CHAPTER I.

MARTIN FULMER APPEARS.

The time was very near. The cycle of twenty-one years was in its last hour. It was the last hour of December twenty-fourth, 1844. That hour passed, the twenty-one years would be complete.

Darkness and storm were upon the Empire City. The snow fell fast, and the wind, howling over the river and the roofs, made mournful music among the arches of unfinished Trinity Church. In the gloom, amid the falling snow, four persons stood around the family vault of the Van Huydens. Even had the storm and darkness failed to cover them from observation, they would have been defended from all prying eyes, by the crape masks which they wore. The marble slab bearing the name of "VAN HUYDEN," was thrust aside, and from the gloom of the vault beneath, the coffin was slowly raised into view; the coffin which was inscribed with the name of Gulian Van Huyden, and with the all-significant dates, December 25th, 1823, and December 25th, 1844.

* * * * *

Meanwhile, even as the blast howls along the deserted street, let us enter the mansion of Ezekiel Bogart, which, as you are aware, stands, with its old time exterior, alone and desolate, amid the huge structures devoted to traffic.

In the first of the seven vaults,--square in form, and lined with shelves from the ceiling to the floor,--Ezekiel Bogart sits alone. The hanging lamp diffuses its mild beams around the silent place. Ezekiel is seated in the arm-chair, by the table, his form enveloped in the wrapper or robe of dark cloth lined with scarlet. The dark skull-cap covers the crown of his head; his eyes are hidden by huge green glasses, and the large white cravat envelopes his throat and the lower part of his face. Leaning forward, his elbow on the table, and his cheek upon his hand, which, veined and sinewy, is white as the hand of a corpse, Ezekiel Bogart is absorbed in thought.

"I have not seen Gaspar Manuel since last night;" he utters his thoughts aloud. "This, indeed, is singular! The hour of the final settlement is near, and something definite must be known in regard to the lands in California, near the mission of San Luis. What can have prevented him from seeing me the second time? Can he have met with an accident?"

He rang the bell which lay near his hand; presently, in answer to the sound, the aged servant appeared; the same who admitted Gaspar Manuel last night, and whose spare form is clad in gray livery, faced with black.

"Michael, you remember the foreign gentleman, Gaspar Manuel, who was here last night?"

"That very pale man, with long hair, and such dark eyes? Yes, sir."

"You are sure that he has not called here to-day?"

"Sure, sir. I have not laid eyes upon him since last night."

"It is strange!" continued Ezekiel Bogart,--"You have attended to all my directions, Michael?"

"The banquet-room is prepared as you ordered it, and all your other commands have been carefully obeyed," answered Michael.

"This will be a busy night for you, Michael. From this hour until four in the morning, yes, until daybreak, you will wait in the reception room below, and admit into the house the persons whose names you will find on this card."

Michael advanced and took the card from the hand of his master.

"These persons,--these only,--mark me, Michael," continued Ezekiel, in a tone of significant emphasis. "And as they arrive, show them up-stairs, into the small apartment, next the banquet-room. Tell each one, as he arrives, that I will see him at four o'clock."

Michael bowed, and said, "Just as you direct, I will do."

"One of the persons, however, John Hoffman, otherwise called Ninety-One, I wish to see as soon as he arrives. Bring him to this room at once. You remember him, a stout, muscular man, with a scarred face?"

"I do. He was here with you a few hours since."

"There is another of the persons named on that card, whom you will bring to this room at once; Gaspar Manuel, who was here last night. Remember, Michael."

Michael bowed in token of assent, and was about to leave the room, when Ezekiel called him back,

"About midnight, four persons, having charge of a box, will come to the door and ask for me. Take charge of the box, Michael, and dismiss them. Have the box carried up into the banquet-room. You can now retire, Michael. I know that you will attend faithfully to all that I have given you to do."

"You may rely upon me, sir," said the tried servant, and retired from the room.

And, once more alone, Ezekiel rested his cheek on his hand, and again surrendered himself to thought.

"The child of Gulian _must_ be found; Ninety-One cannot fail. If he is not found before four o'clock, all is lost--all is lost! Yes, if that child does not appear, this estate,--awful to contemplate in its enormous wealth,--will pass from his grasp, and the labor of twenty-one years will have been spent for nothing. The estate will pass into the hands of the seven, not one of whom will use his share for anything but the gratification of his appetites or the oppression of his kind."

The old man rose, the light shone over his tall figure, bent by age, as, placing his hands behind his back, he paced to and fro along the floor. He was deeply troubled. An anxiety, heavier than death, weighed down his soul.

"The seven,--look at them! Dermoyne is a poor shoemaker. This wealth will intoxicate and corrupt him. Barnhurst, a clerical voluptuary,--he will use his share to gratify his monomania. Yorke, a swindler, who grows rich upon fraud,--his share will enable him to plunge hundreds of the wealthiest into utter ruin, and convulse, to its center, the whole world of commerce and of industry. Barron,--a fashionable sensualist,--he will surround himself with a harem. Godlike, a Borgia,--an intellectual demon,--his share will create a world of crimes. Harry Royalton, a sensualist, though of a different stamp from the others, will expend his in the wine-cup and at the gambling-table. There are six of the seven,--truly a worthy company to share the largest private estate in the world! As for the seventh, he has gone to his account."

Thus meditating, Ezekiel Bogart, slowly paced the floor. He paused suddenly, for a thought full of consequences, the most vital, flashed over his soul.

"What if Martin Fulmer should refuse to divide the estate? Alas! alas! his oath,"--he pressed his hand against his forehead,--"his oath made to Gulian Van Huyden, in his last hour, will crush the very thought of such a refusal. The Will must be obeyed; yes, strictly, faithfully, to the letter, in its most minute details."

Once more resuming his walk, he continued,--

"But the child will be discovered,--the child will be here at the appointed hour."

He spoke these words in a tone of profound conviction.

"I trust in Providence; and Providence will not permit this immense wealth to pass into the hands of those who will abuse it, and make of it the colossal engine of human misery."

After a moment of silent thought, he continued,--

"No,--no,--this wealth cannot pass into the hands of the seven! When Gulian, in his last hour, intrusted it to Martin Fulmer, bequeathing it, after the lapse of twenty-one years, to seven persons, in different parts of the union, he doubtless thought that chance, to say nothing of Providence, would find among the number at least four with good hearts and large mental vision. He did not think,--he did not dream, that at least five out of the seven would prove totally unworthy of his hopes, altogether unfit to possess and wield such an incredible wealth. And, believing in Providence, I cannot think, for a moment, that He will permit this engine of such awful power to pass into hands that will use it to the ruin and the degradation of the human race. The child will appear, and God will bless that child."

A sound pealed clear and distinct throughout the mansion. It was the old clock in the hall, striking the hour. Ezekiel stood as if spell-bound, while the sounds rolled in sad echoes through the mansion.

It struck the hour of twelve. The cycle of twenty-one years was complete.

The old man sank on his knees, and burying his face in his hands, sent up his soul, in a voiceless prayer.

"Come what will, this matter must be left to the hands of Providence," he said, in a low voice, as he rose. "If the child does not appear at four o'clock, Martin Fulmer has no other course, than to divide this untold wealth among such of the seven as are present. Before morning light his trust expires. But,--but,--" and he pressed his clenched hands nervously together,--"the child _will_ appear."

Taking up a silver candlestick, he lighted the wax candle which it held, and went, in silence, through the seven vaults, (described in a previous chapter) which contained the title-deeds, a portion of the specie, and the secret police records of the Van Huyden estate.

As he passed from silent vault to silent vault, not a word escaped his lips.

He was thinking of the incredible wealth, whose evidences were all around him,--of the awful power which that wealth would confer upon its possessors,--of Nameless, or Carl Raphael, the son of Gulian Van Huyden,--of the appointed hour, now close at hand.

"What if Martin Fulmer should burn every title-deed and record here,"--he held the light above his head, as he surveyed the vault,--"thus leaving the estate in the hands of the ten thousand tenants who now occupy its houses and lands? These parchments once destroyed, every tenant would be the virtual owner of the house or lot of land which he now occupies. This would create, in fact, ten thousand _proprietors_,--perhaps twenty thousand,--instead of seven heirs."

It was a great thought,--a thought which, carried into action, would have baptized ten thousand hearts with peace, and filled thrice ten thousand hearts with joy unspeakable. But----

"It cannot be. Martin Fulmer must keep his oath. The rest is for Providence."

He returned to the first room, or vault, and from a drawer of the table, drew forth a bundle of keys.

"I will visit _those rooms_," he said, "and in the meantime Ninety-One will arrive with Carl Raphael."

Light in hand, he left the room, and passed along a lofty corridor with panneled walls. As the light shone over his tall figure, bent with age, and enveloped in a dark robe lined with scarlet, you might have thought him the magician of some old time story, on his way to the cell of his most sacred vigils, had it not been for his skull-cap, huge green glasses, and enormous white cravat; these imparted something grotesque to his appearance, and effectually concealed his features, and the varying expressions of his countenance.

He placed a key in the lock of a door. It was the door of a chamber which no living being had entered for twenty-one years. Ezekiel seemed to hesitate ere he crossed the threshold. At length, turning the key in the lock,--it grated harshly,--he pushed open the door,--he crossed the threshold.

A sad and desolate place! Once elegant, luxurious; the very abode of voluptuous wealth, it was now sadder than a tomb. The atmosphere was heavy with the breath of years. The candle burned but dimly as it encountered that atmosphere, which, for twenty-one years, had not known a single ray of sunlight, a single breath of fresh air. A grand old place with lofty walls, concealed by tapestry,--three windows looking to the street (they had not been opened for twenty-one years) adorned with curtains of embroidered lace, a bureau surmounted by an oval mirror, chairs of dark mahogany, a carpet soft as down, and a couch enshrined in an alcove, with silken curtains and coverlet and pillow, yet bearing the impress of a human form. A grand old place, but there was dust everywhere; everywhere dust, the breath of years, the wear and tear of time. You could not see your face in the mirror; the cobwebs covered it like a vail. You left the print of your footsteps upon the downy carpet. The purple tapestry, was purple no longer; it was black with dust, and the moth had eaten it into rags. The once snow-white curtains of the windows, were changed to dingy gray, and the canopy of the couch, looked anything but pure and spotless, as the light fell over its folds.

Did Ezekiel Bogart hesitate and tremble as he approached that couch?

He held the light above his head,--and looked within the couch. Silken coverlet and downy pillow, covered with dust, and bearing still the impress of the form which had died there twenty-one years ago.

"Alice Van Huyden!" ejaculated Ezekiel Bogart, as though the dead one was present, listening to his every word,--"Here, twenty-one years ago, you gave birth to your son, and,--died. Yes, here you gave life to that son,--Carl Raphael Van Huyden I must call him,--who, once condemned to death,--then buried beside you in the family vault,--then for two years the tenant of a mad-house, will at four o'clock, appear and take possession of his own name, and of the estate of his father!"

Turning from the bed, Ezekiel approached the bureau. The mirror was thick with dust, and in front of it stood an alabaster candlestick--the image of a dancing nymph,--now alas! looking more like ebony than alabaster. It held a half-burned waxen candle.

"That candle, when lighted last, shone over the death agonies of Alice Van Huyden."

Up and down that place, whose very air breathed heart-rending memories, the old man walked, his head sinking low and lower on his breast at every step.

He paused at length before a portrait, covered with dust. Standing on a chair, Ezekiel with the purple tapestry, brushed the dust away from the canvas and the walnut frame. The portrait came out into light, so fresh, so vivid, so life-like, that Ezekiel stepped hastily from the chair as though the apparition of one long dead, had suddenly confronted him.

It was a portrait of a manly face, shaded by masses of brown hair. There was all the hope of young manhood, in the dark eyes, on the cheeks rounded with health, and upon the warm lips full of life and love. A fresh countenance; one that you would have taken at sight for the countenance of a man of true nobility of heart and soul. It was the portrait of Gulian Van Huyden at twenty-one.

For a long time Ezekiel Bogart lingered silently in front of the portrait.

At last he left the chamber, locked the door,--first pausing to look over his shoulder toward the bed upon which Alice Van Huyden died,--and then slowly ascended to the upper rooms of the old mansion.

* * * * *

He came into a small chamber panneled with oak; an oaken pillar, crowned with carved flowers, and satyr faces in every corner; and a death's head grinning from the center of the oaken ceiling. Once the floor, the walls, the ceiling and the pillars, had shone like polished steel, but now they were black with dust.

Holding the light above his skull-cap, Ezekiel silently surveyed the scene.

Two tressels stood in the center of the floor. These were the only objects to break the monotony of the dust-covered floor and walls.

Upon these tressels, twenty-one years before, had been placed a coffin, inscribed with the name of Gulian Van Huyden, and the dates,--December 25th, 1823, and December, 25th, 1844.

Opposite these tressels, a panel had recently been removed, disclosing a cavity or recess in the wall. In the recess the iron chest had been buried twenty-one years before. It was vacant now,--the iron chest was gone.

As the light shone around this place, whose every detail was linked with the past, the breast of Ezekiel Bogart heaved with emotion, but no word passed his lips. He lingered there a long time.

Through the confined doorway, he passed into the garret nook, whose roof was formed by the slope of the heavy rafters, which now were hung with cobwebs, while a small window, with heavy frame and narrow panes, shook to the impulse of the winter wind. A mahogany desk and an old-fashioned arm-chair, stand between the door and the window.

"Here Gulian and Martin Fulmer held their last interview," soliloquized Ezekiel, as he stood alone in the dreary garret,--"there stood Gulian, there knelt Martin, as he took the oath. Fifteen minutes afterward, Gulian was a corpse, and Martin was loaded with the awful trust, which he has borne alone for twenty-one years."

He approached the window. All was dark without. Sleet and snow beat against the window-pane. The wind howled dismally over the roof; the storm was abroad over the city and the bay.

"From this window he saw Manhattan Bay, and the spire of old Trinity. Yes, from this window, he pointed out to Martin Fulmer, the windows of the Banquet-room, in the western wing of the mansion, as they shone with the glad light of the Christmas Festival. It is Christmas again,--once more the windows of the banquet-room are lighted,--yes, I can see the lights glimmering through the storm, but not for a festival. Ah me! what years have passed since those windows were lighted for a festival."

Sadly Ezekiel Bogart left the garret, and descending the narrow staircase, and passing a corridor, made the best of his way toward the lower rooms of the mansion. Impressed to his very soul, with the _consciousness_ that he would soon behold the son of Gulian Van Huyden--Carl Raphael--he entered the first of the seven vaults, where the hanging lamp still shone upon the arm-chair, the shelved walls, and the huge table overspread with papers.

Seating himself in the arm-chair, he rang the bell. It was not long before the aged servant appeared.

"Has John Hoffman, otherwise called Ninety-One, arrived?"

"No, Sir."

"This, indeed, is strange, very strange!" ejaculated Ezekiel, much agitated, "and Gaspar Manuel--has he been here?"

"No, sir," answered Michael, "the four persons with the box have been here, and that is all. I had the box carried into the banquet-room."

At a sign from Ezekiel, the aged servant retired.

"Altogether strange! The seven were notified by letter, and by a carefully worded advertisement in the daily papers, of the _place_ and _hour_ of meeting. And not one arrived! What if they should not appear?"

The sound of the old clock disturbed his meditations. One,--two,--three! He had passed three hours in wandering through the old mansion. Only a single hour remained.

"Three hours gone!" Ezekiel started from his chair, "no word of Ninety-One, Gaspar Manuel, or the seven! It may be," and he felt a strange hope kindling in his heart, "that the night will pass and not one of the seven appear!"

The words had not passed his lips, when a heavy footstep was heard in the corridor, and the door was flung open. A stout muscular form came rapidly to the light. It was Ninety-One. His garments were covered with snow, and there were stains of blood upon his scarred face. From beneath his shaggy eyebrows, knit in a settled frown, his eyes shone with a ferocious glare.

"What news?" ejaculated Ezekiel.

Ninety-One struck his clenched hand upon the table, and gave utterance to a blasphemous oath.

"News? Hell's full of sich news! Only to think of it! It's enough to set a man to wishin' himself safe in jail again. 'Don't give it up so easy!' That's what I've said all along. An' I have _not_ give it up easy, nayther. And now what's it come to?"

"The Boy,--the son of Gulian Van Huyden," cried Ezekiel, resting his hands upon the table.

Ninety-One sank into a chair and wiped the blood from his face.

"You know I tracked the boy all day until I found his quarters in the four story buildin', whar there was a dead man?--"

"Yes,--yes,--and you came and told me that you had found his home. The people in the room adjoining the one which he occupies, informed you that he had gone out with the young girl, but that he would shortly return. You came and told me, and then went back to his room to await his return, taking with you a letter from me--"

"I went back, and waited, and waited, havin' no company but the dead man, until dark. Then I sallied out, and went to the house, where we all was last night. I'd a hard time to get in, but git in I did,--and jist too late--"

"Too late?--"

"The boy and the gal had been thar, and they'd jist gone. One of the folks in livery show'd me which way,--'down the street toward the river, and only five minutes ago,' says he. Down the street I put, and by this time the snow was fallin' and the wind blowin' a harrycane. Down the street I put, and when I came near the river, I heer'd a woman cry out, 'help! murder!' Mind, I tell you, I lost no time, but made straight for the pier, an' thar I find the gal, wringin' her hands an' p'intin' to the river--"

"And the boy--the son of Gulian?--"

"Four fellers had come behind him, as he was about turnin' into the street in which he lived,--they had dragged him from her,--she follered them on to the pier, cryin', 'help! murder!' and they'd tied him, and put him into a boat and made out into the river. As she told me this story, I looked about me for a boat,--thar wasn't a boat to be seen,--so I detarmined to jump in and swim arter 'em anyhow, though the river was full of ice and the wind a-blowin' like Lucifer--"

"You leaped into the river?"

"No, I did not. For as the gal stood cryin', an' moanin', an' p'intin', out into the dark thick night, the boat came back, and the four gallus birds jumped on the wharf--"

"And the child,--O, my God! the son of Gulian?--"

"They'd hove him overboard!"

The old man uttered a heart-rending groan, and raised his hands to heaven.

"Fatality!" he cried.

"I made at 'em at once,--and we j'ined in, four to one, teeth an' toe nails. 'Don't give it up so easy!' I said, but what's the use o' talkin'? I broke a jaw for one of 'em an' _caved the crust in_ for another; but I wa'n't a match for slung-shot behind the ear. They knocked me stoopid. An' when I opened my eyes again, I found myself in their hands, arrested on the charge o' havin' murdered young Somers, an' o' robbin' Isr'el Yorke. They tied me, took me to a room up town, whar they war j'ined by Blossom,--they tried to gouge money out o' me, but as I hadn't any, it wa'n't so easy. When they got tired o' that, I purtended to sleep, an' overheer'd their talk. The hansum Colonel, Tarleton, my pertikler friend, had hired the four to waylay _the boy_, and carry him out into the river. Blossom didn't know anythin' about it; he swore like a fiery furnace when they told him of it. Arter a while, as I found they were goin' to take me to the Tombs if they couldn't git any money out o' me, I broke for the door, and came away in a hurry, an' here I am."

"And the child of Gulian is gone! Fatality! Fatality!" groaned Ezekiel Bogart.

"In the river,--tied and gagged,--in the river," sullenly replied Ninety-One; and the next moment he uttered a wild cry and leaped to his feet.

Ezekiel Bogart had removed the skullcap, the green glasses and the huge cravat. In place of a countenance obscured by a grotesque disguise, appeared a noble face, a broad forehead, rendered venerable by masses of snow-white hair. His beard, also white as snow, left bare the outlines of his massive chin and descended upon his breast. And sunken deep beneath his white eyebrows, his large eyes shone with the light of a great intellect, a generous heart. It was indeed a noble head. True, his mouth was large, and the lips severely set, his large nose bent to one side, his cheek-bones high and prominent, but the calm steady light of his eyes, the bold outlines of his forehead,--stamped with thought, with genius,--gave character to his entire face, and made its very deviations from regularity of feature, all the more impressive and commanding.

"It is the Doctor!" cried Ninety-One. "Yer ha'r is white and thar's wrinkles about yer mouth an' eyes, but I know you, Doctor Martin Fulmer."