 | CHAPTER VII.
THE HYPOCRITE AND HIS TOOL. Oliver Goldfinch, or, The hypocrite |  |
7. CHAPTER VII.
THE HYPOCRITE AND HIS TOOL.
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,” repeat-Goldfinch,
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
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.”
“Into the street with him then. Well?”
“Mrs. Brady, whose husband was killed
by a kick of your horse, begs you will allow
her a small sum to keep her family
from starvation.”
“Tell Mrs. Brady to be—”
“But she's noticed,” interrupted the
politic counsellor. “Mrs. Malcolm has
already sent to her.”
“Ah, indeed! that alters the case,” said
Goldfinch, with interest. “It will be
known then: I must be liberal. Give her
fifty dollars, Wesley. Any thing farther!”
“The New England Benevolent Tract
Society wants your signature.”
“Curse these societies—these blood
suckers of the wealthy!” ejaculated Goldfinch,
shutting his teeth hard in nager
“But there's no avoiding them, and maintaining
one's position,” pursued the worldly
man; “and so, as the old adage has it,
`what can't be cured must be endured.'
Is this society popular, Wesley!”
“Popular,” responded the secretary.
“Give five hundred dollars then. Proceed!—what
next?”
“Done,” said the other.
“Ah, done, eh!” Then musing a few
moments, and glancing keenly about the
apartment, meanwhile, to be sure there
were no listners, Goldfinch, in a low tone,
resumed: “Do you think he can have got
any clue to the truth, more than a vague
suspicion, Wesley?”
“Hard telling,” answered the other.
“You know there was but one besides
you and I; and he, the prying fool, was
drowned, was he not?”
“Was drowned,” quoth the attorney,
with a slight shudder.
“Well, he is dangerous, and we must be
rid of him, my friend;” and the calm, cold,
blue eye of the scheming man fastened
upon his subordinate with an expression of
deep, dark import. “I hope my first plan
will succeed—if not—”
Here he paused, and glanced at the other
significantly, who at once exclaimed:
“No, no—no more blood!”
“He must be silenced, though!” pursued
Goldfinch, in a low, deep, sepulchral tone,
bending over the table till his face almost
touched his agent's: “you know that as
well as I. Should he get the upper hand,
we are lost—or rather you are—for I will
make my money save me, though at the
expense of my reputation.”
As he said this, looking full in the eye
of his dupe or tool, there was a glance—
sudden and of lightning duration—a glance
from the latter, which made him recoil as
if bitten by a serpent. He looked again,
but it was gone, and he was fain to believe
his eyes had deceived him.
“Think of it,” added Goldfinch, after
vainly waiting for the other to make some
reply; “think of it, and act accordingly.
The inside of a prison is a dreary place;”
and he waved his hand, as was customary
with him, in token their conference was
ended.
The attorney arose and withdrew without
a word. As he descended the stairs,
however, there was a terrible, sinister look
on his ugly visage, and he muttered:
“He will make his money save him!
O, ho! he will make his money save him,
Goldfinch, for your candor! We shall
see—we shall see;” and muttering thus,
he quitted the mansion indignantly.
Better for the man of the world that
that morning's conference had not been,
or that he had been more like himself, less
candid, farther seeing, more cautious.
For a few minutes after the departure
of Wesley, the hypocrite rivetted his gaze
upon the fire, with a stern, gloomy expression,
when his reverie was broken by a soft,
white hand being laid upon his shoulder.
He looked up with a start, and his countenance
betrayed the presence of guilty
thoughts; but on perceiving it was only
his daughter who stood beside him, he
quickly recovered his composure, and pointing
her to a seat, observed:
“I had forgotten I sent for you.”
“Neither you did, father: I stole in upon
you of my own accord.”
With a motion quick as lightning, Goldfinch
seized her by the arm, and eagerly
peering into her face, while he held his
breath, said:
“You have not been listening, Arabella?”
“Would I do so base a thing, father?”
interrogatively answered the other, her
color heightened with proud indignation.
“True—true—yes—ha, ha—of course—
certainly not,” stammered Goldfinch, in
some confusion, aware his suspicion had
betrayed his guilt. “I—I was thinking—
ha, ha—in fact I hardly know what I was
thinking—but—Well, now you are here
I would like some conversation. You
came opportunely, as I was about sending
for you. 'Pon the word of a father,” he
added, gazing proudly upon her, “you look
charming to-day, Arabella; beautiful, if I
may be so complimentary.”
And beautiful Arabella Goldfinch ever
looked in the eyes of that hollow-hearted,
fashionable world, which prefer the cold
beauty that dazzles and towers aloft like a
mountain of ice, to that softer and more
effeminate loveliness, which, like a sylvan
landscape full of flowers, steals gently
upon the senses, and awakes all the finer
emotions of the soul. In the bloom of
nineteen summers, Arabella was a belle;
and being a supposed heiress to great
wealth, had more suitors to her hand than
heart. In sooth, she was illy fitted to win by
the latter; for her's was a proud, imperious
nature, little calculated to love, herself, or
inspire others with the tender passion.
And yet both might come to pass; she
might love, and be in turn beloved; but in
her present position, and with her worldly
education, the possibility was much greater
than the probability. In stature she
was medium, and possessed a form almost
a model of perfection. A sp'endid bust,
above which were a neck and head of a
carriage the most lofty, gave her a commanding
appearance, that, no matter what
her position in society, would not allow of
her passing through the world unnoticed.
Her features were regular, but not particularly
fine, unless seen by artificial light, at
a short distance, when they appeared beautiful.
Her forehead was high and smooth,
bearing upon it the stamp of pride—pride
as of a conscious superiority even over
her equals. And this same pride was in
her dark, lustrous eye, in her slightly expanded
nostrils, and around her well formed
mouth. It was a pride not only of birth,
beauty, position and wealth, but of nature;
pride that plainly showed she knew her
value, and would by no means allow herself
to be underrated. Had she been born
a beggar, she would still have shown pride,
and felt herself the superior of her companions.
And this pride, so displayed, was her
ruling or strongest passion; and though,
when she chose, she could be extremely
affable and winning, still pride was ever
lurking near, and made her affability dignified,
her reserve most haughty.
On the present occasion, she was richly
dressed in a lilac silk, fashioned so as to
display the outlines of her heaving bosom,
which, even in its rise and fall, spoke
pride. Her well-rounded, velvet-like arms
were bare, save where encircled by golden
bracelets just above her matchless, snowy
hands. To mark her, as she turned her
eyes inquiringly upon her father, one could
not but admit she was handsome. In fact
she was more so now than usual; and this
it was which had drawn from him the compliment
already quoted, and to which she
responded with:
“Thank you! I must indeed look well
to win the approbation of one so fastidious.”
“And, by-the-by,” returned the other,
“this same beauty must bring its full value.”
“What do you mean, father?” she asked,
with flashing eyes. “Am I to be bought
and sold like a slave or dumb beast?”
“By no means, my daughter, to be bought
and sold. I would only imply that your
wealth and beauty must not be thrown
away upon one inferior to yourself in any
respect.”
“Never fear, my dear father,” rejoined
Arabella, with sarcasm and a haughty toss
of her head, “that I shall stoop to disgrace
myself or you. There is as much family
pride in my breast as in your own. It is
not every suitor, I beg to assure you, that
will gain even a promise of my hand.”
“But at the same time, Arabella,” pursued
her politic father, “you must not be
too haughty when the right suitor is before
you, or you may mar all.”
“And who, I pray, is the right suitor?”
she asked, sharply.
“Who should he be, but the rich and
accomplished Clarence Malcolm?”
“Umpn!” rejoined the other, with a proud
curl of the lip; “and am I then to do him
reverence?”
“By no means; there are a thousand
ways to win, without in the least sacrificing
your dignity. Of a truth, a certain
reserve is necessary to inspire a man with
proper respect and esteem—for every thing
is prized according to the labor and expense
required in obtaining it—and to nothing
does this more strictly apply than
to woman; but what I fear is, that you
may so far forget your true policy, as to
treat him as you have done many a one
before him, with a haughtiness so disdainful
that his own manly pride will force him
to leave you.”
“I shall treat him,” rejoined Arabella,
“according to his deserts and behavior. If
he presume too much, he shall find I have
not forgotten what is due to myself.”
“But let me charge you, Arabella, to be
very cautious, for he is certainly a prize
worth securing. I have it from his own
lawyer, that he has already been apportioned
five hundred thousand dollars, and will
in time fall heir to as much more. He is
an only son of a widowed mother, and her
possessions are vast; so you see the importance
of making him yours; and will
do it, I trust, even at the sacrifice, if necessary,
of a little self-pride.”
“I do not know that I shall,” returned
Arabella, coldly. “I do not think I shall
cross my nature for any man, rich or poor,
high or low. Besides, I am not anxious to
tie myself in wedlock, at least for the present.
There is time enough for that years
ahead.”
“But think, my dear Arabella,” pleaded
the worldly man, “what it is to be the wife
of one so immensely rich, and so universally
esteemed as Clarence Malcolm. If you
have true pride, my daughter, this is the
way to gratify it; for you will thus not only
triumph over all your associates, but place
yourself in a position where you can overawe
them with your grandeur and magnificence.
Think what it is, my child, to be
the richest lady in the metropolis, and leader
of the ton! Why, were I you, I would
stoop to any thing to be so exalted.”
“Would you?” said Arabella, with another
scornful curl of the lip; “I wouldn't
—there is the difference. I would not condescend
to lose one grain of self-respect,
such as you advise, to win Clarence Malcolm,
were he even ten times what you represent
him. No, did I do so, I could never
after forgive myself.”
“But, my daughter—”
“Nay, hear me out. That Clarence
Malcolm is rich, I believe; that he is a gentleman
of fine talents and accomplishments,
I know; and, to be candid, I like
him as well as any other, and have reason
to believe, from his attentions to me of
late, that I have found favor in his eyes.
Farther than this, I know nothing; for not
a word of affection, or any thing tending
towards matrimony, has ever passed our
lips to one another. Now should Clarence
Malcolm see proper to sue for my hand in
a correct way, taking me all in all, as I am,
with all my imperfections on my head, I
might be disposed to grant his suit—not
for his money, mark you, father—not for
the whim might be upon me.”
“Well, well, Arabella, you are a strange,
spoiled child, and so I suppose must have
your own way, though I trust you will not
disappoint me in this matter.”
“But why are you so anxious, father?
Have you not wealth enough?”
“Enough, Arabella! why, you talk like
a simple girl. Enough! bless your soul—
why, were I as rich as Crœsus, I should still
thirst for more. Enough! no, I shall never
have enough, though every addition will be
something towards a satisfaction. My
whole soul, Arabella, is concentrated upon
the ambition of being the wealthiest gentleman
in the metropolis, that men may
point at me and say, `There goes he who
can buy and sell all others.' So be a true
child of mine, Arabella, and aid me to accomplish
what I have struggled for for
years. With your consent, and our cards
skilfully handled, we are sure to win. Malcolm
is in every sense a strict man of honor,
and would rather sacrifice his right
hand than do a mean action, or be thought
guilty of one. His attentions to you have
already been somewhat marked; endeavor
to make them still more so, and we are
safe. I will have the report circulated
that you are engaged; and then, should he
seek to avoid you, I will privately threaten
him with a suit for breach of promise.
This will settle the matter; for he would
suffer death sooner than have his fair name
dragged thus before the world and bandied
in the public prints.”
“But, father,” said Arabella, with a look
of painful displeasure, “what respect could
he have for a wife so obtained?”
“Respect? Pshaw! girl, don't be a fool!
Who cares for his respect, so we have his
money!”
“But how would his money benefit
you?”
“Ah, leave that to me—leave that to
me!” answered Goldfinch, rubbing his
hands with delight at the happy prospect
of effecting some well concocted, devilish
scheme, which he did not care to reveal
to his daughter. “Come, girl, promise me
you will use your best endeavors to succeed
in this!”
“I will think of it,” said the other, coldly,
rising to withdraw.
“You will promise, Arabella?” urged
her father. “Come, say you will promise!”
“I say I will think of it,” sharply and
haughtily rejoined Arabella. And then
turning, as she was about to quit the
apartment: “Who was that young man
I saw here the other evening?” she asked.
“His face seemed familiar, but I do not
know where to place him.”
“Mention him not!” replied Goldfinch,
with a dark frown; “mention him not,
Arabella; he is a villain who has much
annoyed me of late;” and he bit his lips
in vexation.
“Then his face belies him,” rejoined
Arabella, looking hard at her father; “for
I have rarely seen a more handsome,
frank, ingenious countenance;” and without
waiting a reply from her angry parent,
she quitted the apartment, with the proud
majesty of a queen, leaving the schemer
alone to his thoughts.
“So, so,” he muttered, “her pride overtops
her judgment, and therefore must
have a fall. She must wed Clarence Malcolm,
though, for I have set my soul upon
it, and when was I ever known to fail in
my undertakings!”
Beware, Oliver Goldfinch! for you are
reckoning without your host.
| CHAPTER VII.
THE HYPOCRITE AND HIS TOOL. Oliver Goldfinch, or, The hypocrite | |