CHAPTER II.

THE SEVEN ARE SUMMONED.

It was, in truth, that singular man, who in the course of our narrative, has appeared as the Judge of the Court of Ten Millions as the "man in the surtout, with manifold capes," as Ezekiel Bogart, the General Agent; and who, at length, appears in his own character,--Dr. Martin Fulmer, the trustee of the Van Huyden estate.

"Be silent, John,"--the Doctor rose and gently waved his hand,--his bent form for a moment became straight and erect,--his attitude was noble and impressive. "The child whom, twenty-one years ago, Gulian Van Huyden intrusted to your care, has, this night,--even as the misfortunes of long years were about to be succeeded by peace, security, the possession of unbounded wealth,--met his death at the instigation of Gulian's brother. Be silent, John, for the shadow of almighty fate is passing over us! It was to be, and it was! Who shall resist the decrees of Providence? Behold! the fabric which I have spent twenty-one years to build, is dust and ruins at my feet!"

There was the dignity of despair in his tone, his look, his every attitude.

He slowly moved toward the door.--"Remain here, John, until morning. I may want the aid of your arm. The worst has fallen upon me," he continued, as though speaking to himself, "and nothing now remains but to fulfill the last conditions of my trust, and--to die."

He left the room, and in the darkness, along corridor, and up stairway, pursued his way slowly to the banquet-room.

"To this estate I have offered up twenty-one years of my life,--of my soul. For it I have denied myself the companionship of a wife, the joy of hearing a child call me by the name of 'father!' I have traversed the globe in its behalf; made myself a dweller in all lands; have left the beautiful domain of that science which loses itself among the stars, to make myself a student in the science of human misery, in the dark philosophy of human despair. I have made myself the very slave of this estate. Believing that one day, its enormous wealth would be devoted to the amelioration of social misery, I have made myself familiar with the entire anatomy of the social world; have dwelt in the very heart of its most loathsome evils; have probed to the quick the ulcer of its moral leprosy. But at all times, and in every phase of my career, I did hope, that out of this son of Gulian's, cast like a waif upon the voyage of life, and made the subject of superhuman misfortune, PROVIDENCE would at length mould a good, strong man, with heart and intellect, to wield the Van Huyden estate, for the social regeneration of his race. My hope is ashes."

With words like these in his soul, only half-uttered on his tongue, he opened a door and passed into the banquet-room.

It was brilliantly lighted by an antique chandelier which hung from the lofty ceiling. It was arranged for the last scene.

In this banquet-room, twenty-one years ago, there was the sound of merry voices, mingled with the clink of wine-glasses; there were hearts mad with joy, and faces dressed in smiles; and there was one face dressed in smiles, which masked a heart devoured by the tortures of the damned.

Now the scene was changed. The doors, windows, the pictures of the Van Huyden family which lined the lofty walls, were concealed by hangings of bright scarlet. A round table, covered with a white cloth, and surrounded by eight antique arm-chairs, alone broke the monotony of that vast and brilliantly lighted banquet-hall. The chandelier which shone upon the hangings, and lighted up every part of the room, shone down upon the white cloth of the table, and upon a single object which varied its surface,--a small portfolio, bound in black leather.

In that portfolio were comprised the mysteries of the Van Huyden estate.

Beneath the table, and shaded by it from the light, dimly appeared an iron chest, and a coffin covered with black cloth,--both were half-concealed beneath a pall of velvet, fringed with tarnished gold.

Martin Fulmer attentively surveyed this scene, and a sudden thought seemed to strike him. "It will not do," he said, "let the old place, in this hour, put on all its memories."

He rang the bell, and four servants, attired in gray liveries, appeared from beneath the hangings. Martin whispered his commands in a low voice, and they obeyed without a word. Moving to and fro, without uproar, in the course of a few minutes they had completely changed the appearance of the hall. Thus changed, the banquet-room has, indeed, put on its old memories; it wears the look, it breathes the air of the past.

The light of the chandelier, no longer dazzling, falls in subdued radiance around a lofty hall, whose ceiling is supported by eight pillars of cedar, grotesquely carved from base to capital, with the faces of monks and nuns,--all of the round and oily stamp,--with beasts, and birds, and fruits, and flowers. The glaring scarlet hangings cluster in festoons around the capitals of the pillars; and between the pillars appear, upon the panneled walls, portraits of the Van Huyden family, in frames of oak, and walnut, and gilt, for seven generations; beginning with the grim face of THE ANCESTOR, who landed on Manhattan Island in the year 1620, and ending with the youthful, artist-like face of Carl Raphael, painted in 1842. (This portrait of Nameless, Martin Fulmer procured from the study of Cornelius Berman.) The lofty windows on one side, were hidden by curtains of dark purple. At one end of the spacious hall, was a broad hearth, blazing with a cheerful wood-fire; at the other, on a dark platform, arose a marble image of "THE MASTER," as large as life, and thrown distinctly into view by the dark background.

There are two altars covered with black velvet, fringed with gold; one on each side of the table. The altar on the right supports the coffin; the one on the left, the iron chest; and around coffin and iron chest, as for a funeral, tall wax candles are dimly burning.

The dark panneled walls,--the huge pillars, quaintly carved,--the pictures, all save one, dim with age,--the hearth and its flame,--the white image of the Savior,--the central table, with its eight arm-chairs,--the dark altars, with wax candles burning around coffin and iron chest,--all combined to present an effect which, deepened by the dead stillness, is altogether impressive and ghost-like.

"The place looks like the old time," exclaims Martin Fulmer, slowly surveying its every detail,--"and,--"

The sound of the old clock again! How it rings through the mansion,--rings, and swells, and dies away! One,--two,--three,--four!

Martin Fulmer sinks into the arm-chair, at the head of the table, and from beneath his waistcoat draws forth a parchment,--the last will and testament of Gulian Van Huyden.

"There is no other way,--I must begin;" he casts his eyes toward a narrow doorway, across which is stretched a curtain. Behind that curtain wait the heirs of the Van Huyden estate. The old man, erect in his chair, at the head of the table, passes his right hand thoughtfully over his broad forehead, and through the masses of his hair, as white as snow.

And then directing his gaze toward the doorway, he begins to call the names of the Seven:

"Evelyn Somers!"

No answer,--the merchant prince now sleeps a corpse within his palace.

"Beverly Barron!"--the name of the man of fashion resounds through the still hall.

But Beverly will never fold in his arms again, the form of a tempted and yielding maiden; never place his lips again to the lips of a faithless wife, whom he has made false to her marriage vow,--never press a father's kiss upon the brow of his motherless child. Beverly also has gone to his account.

"Harry Royalton!" exclaimed Martin Fulmer, and again directed his eyes toward the door.

Is that his step, the man of the racecourse, the hero of the cock-pit and faro-bank? No. It was but a breath of air among the window-curtains. But where, in this hour, of all others, is Harry Royalton of Hill Royal? It cannot be told. He does not appear.

Martin Fulmer, with something of surprise upon his face, spoke the fourth name,--

"Herman Barnhurst!"

Herman, the voluptuous, and the fair-cheeked, and eagle-eyed,--the victim of beautiful Marion Merlin,--the husband of outraged Fanny Lansdale,--the seducer of poor Alice Burney,--Herman does not answer the summons.

A wild hope began to gleam in the deep eyes of Martin Fulmer,--"Four of the seven absent,--why not all?" And he called the fifth name; the name of one, whom, most of all others, he desired to be present:--

"Arthur Dermoyne!"

Loud and deep it swelled, but there was no reply. Enthusiast and mechanic, who, at your work-bench, have laid out plans of social regeneration,--who, amid the clatter of hammers, and hum of toil, have heard the words of the four gospels, and thought of wealth only as the means of putting those words into deeds,--where do you linger at this hour? Alas, Dermoyne is silent; he does not appear.

The light in Martin's eyes grew brighter, "Five of the Seven, why not all!"

"Gabriel Godlike!" he pronounced the name, and paused in suspense for the answer to the summons.

"Here!" cried a voice of thunder, and through the parted curtains, the imposing form of the statesman emerged into light. His broad chest was clad in a blue coat with bright metal buttons; a white cravat made his bronzed face look yet darker; he advanced with a heavy stride, his great forehead looming boldly in the light, his eyes deep sunken beneath the brows, glaring like living coals. His cheek was flushed,--with wine--or with the excitement of the hour?

Ponderous and gloomy and grand, as when he arose to scatter thunderbolts through the thronged senate,--attired in the same brown coat which he wore on state occasions,--he came to the table, assumed a seat opposite Dr. Martin Fulmer, and said in his deepest bass,--"I am here, and ready for the final settlement of the Van Huyden estate."

It is no shame to Dr. Fulmer to say, that he had rather confronted the entire Seven together, than to have to deal with this man alone. "The estate decreed into those hands, which know neither remorse or fear?"--he shuddered.

Then he called the seventh name,--

"Israel Yorke!"

No delay this time. With a hop and a spring,--spectacles on nose, and sharp gray eyes glancing all about him,--the little financier came through the curtain, and advancing to the table, seated himself beside Godlike, like Mammon on right of Lucifer.

"And I am here," he said, pulling his whiskers, and then running his hand over his bald head,--"Here and ready for the final settlement of the Van Huyden estate."

"And is this all?" ejaculated Martin Fulmer; and once more he called the names of the Seven. There was no response.