 | OLIVER GOLDFINCH. Oliver Goldfinch, or, The hypocrite |  |
1. OLIVER GOLDFINCH.
1. 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
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, well-fed
negro, some thirty years of age, whose
general characteristics bespoke the darky
dandy, cautiously opened the door, as if
either fearful of the storm or the visiter;
but no sooner was it open, than the young
man—for such the light of the hall revealed
him to be—sprang inside, to the no little
dismay and astonishment of the black,
who was about to make some impertinent
remark, but which the other perceiving,
said hastily:
“Excuse me, Jeff; I have no time to
stand on ceremonies. Is your master at
home?”
It is impossible to portray the look of
indignant scorn with which the negro
heard and responded to this abrupt apology
and interrogation. Drawing himself
up with a proud air, he cast a supercilious
glance over the person of the intruder,
from head to foot and from foot to head,
looking hard at his thread-bare garments,
the remnants of better days, and then answered
rather disdainfully:
“See here, Edgar Courtly, you fo'get
you'sef. When I's wid my ekals, I's called
Misser Jeffrey Pomfret, and none of
dem familiar Jeff's, only by gemmen as is
gemmen. And as to massa, I's hab you
know as how dis child hab nothin to do wid
dem vulgar names. I is free nigger now,
and massa am done gone long time ago.”
The pale features of the young man
flushed, his dark eyes flashed, his hand
opened and shut convulsively, as he heard
these insulting words, and for a moment
he seemed on the point of punishing the
negro for his insolence; but then, remembering
where he was, and the object he
had in coming hither, he smothered his indignation
and calmly replied:
“Once, Mr. Jeffrey Pomfret, as you are
pleased to term yourself, such language
from you to me would have cost you a severe
chastisement; but things have altered
since, and so let it pass. Is Mr. Goldfinch
at home?”
“'Spose he am?” returned Jeff, doggedly.
“Then tell him I wish to speak with
him without a moment's delay.”
“You-you tink he see you?” asked Jeff,
shaking his head.
“Do as you are bid,” rejoined the young
man, sharply, “or, be the consequences
what they may, I will teach you a lesson
you will not soon forget;” and clenching
his hand, he took a step or two towards the
negro, who, perceiving matters were approaching
a crisis, slowly departed on his
errand, muttering as he went something
about the impertinence of poor relations,
until his person had disappeared up the
stairs leading from the hall to the chambers
above.
As soon as he was out of sight, young
Courtly folded his arms on his breast, and
with brows rather closely knit, in silence
awaited his return. In a short time the
negro made his appearance, and in a rather
pompous tone said:
“Misser Gol'finch says you please excuse
him, case he am engaged.”
“I will not excuse him,” returned young
Edgar, in a sharp tone of indignation,
while his face reddened and his dark eyes
flashed defiance. “I came here to see
him, and I will not depart without. Tell
him so!”
“No! no! I'll no goes near him wid
dat message,” returned Jeff, “case dis
child's head would be done gone brokum.”
“Then I will seek him where he is,” rejoined
Edgar Courtly. “Show me his
apartment!”
“Bess not go, Misser Edgar!”
“Do as I bid you!”
“Well, den, fust room on de leff.”
With this the young man advanced to
the staircase, and ascended it with an unfaltering
step. On reaching the floor
above, he paused at the first door on the
left and rapped. On hearing a voice say
“Come in,” he entered a splendidly furnished
apartment, whose bright and cheerful
appearance formed an imposing contrast
to the howling, dismal night without.
Every thing of refined comfort was here
profusely displayed; but as all tastefully
arranged apartments are much alike, it
will be unnecessary for us to describe it
minutely. A bright coal fire was burning
in the grate, in front of which, at some
little distance, stood an elegant marble
center-table, strewn with books and papers,
and supporting a large alabaster lamp,
whence issued a flood of soft, bewitching
light. By this table, on the entrance of
Edgar Courtly, sat two persons—a lady just
blooming into womanhood, and a gentleman
some forty-five years of age—the
former engaged in reading a book, and the
latter in perusing a newspaper. The eyes
of both simultaneously rested upon the intruder,
when the lady, rising from her
seat, passed out of the room by a side door,
leaving the gentlemen alone to themselves.
With their eyes bent sternly on each other,
and a frown gathering on the brow of each,
for a short time the occupant of the apartment
and his unwelcome guest remained
silent—a period we will improve in describing
their personal appearance.
We have said that the gentleman by the
table was a man some forty-five years of
age, and consequently scarcely turned the
full vigor of intellectual manhood. His
appearance, however, was, in some respects,
in advance of his years; for his
head was partially bald, and partially covered
with thin, gray hairs. Whether this
was the result of unassisted nature, or
brought about by perplexity, fright, grief
trouble, scheming or care, we shall not pause
here to determine, but simply chronicle the
fact. His features, generally, were regular,
and of that peculiar cast which would
make them prepossessing or otherwise, according
to the mood or will of the owner.
There was no lack of intellect in the prevailing
expression of the countenance,
and the forehead was high and broad. His
eyes were of a clear, cold blue, that would
not be likely to impress you favorably, unless
rather softly twinkling under the veil
of hypocrisy, which none could better and
more readily assume than he. His mouth
and chin were rather handsome, and the
former well filled with white, regular teeth,
visible at every smile, and which smile
was often present to cover some hidden,
devilish design. Take him all in all, Oliver
Goldfinch was a character you would
need to study long and well to properly
understand; and even then, with a deep
knowledge of human nature, and a keen,
quick perception of the true state of the
heart from outward signs, ten to one you
would give him credit for being a far better
man than would his recording angel.
But it is not our design to point out here his
virtues, his faults, nor his characteristics.
He must speak and act throughout our
story in propria persona, and the reader
can be his own judge in the end. With
the additional statement that in person be
was portly, and of an air to command respect
among strangers, we turn to Edgar
Courtly.
In stature the latter was slightly above
medium, possessing a fine, manly form, and
a dignified bearing that would have befitted
one his senior by ten years. No one,
not even the most casual observer, could
ever mistake him for a common character
—for one of that herd of human beings
who are as much alike as the pebbles on
the sea-washed beach. His featurer were
pale and haggard, as if from some corroding,
inward struggle—a painful, constant
labor of the mind, which bears the body
on to premature decay. Yet this appearance
did not set ill upon him, but rather
increased that look of lofty, noble intellectuality,
which lighted his countenance
and shone in his dark, eloquent, hazel eye.
His forehead was broad and massive, and
though not remarkably high, was expressive
of brilliant and vigorous thought. As
he stood before the other, his eye fixed intently
on him, there was a slight contraction
of his handsome brows, and a compression
of 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
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,
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.
| OLIVER GOLDFINCH. Oliver Goldfinch, or, The hypocrite | |