A GLANCE BACKWARDS.
It was growing late. Night had drawn its sombre veil over the great
city, and the streets, a little while before filled with busy
passers-by, now echoed but seldom to the steps of an occasional
wayfarer. The shops were closed, the long day assigned to trade being
over. To plodding feet and busy brains, to frames weary with exhausting
labor, to minds harassed by anxious cares, night came in friendly guise,
bringing the rest and temporary oblivion of sleep.
From a small building in a by-street, or rather lane, which nevertheless
was not far removed from the main thoroughfare, there gleamed a solitary
candle, emitting a fitful glare, which served, so far as it went, to
give a very unfavorable idea of the immediate vicinity. Within, a young
man, painfully thin, was seated at a low table, engrossing a legal
document. The face was not an agreeable one. The prevailing expression
was one of discontent and weak repining. He was one who could complain
of circumstances without having the energy to control them; born to be a
subordinate of loftier and more daring intellects.
He wrote with rapidity and, at the same time, with scrupulous elegance.
He was evidently a professional copyist.
After bending over his writing for a time, during which he was rapidly
approaching the completion of his task, he at length threw aside the
pen, exclaiming, with an air of relief, “At last it is finished! Thank
Heaven! that is,” he added, after a slight pause, “if there be such a
place, which I am sometimes inclined to doubt. Finished; but what after
all is a single day’s work? To-night I may sleep in peace, but to-morrow
the work must begin once more. It is like a tread-mill, continually
going round, but making no real progress. I wish,” he resumed, after a
slight pause, “there were some way of becoming suddenly rich, without
this wear and tear of hand and brain. I don’t know that I am so much
surprised at the stories of those who, in utter disgust of labor, have
sold themselves to the arch fiend. Why should I have been born with such
a keen enjoyment of luxuries, and without the means of obtaining them?
Why should I be doomed——”
When discontent had thus opened the way for its favorable reception,
temptation came.
There was a knock at the door.
Thinking it might be some strolling vagabond who, in his intoxication,
was wandering he knew not whither, he did not at first respond, but
waited till it should be repeated.
It was repeated, this time with a considerable degree of force.
The young man approached the door, but feeling apprehensive that it
might prove to be some unwelcome visitor, he paused before drawing the
bolt, and called out, in a voice marked by a tremulous quaver, for he
possessed but little physical courage, “Who are you that come here at
such an unseasonable hour? Unless I know your name, I shall not let you
in.”
“Don’t be alarmed, Jacob,” was the reply. “It is only I, Lewis Rand.
Open at once, for I come on business which must be quickly despatched.”
The explanation was evidently satisfactory, for the scrivener in eager
haste opened the door, and admitted his visitor. It was the younger of
the two men upon whom the chance meeting with Helen and her father
seemed to have produced an impression so powerful. Jacob, though well
acquainted with him, was evidently surprised at his presence at an hour
so unseasonable, for he exclaimed, in a tone of mingled surprise and
deference, “You here, Mr. Rand, and at this time of night! It must be
something important which has called you at an hour when most men are
quietly sleeping in their beds.”
“Yet you are up, Jacob, and at work, as I conjecture,” said the visitor,
pointing to the table on which the completed sheets were still lying.
“True,” said the copyist, for this recalled to him the grounds of his
discontent; “but I must work while others sleep, or accept a worse
alternative. Sometimes I am tempted to give up the struggle. You have
never known what a hard taskmaster poverty is.”
“Perhaps not,” returned the other; “but I can testify that the
apprehension of poverty is not less formidable. However, I can perhaps
lend you a helping hand, since the business on which I come, if
successfully carried out, of which with your co-operation I have strong
hopes, will prove so important to me that I shall be able to put a
better face upon your affairs.”
“Ah!” said the young man, with suddenly awakening interest; “what may it
be? I will gladly give you all the aid in my power.”
“Jacob,” said his visitor, fixing his eyes steadily upon the scrivener,
“you know there is an old maxim, ‘Nothing venture, nothing have.’ In
other words, he who aims to be successful in his undertakings, must not
scruple to employ the means best suited to advance his interests, even
though they may involve the _possibility_ of disaster to himself. Do you
comprehend my meaning?”
“Not entirely. At least, I need to be informed of the connection between
what has just been said and the service you require at my hands.”
“You shall presently know. But first promise me solemnly that what I may
say, and any proposition which I may make to you to-night, shall forever
remain a secret between us two.”
The scrivener made the required promise, though his wonder was not a
little excited by the extraordinary language and significant tone of his
companion.
“I promise,” he said. “You may proceed. I am ready.”
“You are quite alone, I suppose,” said Lewis, inquiringly. “There is no
fear of eavesdroppers?”
“Not the least,” replied Jacob, muttering to himself in an undertone,
“Margaret must be fast asleep, I think. You need be under no
apprehensions,” he said, aloud. “We shall not be disturbed.”
At this moment a small clock over the mantel struck two.
“Two o’clock!” exclaimed Lewis. “I had not supposed it so late. However,
it is perhaps better, since we are the safer from interruption. You are
somewhat acquainted,” he continued, “with the position in which I stand
to my uncle. For years I have been his constant companion, the slave of
his whims and caprices, depriving myself of more agreeable and congenial
society, in order to maintain my hold upon his affections, and secure
the inheritance of his large property. No son would have done as much as
I have. And now, when half my life is gone, and the realization of my
hopes is apparently near at hand, an incident has occurred, which
threatens to disarrange all my plans, and defraud me of all but a tithe
of that which I have so long looked upon as my sure inheritance.”
“Surely, your uncle has no nearer relatives than yourself!” exclaimed
Jack, in surprise.
“That is what the world thinks, but they are deceived. My uncle has a
son, and that son has a daughter. You see, therefore, that there is no
lack of heirs. But you need an explanation.
“My father died when I was not quite five years of age. He was what is
called a gay man, and spent freely what property he possessed, in
extravagant living, and, lest that might not prove sufficient, he lost
large sums at the gaming table. He died in an affair of honor which grew
out of a dispute with one of his gambling acquaintances, leaving, as my
inheritance, a few debts and nothing more. But for my uncle I should
have been thrown upon the cold charities of the world. Fortunately for
me, my uncle had none of his brother’s vices, and had preserved his
property intact, so that when need came, he was able to stretch forth a
helping hand to his nephew.
“I can remember the day when I became an inmate of my uncle’s household.
I did not mourn much for my father, who seldom took any notice of me.
Child as I was, I understood that his death, in consigning me to my
uncle’s care, had left me better off than before.
“I was nearly five, as I have said. My uncle had a son,—but one,—who was
two years my senior. So my cousin Robert and I grew up together.
Although we were treated in every respect alike, having the same tutors,
the same wardrobe, and even sharing the same room, I cannot remember a
time when I did not hate him. There was nothing in his manner or his
treatment of me that should lead to this, I acknowledge. He always
treated me as a brother, and I suffered not a word or a gesture, not
even a look, to indicate that I did not regard him in the same light.
You will perhaps wonder at my aversion. It is easily explained. Although
our treatment was the same, I soon learned that our prospects were very
different. I soon became aware that he, as heir of his father’s wealth,
already considerable and rapidly increasing, was considered, by many, a
far more important personage than myself. Notwithstanding my uncle’s
indulgence to me, I well knew that his pride, and a certain desire,
inherited from his English ancestors, that his estate should be handed
down entire from generation to generation, would receive anything beyond
a moderate annuity. I could not brook my cousin’s superior prospects,
and determined to injure him with my uncle, if an opportunity offered.
“The opportunity came. My cousin fell in love with a beautiful girl,
who, but for her poverty, would have attracted me also. This, however,
proved an insuperable obstacle. I waited until the attachment had
ripened into the most ardent affection, and then I made it known to my
uncle with all the embellishments which I thought best calculated to
arouse his irritation. The object of my cousin’s attachment I described
as an awkward country-girl, without cultivation or refinement. It was a
heavy blow to my uncle’s pride, for he had nourished high hopes for his
son, and aspired to an alliance with a family as old and distinguished
as his own. In the exasperation of the moment he summoned Robert to him,
and peremptorily insisted on his at once giving up his attachment,
stigmatizing the object of it in such terms as I had employed in
describing her. My cousin’s spirit was naturally roused by such manifest
injustice, and he refused to accede to his father’s wishes. The
discussion was a stormy one, and terminated as I hoped and believed it
would. My cousin went forth from the house, disowned and disinherited,
and I remained, filling his place as heir.”
Jacob surveyed the speaker with a glance of admiration. He paid homage
to a rascality which surpassed his own. He admired his craftiness and
address, while his want of principle did not repel him.
“What became of your cousin?” inquired the scrivener, after a pause.
“He married and went out West. He possessed a small property inherited
from his mother, and this enabled him to live in a humble way. I have
heard little of him since, except that he had but one child, a daughter,
who must now be not far from fourteen years old. This I learned from a
letter of her father’s which I intercepted.”
“Has your uncle ever shown any symptoms of relenting?” asked Jacob.
“Two years ago he was very sick and it was thought he might die. During
that sickness he referred so often to his son that I began to tremble
for my prospective inheritance. I accordingly procured a notice of his
death to be inserted in a Chicago paper, which I took care to show my
uncle. The authenticity of this he never dreamed of doubting, and I felt
that my chances were as good as ever. But within the last week a fact
has come to my knowledge which fills me with alarm.”
The copyist looked up inquiringly.
“It is this,” resumed Lewis. “Not only is my cousin living, but he is in
this city. Furthermore my uncle has seen him, and but for my solemn
assurance that he was mistaken, and my recalling to his recollection
that Robert’s death was well attested, he would have taken immediate
measures for finding him out. If found, he would be at once reinstated
in his birthright, and I should be reduced to the position of a humble
dependent upon my uncle’s bounty.”
“But you have escaped the danger, and all is well again.”
“By no means. Notwithstanding my representation, my uncle clings
obstinately to the belief that either he or some child of his may be
living, and only yesterday caused a new will to be drawn up, leaving the
bulk of his estate to his son or his son’s issue; and, failing these, to
me. You will readily see how I stand affected by this. Of course in the
event of my cousin’s death a search will be immediately instituted for
my cousin and his daughter, and being in the city they will probably be
found.”
“Your prospects are certainly not of the most encouraging character,”
said Jacob, after a pause. “But, if I may venture to inquire, what
assurance have you that such is the tenor of your uncle’s will?”
“This,” replied Rand, taking from a side-pocket a piece of parchment
tied with a blue ribbon, and leisurely unrolling it. Jacob watched his
movements with curiosity.
“This,” said he, bending a searching glance upon the scrivener, as if to
test his fidelity; “this is my uncle’s will.”
The copyist could not repress a start of astonishment.
“The will!” he exclaimed. “How did you obtain possession of it?”
Lewis smiled.
“It was for my interest,” he said briefly, “to learn the contents of
this document, and I therefore made it my business to find it. You see
that I have been successful. Read it.”
The copyist drew the lamp nearer, and read it slowly and deliberately.
“Yes,” said he, at length, looking up thoughtfully; “the contents are as
you have described. May I ask what it is your intention to do about it,
and what is the service I am to render you?”
“Can you not guess?” demanded his visitor, fixing his eyes meaningly
upon him.
“No,” returned the scrivener, a little uneasily; “I cannot.”
“You are skilful with the pen, exceedingly skilful,” resumed Lewis,
meaningly. “Indeed, there has been a time when this accomplishment came
near standing you in good stead, though it might also have turned to
your harm.”
Jacob winced.
“Ah!” pursued the visitor, “I see you have not forgotten a little
occurrence in the past, when, but for my intervention, you might
have been convicted of—shall I say it?—forgery. You need not thank
me. I never do anything without a motive. I don’t believe in
disinterestedness. The idea struck me even at that time that I might
at some time have need of you.”
“I am ready,” said Jacob, submissively.
“That is well. What I want you to do is this. You must draw me up
another will as nearly like this as possible, except that the whole
estate shall be devised to me unconditionally. Well, man, what means
that look of alarm?”
“It will be very dangerous to both of us,” faltered the copyist.
“It will be a forgery, I admit,” said Lewis, calmly; “but what is there
in that word, _forgery_, which should so discompose _you_? Did it ever
occur to you that the old charge might be renewed against you, when no
intervention of mine will avail to save you?”
The copyist perceived the threat implied in those words, and hastened to
propitiate his visitor, of whom he seemed to stand in wholesome fear.
“Nay,” said he, submissively, “you know best the danger to both of us.”
“And I tell you, Jacob, there is none at all. You are so cunning with
the pen that you may easily defy detection, and for the rest, I will
take the hazard.”
“And what will be the recompense?” inquired the scrivener.
“Two hundred dollars as soon as the task is completed,” was the prompt
reply. “One thousand more when the success of the plan is assured.”
Jacob’s eyes sparkled. To him the bribe was a fortune.
“I consent,” he said; “give me the will. I must study it for a time to
become familiar with the handwriting.”
He drew the lamp nearer and began to pore earnestly over the manuscript,
occasionally scrawling with the pen which he held in his hand an
imitation of some of the characters. It was a study for an artist,—those
two men,—each determined upon a wrong deed for the sake of personal
advantage. Lewis, with his cool, self-possessed manner, and the copyist,
with his ignoble features and nervous eagerness, divided between the
desire of gain and the fear of detection.
All this time a woman’s eye might have been seen peering through a
slightly open door, and regarding with a careful glance all that was
passing. The two men were so intent upon the work before them that she
escaped their notice.
“Oho,” said she to herself, “there shall be a third in the secret which
you fancy confined to yourselves. Who knows but it may turn out to my
advantage, some day? I will stay and see the whole.”
She drew back silently, and took her position just behind the door,
where nothing that was said could escape her.
Meanwhile Jacob, having satisfied himself that he could imitate the
handwriting of the will, commenced the task of copying. Half an hour
elapsed during which both parties preserved strict silence. At the end
of that time the copyist, with a satisfied air, handed Lewis the
manuscript he had completed. The latter compared the two with a critical
eye. Everything, including the names of the witnesses, was wonderfully
like. It was extremely difficult from the external appearance, to
distinguish the original from the copy.
“You have done your work faithfully and well,” said Lewis, with evident
satisfaction, “and deserve great credit. You are wonderfully skilful
with the pen.”
The copyist rubbed his hands complacently.
“With this I think we need not fear detection. Here are the two hundred
dollars which I promised you. The remainder is contingent on my getting
the estate. I shall be faithful, in that event, to my part of the
compact.”
Jacob bowed.
“It must be very late,” said Lewis, drawing out his watch. “I am sorry
to have kept you up so late; but no doubt you feel paid. I must hasten
back.”
He buttoned his coat, and went out into the street. A smile lighted up
his dark features as he speculated upon the probable success of his
plans. He felt not even a momentary compunction as he thought of the
means he had employed or the object he had in view.
Meanwhile those whom he was conspiring to defraud were sleeping
tranquilly.