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THE DESTRUCTIVE GREED OF GAIN--A WEIRD, WONDROUS TALE--"WHAT IF
THEY BUT KNEW"--TELLING STORIES AWAY FROM HOME--REVELATIONS--AN
OLD MAN OF THE HIGH MORAL TYPE--CURIOUS NOTION ABOUT THE SIZE
OF A FAMILY; THE MYSTIC NUMBER THREE--PORTRAITS OF A FAMILY; A
PERFECT WOMAN--DEATHS AND INTRIGUES--A "FAITHFUL SERVANT"--OLD
WILLS AND NEW--LEGAL COMPLICATIONS--THE LAST WILL MISSING--A
CRAFTY LAWYER--A THOROUGH SEARCH--A DIABOLICAL COURTSHIP, AND
FIERCE STRUGGLE DURING THREE YEARS--A DETECTIVE AT LAST CALLED
INTO THE MATTER--A PLOT LAID TO FOIL OLD BOYD, AN UNSCRUPULOUS
LAWYER--DID IT SUCCEED?--THE READER PERMITTED TO ANSWER THE
QUESTION FOR HIMSELF--A VITAL DISCOVERY--MORE PLOTTING--A
BEAUTIFUL YOUNG LADY MAKES A DIVERSION IN THE PLANS--OLD ANDREW
WILCOX'S FUNNY LETTERS SEARCHED, AND A TREASURE "FOUND" AMONG
THEM--OLD BOYD'S CONSTERNATION--THE LAST WILL FINALLY CARRIED
OUT--"NOTHING IMPOSSIBLE"--A FORTUNE TOO LARGE TO BE LAUGHED
AT--A CUNNING WIFE LEADS HER SIMPLE HUSBAND A CURIOUS LIFE--A
BIT OF COMFORT, PERHAPS.
That "the love of money is the root of all evil," hardly needed for its
proper declaration a divine voice. The records of man's life and
struggles in all ages, in peace and in war, through the fictitious
"honesties" of business enterprises, or in the eccentric ways called
crimes, declare most emphatically that the "great good" _is_ "goods" or
their equivalent in the "representatives of value" which we call money,
in almost everybody's heart; and the sickening details of the struggles
for it, with which the detective becomes familiar, are so multiplied,
that one might almost write the history of current times, as well as of
that of the past, in one phrase--"Money-getting!" "money-getting!" And
the modes by which money is sought are almost as multiplied as the
persons seeking.
The fierce quarrels between members of the same family,--an instance of
which I have marked in my memorandum, to be presented in these pages if
space permits,--and the devilish "greed of gain" which pursues a
father, perhaps on his dying bed, and disturbs his last hour through
the contentions of his loving children, quarrelling there, may be, with
a step-mother, or somebody else equally "loved" by them, over the
"goods and chattels" which the expiring man is expected to leave
behind, have furnished matter for the satirist in all times; and most
fit subjects are these for the satirist's and reformer's pen. They
cannot be held up to too great execration.
The story which I am about to relate might, in its interesting details
and phases, be readily made to fill a duodecimo volume of several
hundred pages instead of the short article into which it is compressed,
so peculiar were the characters, and so beautiful as well as painful
the varied life of the chief person whom it regards. I find myself
lingering over it, as now I turn over my diary and note-books, and
recall it so vividly to mind, with the wish that I might, and with a
half-formed resolve that I _will_ at some time, put it in the form of
an extended narrative, so thorough a portrayal of human nature in some
of its best as well as worst aspects, would it prove.
I am frequently vexed that I may not use the actual names of the
individuals who figure in these tales. How many a neighborhood, or how
large an acquaintanceship with this or that character would be
astonished, if they but knew as they read that the subjects of this or
some other articles are still beings lingering in the flesh, and
residing, perhaps, next door!
I was telling a story one night in a stage-coach which was full of
passengers. I was more than two hundred miles away from my own home,
and over eight hundred from the place of the chief scene in my story.
The passengers had, most of them, been favoring each other with
"yarns," of more or less truthfulness, but usually untrue, in some
respects, to the actual experiences of life, and my turn came then. I
chanced to call to mind an experience of mine more than ten years
before. My story, I fancy, was of a more interesting kind than my
fellow-travellers were wont to hear, for there was the profoundest
silence on their part. As now and then the clouds which threatened a
rain broke away, and revealed the moon, I noticed that an old man,
sitting opposite me on the back seat, was all ears, all intent.
To make my story comprehensible in some parts, I had, in the early
portion of it, entered into a minute personal, rather, physical
description of the chief character of it, and a bad one. It proved that
the old gentleman recognized the very man, though he himself, when at
home, lived some fifty miles from him, and it further proved that what
that tale revealed led on to a course of affairs in which several
families were more or less involved, to their displeasure.
When we alighted, the old man took me aside, and whispered in my ear,
"That was a fearful story you told us, but I knew it was all true,
because I know the man that you called 'Jones.' His name is ----, and
he resides in ----, and I am greatly obliged to you for unearthing one
of his villanies. I can see now _how_ he has accomplished others just
as bad."
I tried to laugh the old man out of his notion, but he said it was of
no use, that he knew Mr. ---- only too well. I have ever since observed
a greater care in my general descriptions, and never forget that
distance of space or time may be no surety of secrecy.
In the town of ----, in the State of New York, for fifty years before
the time I was called to take part in the affair which is the chief
part of the subject-matter of this, there had lived a quaint old man of
wealth, whom his neighbors but little understood. He had had, in the
course of his life, three wives, two of whom had borne him children,
none of which lived but a few years, and the third had died childless.
But the old man, in his grief over the want of "natural heirs of his
own body," had adopted several children, one after the other, whenever
he lost one of his, "to keep the number good," as he said. The old
gentleman, whom we will call James Alvord, was born in Vermont, reared
in the strictest Puritan ways, and was bred to work. At about sixteen
years of age, I believe, he was apprenticed to learn the
harness-maker's trade, from which time he left off going to school; but
he was of studious disposition, and I was told (for I never saw him
myself) that he had aggregated to himself a large amount of information
upon almost all subjects, and that had he been an aspirant for public
honors and distinctions, his fund of knowledge would have enabled him
to cope successfully with almost any man in the State. But he had no
vain aspirations. To accumulate knowledge and money was his chief
desire, not to make display with either, but simply to enjoy the
consciousness of having,--possessing, it would seem.
The old man had not far wandered from the moral notions and feelings
which were inculcated or aroused in him by his Vermont education, but
he entertained some peculiar notions of his own. In fact, he was all
his own--all character, all strong individuality in everything.
Among his notions--perhaps I should call them his fixed opinions--was,
that it was every married couples' duty, if possible, to bring into the
world six children, and if they could not have them themselves, to
adopt as many from families that had more; for in his early days, when
he first imbibed this notion, it was no rare thing for families in
Vermont to count around the hearthstone ten and twelve children apiece.
Six is the product of two multiplied by three. Three, of course,
comprehends a "trinity," and upon the mystic trinity, so frequently
discovered in Nature, the old man built many theories. Three was a
mystic number with him.
"There are but three primitive colors," he used to say. "All other
colors are the results of the intermixture of two or all of these," and
so on, the old gentleman was accustomed to elucidate his "philosophy;"
and somehow he had so applied the mystic three to the matter of
parentage, that he had arrived at the doctrine noticed above, and he
was a man who most strictly observed himself what he was pleased to
teach others as a duty; and so, from time to time, in the lack of
children who continued to live, he adopted others. He did not seem,
however, in his "adoptions" to have observed much "philosophy" (the
word that was most often upon his tongue, and which, in fact, did
signify not a little of the character it intimates, in his brain) in
selecting the children.
He overlooked the matter of stock and blood, and seemed only anxious to
make sure of healthy children; which is not so much to be wondered at
in his case, perhaps. So that when these six grew up to maturity they
developed characters about as diverse as could possibly be found,
notwithstanding the course of their education, or rather teachings
(mental and moral) had been about the same.
Some of them gave the old man much uneasiness; and notwithstanding that
he had placed each in business when he had arrived at age, or had given
the girls each of them a good outfit on her marriage, yet some of them
were discontented, and thought the old man ought to have the grace to
die in good season, in order that they might obtain their expected
shares of property; for it was presumed by them that Mr. Alvord would
treat them all alike, and leave no will in fact. I should not forget to
say here, that there were of these children three males and three
females. Mr. Alvord had first adopted a boy, next a girl, and so on,
alternating.
Time went on, and the three boys had grown to manhood, and married, and
two of the girls had filled out into mature womanhood in good time, and
had married. Mr. Alvord, as I have said before, had been generous to
them all, and impartial in the bestowal of his pecuniary favors; but it
would have been impossible, under the circumstances, to have been
equally respectful of them all in his heart, so diverse were they in
character. The oldest boy grew up to be a very respectful, but sluggish
and somewhat stupid man.
The second one became a tricky, crafty fellow, full of cunning wiles,
and was what the world calls a "smart man"--ignorant of everything but
business, and more willing to succeed at that through scheming and
dishonorable practices (safely dishonorable, I mean, for he was too
"smart" to do anything in which he was likely to be trapped; but
dishonorable, still, in the strict interpretation of that word; only
dishonorable so far as the laws of business would allow him to
be--which is latitude enough for most wickedly-inclined men). He left
the farm, for which Mr. Alvord tried to induce him to cultivate a love,
and had gone into merchandizing on a moderate scale, a year or two
after his marriage, and it was said at once of him that he could drive
"as sharp a bargain as the best of them;" a phrase in which "worst" is
substituted for "best" in the experienced hearer's mind.
His name was a peculiar one--"Floramond;" a name which his mother had
selected from an old novel, which she read while bearing him, and which
she made Mr. Alvord agree to not change when he adopted him. "Flor" was
his nickname, which he always bore in manhood as well as in childhood,
and it became a name in his neighborhood at last, which was a synonym
of craft and business meanness. "That's Flor all over," was said when
anybody, no matter who, was found guilty of some extortion, or
cheating, or grasping meanness.
While Mr. Alvord lived, Floramond took better care of his reputation
than afterwards. He was ever very attentive to Mr. Alvord, and never
lost an opportunity of demonstrating to him his industry and attention
to business, which were, indeed, very pleasing to Mr. Alvord, who,
though he sometimes wished Floramond could not be quite so sharp and
grasping, nevertheless knew the world well enough to know that most
other men in business were like him to the extent of their ability; and
so soothed himself into the belief that Floramond was "as good as
they'll average." Besides, Floramond was a bit of a wag,--could tell a
story well, made a good many hits at people, which pleased the
majority,--and, withal, was a member of the Congregational church in
his place of residence, and "in good and regular standing."
Mr. Alvord did not care for this last fact much. He was not a
church-member, and lived and died a very good old man, without the
church. But he reflected that the church-membership did not hurt
Floramond in the people's eyes, even if it did him no especial good;
and I suspect it operated to blind the old gentleman's eyes a little to
Floramond's real character.
The third son took a literary turn, after he had made considerable
progress in some mechanical pursuit,--I forget what,--and was sent to
college, and at last graduated as a minister of the Dutch Reform order,
I believe. He had no business capacity, and on a fair salary could
never exactly make ends meet from year to year, and was considerable of
a pensioner on the old gentleman's bounty.
The girls married pretty well, all of them. Of these, one was a shrewd
witch, almost as keen as Floramond. Her name was Eliza, but she always
bore the nickname "Lise," which would not always have been _mal
apropos_ if it had been spelled "Lies;" for she had great skill in
dissimulation and its kindred arts, even to the matter of pilfering, so
the neighbors generally believed. But she had wit, and was quite
handsome withal, and got a good, thorough-going business man for a
husband. The second "daughter" in order proved a very nice,
good-hearted woman, with moderate abilities, and the kindest of
dispositions; and she, too, married a very worthy man.
The third "daughter" was one of those curious, undefinable creatures,
perfect in almost every respect, and gifted in several directions. Mr.
Alvord had adopted her in her tenth year, and had selected her in
preference to any of several other children whose parents were anxious
to "get the old man to 'dopt the gals," because she was so robust, so
stoutly formed, and withal so hardy and agile. He thought she would
surely make a large, queenly woman. But she changed greatly as she
approached the age of puberty,--shot up into a tall, wiry, lithe form,
and her rounded face lengthened to a peculiarly spiritual shape,
developing intellect, in short,--whereas she indicated, at ten years of
age, only strength and solidity--as her chief characteristics in
womanhood. She was a brilliant scholar at the "high school," and not
only that, very vivacious, and withal just as gentle in heart as she
was almost rudely playful, when play was the real work to be done--for
she did everything earnestly; and there was a peculiar earnestness in
her very gentleness. It was a positive gentleness, a gentleness
springing out of high principles, and not merely a passive inertness.
Her name was Margaret, and she made the name beloved by all who knew
_her_. She married a splendid man; but he died in four or five years
after their marriage, and left her with two beautiful children, who
inherited much of his good qualities--more physical beauty than their
mother bore, with not a little of her great goodness; and it was
thought he had left her "comfortably off," too; but somehow his partner
in business managed to show that the firm was considerably involved,
and she got but a small estate after all. Shrewd people suspected that
her husband's partner knew how to "turn an honest penny" in a business
way; especially when, three years after the husband's death, the
partner built a very costly house, and added another horse to his old
team, so that he drove a "spanking pair," before a carriage which was
considered a "leetle" too expensive in that quarter of the world. But,
however, 'twas no matter; she was poor, and old Mr. Alvord insisted
that she should return to his home, with her children, and take charge
of it for him.
These things I was told at the time of my becoming acquainted with the
remaining family, long after Mr. Alvord's death. With him Margaret
staid, a faithful, good woman, charitable to everybody, and beloved by
all; by the poor, especially, who came to Mr. Alvord's house for aid,
where they were sure to go first, before going anywhere else. With none
of his children except Margaret, was Mr. Alvord on so intimate terms as
with Floramond. They all lived some miles from him; but Floramond
managed to see the old man often, and not unfrequently took him to his
own home, and kept him there for a week or two weeks at a time,
especially when he could take one of Margaret's children along with
him; for the old man, though he had several grandchildren, did not seem
to be very fond of any except Margaret's son and daughter.
Margaret continued to take charge of the house, and watched over old
Mr. Alvord, like a dutiful loving daughter as she was; and the old man
and his wife grew every year more and more fond of her. The wife being,
in the latter years of her life, mostly an invalid, was very grateful
for the tender care of Margaret, and when she came to die entreated Mr.
Alvord that he should make his will, and make it particularly favorable
to Margaret, whom she loved best of all, and who, being a widow with
children, needed more than the rest. Mr. Alvord, of course, promised to
do so, out of affection for both wife and daughter, and the old lady
died blessing him; and though she had long been expected by her friends
to die any day, suddenly, so suddenly did she die that only Mr. Alvord
and Margaret were with her. There was no time to send for a neighbor,
after she swooned away, one day, in her chair, before she was
dead--reviving from the swoon but for a moment, before she took her
last breath; in which moment, grasping the hands of Margaret and Mr.
Alvord in her own, she blessed them both, and reminded Mr. Alvord of
the will.
After her death, Floramond increased his attentions to Mr. Alvord; and
finally, his own wife dying, he, a few months after her death, became
more than usually interested in Margaret, and was found at Mr. Alvord's
so often, that everybody was talking of his wonderful devotion to the
old man. It is true that some people said he was "after the biggest
slice in the old man's will," and hinted that he was mercenary rather
than affectionate; but he was such a jolly fellow, that it was
difficult to fix upon him the stigma of bad motives. Mr. Alvord was
very devoted to Margaret, and Floramond must have felt that she would
share as largely in Mr. Alvord's will (and he did not know then but he
had already made one) as he, and perhaps more largely. Finally he
proposed marriage to his adopted sister; as the best means, probably,
of making sure of a large portion of Mr. Alvord's estate.
There was no blood relation between him and Margaret, and no reason in
the law why they might not marry; still, Margaret was not a little
shocked at the proposal from Floramond, with whom, as a "brother," she
had enjoyed a very pleasant intimacy--one which she would not have
allowed on any other consideration than that of brother-and-sisterhood.
But Floramond was evidently greatly taken aback at her delicate refusal
of his offer. But he persisted in his suit, not willing to suffer
defeat so easily; and for a long while annoyed Margaret with his
repeated offers, which annoyance she gently concealed, though
persisting ever in the firmness of her resolve to "not marry anybody."
But Floramond did not believe her in this resolution to remain
unmarried, believing that she would marry somebody else,--"take up with
the first good chance,"--and so he laid her refusal to heart, as a
personal affront to himself, and ridiculed the objection which she
sometimes made, in that they were brother and sister in spirit, if not
in blood; which objection was really a serious one in her feelings,
although her reason told her that it need not prevail, because they
were really no kin to each other. Besides, there was something, which
she could not well define to herself, about Floramond, which, while it
did not forbid her loving him as a brother, made her shudder when she
thought of him in the light of a possible husband. Floramond renewed
his suit from time to time, constantly with increased tenderness and
delicacy, and finally resolved himself, after her repeated refusals,
into the very best-behaving of brothers.
[Illustration: A RASH COURTSHIP.]
Finally, old Mr. Alvord, very perceptibly approaching his end, one day
rode out with Margaret behind his span of fine horses, with which, and
a nice double wagon, he had, among other luxuries, provided himself in
his dotage, and regarding which the neighbors said he was becoming
foolishly extravagant. But they little understood how much the quiet,
saving old man was worth. He had been accustomed to drive his own
horses, but of late was getting weak, and so transformed his "hired
man" into a driver that day.
John Holt was a faithful, honest man, who had lived with Mr. Alvord for
nearly twenty years, and was intrusted with everything. Mr. Alvord
considered him one of the family; and although he always paid John for
his services quite liberally, so that John had considerable money out
at interest, yet he intended to remember him in his will to the extent
of a thousand dollars, and on that day was, therefore, not at all
private in what he said to Margaret. John heard most of it, and
particularly remembered what Mr. Alvord said in regard to the legacy to
him. He told Margaret how much he was worth,--a sum which quite
astonished her,--and consulted with her in regard to what he should
leave each of the children, to some of whom he proposed to leave but
comparatively a small amount; but in each case Margaret urged him to
leave more. He had done much for them all, but she was willing, in her
generous nature, that he should make such legacies, and leave the
remainder of his property to her and her children. To Floramond he had
determined, he said, to leave one fourth; to divide another fourth
between the other four; and to give to Margaret and her children half,
imposing upon her the payment of a thousand dollars to John, and the
distribution of certain matters of personal property to a few friends
he named; five hundred dollars to be kept at interest, and that given
annually to an old, decrepid widow in the place, who had been a
schoolmate with him in Vermont, and whose husband had died in Mr.
Alvord's employ, after many years of service. This she was to have as
long as she lived, and he told Margaret that day that he had for
several years contributed a like sum to her support, and that he had
told the widow that if she outlived him, he would provide as much for
her in his will. These with other things John had heard Mr. Alvord say
to Margaret, and also that he had once made another will in different
terms, which was lodged with Floramond, and had been drawn by Squire
Emerson, a crafty old lawyer, when Mr. Alvord was once stopping at
Floramond's for a week or two. "But the last will always revokes a
former one," he told Margaret; so that he guessed that he would leave
that where it was. It was thought afterwards that Mr. Alvord had some
fear that if he called on Floramond to deliver up the will it might
lead to trouble. Floramond might fear that he was not to fare so well.
The next day Mr. Alvord and John drove off to an old friend of Mr.
A.'s,--a sort of universal genius, who held multiplied petty offices,
and withal was considerable of a lawyer. He drew a will after Mr.
Alvord's dictation, and Mr. A. signed it; but there was nobody at home
but the old scribe, save a very young girl in the kitchen; and as John
was a legatee, the man advised Mr. A. that he could not properly be a
witness,--so Mr. Alvord said he would find others to witness it; and on
his way home stopped at a neighbor's, went in, and declared the
document to be his last will, etc., in the presence of two persons, who
subscribed it as witnesses. But John did not _know_ this of a surety.
He suspected the document had been properly declared. Mr. Alvord went
home and showed the will to Margaret, and deposited it in a secret
place among his drawers, telling her where. "Now," said he, "if the
house should catch a-fire, you run for this will the first thing, for I
can't bear the bother of making another."
Mr. Alvord lived on a year more. Meanwhile the people who had signed
the will as witnesses had "sold out," and followed a son to California;
but neither old Mr. Alvord nor Margaret thought of them then in
connection with the will.
By and by Mr. A.'s "time" came, and with all his adopted children about
him, he, after giving them his parting blessing, dropped away quietly
into the arms of death. Floramond took upon himself the management of
the funeral, which for that place was made somewhat extraordinary, and
the plain old Mr. Alvord went to his grave with a pomp and show which
he certainly would not have approved could he have foreseen it. After
the funeral the children gathered at the house, and Floramond told them
that he had, somewhere among his papers, a document which Mr. Alvord
had given him, sealed up, and which he said was his will. He did not
know its contents, he said, but would like to have a time appointed
when they could all be there and hear it read. Margaret said nothing,
for she hardly comprehended matters, so great and real was her grief
over the death of Mr. Alvord; and a time was appointed, one week from
that day, for them all to convene and hear the will read.
After they had all left, Margaret bethought her of what Mr. Alvord had
said a year before about a former will, and went to look for the will
which Mr. Alvord had given into her keeping, but it was not to be
found! Where was it gone? She remembered to have seen it several times
since its deposit in the drawer, when looking there for other things;
but she could not convince herself whether or not she had seen it
within some months. She talked with John about it, and John told her of
what Mr. Alvord had done that day he rode to the old clerk's with him;
and she rode over to the clerk's to consult him, but he said he knew
nothing about the witnessing,--that the will must have been properly
witnessed to be valid; and he said, too, that perhaps Mr. Alvord had
altered his mind,--had destroyed the will without letting her know it;
that the will, as drawn, revoked all former wills, and that if the
existence of this latter will could be proved, it would set aside
whatever will Floramond had had, but that it would be impossible, in
the present state of things, to prove the existence of the lost
will,--that if anybody had stolen it away, that fact could never
probably be discovered. The conclusion of Margaret, after talking with
this man, was to await and see what Floramond would bring.
The day came, and with it Floramond, with the will done up in a once
white paper, but which time had turned brown, and strongly sealed. The
seals Floramond broke before them all, drew forth the document, and
handed it to one of his brothers, saying, "You read it out for us. You
can read the old man's writing better than I."