPTER XIV. THE ARREST.</a></li>

<li><a href="#1_0_16">CHAPTER XV. THE PLOT AND THE TRAITOR.</a></li>

<li><a href="#1_0_17">CHAPTER XVI. THE ABDUCTION.</a></li>

<li><a href="#1_0_18">CHAPTER XVII. THE HAPPY DELIVERANCE.</a></li>

<li><a href="#1_0_19">CHAPTER XVIII. DIAMOND CUT DIAMOND.</a></li>

<li><a href="#1_0_20">CHAPTER XIX. THE EXAMINATION.</a></li>

<li><a href="#1_0_21">CHAPTER XX. THE DAMNING DEED.</a></li>

<li><a href="#1_0_22">CHAPTER XXI. THE INQUEST.</a></li>

<li><a href="#1_0_24">CHAPTER XXII. THE GUILTY IN TROUBLE.</a></li>

<li><a href="#1_0_25">CHAPTER XXIII. THE MURDERER AND THE
MURDERED.</a></li>

<li><a href="#1_0_26">CHAPTER XXIV. HYPOCRISY AND CRIME.</a></li>

<li><a href="#1_0_27">CHAPTER XXV. THE FORGERY.</a></li>

<li><a href="#1_0_28">CHAPTER XXVI. THE LOVERS.</a></li>

<li><a href="#1_0_29">CHAPTER XXVII. CONCLUSION.</a></li>
</ul>

<hr align="center" width="50%">
<h3 align="CENTER"><a name="1_0_2">CHAPTER I. THE HYPOCRITE
UNMASKED.</a></h3>

<p>It was a dark and stormy night in the month of November, 18&mdash;. 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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&mdash;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.</p>

<p>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&mdash;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:</p>

<p>"Excuse me, Jeff; I have no time to stand on ceremonies. Is your
master at home?"</p>

<p>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:</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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:</p>

<p>"<i>Once</i>, 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?"</p>

<p>"'Spose he am?" returned Jeff, doggedly.</p>

<p>"Then tell him I wish to speak with him without a moment's delay."</p>

<p>"You-you tink he see you?" asked Jeff, shaking his head.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>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:</p>

<p>"Misser Gol'finch says you please excuse him, case he am engaged."</p>

<p>"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 <i>not</i> depart without. Tell him
so!"</p>

<p>"No! no! I'll no goes near him wid dat message," returned Jeff, "case
dis child's head would be done gone brokum."</p>

<p>"Then I will seek him where he is," rejoined Edgar Courtly. "Show me
his apartment!"</p>

<p>"Bess not go, Misser Edgar!"</p>

<p>"Do as I bid you!"</p>

<p>"Well, den, fust room on de leff."</p>

<p>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&mdash;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&mdash;a period we will improve in
describing their personal appearance.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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&mdash; 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.</p>

<p>"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?"</p>

<p>"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&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Stop!" interrupted the other, bluntly; "you make use of wrong
phrases. There are <i>no</i> circumstances, young man, let me tell you,
which can <i>force</i> a person, well brought up, beyond the rules of
good breeding. No man of honor, sir, with a spark of the <i>gentleman</i>
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."</p>

<p>"Well, sir, as you will&mdash;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."</p>

<p>"At the risk of being kicked down stairs for your trouble," retorted
the other, flushing with anger.</p>

<p>"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 <i>you</i>, Mr. Goldfinch?"</p>

<p>"Ahem!" growled the other, "ahe-e-m! Come, come&mdash;what does all
this mean?&mdash; What is it you want here with me at this time of night,
Edgar Courtly?"</p>

<p>"Justice," answered young Edgar, promptly.</p>

<p>"How, sir? in what way? what do you mean?"</p>

<p>"My mother, sir, I fear is dying."</p>

<p>"Well?" was the cold response.</p>

<p>"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!"</p>

<p>"Well?" was the rejoinder again.</p>

<p>"I came here for money, sir&mdash;the filthy dross of the earth,
which, by its potent charm, can command all mortal aid."</p>

<p>"And why here? why came you to me? Have I not forbid you my
house?"</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"'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."</p>

<p>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:</p>

<p>"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&mdash;said you had been hasty&mdash;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&mdash; that you cared nothing about that&mdash;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."</p>

<p>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:</p>

<p>"Hold, rash boy! or, by the living powers, I'll have you ejected from
my presence as I would an assassin!"</p>

<p>"Nay," returned Edgar, coolly, "do not get in a passion, Mr.
Goldfinch&mdash;uncle I will not call you, since you deny
relationship,&mdash; 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&mdash;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:</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"But&mdash;but," gasped the other, turning pale with excitement,
"you&mdash;you&mdash;"</p>

<p>"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 <i>must</i> have&mdash;or, mark me, Mr. Goldfinch, the
most heavy of consequences shall rest on your head. If you ever did any
wrong in your life&mdash;mind, now, I say if&mdash;(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. <i>Some things are known</i>. Do you understand
me? I came for money. Can I have it?"</p>

<p>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.&mdash; At the last
question he started suddenly, and answered rather quickly:</p>

<p>"Certainly, certainly&mdash;how much do you want?" And then,
bethinking he had thrown himself off his guard, he as quickly added:
"That is&mdash;I&mdash;I must say&mdash;that&mdash; that&mdash;I am
willing to assist my sister&mdash; or your mother, I should
say&mdash;some&mdash;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&mdash;but if you will call&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Nay," interrupted the other, "I will manage that. Just give me your
check for a certain amount."</p>

<p>"Certainly I would&mdash;but&mdash;" 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&mdash;let me
see!&mdash;yes, I will do it;" and going to his <i>escritoire</i>, 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.</p>

<p>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:</p>

<p>"Sir, I thank you! Good night!" and with the last words he opened the
door and disappeared.</p>

<p>"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&mdash;and then&mdash;" 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.</p>

<h3 align="CENTER"><a name="1_0_3">CHAPTER II. THE HOUSE OF
DEATH.</a></h3>

<p>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&mdash; in some cases not
any&mdash;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.</p>

<p>In the front apartment&mdash;or at least in that apartment nearest the
street, for neither, strickly speaking, could be called front&mdash;on
the night our story opens, there were two occupants&mdash;a mother and
daughter&mdash; 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&mdash;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&mdash;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?</p>

<p>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&mdash; which to define singly would almost be impossible,
as the strong points for which the painter would seek were every where
wanting&mdash;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.</p>

<p>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&mdash;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&mdash; a darkened sphere of gloom and sorrow,
illumined by no ray of happiness?</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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!</p>

<p>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&mdash;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&mdash; of fearful reckoning&mdash;when your canting hypocrisy
will avail you not&mdash; 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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"Do not weep, my child!" said the invalid at length; "do not weep,
Virginia! for your tears make my sufferings intense."</p>

<p>"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&mdash;and&mdash;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&mdash;too much!" and she again sobbed
aloud with grief.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"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&mdash;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."</p>

<p>"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&mdash; perhaps that we may wean our thoughts and affections
from the world, and place them on more holy things."</p>

<p>"Ah! dear mother," returned the daughter, affectionately, "it is
gratifying to hear you talk thus&mdash;you who have suffered so
much&mdash;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&mdash;tears that come to relieve the overcharged soul&mdash;and I
thank my God I can weep. You are sick, dear mother&mdash; you are
suffering, perhaps with the pangs of death&mdash;and yet without aught to
relieve you&mdash;with no kind friends but your own unfortunate children
to shed a tear or feel an emotion for your fate.&mdash; 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!"</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"Hope for nothing there, mother&mdash;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."</p>

<p>"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&mdash;for I&mdash;I&mdash;feel&mdash;very &mdash;very weak;" and her
voice died away to a whisper.</p>

<p>Virginia sprang to her feet, with a look of alarm.</p>

<p>"Oh, mother!" she cried, wildly, observing a marked change in the
features of the invalid&mdash;a kind of deathly sinking about the eyes,
and a lividness on the lips: "Oh, mother! dear mother! you surely are not
dying?"</p>

<p>For a few moments Mrs. Courtly vainly struggled to speak. At last she
gasped, rather than said:</p>

<p>"I&mdash;I&mdash;trust not, Vir-gin-ia; but&mdash;I&mdash; am
very&mdash;we&mdash;weak&mdash;and&mdash;and&mdash;feel strangely."</p>

<p>"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!"</p>

<p>Poor creature! God help her! it was all she had to give.</p>

<p>With a slight motion of the hand, the invalid waved it away, saying,
in a feeble tone:</p>

<p>"I wish Edgar would come. Ah! how dark it grows! Has the candle gone
out, Virginia?"</p>

<p>"No, mother, it is still burning, but feebly."</p>

<p>"Then my sight must be failing, for I can hardly see."</p>

<p>"Oh, this is terrible!" shrieked Virginia, sinking upon her knees and
burying her face in the miserable covering of the bed.</p>

<p>A groan from the sufferer made her again spring to her feet. "Are you
dying, mother?" she asked, wildly; "really dying, think you?"</p>

<p>"Alas!" sighed the other, "that is more than I can say. I feel
strangely&mdash;perhaps the hand of death is on me."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"And how is mother now?" were the first words Edgar spoke as he
crossed the threshold.</p>

<p>"Alas! I fear she is dying," whispered his sister.</p>

<p>"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.</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"Are you then much worse, dear mother?" inquired Edgar, in a tremulous
voice, striving to master his feelings so as not to appear agitated.</p>

<p>"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.&mdash; Give me your hand. And now yours, Virginia;" and
as they both silently complied, she continued:</p>

<p>"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&mdash; 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&mdash;will have examples of how the wicked
prosper&mdash;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."</p>

<p>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:</p>

<p>"Oh! mother! do not say your are dying! Perhaps it is only a
faintness&mdash;a want of food&mdash;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.</p>

<p>"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&mdash;for already I stand on the brink of
death."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>"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&mdash;that I shall speedily pass
away."</p>

<p>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.</p>

Without the winds did fiercely blow&mdash; Within were
desolation&mdash;wo.

<p>For a few moments no voice broke the cheerless monotony of the driving
storm. Then the invalid feebly said:</p>

<p>"Kneel, my children, and pray!"</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>Their mother was dead. During that prayer her spirit had passed
away&mdash;gone from earth&mdash;returned to God who gave it.</p>

<h3 align="CENTER"><a name="1_0_4">CHAPTER III. THE LIVING
MOURNERS.</a></h3>

<p>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&mdash; the while our heaviest sorrows are lightened by the joys
built on the hopes of the future. Perhaps it is this variety&mdash; this
sunshine and storm&mdash;that gives to life its greatest zest&mdash;its
fairest attractions; for it is a well established fact, we can only know
pleasure from having experienced pain.</p>

<p>It was thus, but not wholly thus, with Edgar and Virginia. They were
alone in the wide world, yet not wholly alone.&mdash; 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 <i>she</i>
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.</p>

<p>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&mdash;to let them again
hear the sound of her sweet, beloved voice&mdash; 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&mdash; but found them cold and inactive&mdash;found them
give no pressure in return!</p>

<p>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.&mdash; At last, greatly to his relief, he burst into tears,
and again seating himself, for a long time he wept freely.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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:</p>

<p>"God bless thee, thou sweet but fragile flower, and let thy sleep be
long, that <i>some</i> misery may be spared thee!" and then taking his
position as before, he remained the sad and lonely watcher of the
night.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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.</p>

<p>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:</p>

<p>"I wish to purchase a few necessary articles, and in the course of the
day will call and settle for them."</p>

<p>The Dutchman shrugged his shoulders and gave him a contemptuous look,
as he replied:</p>

<p>"I never trusts nopodys, and den nopodys don't never sheats me."</p>

<p>"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."</p>

<p>"Vare you lives?" querried the Dutchman; and as Edgar informed him, he
continued: "Vy you has der sheck and not der moneys?"</p>

<p>"I only procured it last night, and have not since had an opportunity
of disposing of it."</p>

<p>"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?"</p>

<p>"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&mdash;for our last cent had
been expended and its purchase exhausted&mdash;and now my poor sister,
whom I have left alone with her, will sorely suffer, unless I procure
something immediately."</p>

<p>The Dutchman shook his head with a frown, as he rejoined:</p>

<p>"It won't do. You tells a goot story&mdash; 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.</p>

<p>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&mdash;which, to say the least, would now be most
imprudent&mdash;he turned away, muttering:</p>

<p>"Such is the selfish, uncharitable world&mdash; and why should I