"Boys," whispered Blossom, "we'll go up first. You follow and station yerselves on the second landin', so as to be ready when I whistle."
A murmur of assent was heard, and Blossom, light in hand, led the merchant prince toward the stairway which led upward from the center of the hall. At the foot of the stairway, they were confronted by a servant-maid, who had answered the bell when Blossom first rang: her red, round cheeks were pale as ashes, and she clung to the railing of the staircase for support.
"Och, murther!" she ejaculated, as she beheld the red face of Blossom, and the frightened visage of her master.
Blossom seized her arm with a tight grip.
"Look here, Biddy, do you know how to sleep?" was the inquiry of the rubicund gentleman.
"Slape?" echoed the girl, with eyes like saucers.
"'Cause if you don't go back into the kitchen, and put yourself into a sound sleep d'rectly; yourself, your master and me, will all be murdered in our beds. It 'ud hurt my feelin's, Biddy, to see you with your throat cut, and sich a nice fat throat as it is!"
Biddy uttered a groan, and shrunk back behind the stairway.
"Now then!" and Blossom led the way up-stairs, followed by the lean, angular form of the merchant prince, who turned his head over his shoulder, like a man afraid of ghosts.
They arrived at the small entry at the head of the stairs, on the third floor; three doors opened into the entry; one on the right, one on the left, and the third directly in the background, facing the head of the stairs.
"Hush!" whispered Blossom, "do you hear any noise?"
Advancing on tip-toe, he crouched against the door on the right, and listened. In an instant he came back to the head of the stairs, where stood Mr. Somers, shaking in every nerve.
"It's a snore," said Blossom, "jist go and listen, and see if it's your son's snore."
It required much persuasion to induce the merchant prince to take the step.
"Where are your men?"
Blossom pointed over the merchant's shoulder, to the landing beneath. There, in the gloom, stood the six figures, shoulder to shoulder, and as motionless as stone.
"Now will you go?"
Mr. Somers advanced, and placed his head against the door on the right. After a brief pause, he returned to the head of the stairs where Blossom stood. "It is not my son'ssnore," he said, "that is, if I am any judge ofsnores."
Blossom took the light and the keys, and advanced to the door on the right, which he gently tried to open, but found it locked. Making a gesture of caution to the merchant prince, he selected the key of the door from the bunch, softly inserted it, and as softly turned it in the lock. The door opened with a sound. Then stepping on tip-toe, he crossed the threshold, taking the light with him.
Mr. Somers, left alone in the dark, felt his heart march to his throat.
"I shall be murdered,—I know I shall," he muttered, when the light shone on his frightened face again. Blossom stood in the doorway, beckoning to him.
Somers advanced and crossed the threshold.
"Look there," whispered Blossom "now d'ye believe me?"
A huge man, dressed in the jacket and trowsers of a convict, was sleeping on the bed, his head thrown back, his mouth wide open, and one arm hanging over the bedside. His chest heaved with long, deep respirations, and his nostrils emitted a snore of frightful depth.
At this confirmation of the truth of Blossom's statement, Mr. Somers' face became as white as his cravat.
"Lookthere!" whispered Blossom, pointing to a pistol which lay upon the carpet, almost within reach of the brawny hand which hung over the bed-side.
"Good God! ejaculated Somers.
"Now lookthere!" Blossom pointed to the brandy bottle on the table, and held the light near it. "Empty!d'ye see?"
Then Blossom drew from his capacious pocket, certain pieces of rope, each of which was attached to the middle of a piece of hickory, as hard as iron.
"Hold the light," and like a nurse attending to a sleeping babe, the ingenious Blossom gently attached one of the aforesaid pieces of rope to the ankles of the sleeper, in such a manner, that the two pieces of hickory,—one at either end of the rope,—formed a knot, which a giant would have found it hard to break. As the ankles rested side by side, this feat was not so difficult.
"Now for the wrists," and Blossom quietly regarded the position of the sleeper's hands. One was doubled on his huge chest, the other hung over the bedside. To straighten one arm and lift the other,—to do this gently and without awaking the sleeper,—to tie both wrists together as he had tied the ankles,—this was a difficult task, but Blossom accomplished it. Once the convict moved. "Don't give it up so easy!" he muttered and snored again.
Blossom surveyed him with great satisfaction.—"There's muscle, and bone, and fists,—did you ever see sich fists!"
"A perfect brute!" ejaculated Somers.
"Now you stay here, while I go into the next room, and hunt for the tother one."
This room, it will be remembered, communicated with an adjoining apartment by folding-doors. Blossom took the candle and listened; all was silent beyond the folding-doors. He carefully opened these doors, and light in hand, went into the next apartment. A belt of light came through the aperture, and fell upon the tall, spare form of the merchant prince, who, standing in the center of thefirstapartment gazed through the aperture just mentioned, into thesecondroom. All the movements of Blossom were open to his gaze.
He saw him approach a bed, whose ruffled coverlet indicated that a man was sleeping there. He saw him bend over this bed, but the burly form of the police-officer hid the face of the sleeper from the sight of the merchant prince. He saw him lift the coverlet, and stand for a moment, as if gazing upon the sleeping man, and then saw him start abruptly from the bed, and turn his step toward thefirstroom.
"What's the matter withyou," cried the merchant prince, "areyoufrightened?"
Truth to tell, the full-moon face of Blossom, spotted with carbuncles, had somewhat changed its color.
"Can't you speak? It's Evelyn who's sleeping yonder,—isn't it? Hadn't you better wake him quietly?"
"Ah my feller," and the broken voice of Blossom, showed that he washumanafter all—all that he had seen in his lifetime,—"Ah my feller, he'll never wake again."
Somers uttered a cry, seized the light and strode madly into the next room, and turned the bed where the sleeper laid. The fallen jaw, the fixed eyeballs, the hand upon the chest, stained with the blood which flowed from the wound near the heart—he saw it all, and uttered a horrible cry, and fell like a dead man upon the floor.
Blossom seized the light from his hand as he fell, and turning back into the first room blew his whistle. The room was presently occupied by the six assistants.
"There's been murder done here to-night," he said, gruffly: "Potts, examine that pistol near the bed. Unloaded, is it? Gentlemen, take a look at the prisoner and then follow me."
He led the way into the second room, and they all beheld the dead body of Evelyn Somers.
"Two of you carry the old man down stairs and try and rewive him;" two of the assistants lifted the insensible form of the merchant prince, and bore it from the room. "Now, gentlemen, we'll wake the prisoner."
He approached the sleeping convict, followed by four of the policemen, whose faces manifested unmingled horror. He struck the sleeping man on the shoulder,—"Wake up Gallus. Wake up Gallus, I say!"
After another blow, Ninety-One unclosed his eyes, and looked around with a vague and stupefied stare. It was not until he sat up in bed, that he realized the fact, that his wrists and ankles were pinioned. His gaze wandered from the face of Blossom to the countenances of the other police-officers, and last of all, rested upon his corded hands.
"My luck," he said, quietly,—"curse you, you needn't awakened a fellow in his sleep. Why couldn't you have waited till mornin'?"
And he sank back on the bed again. Blossom seized a pitcher filled with water, which stood upon a table, and dashed the contents in the convict's face.
Thoroughly awake, and thoroughly enraged, Ninety-One started up in the bed, and gave utterance to a volley of curses.
Blossom made a sign with his hand; the four policemen seized the convict and bore him into the second room, while Blossom held the light over the dead man's livid face and bloody chest.
"Do you see that bullet-hole?" said Blossom; "the pistol was found a-side of your bed, near your hand. Gallus, you'll have to dance on nothin', I'm werry much afeard you will. But it 'ill take a strong rope to hang you."
"What!" shouted Ninety-One, "you don't mean to say,—" he cast a horrified look at the dead man, and then, like a flash of lightning, the whole matter became as plain as day to him. "Oh, Thirty-One," he groaned between his set-teeth, "this is your dodge,—is it? Oh, Thirty-One, this is another little item in our long account."
"What do you say?" asked one of the policemen. Ninety-One relapsed into a dogged silence. They could not force another word from him. Carrying him back into the first room, they laid him on the bed, and secured his ankles and wrists with additional cords. Meanwhile, they could peruse at their leisure, that face, whose deep jaw, solid chin, and massive throat, covered with a stiff beard, manifested at once, immense muscular power, and an indomitable will. The eyes of the convict, overhung by his bushy brows, the cheeks disfigured by a hideous scar, the square forehead, with the protuberance in the center, appearing amid masses of gray hair,—all these details, were observed by the spectators, as they added new cords to the ankles and the wrists of Ninety-One.
His chest shook with a burst of laughter, "Don't give it up so easy!" he cried, "I'll be even with you yet, Thirty-One."
"S'arch all the apartments,—we must find his comrade," exclaimed Blossom,—"a pale-faced young devil, whom I seen with him, last night, in the cars."
Ninety-One started, even as he lay pinioned upon the bed.—"Oh, Thirty-One," he groaned, "and you must bring the boy in it, too, must you? Just add another figure to our account."
The four rooms were thoroughly searched, but the comrade was not found.
"Come, boys," said Blossom, "we'll go down-stairs and talk this matter over. Gallus," directing his conversation to Ninety-One, "we'll see you again, presently."
Ninety-One saw them cross the threshold, and heard the key turn in the lock. He was alone in the darkness, and with the dead.
As Blossom, followed by the policemen, passed down stairs, he was confronted on the second landing by the affrighted servants,—some of them but thinly clad,—who assailed him with questions. Instead of answering these multiplied queries, Blossom addressed his conversation to a portly dame of some forty years, who appeared in her night-dress and with an enormous night-cap.
"The housekeeper, I believe, Ma'am?"
"Yes, sir,—Mrs. Tompkins," replied the dame, "Oh, do tell me, what does this all mean?"
"How's the old gentleman?" asked Blossom.
"In his room. He's reviving. Mr. Van Huyden, his private secretary is with him. But do tell us the truth of this affair—what—what, does it all mean?"
"Madam, it means murder and blood and an old convict. Excuse me, I must go—down-stairs."
While the house rang with the exclamations of his affrighted listeners, Blossom passed down stairs, and, with his assistants, entered the Library.
"The question afore the house, gentlemen, is as follows,"—and Blossom sank into the chair of the merchant prince—"Shill we keep the prisoner up-stairs all night, or shill we take him to the Tombs?"
Various opinions were given by the policemen, and the debate assumed quite an animated form, Blossom, in all the dignity of his bear-skin coat and carbuncled visage, presiding as moderator.
"Address the cheer," he mildly exclaimed, as the debate grew warm. "Allow me to remark, gentlemen, that Stuffletz, there, is very sensible. Stuff., you think as the coroner's inquest will be held up-stairs by arly daylight to-morrow mornin' it 'ud be better to keep the prisoner there so as to confront him with the body? That's your opinion, Stuff. Well, I can't speak for you, gentlemen, as I don't b'long to the reg'lar police,—(I'm only anextra, you know!)—but it seems to me, Stuff. is right. Therefore, let the prisoner stay up-stairs all night; the room is safe, and I'll watch him mesself. Beside, you don't think he's a-goin' to tumble himself out of a third story winder, or vanish in a puff o' brimstone, as the devil does in the new play at the Bowery—do you?"
There was no one to gainsay the strong position thus assumed by Poke-Berry Blossom, Esq.
"And then I kin have a little private chat with him, in regard to the $71,000,—I guess I can," he muttered to himself.
"What's the occasion of this confusion?" said a bland voice; and, clad in his elegant white coat, with his cloak drooping from his right shoulder, Colonel Tarleton advanced from the doorway to the light. "Passing by I saw Mr. Somers' door open, and hear an uproar,—what is the matter, gentlemen? My old friend, Mr. Somers, is not ill, I hope?"
"Evelyn, his son, has been shot," bluntly responded Blossom—"by an old convict, who had hid himself in the third story, with the idea o' attackin' old Somers' cash-box and jugular."
Colonel Tarleton, evidently shocked, raised his hand to his forehead and staggered to a chair.
"Evelyn shot!" he gasped, after a long pause.—"Surely you dream. The particulars, the particulars—"
Blossom recapitulated the particulars of the case, according to the best of his knowledge.
"It is too horrible, too horrible," cried Tarleton, and his extreme agitation was perceptible to the policemen. "My young friend Evelyn murdered! Ah!—" he started from the chair, and fell back again with his head in his hands.
"But we've got the old rag'muffin," cried Blossom, "safe and tight; third story, back room."
Tarleton started from the chair and approached Blossom,—his pale face stamped with hatred and revenge.
"Mr. Blossom," he said, and snatched the revolver from the pocket of the rubicund gentleman. "Hah! it's loaded in six barrels! Murdered Evelyn—in the back room you say—I'll have the scoundrel's life!"
He snatched the candle from the table, and rushed to the door. The policemen did not recover from their surprise, until they heard his steps on the stairs.
"After him, after him,—there'll be mischief," shouted Blossom, and he rushed after Tarleton, followed by the six policemen. Tarleton's shouts of vengeance resounded through the house, and once more drew the servants, both men and women, to the landing-place at the head of the stairs. That figure attracted every eye—a man attired in a white coat, his face wild, his hair streaming behind him, a loaded pistol in one hand and a light in the other.
"Ketch his coat-tails," shouted Blossom, and, followed by policemen and servant-maids, he rushed up the second stairway.
He found Tarleton in the act of forcing the door on theright, which led into the room where Ninety-One was imprisoned.
"It is locked! Damnation!" shouted Tarleton, roaring like a madman. "Will no one give me the key?"
"I'll tell you what I'll give you," was the remark of Blossom. "I'll give youoneunder yer ear, if you don't keep quiet,—"
But his threat came too late. Tarleton stepped back and then plunged madly against the door. It yielded with a crash. Then, with Blossom and the crowd at his heels, he rushed into the room, brandishing the pistol, as the light which he held fell upon his convulsed features,—
"Where is the wretch?—show him to me! Where is the murderer of poor Evelyn?"
Blossom involuntarily turned his eyes toward the bed. It was empty. Ninety-One was not there. His gaze traversed the room: a door, looking like the doorway of a closet, stood wide open opposite the bed. It required but a moment to ascertain that the door opened upon a stairway.
"By ——!" shouted Blossom, "he's gone! His comrade has been concealed somewhere, and has cut him loose."
"Gone!" echoed police-officers and servants.
"Gone!" ejaculated Tarleton, and fell back into a chair, and his head sunk upon his breast.
There he remained muttering and moaning, while the four apartments on the third floor were searched in every corner by Blossom and his gang. The search was vain.
"He can't be got far," cried Blossom. "Some o' you go down into the yard, and I'll s'arch this staircase."
Thus speaking, he took the light and disappeared through the open doorway of the staircase, while the other police-officers hastily descended the main stairway.
Tarleton remained at least five minutes in the darkness, while shouts were heard in the yard behind the mansion. Then, emerging from the room, he descended to the second floor, where he was confronted by the housekeeper, who was struck with pity at the sight of his haggard face.
"I am weak—I am faint; allow me to lean upon your arm," said Tarleton, and supported his weight upon the fat arm of the good lady.—"Support me to the bedchamber of my dear friend Somers,—the father of poor murdered Evelyn."
"This way, sir," said the housekeeper, kindly, "he's in there, with his private secretary—"
"With hisprivate secretary, did you say?" faintly exclaimed Tarleton. "Close the door after me, good madam, I wish to talk with the dear old man."
He entered the bedchamber, leaving the housekeeper at the door.
A single lamp stood on a table, near a bed which was surmounted by a canopy of silken curtains. The room was spacious and elegant; chairs, carpet, the marble mantle, elaborately carved, and the ceiling adorned with an elaborate painting,—all served to show that the merchant prince slept in a "place of state." Every detail of that richly-furnished apartment, said "Gold!" as plainly as though a voice was speaking it all the while.
His lean form, attired in every-day apparel, was stretched upon the bed, and through the aperture in the curtains, the lamp-light fell upon one side of his face. He appeared to be sleeping. His arms lay listlessly by his side, and his head was thrown back upon the pillow. His breathing was audible in the most distant corner of the chamber.
"Gulian," said Tarleton, who seemed to recover his usual strength and spirit, as soon as he entered the room, "Where are you, my dear?"
The slight form of the private secretary advanced from among the curtains at the foot of the bed. His face, almost feminine in its expression, appeared in the light, with tears glistening on the cheeks. It was a beautiful face, illumined by large, clear eyes, and framed in the wavy hair, which flowed in rich masses to his shoulders. At sight of the elegant Colonel, the blue eyes of the boy shone with a look of terror. He started back, folding his hands over the frock coat, which enveloped his boyish shape.
"Ah, my God,—you here!" was his exclamation, "when will you cease to persecute me?"
The Colonel smiled, patted his elegant whiskers, and drawing nearer to the boy, who seemed tocringeaway from his touch, he said in his blandest tone,—
"Persecute you! Well, that is clever!—Talk of gratitude again in this world! I took you when you were a miserable foundling, a wretched little baby, without father, mother, or name. I placed you in the quiet of a country town, where you received an elegant education. I gave you a name,—a fancy name, I admit—the name which you now wear—and when I visited you, once or twice a year, you called me by the name of father. How I gained money to support you these nineteen or twenty years, and to adorn that fine intellect of yours, with a finished education,—why, you don't know, and I scarcely can tell, myself. But after these years of protection and support, I appeared at your home in the country, and asked a simple favor at your hands. Ay, child, the man you delighted to call father asked in return for all that he had done for you, a favor—only one favor—and that of the simplest character. Where was your gratitude? You refused me; you fled from your home in the country, and I lost sight of you until to-night, when I find my lost lamb, in the employment of the rich merchant. His private secretary, forsooth!"
"Hush," exclaimed Gulian, with a deprecatory gesture, "You will wake Mr. Somers. He has had one convulsion already, and it may prove fatal. I have sent for a doctor,—oh, why does he not come?"
"You shall not avoid me in that way, my young friend," said Tarleton. He laid his hand on the arm of the boy, and bent his face so near to him that the latter felt the Colonel's breath upon his forehead. "The money which I bestowed upon your education, I obtained by what the world callsfelony. For you—for you—" his voice sunk to a deeper tone, and his eyes flashed with anger; "for you I spent some years in that delightful retreat, which is known to vulgar ears by the word,—Penitentiary!"
"God help me," cried the boy, affrighted by the expression which stamped the Colonel's face.
"Penitentiaryorjail, call it what you will, I spent some years there for your sake. And do you wish to evade me now when, I tell you that I reared you but for one object, and that object dearer to me than life? You ran away from my guardianship; you attempt to conceal yourself from me; you attempt to foil the hope for which I have suffered the tortures of the damned these twenty years? Come, my boy, you'll think better of it."
The smile of the Colonel was altogether fiendish. The boy sank on his knees, and raised to the Colonel's gaze that beautiful face stamped with terror, and bathed in tears.
"Oh, pardon me—forgive me!" he cried, "Do not kill me—"
"Kill you! Pshaw!"
"Let me live an obscure life, away from your observation; let me be humble, poor and unknown; as you value the hope of salvation, do not—I beseech you on my knees—do not ask me to comply with your request!"
"If you don't get up, I may be tempted to strike you," was the brutal remark of the Colonel. "Pitiful wretch! Hark ye," he bent his head,—"the robber who this night murdered Evelyn Somers, gained admittance to this house by means of a night-key. He had anaccomplicein the house, who supplied him with the key. That accomplice, (let us suppose a case) was yourself—"
"Me!" cried the boy, in utter horror.
"I canobtainevidence of the fact," continued the Colonel, and paused. "You had better think twice before you enter the lists with me and attempt to thwart my will."
The boy, thus kneeling, did not reply, but buried his face in his hands, and his flowing hair hid those hands with its luxurious waves. He shook in every nerve with agony. He sobbed aloud.
"Will you be quiet?" the Colonel seized him roughly by the shoulder, "or shall I throttle you?"
"Yes, kill me,fiend, kill me, oh! kill me with one blow:" the boy raised his face, and pronounced these words, his eyes flashing with hatred, as he uttered the word "fiend." There was something startling in the look of mortal hatred which had so suddenly fixed itself upon that beautiful face. Even the Colonel was startled.
"Nay, nay, my child," he said in a soothing tone, "get up, get up, that's a dear child—I meant no harm—"
At this moment the conversation was interrupted by a hollow voice.
"You must pay, sir. That's my way.—You must pay or you must go."
The business-like nature, the every-day character of these words, was in painful contrast with the hollow accent which accompanied their utterance. At the sound the boy sprang to his feet, and the Colonel started as though a pistol had exploded at his ear.
The merchant prince had risen into a sitting posture. His thin features, low, broad forehead, wide mouth, with thin lips and pointed chin, were thrown strongly into view by the white cravat which encircled his throat. Those features were bathed in moisture. The small eyes, at other times half concealed by heavy lids, were now expanded in a singular stare,—a stare which made the blood of the Colonel grow cold in his veins.
"God bless us! What's the matter with you, good Mr. Somers?" he ejaculated.
But the rich man did not heed him.
"I wouldn't give a snap for your Reading Railroad—bad stock—bad stock—it must burst. Itwillburst, I say. Pay, pay, pay, or go! That's the only way to do business. D'ye suppose I'm an ass? The notecan'tlie over. If you don't meet it, it shall be protested."
As he uttered these incoherent words, his expanding eyes still fixed, he inserted his tremulous hand in his waist-coat pocket, and took from thence agolden eagle, which he brought near his eyes, gazing at it long and eagerly.
"He's delirious," ejaculated Tarleton, "why don't you go for a doctor?"
"Oh, what shall I do?" cried Gulian, rushing to the door, "why doesn't the doctor come?—"
But at the door he was confronted by the buxom housekeeper, who whispered, "Our doctor is out of town, but one of the servants has found another one: he's writing down-stairs."
"Quick! Quick! Bring him at once;" and Gulian, in his flight, pushed the housekeeper out of the room.
Mr. Somers still remained in a sitting posture, his eye fixed upon the golden eagle.
"Tell Jenks to foreclose," he muttered, "I've nothing to do with the man's wife and children. It isn't in the way of business. The mortgage isn't paid, and we must sell—sell—sell,—sell," he repeated until his voice died away in a murmur.
The doctor entered the room. "Where is our patient?" he said, as he advanced to the bedside. He was a man somewhat advanced in years, with bent figure and stooping shoulders. He was clad in an old-fashioned surtout, with nine or ten heavy capes hanging about his shoulders; and, as if to protect him from the cold, a bright-red kerchief was tied about his neck and the lower part of his face. He wore a black fur hat, with an ample brim, which effectually shaded his features.
The Colonel started at the sight of this singular figure. "Our friend of the blue capes, as I'm alive!" he muttered half aloud.
The doctor advanced to the bedside.—"You will excuse me for retaining my hat and this kerchief about my neck," he said in his mild voice, "I am suffering from a severe cold." He then directed his attention to the sick man, while Gulian and Tarleton watched his movements, with evident interest.
The doctor did not touch the merchant; he stood by the bedside, gazing upon him silently.
"What's the matter with our friend?" whispered Tarleton.
The doctor did not answer. He remained motionless by the bedside, surveying the quivering features and fixed eyes of the afflicted man.
"This person," exclaimed the doctor, after a long pause, "is not suffering from a physical complaint. His mind is afflicted. From the talk of the servants in the hall, I learned that he has this night lost his only son, by the hands of a murderer. The shock has been too great for him. My young friend," he addressed Gulian, who stood at his back, "it were as well to send for a clergyman."
Gulian hurried to the door, and whispered to the housekeeper. Returning to the bedside, he found the doctor seated in a chair, with a watch in his hand, in full view of the delirious man. The Colonel, grasping the bed-curtain, stood behind him, in an attitude of profound thought, yet with a faint smile upon his lips.
As for the merchant prince, seated bolt upright in the bed, he clutched the golden eagle, (which seemed to havemagnetizedhis gaze), and babbled in his delirium—
"Youan heir of Trinity Church?" he said, with a mocking smile upon his thin lips, "youone of the descendants of Anreke Jans Bogardus? Pooh! Pooh! The Church is firm,—firm. She defies you. Aaron Burr tried that game, he! he! and found it best to quit,—to quit—to quit. What Trinity Church has got, she will hold,—hold—hold. She buys,—she sells—she sells—she buys—a great business man is Trinity Church! And with your two hundred beggarly heirs of Anreke Jans Bogardus, you will go to law about her title. Pooh!"
"He is going fast," whispered the Doctor, "his mind is killing him. Where are his relatives?"
His relatives! Sad, sad word! His wife had been dead many years, and her relatives were at a distance; perchance in a foreign land. Hisnearestrelative was a corpse, up-stairs, with a pistol wound through his heart.
Evelyn Somers, Sen., was one of the richest men in New York, and yet there was not a single relative to stand by his dying-bed. The death-sweat on his fevered brow, the whiteness of death on his quivering lips, the fire of the grave in his expanding eyes, Evelyn Somers, the merchant prince, had neither wife nor child nor relative to stand by him in his last hour. The poor boy who wept by the bed-side was, perchance, his only friend.
"Cornelius Berman, the artist, (who died, I believe, some years ago,) was his only relative in New York: his only son out of view." This was the answer of Colonel Tarleton, to the question of the Doctor.
And the dying man, still sitting bolt upright, one hand on his knee, and the other grasping the golden coin, still babbled in his delirium in the hollow tone of death. He talked of everything. He bought and sold, received rent and distressed tenants, paid notes and protested them, made imaginary sums by the sale of stocks, and achieved imaginary triumphs by the purchase of profitable tracts of land,—it was a frightful scene.
The Doctor shuddered, and as he looked at his watch, muttered a word of prayer.
The Colonel turned his face away, but was forced by an involuntary impulse, to turn again and gaze upon that livid countenance.
The boy Gulian—in the shadows of the room—sunk on his knees and uttered a prayer, broken by sobs.
At length the dying man seemed to recover a portion of his consciousness. Turning his gaze from the golden coin which he still clutched in his fingers, he said in a voice which, in some measure, resembled his every-day tone,—
"Send for a minister, a minister, quick! I am very weak."
The words had scarcely passed his lips, when a soft voice exclaimed, "I am here, my dear friend Somers, I trust that this is not serious. A sad, sad affliction, you have encountered to-night. But you must cheer up, you must, indeed."
The minister had entered the room unperceived, and now stood by the bed-side.
"Herman Barnhurst!" ejaculated Colonel Tarleton.
The tall, slender figure of the clergyman, dressed in deep black, was disclosed to the gaze of the dying man, who gazed intently at hisblondeface, effeminate in its excessive fairness, and then exclaimed, reaching his hand,—
"Come, I am going. I want you to show me the way!"
"Really, my dear friend," began Barnhurst, passing his hand over his hair, which, straight and brown and of silken softness, fell smoothly behind his ears, "you must bear up. This is not so serious as you imagine."
"I tell you I am going. I have often heard you preach,—once or twice in Trinity—I rather liked you—and now I want you to show me the way! Do you see there?" he extended his trembling hand, "there's the way I'm going. It's all dark. You're a minister of my church too; I want you toshow me the way?"
There was a terrible emphasis in the accent,—a terrible entreaty in the look of the dying man.
The Rev. Herman Barnhurst sank back in a chair, much affected.
"Has he made his will?" he whispered to the Doctor, "so much property and no heirs: he could do so much good with it. Had not you better send for a lawyer?"
The Doctor regarded, for a moment, the fair complexion, curved nose, warm, full lips, and rounded chin of the young minister; and then answered, in a low voice,
"You are a minister. It is your duty not altogether to preach eloquent sermons, and show a pair of delicate hands from the summit of a marble pulpit. It is your duty to administer comfort by the dying-bed, where humbug is stripped of its mark, and death is 'the only reality'. Do your duty, sir. Save this man's soul."
"Yes, save my soul," cried Somers, who heard the last words of the Doctor, "I don't want the offices of the church; I don't want prayers. I want comfort, comfort;now." He paused, and then reaching forth his hand, said in a low voice, half broken by a burst of horrible laughter, "There's the way I've got to travel. Now tell me, minister, do you really believe that there is anything there? When we die, we die, don't we? Sleep and rot, rot and sleep, don't we?"
Herman, who was an Atheist at heart, though he had never confessed the truth even to himself—Herman, who was a minister for the sake of a large salary, fine carriage, and splendid house—Herman, who was, in fact, an intellectual voluptuary, devoting life and soul to the gratification of one appetite, which had, with him, become a monomania—Herman, now, for the first moment in his life, was conscious of a somethingbeyondthe grave; conscious that this religion of Christ, the Master, which he used as a trade, was something more than a trade; was a fact, a reality, at once a hope and a judgment.
And the Rev. Herman Barnhurst felt one throe of remorse, and shuddered. Vailing his fair face in his delicate hands, he gave himself up to one moment of terrible reflection.
"He is failing fast," whispered the Doctor; "you had better say a word of hope to him."
"Yes, the camel is going through the eye of the needle," cried Somers, with a burst of shrill laughter. "Minister, did you ever see a camel go through the eye of a needle? Oh! you fellows preach such soft and velvety sermons to us,—but you never say a word about the camel—never a word about the camel. You see us buy and sell,—you see us hard landlords, careful business men,—you see us making money day after day, and year after year, at the cost of human life and human blood,—and you never say a word about the camel. Never! never! Why wekeepsuch fellows as you, for our use: for every thousand that we make intrade, we give you a good discount, in the way of salary, and so as we go along, we keep adebitandcreditaccount with what you call Providence. Now rub out my sins, will you? I've paid you for it, I believe!"
"Poor friend! He is delirious!" ejaculated Herman Barnhurst.
The boy Gulian, (unperceived by the doctor,) brought a golden-clasped Bible, and laid it on the minister's knees. Then looking with a shudder at the livid face of the merchant prince, he shrank back into the shadows, first whispering to the minister—"Read to him from this book."
Somers, with his glassy eye, caught a glimpse of the book, as in its splendid binding, it rested on the minister's knees—
"Pooh! pooh! you needn't read. Because ifthatbook is true, why then I've made a badinvestmentof my life. I never deceived myself. I always looked upon this thing you call religion as a branch of trade—a cloak—a trap. But now I want you to tell me one thing, (and I've paid enough money to have a decent answer): Do you really believe that there isanythingafter this life? Speak, minister! Don't we go to sleep and rot,—and isn't that all?"
Herman did not answer.
But the voice of the boy Gulian, who was kneeling in the shadows of the death-chamber, broke through the stillness—
"There is something beyond the grave. There is a God! There is a heaven and a hell. There is a hope for the repentant, and there is a judgment for the impenitent." There was something almost supernatural in the tones of the boy's voice, breaking so slowly and distinctly upon the profound stillness.
The spectators started at the sound; and as for the dying man, he picked at his clothing and at the coverlet with his long fingers, now chilling fast with the cold of death—and muttered incoherent sounds, without sense or meaning of any kind.
"His face has a horrible look!" ejaculated the Colonel; who was half hidden among the curtains of the bed.
"He is going fast," said the Doctor, looking at his watch. "In five minutes all will be over,—"
"And you said, I believe, that he had not made his will?"
It was Herman who spoke. The sensation of remorse had been succeeded by his accustomed tone of feeling. His face was impressed with the profound selfishness which impelled his words. "He had better make his will. Without heirs, he can leave his fortune to the church,—"
"For shame! for shame!" cried the Doctor.
"A little too greedy, my good friend," the Colonel, at his back, remarked. "Allow me to remark, that your conduct manifests too much of the Levite, and too little of the gentleman."
Herman bit his lip, and was silent
After this, there was no word spoken for a long time.
The spectators watched in silence the struggles of the dying man.
How he died!—I shudder but to write it; and would not write it, were I not convinced thatatheism in the churchis the grand cause of one half of the crimes and evils that afflict the world.
The death-bed of theatheistchurch-member, with theatheistminister sitting by the bed, was a horrible scene.
I see that picture, now:—
A vast room, furnished with all the incidents of wealth, lofty ceiling, walls adorned with pictures, and carpet that was woven in human blood. A single lamp on the table near the bed, breaks the gloom. The curtains of that bed are of satin, the pillow is of down, the coverlet is spotless as the snow; and there a long slender frame, and a face with the seal of sixty years of life upon it, attract the gaze of silent spectators.
The doctor—his face shaded by the wide rim of his hat, sits by the bed, watch in hand.
Behind him appears the handsome face of Colonel Tarleton—the man of the world, whose form is shrouded in the curtains.
A little apart, kneels the boy, Gulian, whose beautiful face is stamped with awe and bathed in tears.
And near the head of the bed, seated on a chair, which touches the pillow upon which rests the head of the dying—behold the tall form and aquiline face of the minister, who listens to the moans of death, and subdues his conscience into an expression of calm serenity.
The dying man is seized with a spasm, which throws his limbs into horrible contortions. He writhes, and struggles, with hands and feet, as though wrestling with a murderer: he utters horrible cries. At length, raising himself in a sitting posture, he projects his livid face into the light; he reaches forth his arm, and grasps the minister by the wrist,—the minister utters an involuntary cry of pain,—for that grasp is like the pressure of an iron vice.
"Not a word about the camel,—hey, minister?"
That was the last word of Evelyn Somers, Sen., the merchant prince.
There, projecting from the bed-curtains his livid face,—there, with features distorted and eyes rolling, the last glance upon the evidences of wealth, which filled the chamber,—there, even as he clasped the minister by the wrist, he gasped his last breath, and was a dead man.
It was with an effort that Herman Barnhurst disengaged his wrist from the gripe of the dead man's hand. As he tore the hand away, a golden eagle fell from it, and sparkled in the light, as it fell. The rich man couldn't take it with him, to the place where he was going,—not even one piece of gold.
The Rev. Herman Barnhurst rose and left the room without once looking back.
The doctor, also, rose and straightened the dead man's limbs, and closed his eyes. This done, he drew his broad-brimmed hat over his brow, and left the room without a word—yes, he spoke four words, as he left the place: "One out of seven!" he said.
The Colonel emerged from the curtains; he was ashy pale, and he tottered as he walked. This time his agitation was not a sham. Once he looked back upon the dead man's face, and then directed his steps to the door.
"Remember, Gulian," he whispered as he passed the kneeling boy: "to-morrow I will see you."
Gulian, still on his knees in the center of the apartment, prayed God to be merciful to the dead,—to the dead son, whose corpse lay in the room above, and to the dead father, whose body was stretched before his eyes.
Tarleton paused for a moment on the threshold, with his hand upon the knob of the door—
"If Cornelius Berman were alive, he would inherit this immense estate!" muttered the Colonel. "As it is, here is a palace with two dead bodies in it, and no heir to inherit the wealth of the corpse which only half an hour ago was the owner of half a million dollars. But it is no time to meditate. There's work for me atthe Temple."
Turning from that stately mansion, in which father and son lay dead, we will follow the steps of Rev. Herman Barnhurst.
As theRev. Herman Barnhurstpassed from the hall-door of the palace of the merchant prince, and descended the marble steps, his thoughts were by no means of a pleasant character. The image of Alice, for the moment forgotten, the thoughts of Herman were occupied with the scene which he had just witnessed,—the hopeless death-bed of the merchant prince.
"The fool!" muttered Herman, drawing his cloak around him, and pulling his hat over his brows, "The miserable fool! To die without making a will, when he has no heirs and the church has done so much for him. Why (in his own phrase) it has beencapitalto him, in the way of reputation; he has grown rich by that reputation; and now he dies, leaving the church and her ministers,—not a single copper, not a single copper."
It was too early for Herman to return to his home,—so he thought,—therefore, he directed his steps toward Broadway, resolving, in spite of the late hour of the night, to pay a visit to one of his most intimate friends.
But, as he left the palace of the merchant prince, amanwrapped also in a cloak, and with a cap over his eyes, rose from the shadows behind the marble steps, and walked with an almost noiseless pace in the footsteps of the young clergyman.
This man had seen Herman enter the house of the merchant prince. Standing himself in the darkness behind the steps, he had waited patiently until Herman again appeared. In fact, he had followed the steps of the clergyman for at least three hours previous to the moment when he came to the residence of Evelyn Somers, Sr.; followed him from street to street, from house to house, walking fast or slow, as Herman quickened or moderated his pace; stopping when Herman stopped; and thus, for three long hours, he had dogged the steps of the clergyman with a patience and perseverance, that must certainly have been the result of some powerful motive.
And now, as the Rev. Herman Barnhurst left the house where the merchant prince lay dead, themanin cap and cloak, quietly resumed his march, like a veteran at the tap of the drum.
At the moment when Herman reached a dark point of the street near Broadway, themanstole noiselessly to his side and tapped him on the shoulder.
Herman turned with an ejaculation,—half fear, half wonder. The street was dark and deserted; the lights of Broadway shone two hundred yards ahead. Herman, at a glance, saw that himself and themanwere the only persons visible.
"It's a thief," he thought,—and then, said aloud, in his sweetest voice: "What do you want, my friend?"
"The twenty-fifth of December is near," said theman, in a slow and significant voice: "I have important information to communicate to you, in relation to theVan Huyden estate."
Herman was, of course, interested in the great estate, as one of theseven; but he had a deeper interest in it, than the reader,—at present, can imagine. The words of theman, therefore, agitated him deeply.
"Who are you?" he asked.
"That I will tell you, when you have taken me to a place, where we can converse freely together."
Herman hesitated.
"Well, as you will," said theman—"It concerns you as much as it does me. You are afraid to grant me an interview. Good night—"
Thus speaking, he carelessly turned away.
Now Herman was afraid of theman, but there were other Men of whom he was more afraid. So balancing one fear against another, he came to this conclusion, that themanmight communicate something, which would save him from theother Men, and so he called the stranger back.
"Why this concealment?" he asked.
"You will confess, after we have talked together, that I have good reasons for this concealment," was the answer of theman.
"Come, then, with me," said Herman, "I will not take you to my own rooms, but I will take you to the rooms of a friend. He is out of town and we can converse at our ease."
He led the way toward the room of the Rev. Dr. Bulgin, whom the profane sometimes called Bulgine, which, as the learned know, is good Ethiopian for Steam Engine. This seemed to imply that the Rev. Dr. was a perfect Locomotive in his way.
"My friend Bulgin," said Herman, as they arrived in front of a massive four story building, on a cross street, not more than a quarter of a mile from the head of Broadway, "occupies the entire upper floor of this house, as a study. There he secludes himself while engaged in the composition of his more elaborate works. He has a body servant and a maid servant to wait upon him; and a parlor down stairs, for the reception of his visitors; but he has no communication with the other part of the house. In fact, he never sees the occupants of the boarding-house beneath his study. He rents his rooms of the lady who keeps the boarding-house,—Mrs. Smelgin,—who supplies his meals. Thus, he has the upper part of the house all to himself; and as I have a key to his rooms, we can go up there and talk at our ease."
"But, is not Dr. Bulgin married?" asked theman.
"He is. But his lady, on account of her health (she cannot bear the noise of the city), is forced to reside in the country with her father."
"Ah!" said the man.
Herman opened the front door with a night key, and led the way along a hall and up three ranges of stairs, until he came to a door. This door he opened with another key, and followed by theman, he entered Dr. Bulgin's study. He then locked the door, and they found themselves enveloped in Egyptian darkness.
"This may be Dr. Bulgin's study, but it strikes me, a little light would not do it much harm."
"Wait a moment," said Barnhurst,—"I'll light the lamp." And presently, by the aid of matches, he lighted a lamp which stood on a table of variegated marble. A globular shade of an exquisite pattern tempered the rays of the lamp, and filled the place with a light that was eminently soft and luxurious.
"Be seated," said Barnhurst, but thestrangerremained standing, with his cloak wound about him and his cap drawn over his brows. He was evidently examining the details of the study with an attentive,—may be—an astonished gaze.
Dr. Bulgin's study was worthy of examination.
It was composed of the upper floor of Mrs. Smelgin's boarding-house, and was, therefore, a vast room, its depth and breadth corresponding to the depth and breadth of the house.
It was, at least, thirty yards in length and twenty in breadth, and the ceiling was of corresponding height. Four huge windows faced the east, and four the west.
Thus, vast and roomy, the apartment was furnished in a style which might well excite the attentive gaze of the stranger.
In the center of the southern wall, stood the bookcase, an elegant fabric of rosewood, surmounted by richly-carved work, and crowned with an alabaster bust of Leo the Tenth; the voluptuous Pope who drank his wine, while poor Martin Luther was overturning the world.
The shelves of this bookcase were stored with the choicest books of five languages; some glittering in splendid binding, and others looking ancient and venerable in their faded covers. There were the most recondite works in English, French, German, Spanish; and there were also the most popular works in as many languages. Theology, metaphysics, mathematics, geometry, poetry, the drama, history, fact, fiction,—all were there, and of all manner of shapes, styles and ages. It was a very Noah's Ark of literature, into which seemed to have been admittedonespecimen, at least, of every book in the universe.
On the right of the bookcase was a sofa that made you sleepy just to look at it; it was so roomy, and its red-velvet cushioning looked so soft and tempting. This sofa was framed in rosewood, with little rosewood cupids wreathed around its legs.
And on the left of the bookcase was another sofa of a richer style, and of a more sleep-impelling exterior.
Above each sofa hung a picture, concealed by a thick curtain.
Along the northern wall of the study were disposed a sofa as magnificent as the others, and a series of marble pedestals and red-velvet arm-chairs. Every pedestal was crowned by an alabaster vase or statue of white marble. There were Eve, Apollo, Canova's Venus, and the Three Graces,—all exquisite originals or exquisite copies, in snowy marble.
The arm-chairs were arm-chairs indeed. Red-velvet cushions and high backs and great broad arms; they were the idea of a happy brain, impregnated with belief in Sancho's "Blessed be the man that invented sleep."
And this northern wall was hung with pictures in massive frames, richly gilt; the frames were exposed, but the pictures were vailed.
In the intervals between the western windows were pedestals crowned with vases, and mosaic tables loaded with objects ofvirtu: exquisite trifles of all sorts, gleaned from the Old World.
And in the intervals between the eastern windows were recesses, covered with hangings of pale crimson. What is concealed in those recesses, doth not yet appear. Both eastern and western windows were curtained with folds of intermingled white and damask, floating luxuriantly from the ceiling to the floor.
The floor was covered with an Axminster carpet of the richest dyes.
Gilt mouldings ran around the ceiling, and in the center thereof, was a cupid, encircled by a huge wreath of roses, and reposing on a day-break cloud.
The table, of variegated marble, which stood in the center of the study, was surrounded by three arm-chairs of the same style as those which lined the wall. It was circular in form, and upon it, appeared an elegant alabaster inkstand, gold pens with pearl handles, gilt-edged paper touched with perfume, a few choice books, and an exquisite "Venus in the Shell," done in alabaster. One of these books was a modern edition of the Golden Ass of Apuleius; and the other was a choice translation of Rabelais.
Altogether, the Rev. Dr. Bulgin's room was one of those rooms worthy of a place in history; and which, may be, could tell strange histories, were its chairs and tables gifted with the power of speech.
"And this is the study of the Rev. Dr. Bulgin!" ejaculated theman.
"It is," replied Herman, flinging himself into an arm-chair; "here he composes his most elaborate theological works."
"Why is his library crowned with that bust of Leo the Tenth, the Atheist and Sensualist?"
"He is writing a work on the age of Luther," replied Herman.
"Oh!" responded theman.
"And this!" themandrew the vail and bore one of the pictures to the light: "and this! what does it mean?"
"You are inquisitive, sir," replied Herman, somewhat confounded by the sudden disclosure of this singular picture, "why, in fact, Dr. Bulgin is writing a tractagainstimmoral pictures."
"A-h!" responded theman, and picked from the table the Golden Ass of Apuleius, illustrated with plates, "what does this do here? Are these plates to be understood in a theological sense?"
"Dr. Bulgin is getting up a treatise upon the subject of immoral literature. He has that book as an example."
"And when he writes a treatise on the infernal regions, he'd send there for a piece of the brimstone as an example?"
"You are profane," said Herman, tartly; "let me hope that you will proceed to business."
Themanplaced his cloak on a chair, and his cap on the table. Then seating himself opposite the minister, he gazed steadily in his face. Herman grew red in the face, and felt as though he had suddenly been plunged into an oven.
"Your name is,—is,"—he hesitated.
"Don'tyouknow me?" said theman.
"I,—I,—why,—I,—let me see."
Herman shaded his eyes with his hand, and steadily perused the face of thestranger, as though, in the effort, to recognize him.
He was a young man of a muscular frame, clad in a single-breasted blue coat, which was buttoned over a broad chest. He was of the medium height. His forehead was broad; his eyes clear gray; his lips wide and firm; his nose inclining to the aquiline; his chin round and solid. The general expression of his features was that of straightforwardness and energy of character. There was the freshness and the warmth of youth upon his face, and his forehead was stamped with the ideality of genius. As he wore his brown hair in short, thick curls, it marked the outline of his head, and threw his forehead distinctly into view.
"You are,—you are,—where did I see you?" hesitated Herman.
"I am Arthur Dermoyne," was the reply, in an even, but emphatic voice.
Then there was an embarrassing pause.
"Where have I met you?" said Herman, as if in the painful effort to recollect.
"At the house of Mr. Burney, in the city of Philadelphia," was the answer.
"Ah! now I remember!" ejaculated Herman; "Poor, poor Mr. Burney! You have heard of the sad accident which took place last night, ah—ah—?"
Herman buried his face in his hands, and seemed profoundly affected.
"I saw his mangled body at the house half way between New York and Philadelphia, only a few hours ago," the young man's voice was cold and stern, "and now I am in New York, endeavoring to find the scoundrel who abducted his only daughter."
Herman looked at cupid in the ceiling and pretended to brush a hair from his nose—
"Ah, I remember, poor Mr. Burney told me last night, that his child had been abducted. Yes,—" Herman looked at the hair, and held it between his eyes and the light, "he told me about it just before the accident occurred. Poor girl! Poor girl! Oh, by-the-bye," turning suddenly in his arm-chair, but without looking into the face of Dermoyne, "you take an interest in the Burney family. Are you a relative?"
"I have visited the house of Mr. Burney, from time to time, and have seen Alice, his only daughter. You may think me romantic, but to see that girl, so pure, so innocent, so beautiful, was to love her. I will confess that had it not been for a disparity of fortune, and a difference in regard to religious views, between her father and myself, I would have been most happy to have made her my wife."
The tone of the young man was somewhat agitated; he was endeavoring to suppress his emotions.
"Courage! He does notknow," muttered Herman to himself, and then assuming a calm look, he continued, aloud: "And she would have made you a noble wife. By-the-bye, you spoke of your profession. A merchant, I suppose?"
"No, sir."
"A lawyer?"
"No, sir."
"A medical gentleman?"
"No, sir."
"You are then—"
"A shoemaker."
"Awhat," ejaculated Herman, jumping from his chair.
"A shoemaker," repeated Arthur Dermoyne. "I gain my bread by the work of my hands, and by the hardest of all kinds of work. I am not only a mechanic, but a shoemaker."
Herman could not repress a burst of laughter.
"Excuse me, but, ha, ha, ha! You are a shoemaker? And you visited the house of the wealthy Burney, and aspired to his daughter's hand? You will excuse me, ha, ha, ha!—but it is so very odd."
Dermoyne's forehead grew dark.
"Yes, I am a shoemaker. I earn my bread by the work of my hands. But before you despise me, you will hear why I am a shoemaker. As an orphaned child, without father or mother, there was no other career before me, than the pauperism of the outcast or the slavery of an apprentice. I chose the latter. The overseers of the poor bound me out to a trade. I grew up without hope, education, or home. In the day-time I worked at an occupation which is work without exercise, and which continued ten years, at ten hours a day, will destroy the constitution of the strongest man. From this hopeless apprenticeship, I passed into the life of a journeyman, and knew what it was to battle with the world for myself. How I worked, starved and worked, matters not, for we folks are born for that kind of thing. But as I sat upon my work-bench, listening to a book which was read by one of my own brother workmen, I became aware that I was not only poor, but ignorant; that my body was not only enslaved, but also my soul.—Therefore, I taught myself to read; to write; and for three years I have devoted five hours of every night to study."
"And are still a shoemaker?" Herman's smooth face was full of quiet scorn and laughter.
"I am still a shoemaker—a workman at the bench—because I cannot, inconscience, enter one of the professions called learned.—I cannot separate myself from that nine-tenths of the human family, who seem to have been only born to work and die—die in mind, as well as body—in order to supply theidletenth with superfluities. Oh! sir, you, who are so learned and eloquent, could you but read the thoughts which enter the heart of the poor shoemaker, who, sitting at his work-bench, in a cramped position, is forced sometimes to reflect upon his fate!—He beholds the lawyer, with a conscience distinct from that given to him by God; a conscience that makes him believe that it is right to grow rich by the tricks and frauds of law. He beholds the doctor, also with the conscience of his class, sending human beings to death by system, and filling graveyards by the exact rule of the schools. He beholds the minister, too often also with but theconscienceof a class, preaching the thoughts of those who do not work, and failing to give utterance to the agonies of those who do work—who do all the labor, and suffer all the misery in the world. And these classes are respected; honored. They are the true noblemen! Their respectability is shared by the merchant, who grows rich by distributing the products of labor. But as for the shoemaker—nay, the workman, of whatever trade—whose labor produces all the physicalwealth of the world—who works all life long, and only rests when his head is in the cold grave,—what of him? He is a serf, a slave, a Pariah. On the stage no joke is so piquant as the one which is leveled at the 'tailor,' or the 'cobbler;' in literature, the attempt of an unknown to elevate himself, is matter for a brutal laugh; and even grave men like you, when addressed by a man who, like myself, confesses that he is a—shoemaker! you burst into laughter, as though the master you profess to serve, was not himself, one day, a workman at the carpenter's bench."
"These words are of the French school." Herman gave the word "French" a withering accent.
"Did the French school produce the New Testament?"
Herman did not answer, but fixed his glance upon cupid in the ceiling.
"But you are educated—why not devote yourself to one of the professions?" and Herman turned his eyes from cupid in the ceiling, to Venus in the Shell.
Dermoyne's face gleamed with a calm seriousness, a deep enthusiasm, which imparted a new life to every lineament.
"Because I do not wish to separate myself from the largest portion of humanity. No, no,—had I the intellect of a Shakspeare, or the religion of a St. Paul, I would not wish to separate myself from the greater portion of God's family—those who are born, who work, who die. No, no! I am waiting—I am waiting!"
"Waiting?" echoed Herman.
"Maybe the day will come, when, gifted with wealth, I can enter the workshops of Philadelphia, and say to the workmen, 'Come, brothers. Here iscapital. Let us go to the west. Let us find a spot of God's earth unpolluted by white or black slavery. Let us build a community where every man shall work with his hands, and where every man will also have the opportunity to cultivate his mind—to work with his brain.—There every one will have a place to work, and every one will receive the fruits of his work. And there,—oh, my God!—there will we, without priest, or monopolist, or slaveholder, establish in the midst of a band of brothers, the worship of that Christ who was himself a workman, even as he is now, the workman's God.'"
Arthur Dermoyne had started from his chair; his hands were clasped; his gray eyes were filled with tears.
"French ideas—French ideas," cried Herman. "You have been reading French books, young man!"
Arthur looked at the clergyman, and said quietly:
"These ideas were held by the German race who settled in Pennsylvania, in the time of William Penn. Driven, from Germany by the hands of Protestant priests, they brought with them to the New World, the 'French ideas' of the New Testament."
"The Germans who settled Pennsylvania—a stupid race," observed Herman, in calm derision; "Look at some of their descendants."
"The Germans of the present day—or, to speak more distinctly,—the Pennsylvania Germans, descendants of the old stock, who came over about the time of Penn, are aconqueredrace!—"
"Aconqueredrace?" echoed Herman.
"Conqueredby the English language," continued Dermoyne. "As a mass, they are not well instructed either in English or in German, and therefore have no chance to develop, to its fullest extent, the stamina of their race. They know but little of the real history of their ancestors, who first brought to Pennsylvania the great truth, that God is not a God of hatred, pleased with blood, but a God of love, whose great law is theprogressof all his children,—that is, the entire family of man, bothhereandhereafter. And the Pennsylvanian Germans are the scoff and sneer of Yankee swindler and southern braggart; but the day will come, when the descendants of that race will rise to their destiny, and even as the farms of Pennsylvania now show theirphysicalprogress, so will the entire American continent bear witness to theirintellectualpower. They are of the race of Luther, of Goethe, and of Schiller,—hard to kill,—the men who can work, and the men whose work will make a people strong, a nation great and noble."
"You are of this race?" asked Herman, pulling his cloak gently with his delicate hand.
"My father, (I am told, for he died when I was a child,) was a wealthy farmer, whose wealth was swallowed up by an unjust lawsuit and a fraudulent bank. My grandfather was a wheelwright; my great-grandfather a cobbler; my great-great-grandfather a carpenter; and his father, was a tiller of the field. So you see, I amnoblydescended," and a smile crossed the lips of Dermoyne. "Not a single idler or vagabond in our family,—all workers, like their Savior,—all men who eat the bread of honest labor. Ah! I forgot;" he passed his hand over his forehead—"there was a count in our family. This, I confess, is a blot upon us; but when you remember that he forsook his countship in Germany, to become a tiller of the fields in Pennsylvania—about the year 1680—you will look over the fault of his title."
Herman burst into a fit of pleasant laughter.
"You have odd ideas of nobility!" he ejaculated.
"Odd as the New Testament," said Dermoyne; "and as old. By-the-bye, this count in our family, was related to the Van Huyden family. (You, also, are one of the seven?—Yes, your name is among the others.) Ah! should the 25th of December give into my hands but a few thousand dollars, I will try and show the world how workmen, united for the common good, can live and work together."
"A few thousands!" laughed Herman, displaying himself at full length on the capacious chair; "why, in case the Seven receive the estate at all, they will divide among them some twenty, perhaps, forty millions of dollars!"
"Forty millions of dollars!" Dermoyne was thunderstruck. He folded his arms, and gazed upon vacancy with fixed eyes. "My God! what might not be done with forty millions!"—he paused and stretched forth his hand, as though a vision of the future dawned upon him.
"Did Mr. Burney—poor friend!—know that you were a—shoemaker?" Once more Herman shaded his eyes with his hand, and regarded the young man with a pleasant smile.
"He did not," answered Dermoyne. "I became acquainted with him,—it matters not how,—and visited his house, where, more than once, I have conversed with his daughter Alice. No, Mr. Burney did me wrong; for while I was a shoemaker, he persisted, (in ignorance of my character,) in thinking me—a gentleman! Agentleman—an idle vagabond, whose gentility is supported by the labor of honest men.—Faugh!"
"Well, I must confess," Herman said with a wave of the hand and a patronizing tone, "that from your manner, gestures, accent, et cetera, I have always taken you for an educated gentleman. But your principles are decidedly ungenteel,—allow me the remark."
Herman began to feel much more at ease. "He does not dream I have any share in the abduction of Alice!" This thought was comfort and repose to his mind.
But Arthur Dermoyne changed the tone of this pleasant dream by a single question: "Doyou,—" he fixed his eyes sternly upon the young minister: "Doyouknow anything of the retreat of Alice Burney?"
"Do I know anything of the retreat—of—Alice—Burney!" he echoed: "What a question to ask a man of my cloth!"
Dermoyne placed his hand within the breast of his coat, and drew forth ten gold pieces, which he held in the light, in the palm of his hand.