University of Virginia Library

24. CHAPTER XXIV.
HYPOCRISY AND CRIME.

It was the fourth day from the arrest of
his son for his last great crime, that Oliver
Goldfinch sat beside the bed of his
daughter, holding one of her hands in his,
and gazing upon her features—now white
as the driven snow, but seemingly composed—with
a countenance haggard, and pale,
and full of sorrow and anguish.

“And how do you feel to-day, my child?”
he asked, with a tenderness hitherto foreign
to his nature.

“Better, I thank you, father,” was the
low, calm reply.

“I am rejoiced to hear it, Arabella; for
since Acton is gone, you are my only
solace.”

“O, I am so happy to know he came off
clear of the foul charge; for I was fearful
he had been led, in the heat of passion, to
do some rash act; and when the sheriff
came to arest him, I thought my brain
would consume and fly from me, it felt so
heated and light. But where think you he
has gone, father?”

“I do not know,” replied the other, turning
away his head to conceal his emotion
—not so much for the deception he was
practising, as for the deep regret that the
story he had told his daughter could not
be verified and Acton be at liberty.

“But he will come back soon, father?”

“I trust so, Arabella; though the excitement
is still so great, on account of even
suspicion attaching itself to him, that for
the present perhaps he had better remain
away.”

At this moment the negro Jeff entered
the room, and handed Goldfinch a card.

“Where is he?” asked the latter, as he
glanced at the name.

“In de parlor, Massa.”

“I will be down directly. Or stay—
perhaps I had better invite him up here.
It is our clergyman, Arabella—the Rev.
Stephen Parkhurst.”

“Show him up,” answered Arabella—
“I shall be pleased to see him.”

“I will do it myself,” said Goldfinch to
the negro; and he arose and left the
room.

In a few minutes he returned, in company
with the reverend gentleman, a man
of middle age, with gray hair, and a countenance
somewhat remarkable for its placidity,
and a sweet, benevolent smile which
lingered over it. His appearance was very
prepossessing, for his very look showed
you he was at heart what he openly professed,
a true Christian. He greeted Arabella
warmly and kindly, and immediately
entered into a conversation with her,
which lasted some quarter of an hour, during
which he gently urged upon her the
importance of putting her trust in One who
was able to support her through every and
all trials that she might, in the course of
human events, be called upon to undergo.

“When most sorely afflicted,” he said,
in conclusion, “we should remember we
are chastened by the hand of God for some
wise purpose; and instead of weakening
by doubt, we should rather strengthen
our reliance by faith, that all is done for
the best, and that He, in His mercy, will
either safely deliver us from adversity in
this life, or, what is of still more importance,
bear us safely over the dark `valley
of the shadow of death.' It is in our
hours of trouble, when every thing seems
conspiring to crush us, that we most feel
the need of Divine aid; and I trust, my
daughter, whatever may be your afflictions—and
God only knoweth what they
will be—you will rely solely upon Him, and
come out in the end purified and sanctified,
so as by fire, and fitted for that glorious
Mansion beyond the shores of time, which
he has prepared for all who love Him and
keep His commandments.”

Saying this, Mr. Parkhurst turned to

the father of Arabella, and drawing him
aside, said, in a tone too low to reach the
ears of the invalid:

“My dear brother, I grieve to see you
so sorely distressed. It is a terrible thing
to have a beloved son, in whom the hopes
of a fond father's heart are centered, arraigned
at the solemn bar of man for a
crime that makes humanity shudder; and
deeply, from my very heart, do I sympathise
with you in your awful affliction. But
God alone, my brother, knoweth what is
best; and I humbly pray He will send you
Christian fortitude sufficient to carry you
through all your terrible trials!”

The scheming man of wealth groaned.

“It is very hard to bear up, my dear
brother,” pursued the divine, in a consolitary
tone, “when we see those we love
snatched away from us by some fortuitous
circumstance; but I humbly trust, in this,
your trying hour, you will bring religion
to your aid, and endeavor, through much
prayer, to become reconciled to God's wise
dispensation.”

Again the hypocrite groaned; and after
looking upon him compassionately, a moment,
the other went on.

“But with you, my brother, it is different
from those of the world, who have, in
similar afflictions, no hope to depend on.
You, I trust, are a Christian, and have the
holy courage of those who passed through
martyrdom unflinching. You have professed
the holy religion of Jesus Christ—”

“No more—no more!” interrupted Goldfinch
with a groan, and a shudder that trembled
through his whole frame; and covering
his face with his hands, he kept it
some moments concealed from the other.

How did his hypocrisy stand him now?
Where was the Christian resignation he
had openly professed? Where the Christian
hope on which he should have been
relying? How stood his conscience in
this trying moment? Was it perfectly at
ease—or did he feel its remorseful stings?

But Oliver Goldfinch was not yet changed
at heart. His fears of the storm already
gathered over him and about to burst
in fury, alone made him quail. Dissimilation
was in his nature yet. It was his
evil genius, which ever stood ready to
prompt him wrongly. And it came to his
aid now; for withdrawing his hands, he
continued, meekly:

“My dear Brother Parkhurst, what you
have said is true. There is consolation
for those who have proper faith in Divine
mercy; but, at the same time, I must own,
perforce, I am `of the earth earthy,' and
in my worldly moments have doubtless
committed many errors, for which I must
atone by sincere repentance. Still I will
endeavor not to despair in this trying hour,
but rely upon the mercy of Him whom I
have openly professed to serve, and trust,
as you say, that I am chastened for a wise
purpose.”

“We all have our errors,” returned the
other, “and must needs have our moments
of repentance; but it truly rejoices my
soul to see you bear up with so much Christian
courage.”

He was on the point of proceeding farther,
but the opening of the door, and the
entrance of the negro in haste, with an
anxious look on his countenance, interrupted
him. Advancing at once to Goldfinch,
the black whispered a few words in
his ear. The other started, and turned
deadly pale. Then rising from his seat,
in some trepidation, he asked to be excused
a few moments, and quitted the
room, followed by the black. Some five
or ten minutes elapsed, when the negro
returned and whispered in the ear of the
divine, who immediately rose, and saying
to Arabella he would presently return, followed
the messenger down stairs. In the
parlor he found the host, pacing to and fro,
with anxious looks and a trembling step,
while at a little distance were seated two
coarsely habited individuals, who seemed
carelessly surveying the gorgeous furniture
of the apartment and the splendid
paintings adorning the walls.

“My dear brother,” spoke Goldfinch, in
an agitated voice, drawing the clergyman
aside, “misfortune, it seems, never comes
alone. I am in trouble. By what mistake,
or by what foul means, I know not,
but I now stand arrested for the startling
crime of forgery, and must perforce away
at once and answer to the calumnious
charge.”

“For forgery, say you, my dear brother?”
exclaimed the other, in astonishment.

“Even so.”

“But you are innocent?”

“As you are, my worthy friend. I do
not understand it. It is, probably, some
base conspiracy of my enemies, if I have
any—which I am not aware of—to seize
me at a time when public opinion, on account
of this dreadful affair of my son, is
ready to go against me, and so blast my
reputation and crush me, if not with proof,
at least with vile suspicion, which is but little
better. But I am innocent, and shall in
the end come out triumphant—though, as I
said before, I must away now and answer
to the charge. Oh God!” he groaned,
“what is to come next?”

“This is very unfortunate,” rejoined the
clergyman, looking hard at the other, “and
very mysterious. I am all bewilderment.
What is the world coming to, surely, when
man arrests and drags to prison his fellow
man for a crime of which he is innocent!
But fear not, my brother! Rely upon the
strong arm of Jehovah, and you shall have
justice done you.”

The hypocrite groaned again—perhaps
at the thought that the last words of the
other might be verified, and that he would
have justice done him, which at present
was what he most feared.

“Come,” spoke up one of the officers,
“we can't delay any longer.”

“A moment,” rejoined Goldfinch; and
then turning to Mr. Parkhurst, he continued:
“But poor Arabella!—the news of
this would kill her. You must not let her
know the real state of the case, till it becomes
unavoidable; but tell her I have
been called away on a matter of great
emergency, and you know not how soon I
may return. This you can do, without
making a false statement, which of course
I do not require nor expect. All knowledge
of Acton must also be kept from her,
till she is fully recovered; and, most important
of all, my dear friend and brother,
(and Goldfinch grasped the clergyman's
hand, looked earnesrly and pleadingly in
his eyes, while his voice became low, and
tremulous, and very pathetic,) whatever
may happen—and Heaven only knows
what will—should, in fact, my enemies
triumph, and I not be able to return—you
will be kind to my daughter?—you will see
that she does not suffer?—in a word, you
will be a father to her, my brother?”

“I will,” replied the other, solemaly,
while tears of sympathy started to his
eyes: “I will. But, surely, you do not
apprehend—”

“Say no more!” interrupted Goldfinch,
in an agony of mind that drew cold drops
of perspiration to his forehead. “Say no
more! Be kind to Arabella! God bless
you! Farewell!” and giving the clergyman
another heartly grip of the hand, he
turned abruptly away, and signified to the
officers he was ready to depart.

With a firm step, and a countenance
now composed and serene—though within
the passion-fires were wildly consuming
and ready to explode, like those in the bowels
of the earth just prior to a terrible
eruption—Goldfinch calmly led the way
to a carriage in waiting, which he entered
with the officers, and was driven away, to
take his preliminary trial before a magistrate
for one of the boldest and most ingeniously
executed forgeries on record.