PART FIRST. "FRANK VAN HUYDEN." DEC. 23, 1844. EVENING. CHAPTER I. "DOES HE REMEMBER?"

PART SECOND. "FROM NIGHTFALL UNTIL MIDNIGHT." DEC. 23, 1844. CHAPTER I. BLOODHOUND AND THE UNKNOWN.

PART THIRD. "THROUGH THE SILENT CITY." DECEMBER 24, 1844. CHAPTER I. THE DEN OF MADAM RESIMER.

PART FOURTH. IN THE TEMPLE. FROM MIDNIGHT UNTIL DAWN. DECEMBER

PART FIFTH. THE DAWN, SUNRISE AND DAY. DECEMBER 24, 1844. CHAPTER I. "THE OTHER CHILD."

PART SIXTH. DAY, SUNSET, NIGHT. DECEMBER 24, 1844. CHAPTER I. ARRAYED FOR THE BRIDAL.

PART SEVENTH. THE DAY OF TWENTY-ONE YEARS. DECEMBER 25, 1844. CHAPTER I. MARTIN FULMER APPEARS.

Christmas Eve, 1823, was a memorable night in the history of a certain wealthy family in New York. The night was dark and stormy, but the tempest which swept over the bay, and whitened the city's roofs with snow, was but a faint symbol of the tempest of human passion—jealousy, covetousness, despair—then at work, in the breasts of a group of individuals, connected with the old and distinguished family of Van Huyden.

On that night, Gulian Van Huyden, the representative of the family, and owner of its immense wealth—a young man in the prime of early manhood, who had been happily married a year before—gave a great banquet to his male friends, in his city mansion. By his side was seated his younger brother, Charles Van Huyden, whom the will of their father had confined to a limited income, while Gulian, as the elder son, had become the possessor of nearly all of the immense wealth of the family.

The banquet was prolonged from about nine o'clock until near dawn, and during its progress, Gulian and his brother had been alternately absent, for the space of an hour, or a half hour at a time.

The city mansion of Gulian, situated not far from Trinity Church, flung the blaze of its festival lights out upon the stormy night. That light was not sufficient to light up the details of two widely different edifices, which, located within a hundred yards of Gulian's mansion, had much to do with his fortunes, and the fortunes of his family.

The nearest of these edifices, an antique, high-roofed house, which stood in a desolate garden, was (unknown to Gulian) the home of his brother, and of that brother's mistress—a woman whom Charles did not wish to marry, until by some chance or other, he became the possessor of the Van Huyden estate.

The other edifice, a one-storied hovel, was the home of a mechanic and his young wife. His name was John Hoffman, his trade that of a stone mason, and at the period of this narrative, he was miserably poor.

Now, during the night of Christmas eve (and while the banquet was in progress in Gulian's city mansion), an unknown person, thickly cloaked, entered the hovel of the mechanic, bearing a new-born child in his arms. An interview followed between the unknown, John Hoffman, and his wife. The mechanic and his wife consented to adopt the child in place of one which they had recently lost. The stranger with the child, gave them a piece of parchment, which bore on one side, the initials, "G. G. V. H. C." and on the other the name of "Dr. Martin Fulmer," an eccentric physician, well known in New York. This parchment deposited in a letter addressed to Dr. Fulmer, and sent to the post office once a quarter, would be returned to the mechanic, accompanied by the sum of a hundred dollars. John was especially enjoined to keep this interview and its results a secret from the Doctor. Having deposited the child and parchment with the worthy couple, the stranger departed, and was never again seen by the mechanic or his wife.

Within an hour of this singular interview the mistress of Charles Van Huyden, returned to her home (from which she had been absent for a brief period)—flakes of snow upon her dress and upon her disordered hair—and placed upon her bed, the burden which she carried, a new-born infant, enveloped in a shawl. As the fallen, but by no means altogether depraved woman, surveyed this infant, she also beheld her own child, sleeping in a cradle not far from the bed—a daughter some three months old, and named after its mother Frank, that is, Francis Van Huyden.

Christmas Eve passed away, and Christmas morning was near. Dr. Martin Fulmer was suddenly summoned to Gulian's mansion. And Gulian, fresh from the scenes of the banquet room, met the Doctor in an obscure garret of his mansion. He first bound the Doctor by an oath, to yield implicit obedience to all his wishes, an oath which appealed to all that was superstitious, as well as to all that was truly religious in the Doctor's nature, and then the interview followed, terrible and momentous in its details and its results. These results stretch over a period of twenty-one years—from December 25, 1823, to December 25, 1844. This interview over, Gulian left the Doctor (who, stupefied and awe-stricken by the words which he had just heard, sank kneeling on the floor of the room in which the interview had taken place), and silently departed from his mansion. He bent his steps to the Battery. And then—young, handsome, the possessor of enormous wealth—he left this life with the same composure, that he had just departed from his mansion. In plain words, he plunged into the river, and met the death of the suicide in its ice-burdened waves, while his brother Charles (whom we forgot to state, had accompanied him from the threshold of his home), stood affrighted and appalled on the shore.

Meanwhile, Dr. Martin Fulmer (bound by his oath), descended from the garret into a bedchamber of the Van Huyden mansion. Upon the bed was stretched a beautiful but dying woman. It was Alice Van Huyden, the young wife of Gulian. All night long (while the banquet progressed in another apartment) she had wrestled in the agonies of maternity, unwatched and alone. She had given birth to a child, but when the Dr. stood by the bed, the child had been removed by unknown hands.

Convinced of his wife's infidelity—believing that his own brother Charles was the author of his dishonor—Gulian had left his mansion, his wealth, life and all its hopes, to meet the death of the suicide in the waves of Manhattan Bay.

And Dr. Martin Fulmer, but a few hours ago a poor man, now found himself, as he stood by the bed of the dying wife, the sole trustee of the Van Huyden Estate.

His trust was to continue for twenty-one years. In case of his death, he had power to appoint a successor. And at the end of twenty-one years, on the 25th of December, 1844, the estate (swelled by the accumulations of twenty-one years), was, by the will of Gulian Van Huyden, to be disposed of in this wise:

I. In case a son of Gulian should appear on that day (December 25th, 1844), the estate should descend absolutely to him. Or,

II. In case on the day named, it should be proven to the satisfaction of the Trustee, that such a son had been in existence, but had met his death in a truly just cause, then the estate was to be disposed of, according to the directions embodied in a sealed codicil (which was not to be opened until December 25, 1844). But in case such a son did not appear, and in case his death in a truly just cause was not proven on the appointed day, then,

III. The estate was to be divided among the heirs of seven persons, descendants of the first of the Van Huydens, who landed on Manhattan Island, in the year 1623. These seven persons, widely distributed over the United States, were (by the directions of the Testator) to be furnished with a copy of the will. And among these seven or their heirs—that is, those of the number who appeared before Martin Fulmer, at the appointed place on the appointed day—the estate would be divided.

Such in brief, were the essential features of the will.

A few days after December 25, 1823, Charles Van Huyden, having in his possession $200,000 (given to him by Dr. Martin Fulmer, in accordance with the wishes of Gulian) left New York for Paris, taking with him his mistress (now his wife), their child "Francis" or "Frank," and the strange child which the woman had brought to her home, on Christmas Eve, 1823. Whether this "strange" child, or the child left with the poor mechanic, was the offspring of Gulian Van Huyden, will be seen from the narrative which follows this imperfect sketch.

Twenty-one years pass away; it lacks but a day or two of December 25th, 1844. Who are the seven heirs? Does a son of Gulian live? What has become of Charles Van Huyden; of Hoffman the mechanic, and of the child left in the care of the mechanic? What has become of Charles Van Huyden's wife and child?

On a night in December 1844—say the 23d of the month—we shall find in New York, the following persons, connected with the fortunes of the Van Huyden family:

The "Seven" or their heirs.

I. Gabriel Godlike, a statesman, who with an intellect rivaling some of the greatest names in our history, such as Clay, Calhoun or Webster, is destitute of the patriotism and virtues of these great men.

II. Herman Barnhurst, a clergyman, who has lured from Philadelphia to New York, the only daughter of a merchant of the former city. This clergyman and his victim, are pursued by the Third of the Seven.

III. Arthur Dermoyne, a mechanic.

IV. Israel Yorke, a Banker.

V. Harry Royalton, of Hill Royal, S. C. His claim to an undivided seventh of the Estate, will be contested by his half brother and sister, Randolph and Esther, who although white, are alleged to have African blood in their veins.

VI. Beverly Barron, a "man of the world."

VII. Evelyn Somers, a New York "Merchant Prince."

2d. We shall find in New York, at the period before named, Charles Van Huyden, transformed into Col. Tarleton, and endeavoring to remove from his hands the blood of a man whom he has slain in a duel. His daughter "Frank" grown to womanhood, and brought into contact with "Nameless," who left in infancy at the hovel of John Hoffman, has after a childhood of terrible hardships—a young manhood darkened by madness and crime—suddenly appeared in New York, in company with a discharged convict. This convict is none other than John Hoffman the mechanic. And gliding through the narrative, and among its various actors, we shall find Martin Fulmer, or his successor.

With this preliminary sketch—necessarily brief and imperfect, for it covers a period of twenty-one years—the following narrative is submitted to the reader. Yet first, let us for a moment glance at the "Van Huyden Estate." This estate in 1823, was estimated at two millions of dollars. What is it in 1844?

The history of two millions of dollars in twenty-one years! Two millions left to go by itself, and ripen year after year, into new power, until at last the original sum is completely forgotten in the vast accumulation of capital. In the Old World twenty-one years glide by, and everything is the same. At the end of twenty-one years, two millions would still be two millions. Twenty-one years in the New World is as much as two centuries to the Old. The vast expanse of land; the constant influx of population; the space for growth afforded by institutions as different from those of Europe (that is from those of the past), as day from night—all contribute to this result. From 1823 to 1844, the New World, hardened by a childhood of battle and martyrdom, sprang into strong manhood. Behold the philosophy of modern wealth, manifested in the growth of the Van Huyden Estate. Without working itself it bids others to work. Left to the age, to the growth of the people, the increase of commerce and labor, it swells into a wealth that puts the Arabian Nights to shame. In 1823 it comprises certain pieces of land in the heart of New York, and in the open country beyond New York. In 1844 the city land has repeated its value by a hundred; the country lots have become the abiding place of the Merchant Princes of New York. Cents in 1823, become dollars in 1844. This by the progress of the age, by the labor of the millions, and without one effort on the part of the lands or their owner. In 1823 there is a country seat and farm on the North River; in 1844 the farm has become the seat of factories, mills, the dwelling place of five thousand tenants, whose labor has swelled the original value of $150,000 into ten millions of dollars. In 1823, five thousand acres, scattered over the wild west, are vaguely valued at $5000—in 1844 these acres, located in various parts of the west, are the sites of towns, villages, mines, teeming with a dense population, and worth thirty millions of dollars. In 1823 a tract of barren land among the mountains of Pennsylvania, is bought for one thousand dollars; in 1844 this tract, the location of mines of iron and coal, is worth twenty millions.

Thus in twenty-one years, by holding on to its own, the Van Huyden Estate has swelled from two millions to one hundred millions of dollars. The age moves on; it remains in its original proprietorship, swelled by the labor of millions, who derive but a penny where they bestow upon the estate a dollar. It works not; mankind works for it. Has this wealth no duties to mankind? Is there not something horrible in the thought of an entire generation, for mere subsistence, spending their lives, in order to make this man, this estate, or this corporation, the possessor of incredible wealth?

PROLOGUE

The lamp has gone out in the old familiar room! It used to shine, late at night upon the books, upon the pictures on the wall, and upon my face as I sat writing there! Oftentimes it shone upon another face which looked over my shoulder, and cheered me in my labor. But now the lamp has gone out—and forever. The face which looked upon me is gone; the coffin lid shut down upon it one Summer day! The room is dark forever. And the next room, where she used to sleep with her children—it is dark and still! The house is desolate! There are no voices to break its stillness! Her voice, and the voices of our children, are silent forever on this lower earth. My heart goes back to that house and to its rooms, and to the voices that once sounded there, and the faces which once made it glad, and with more than the bitterness of Death I confess, that Time can never return. Nevermore, nevermore, nevermore! Wealth may come; change of scene may deaden sorrow; wrestling with the world, may divert the soul from perpetual brooding, but the Truth is still the Truth, that Time can never return. And this is the end of all, after a life spent in perpetual battle—after toiling day and night for long years—after looking to the Future, hoping, struggling, suffering—to find at last, even before thirty years are mine, that the lamp has gone out, and forever! That those for whom I toiled and suffered—whose well-being was the impulse and the ultimate of all my exertions—are no longer with me, but gone to return never—nevermore. Upon this earth the lamp that lit my way through life, has indeed gone out, and forever. But is it not lighted now by a higher hand than mortal, and is it not shining now in a better world than this?

Once more I resume my pen. Since this work was commenced, Death has been busy with my home—death hath indeed laid my home desolate. It is a selfish thing to write for money, it is a base and a mean thing to write for fame, but it is a good and a holy thing to write for the approval of those whom we most intensely love. Deprived of this spring of action, it is hard, very hard to take up the pen once more. Write, write! but the face that once looked over your shoulder, and cheered you in your task, shall look over it no more. Write, write! and turn your gaze to every point of the horizon of life—not one face of home meets your eye.

Take up the pen once more. Banish the fast gathering memories—choke them down. Forget the actual of your own life, in the ideal to which the pen gives utterance. Brave old pen! Always trusted, never faithless! True through long years of toil, be true and steadfast now; when the face that once watched your progress is sleeping in graveyard dust. And when you write down a noble thought, or give utterance to a holy truth, may be, that face will smile upon your progress, even through the darkened glass which separates the present from the Better World.