That section of Nassau street which runs into the great mart of New York
brokers and stock-jobbers, has for a long time been much occupied by
practitioners of the law. Tolerably well-known amid this class some
years since, was Adam Covert, a middle-aged man of rather limited means,
who, to tell the truth, gained more by trickery than he did in the
legitimate and honorable exercise of his profession. He was a tall,
bilious-faced widower; the father of two children; and had lately been
seeking to better his fortunes by a rich marriage. But somehow or other
his wooing did not seem to thrive well, and, with perhaps one exception,
the lawyer's prospects in the matrimonial way were hopelessly gloomy.
Among the early clients of Mr. Covert had been a distant relative named
Marsh, who, dying somewhat suddenly, left his son and daughter, and some
little property, to the care of Covert, under a will drawn out by that
gentleman himself. At no time caught without his eyes open, the cunning
lawyer, aided by much sad confusion in the emergency which had caused
his services to be called for, and disguising his object under a cloud
of technicalities, inserted provisions in the will, giving himself an
almost arbitrary control over the property and over those for whom it
was designed. This control was even made to extend beyond the time when
the children would arrive at mature age. The son, Philip, a spirited and
high-temper'd fellow, had some time since pass'd that age. Esther,
the girl, a plain, and somewhat devotional young woman, was in her
nineteenth year.
Having such power over his wards, Covert did not scruple openly to use
his advantage, in pressing his claims as a suitor for Esther's hand.
Since the death of Marsh, the property he left, which had been in real
estate, and was to be divided equally between the brother and sister,
had risen to very considerable value; and Esther's share was to a man in
Covert's situation a prize very well worth seeking. All this time, while
really owning a respectable income, the young orphans often felt the
want of the smallest sum of money--and Esther, on Philip's account, was
more than once driven to various contrivances--the pawn-shop, sales of
her own little luxuries, and the like, to furnish him with means.
Though she had frequently shown her guardian unequivocal evidence of her
aversion, Esther continued to suffer from his persecutions, until one
day he proceeded farther and was more pressing than usual. She possess'd
some of her brother's mettlesome temper, and gave him an abrupt and most
decided refusal. With dignity, she exposed the baseness of his conduct,
and forbade him ever again mentioning marriage to her. He retorted
bitterly, vaunted his hold on her and Philip, and swore an oath that
unless she became his wife, they should both thenceforward become
penniless. Losing his habitual self-control in his exasperation, he even
added insults such as woman never receives from any one deserving the
name of man, and at his own convenience left the house. That day, Philip
return'd to New York, after an absence of several weeks on the business
of a mercantile house in whose employment he had lately engaged.
Toward the latter part of the same afternoon, Mr. Covert was sitting in
his office, in Nassau street, busily at work, when a knock at the door
announc'd a visitor, and directly afterward young Marsh enter'd the
room. His face exhibited a peculiar pallid appearance that did not
strike Covert at all agreeably, and he call'd his clerk from an
adjoining room, and gave him something to do at a desk near by.
"I wish to see you alone, Mr. Covert, if convenient," said the newcomer.
"We can talk quite well enough where we are," answer'd the lawyer;
"indeed, I don't know that I have any leisure to talk at all, for just
now I am very much press'd with business."
"But I _must_ speak to you," rejoined Philip sternly, "at least I must
say one thing, and that is, Mr. Covert, that you are a villain!"
"Insolent!" exclaimed the lawyer, rising behind the table, and pointing
to the door. "Do you see that, sir? Let one minute longer find you
the other side, or your feet may reach the landing by quicker method.
Begone, sir!"
Such a threat was the more harsh to Philip, for he had rather
high-strung feelings of honor. He grew almost livid with suppress'd
agitation.
"I will see you again very soon," said he, in a low but distinct manner,
his lips trembling as he spoke; and left the office.
The incidents of the rest of that pleasant summer day left little
impression on the young man's mind. He roam'd to and fro without any
object or destination. Along South street and by Whitehall, he watch'd
with curious eyes the movements of the shipping, and the loading and
unloading of cargoes; and listen'd to the merry heave-yo of the sailors
and stevedores. There are some minds upon which great excitement
produces the singular effect of uniting two utterly inconsistent
faculties--a sort of cold apathy, and a sharp sensitiveness to all that
is going on at the same time. Philip's was one of this sort; he
noticed the various differences in the apparel of a gang of
wharf-laborers--turn'd over in his brain whether they receiv'd wages
enough to keep them comfortable, and their families also--and if they
had families or not, which he tried to tell by their looks. In such
petty reflections the daylight passed away. And all the while the master
wish of Philip's thoughts was a desire to see the lawyer Covert. For
what purpose he himself was by no means clear.
Nightfall came at last. Still, however, the young man did not direct
his steps homeward. He felt more calm, however, and entering an eating
house, order'd something for his supper, which, when it was brought to
him, he merely tasted, and stroll'd forth again. There was a kind of
gnawing sensation of thirst within him yet, and as he pass'd a hotel, he
bethought him that one little glass of spirits would perhaps be just the
thing. He drank, and hour after hour wore away unconsciously; he drank
not one glass, but three or four, and strong glasses they were to him,
for he was habitually abstemious.
It had been a hot day and evening, and when Philip, at an advanced
period of the night, emerged from the bar-room into the street, he
found that a thunderstorm had just commenced. He resolutely walk'd on,
however, although at every step it grew more and more blustering.
The rain now pour'd down a cataract; the shops were all shut; few of
the street lamps were lighted; and there was little except the frequent
flashes of lightning to show him his way. When about half the length of
Chatham street, which lay in the direction he had to take, the momentary
fury of the tempest forced him to turn aside into a sort of shelter
form'd by the corners of the deep entrance to a Jew pawnbroker's shop
there. He had hardly drawn himself in as closely as possible, when
the lightning revealed to him that the opposite corner of the nook was
tenanted also.
"A sharp rain, this," said the other occupant, who simultaneously beheld
Philip.
The voice sounded to the young man's ears a note which almost made him
sober again. It was certainly the voice of Adam Covert. He made some
commonplace reply, and waited for another flash of lightning to show him
the stranger's face. It came, and he saw that his companion was indeed
his guardian.
Philip Marsh had drank deeply--(let us plead all that may be possible
to you, stern moralist.) Upon his mind came swarming, and he could not
drive them away, thoughts of all those insults his sister had told him
of, and the bitter words Covert had spoken to her; he reflected, too,
on the injuries Esther as well as himself had receiv'd, and were
still likely to receive, at the hands of that bold, bad man; how
mean, selfish, and unprincipled was his character--what base and cruel
advantages he had taken of many poor people, entangled in his power,
and of how much wrong and suffering he had been the author, and might be
again through future years. The very turmoil of the elements, the harsh
roll of the thunder, the vindictive beating of the rain, and the fierce
glare of the wild fluid that seem'd to riot in the ferocity of the storm
around him, kindled a strange sympathetic fury in the young man's mind.
Heaven itself (so deranged were his imaginations) appear'd to have
provided a fitting scene and time for a deed of retribution, which to
his disorder'd passion half wore the semblance of a divine justice. He
remember'd not the ready solution to be found in Covert's pressure of
business, which had no doubt kept him later than usual; but fancied some
mysterious intent in the ordaining that he should be there, and that
they two should meet at that untimely hour. All this whirl of influence
came over Philip with startling quickness at that horrid moment. He
stepp'd to the side of his guardian.
"Ho!" said he, "have we met so soon, Mr. Covert? You traitor to my dead
father--robber of his children! I fear to think on what I think now!"
The lawyer's natural effrontery did not desert him.
"Unless you'd like to spend a night in the watch-house, young
gentleman," said he, after a short pause, "move on. Your father was a
weak man, I remember; as for his son, his own wicked heart is his worst
foe. I have never done wrong to either--that I can say, and swear it!"
"Insolent liar!" exclaimed Philip, his eye flashing out sparks of fire
in the darkness.
Covert made no reply except a cool, contemptuous laugh, which stung
the excited young man to double fury. He sprang upon the lawyer, and
clutch'd him by the neckcloth.
"Take it, then!" he cried hoarsely, for his throat was impeded by the
fiendish rage which in that black hour possess'd him. "You are not fit
to live!"
He dragg'd his guardian to the earth and fell crushingly upon him,
choking the shriek the poor victim but just began to utter. Then, with
monstrous imprecations, he twisted a tight knot around the gasping
creature's neck, drew a clasp knife from his pocket, and touching the
spring, the long sharp blade, too eager for its bloody work, flew open.
During the lull of the storm, the last strength of the prostrate man
burst forth into one short loud cry of agony. At the same instant, the
arm of the murderer thrust the blade, once, twice, thrice, deep in his
enemy's bosom! Not a minute had passed since that fatal exasperating
laugh--but the deed was done, and the instinctive thought which came at
once to the guilty one, was a thought of fear and escape.
In the unearthly pause which follow'd, Philip's eyes gave one long
searching sweep in every direction, above and around him. _Above_! God
of the all-seeing eye! What, and who was that figure there?
"Forbear! In Jehovah's name forbear;" cried a shrill, but clear and
melodious voice.
It was as if some accusing spirit had come down to bear witness against
the deed of blood. Leaning far out of an open window, appear' d a white
draperied shape, its face possess'd of a wonderful youthful beauty.
Long vivid glows of lightning gave Philip a full opportunity to see as
clearly as though the sun had been shining at noonday. One hand of the
figure was raised upward in a deprecating attitude, and his large bright
black eyes bent down upon the scene below with an expression of horror
and shrinking pain. Such heavenly looks, and the peculiar circumstance
of the time, fill'd Philip's heart with awe.
"Oh, if it is not yet too late," spoke the youth again, "spare him. In
God's voice, I command, 'Thou shalt do no murder!'"
The words rang like a knell in the ear of the terror-stricken and
already remorseful Philip. Springing from the body, he gave a second
glance up and down the walk, which was totally lonesome and deserted;
then crossing into Reade street, he made his fearful way in a half state
of stupor, half-bewilderment, by the nearest avenues to his home.
When the corpse of the murder'd lawyer was found in the morning, and the
officers of justice commenced their inquiry, suspicion immediately fell
upon Philip, and he was arrested. The most rigorous search, however,
brought to light nothing at all implicating the young man, except his
visit to Covert's office the evening before, and his angry language
there. That was by no means enough to fix so heavy a charge upon him.
The second day afterward, the whole business came before the ordinary
judicial tribunal, in order that Philip might be either committed for
the crime, or discharged. The testimony of Mr. Covert's clerk stood
alone. One of his employers, who, believing in his innocence, had
deserted him not in this crisis, had provided him with the ablest
criminal counsel in New York. The proof was declared entirely
insufficient, and Philip was discharged.
The crowded court-room made way for him as he came out; hundreds of
curious looks fixed upon his features, and many a jibe pass'd upon him.
But of all that arena of human faces, he saw only _one_--a sad, pale,
black-eyed one, cowering in the centre of the rest. He had seen that
face twice before--the first time as a warning spectre--the second time
in prison, immediately after his arrest--now for the _last_ time. This
young stranger--the son of a scorn'd race--coming to the court-room to
perform an unhappy duty, with the intention of testifying to what he
had seen, melted at the sight of Philip's bloodless cheek, and of his
sister's convulsive sobs, and forbore witnessing against the murderer.
Shall we applaud or condemn him? Let every reader answer the question
for himself.
That afternoon Philip left New York. His friendly employer own'd a small
farm some miles up the Hudson, and until the excitement of the affair
was over, he advised the young man to go thither. Philip thankfully
accepted the proposal, made a few preparations, took a hurried leave of
Esther, and by nightfall was settled in his new abode.
And how, think you, rested Philip Marsh that night? _Rested_ indeed! O,
if those who clamor so much for the halter and the scaffold to punish
crime, could have seen that sight, they might have learn'd a lesson
then! Four days had elapsed since he that lay tossing upon the bed there
had slumber'd. Not the slightest intermission had come to his awaken'd
and tensely strung sense, during those frightful days. Disturb'd waking
dreams came to him, as he thought what he might do to gain his lost
peace. Far, far away would he go! The cold roll of the murder'd
man's eye, as it turn'd up its last glance into his face--the shrill
exclamation of pain--all the unearthly vividness of the posture,
motions, and looks of the dead--the warning voice from above--pursued
him like tormenting furies, and were never absent from his mind, asleep
or awake, that long weary night. Anything, any place, to escape such
horrid companionship! He would travel inland--hire himself to do hard
drudgery upon some farm--work incessantly through the wide summer days,
and thus force nature to bestow oblivion upon his senses, at least a
little while now and then. He would fly on, on, on, until amid different
scenes and a new life, the old memories were rubb'd entirely out. He
would fight bravely in himself for peace of mind. For peace he would
labor and struggle--for peace he would pray!
At length after a feverish slumber of some thirty or forty minutes, the
unhappy youth, waking with a nervous start, rais'd himself in bed, and
saw the blessed daylight beginning to dawn. He felt the sweat trickling
down his naked breast; the sheet where he had lain was quite wet with
it. Dragging himself wearily, he open'd the window. Ah! that good
morning air--how it refresh'd him--how he lean'd out, and drank in the
fragrance of the blossoms below, and almost for the first time in his
life felt how beautifully indeed God had made the earth, and that there
was wonderful sweetness in mere existence. And amidst the thousand mute
mouths and eloquent eyes, which appear'd as it were to look up and speak
in every direction, he fancied so many invitations to come among them.
Not without effort, for he was very weak, he dress'd himself, and issued
forth into the open air.
Clouds of pale gold and transparent crimson draperied the eastern sky,
but the sun, whose face gladden'd them into all that glory, was not yet
above the horizon. It was a time and place of such rare, such Eden-like
beauty! Philip paused at the summit of an upward slope, and gazed around
him. Some few miles off he could see a gleam of the Hudson river, and
above it a spur of those rugged cliffs scatter'd along its western
shores. Nearer by were cultivated fields. The clover grew richly there,
the young grain bent to the early breeze, and the air was filled with an
intoxicating perfume. At his side was the large well-kept garden of his
host, in which were many pretty flowers, grass plots, and a wide avenue
of noble trees. As Philip gazed, the holy calming power of Nature--the
invisible spirit of so much beauty and so much innocence, melted into
his soul. The disturb'd passions and the feverish conflict subsided. He
even felt something like envied peace of mind--a sort of joy even in
the presence of all the unmarr'd goodness. It was as fair to him, guilty
though he had been, as to the purest of the pure. No accusing frowns
show'd in the face of the flowers, or in the green shrubs, or
the branches of the trees. They, more forgiving than mankind, and
distinguishing not between the children of darkness and the children of
light--they at least treated him with gentleness. Was he, then, a being
so accurs'd? Involuntarily, he bent over a branch of red roses, and took
them softly between his hands--those murderous, bloody hands! But the
red roses neither wither'd nor smell'd less fragiant. And as the young
man kiss'd them, and dropp'd a tear upon them, it seem'd to him that he
had found pity and sympathy from Heaven itself.
Though against all the rules of story-writing, we continue our narrative
of these mainly true incidents (for such they are,) no further. Only to
say that _the murderer_ soon departed for a new field of action--that
he is still living--and that this is but one of thousands of cases of
unravel'd, unpunish'd crime--left, not to the tribunals of man, but to a
wider power and judgment.