The forged will : or, Crime and retribution

Front matter

THE LIBRARY

OF

LOS ANGELES

Chapter I

v

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 inky 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 nickered 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 congratulate ourselves on being far better off than they, without taking into consideration that 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, that led from the vicinity of Five Points to a more open thoroughfare, which, crossing it at right angles, traversed 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 throroughfare 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, of splendid private residences. Here again he paused for a few seconds, and looked wistfully down its now deserted walks, as if he felt a secret hesitation in going further. Then, as if suddenly influenced 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 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 visitor ; 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 prevented by saying 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 the indignant scorn with which the negro greeted 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

12 THE FOKGED WILL.

I's \vid 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. Atherton 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 the matter was approaching a crisis, slowly departed on his errand, muttering as he went something about 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 short time the negro made his appearance, and, iigfc rather pompous tone, said:

" Misser Atherton 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 not go near him wid dat message," returned Jeff, "case dis child's head would be brokum."

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

" Best 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. Everything 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 centre-table, strewn with books and papers. 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. *.*Wjth their eyes bent sternly on each other, and a frown gathering on the brow 2 of each, for a short time the occupant and his unwelcome guest remained silent — a period \ve 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 had been 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, which smile was ofterf present to cover some hidden, devilish design. Take him all in all, Oliver Atherton 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 desig^ to point out here his virtues, his faults, or his characteristics. He must speak and act throughout our story in propria personse, and the reader can be his own judge in the end. With the additional

THE HYPOCRITE UXMASKED. 15

statement that in person he 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 benefitted one his senior by ten years. No one, not even the most casual observer, could 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 features were pale and haggard, as if from some corroding, inward struggle — a painful, constant labor of the mind, which bears the body onward to premature decay. Yet this appearance did not set ill upon him, but rather increased that look of lofty, noble intellectuality, which lighted his countenance, and shone in his dark, eloquent, hazel eye. His forehead was broad and massive, and though not remarkably high, was expressive of brilliant and vigorous thought. As he stood before the other, his eye fixed intently on him, there was a slight contraction of his handsome brows, and a compression of his thin, bloodless lips, expressive of a determination to push to the end the task he had imposed upon himself in thus coming into the presence of one, who, if not an absolute foe, could by no means be regarded as a tricnd. 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 didjhis elegant broadcloth, starched linen, and white, systematically-tied neckcloth, in the negligent, threadbare, faded garments of the other.

"Well, sir?" said Mr. Atherton, at length, throwing down his paper writh 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 hig

1G THE FORGED WILL.

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 run 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 run any such risk," pursued the young man, approaching the table, and even bending over it, as he added the sarcastic interrogation : "Doyow, Mr. Atherton?"

"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, «ir ? 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 poterrt charm, can command all mortal aid."

" And why herejBphy come 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 twofaced 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 dark, double-dealing villainy any further. You disowned her for a time, played the villain openly, and afterwards acted the still more villainous part of a hypocrite. You disowned vour sister because she had married 2 a poor man ; but when you found that, 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 with him, 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^nd went abroad on business. The vessel he sailed fH^nras lost, and all perished ; and when this news reachea you, then it was you showed your cloven foot ; then it was you threw off in part the n^ask, 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 parjwf^i was rightfully her own, she sold her effects and came hither, only to find herself and children beggars, and whonycGsowned by a miscreant brother."

The young man was still on the point of proceeding further, when the other, unable to endure more, sprung 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. Atherton — 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. Atherton. 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. Atherton, that so soon as it was ascertained my father was dead, you somehow mysteriously discovered a will, which made you principal heir to his possessions. Now, although this was found in due form, bearing his signature and that of several witnesses ;- and although in turning to the court register it was found entered the day previous to his setting sail for the continent, still, good Mr. Atherton, since I must speak the truth, I grieve* to say there were not wanting those hase 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. Atherfon, 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 further, than that I came here for money, and money I must have— or, make me, Mr. Atherton, 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

THE HYPOCRITE UNMASKED.

21* 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 -7-1 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 mfiment 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 ;" add 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 Atherton, as the form he 2*

THE FORGED WILL.

hated quitted his sight; "you thank me, do you, you little know for what. Well, Edgar Courtly, you triumph now in your own conceit ; hut my turn will come next ; and then — and then — " and shaking his head, with a dark smile, hut leaving the sentence unfinished, he resumed his seat at the tahle, and turned again to his paper, as though nothing had occurred to disturb his equanimity.

Chapter II. The House Of Death

IN a dingy, filthy street, known to those familiar with New York as Mott, there stood, among a great many others of the same class, an old, dilapidated, wooden structure, which, though it could scarcely bear the title of dwelling, was used as such, or rather as an abode, by a few miserable tenants, whose poverty precluded the possibility of their seeking one more pleasant and commodious. Since its erection, the street whereon it stood had been somewhat raised, which gave to the building the appearance of being sunk into the earth some two or three feet. Its windows could hardly boast a sound pane of glass — in some cases not any — and the door of entrance was broken from its hinges. There was no fear of thieves here, for the simple reason that there was nothing within worth the trouble of stealing ; and hence the tenants lived less in dread of their neighbors than of the elements, whose cold penetration, on such a night as we have described in the opening chapter, was any thing but agreeable. Between this building and a similar one on the left, ran a narrow, filthy alley, communicating with a miserable hovel in the rear, containing only two apartments, badly ventilated and poorly lighted. To this latter we must for the present direct our attention.

In the front apartment — or at least in that apartment nearest the street, for neither, strictly speaking, could be called front — on the night our story opens, there were two occupants — a mother and daughter — the former lying upon a rude bed, worn down almost to a skeleton, and in the agonies of a disease which was fast bearing her to a world that knows no sorrow ; and the latter kneeling by her side on the damp floor, clasping her thin hand, and weeping the bitterest tears a mortal can feel. The elder was a woman slightly turned of forty, but bearing the marks of sixty years — the third score being added by trouble rather than time. Although, as previously stated, sadly wasted by sorrow and disease, yet the outlines of her pale, sunken features, and a glance of her deep blue eye, which was scarcely shorn of its wonted luster, showed she had once been a very beautiful being — beautiful by reason of intellect as well as person. In sooth what is beauty of person without intellect, but the cold expressionless wax figure, or the equally inanimate doll?

The features and form of the daughter bore a strong resemblance to those of her mother in her palmiest days. Her skin was fine and clear, and her deep blue eyes beamed with a soft and tender light, showing a soul full of all the sweetest, purest and holiest feelings of humanity. Her hair was a light brown, and parted over a smooth, handsome forehead, which gave to her a noble and benevolent appearance. In fine, combine the whole features — which to define singly would almost be impossible, as the strong points for which the painter would seek were every where wanting — and you beheld one of those angelic • creatures that seemed formed to convey to us an accurate conception of beings too lovely to dwell in a place so cold and heartless, unless for a brief period, to soften, as it were, by the sunshine of their presence, the dark and cheerless aspect which must otherwise surround us. Her form not above medium, was airy and graceful as that of a sylph ; while her tiny feet and white delicate hands would

THE HOUSE OF DEATH.

have won favor from the most fastidious connoissieur. Add to this, that her age was just eighteen, and with a little imagination you can place her accurately before your mind's eye.

Lovely as she was in person, not less so was she in those virtues which most adorn her sex. There was nothing in her disposition of a cold, haughty, repulsive nature ; but, on the contrary, she was ardent, mild and affectionate, forgiving to a fault, and full of those sweet and holy sympathies which sometimes make us pause and wonder why earth is permitted to contain a being so illy suited to its jars and discords. But a little reflection will show us that this is a wise ordination of that Great Being who set the wheels of creation in motion — for what would our world be without occasionally such spirits to produce a harmony with the rough cords of life ? "Without such gentle spirits, what would earth be but pandemonium — a darkened sphere of gloom and sorrow, illumined by no ray of happiness?