FORGERY.
“Oh! cursed lust of gold! how for thy sake
The fool throws up his interests in both worlds!
First lost in this—then damned in that to come.”—_Blair._
In the meanwhile, the object of his solicitude, Clement Sutherland, sat
in a private parlour of the Planters’ Hotel, in the village of C——,
_afraid to return home_, with wild thoughts of flight darting through
his oppressed, distracted head! A victim to the lust of gold, he had
served the devil too well to be deserted of him at the last hour. And
now he sat, with his prematurely whitened head bowed upon his cramped
and shrivelled hands, bitterly trying to recall the wiles and review the
crooked paths by which the fiend had led him.
In youth, his besetting sin had been a reasonable wish of independence,
and he called it thrift; and it seemed to justify every kind of
parsimony and selfishness. In maturity it became a craving desire for
wealth, and he named it prudent foresight, wise provision for the
future, and it appeared to excuse every sort of exaction from health,
life, and limb, of his labourers, or “uttermost farthing” from his
debtors. In midlife it grew an absorbing passion, and he termed it
parental devotion, and it seemed to palliate every species of injustice,
cruelty, and dishonesty. In his age it reached its full development, as
a monomania, which he no longer sought to sanctify by any holy name,
when it led him into _crime_—into the crime of _forgery_!
Some months before, a most promising opportunity offered of making a
great speculation by the investment of a considerable sum of money. But
how to raise this sum? He had neither cash nor credit; and all his
estate in which he had retained more than a life interest, was mortgaged
to nearly its full value. There was one means of raising the funds
suggested to his mind, but his soul shrank from it. He could anticipate
his ward’s majority by a few months, and borrow her signature only for a
power of attorney and a deed of mortgage—that was all. And the money
could be raised on her real estate, and the sum invested, and the
profits secured. And then the mortgage could be released and destroyed
before the (he hesitated to give the act its proper name, even in his
thought) forgery could be discovered and exposed. So the tempter
persuaded him.
He had never trained his moral strength by resisting slight temptations;
and now that the temptation was very great, he fell before it. Scarcely
daring to think on what he was about to do, he left the neighbourhood of
Cashmere for two weeks, and on his return, laid before his
correspondent, the usurer at C——, a power of attorney and a deed of
mortgage, seemingly duly signed, witnessed and attested. Upon these the
requisite funds were borrowed, embarked in the speculation, and lost!
And now the dread day of account had come, and he sat overwhelmed,
crushed, unable to fly, afraid to go home, yet fitfully and by turns
impelled to each course. It was while he sat there, by turns stupified
and distracted, that the door was opened by a waiter, who announced—
“Judge Sutherland!”
And retired, as Mark walked in.
Clement Sutherland started to his feet, pale and wild-looking, and
gazed, without speaking, at his nephew.
“Sir, you are ill!” exclaimed the latter, anxiously, stepping up to him.
Muttering some inaudible words between his white lips, the old man sunk
down, collapsed, into his chair. Mark hastily stepped to the bell-rope,
to ring for wine. But the guilty man, in the confusion of his trouble,
misunderstood the intention, and stretching out his trembling, almost
palsied arm, bade him “Stop, for Christ’s sake!”
Mark returned, with looks of interest.
“I did not mean to—to _wrong_ her! God knows I did not!” said the old
man, in a quivering tone.
“Wrong whom?” added Mark, regarding him with much surprise and anxiety;
“sir, sir, you are really ill, and I must summon some assistance.”
“No, no! you are mistaken. Bring no witnesses. It is—it is—a family
affair. Now, I suppose, you will have your revenge!” exclaimed Clement
Sutherland, with a frightened, chattering smile.
Without more ado, Mark hastened to the door, with the purpose of sending
for a physician. But the old man sprang, tottered after him, and clasped
him around, staggered back, exclaiming—“You shall not! I’ll have no
witnesses. Oh! you’re a lawyer!”
Mark Sutherland disengaged himself, sat his uncle down in a chair, and
stood for a moment undecided how to proceed—vague suspicions crossing
his mind for the first time, as he heard his wild words, and recollected
Mr. Bolling’s ominous doubts.
“Yes, look!” exclaimed the distracted culprit, who had quite lost his
self-possession, “look! and consider what you will do! It will be a fine
revenge, for old and new, to cast the white-haired man into a
State-prison, won’t it? Now, hark ye! No dishonour can crush me that
will not touch you! Remember that!”
Mark Sutherland went to a sideboard, poured out a glass of water, and
brought it to his uncle, who took it in his trembling hand and quaffed
it off, and returned the empty glass, all mechanically, and without a
word of acknowledgment. Mark Sutherland put down the glass, and then
returned and took his seat beside the guilty man, saying calmly, and
with some reserve—
“Now, sir, it were best for all parties concerned, that you should put
me in possession of the facts of this case.”
“And criminate myself! Ha! that’s a lawyer’s trick, to lead me into such
a folly. But I’m cool, I’m collected, I’m not going to do it.”
“Sir, you have already criminated yourself.”
“Ha! you wish to trap me into doing so, so that you can take your
revenge. It would be a tremendous revenge, would it not?”
“Sir, you know well that no such mean spirit of vengeance will influence
my action in this matter.”
“Ha! well, it will be because it cannot. You can’t prosecute me—you
can’t appear against me—because you can’t disgrace me without
dishonouring yourself. It would not do, you think, to have it said that
Judge Sutherland’s uncle was a felon.”
“And why should not ‘Judge Sutherland’s’ uncle, or Judge Anyone’s uncle,
be called a felon, if he _is_ a felon, as well as the poorest man’s
uncle alive? Is it because the former has more power, more means, more
friends, fewer wants, fewer temptations, than the latter? I think not.
No, sir! family pride will no more restrain my action, than revenge will
impel it. Family considerations, personal pride, never _have_ influenced
my conduct, and never _will_ do so. No, sir; I conform my life to a
purer rule of action. In every question there is a right and a wrong. I
obey the right. Had I a brother or a son guilty of felony, and it became
my duty to bear witness against either, I should do it, though my
testimony consigned the culprit to death. No, sir; if we refrain from
prosecution, it will be for a reason much holier than pride. It will be
from a motive that would also actuate us in sparing the veriest forsaken
wretch alive!”
Clement Sutherland had sat with his elbows on the table, and his head
bowed in his hands, his grey hair dishevelled, and his thin, withered
features whitened and drawn in as by internal agony. But now he bursts
forth in a fit of fury, as ungovernable as it was unreasonable and
impotent. Mark Sutherland stood quietly by, and let his rage exhaust
itself. Then, when the guilty man was calm from prostration, his nephew
spoke to him coolly, wisely, kindly—making him understand and feel that
his detection was inevitable, unless he put him in possession of all the
facts, to prepare him to meet knowingly the exigencies of the case. It
was very difficult to influence the wretched man, who, having parted
with his own faith, was unable to rest on the good faith of any other.
And it was only after arguing and persuading him all the afternoon and
evening, that late at night he won from the guilty man a full account of
the circumstances.
“And now, what do you purpose to do?” was his trembling question, when
he had confessed all.
“I shall return home to-morrow, and take counsel with Rosalie.”
“Take counsel with _her_!” exclaimed the old man, in alarm.
“Be at ease, sir. She has a voice in this matter Nay, she _has_—it
_must_ be—it is _her_ name that has been used—_her_ property that is
lost. And if it were not—if it were my own exclusive affair, still I
should consult her before taking any important step!”
“_What will become of us?_—of India? My child! my child! that your high
head should be bowed with shame!” cried the wretched man, in a voice of
anguish.
“Reassure yourself, sir, I beg. I can answer for Rosalie’s noble heart.
You are safe from all punishment from her. And now let us part at once.
You had better return to Cashmere, where your family must be anxiously
awaiting you.”
“And where will you stay?”
“To-night I shall go on board the steamer Victress, which will leave for
the Upper Mississippi to-morrow.”
Suddenly the old man lifted up his head, and showed a countenance
brightened with hope. Mr. Sutherland stopped to hear what he had to say.
He grasped the arm of his nephew, exclaiming—
“Oh! Mark, I have it now. I have found the means by which family honour
and Rosalie’s fortune both may be saved. Rosalie need not deny her
signature; that will protect me, and save family honour. But the
signature was written before she came of age; therefore the deeds are
null and void and the usurer cannot foreclose the mortgage, or recover
his money. So you see that I can—I mean family honour—can be saved, and
Rosalie lose nothing either.”
An involuntary expression of scorn and loathing flashed from Mark
Sutherland’s fine Roman face for a moment; and then, composing himself,
he replied, coolly—
“No, sir; if you are saved, it must be at our own proper cost and loss.”
And so they parted.