The Monikins. Джеймс Фенимор Купер

of an only son and heir summoned on an occasion so solemn.

      I found my ancestor still in the possession of his senses, though given over by the physicians; a circumstance that proved a degree of disinterestedness and singleness of purpose on their part that was scarcely to be expected towards a patient who it was commonly believed was worth more than a million. My reception by the servants and by the two or three friends who had assembled on this melancholy occasion, too, was sympathizing, warm, and of a character to show their solicitude and forethought.

      My reception by the sick man was less marked. The total abstraction of his faculties in the one great pursuit of his life; a certain sternness of purpose which is apt to get the ascendant with those who are resolute to gain, and which usually communicates itself to the manners; and an absence of those kinder ties that are developed by the exercise of the more familiar charities of our existence had opened a breach between us that was not to be filled by the simple unaided fact of natural affinity. I say of natural affinity, for notwithstanding the doubts that cast their shadows on that branch of my genealogical tree by which I was connected with my maternal grandfather, the title of the king to his crown is not more apparent than was my direct lineal descent from my father. I always believed him to be my ancestor de jure as well as de facto, and could fain have loved him and honored him as such had my natural yearnings been met with more lively bowels of sympathy on his side.

      Notwithstanding the long and unnatural estrangement that had thus existed between the father and son, the meeting on the present occasion was not entirely without some manifestations of feeling.

      “Thou art come at last, Jack,” said my ancestor; “I was afraid, boy, thou might'st be too late.”

      The difficult breathing, haggard countenance, and broken utterance of my father struck me with awe. This was the first death-bed by which I had ever stood; and the admonishing picture of time passing into eternity was indelibly stamped on my memory. It was not only a death-bed scene, but it was a family death-bed scene. I know not how it was, but I thought my ancestor looked more like the Goldencalfs than I had ever seen him look before.

      “Thou hast come at last, Jack,” he repeated, “and I'm glad of it. Thou art the only being in whom I have now any concern. It might have been better, perhaps, had I lived more with my kind—but thou wilt be the gainer. Ah! Jack, we are but miserable mortals after all! To be called away so suddenly and so young!”

      My ancestor had seen his seventy-fifth birthday; but unhappily he had not settled all his accounts with the world, although he had given the physician his last fee and sent the parson away with a donation to the poor of the parish that would make even a beggar merry for a whole life.

      “Thou art come at last, Jack! Well, my loss will be thy gain, boy! Send the nurse from the room.”

      I did as commanded, and we were left to ourselves.

      “Take this key,” handing me one from beneath his pillow, “and open the upper drawer of my secretary. Bring me the packet which is addressed to thyself.”

      I silently obeyed; when my ancestor, first gazing at it with a sadness that I cannot well describe—for it was neither worldly nor quite of an ethereal character, but a singular and fearful compound of both—put the papers into my hand, relinquishing his hold slowly and with reluctance.

      “Thou wilt wait till I am out of thy sight, Jack?”

      A tear burst from out its source and fell upon the emaciated hand of my father. He looked at me wistfully, and I felt a slight pressure that denoted affection.

      “It might have been better, Jack, had we known more of each other. But Providence made me fatherless, and I have lived childless by my own folly. Thy mother was a saint, I believe; but I fear I learned it too late. Well, a blessing often comes at the eleventh hour!”

      As my ancestor now manifested a desire not to be disturbed, I called the nurse and quitted the room, retiring to my own modest chamber, where the packet, a large bundle of papers sealed and directed to myself in the handwriting of the dying man, was carefully secured under a good lock. I did not meet my father again but once under circumstances which admitted of intelligible communion. From the time of our first interview he gradually grew worse, his reason tottered, and, like the sinful cardinal of Shakespeare, “he died and gave no sign.”

      Three days after my arrival, however, I was left alone with him, and he suddenly revived from a state approaching to stupor. It was the only time since the first interview in which he had seemed even to know me.

      “Thou art come at last!” he said, in a tone that was already sepulchral. “Canst tell me, boy, why they had golden rods to measure the city?” His nurse had been reading to him a chapter of the Revelations which had been selected by himself. “Thou seest, lad, the wall itself was of jasper and the city was of pure gold—I shall not need money in my new habitation—ha! it will not be wanted there!—I am not crazed, Jack—would I had loved gold less and my kind more. The city itself is of pure gold and the walls of jasper—precious abode!—ha! Jack, thou hearest, boy—I am happy—too happy, Jack!—gold—gold!”

      The final words were uttered with a shout. They were the last that ever came from the lips of Thomas Goldencalf. The noise brought in the attendants, who found him dead. I ordered the room to be cleared as soon as the melancholy truth was fairly established, and remained several minutes alone with the body. The countenance was set in death. The eyes, still open, had that revolting glare of frenzied delight with which the spirit had departed, and the whole face presented the dread picture of a hopeless end. I knelt and, though a Protestant, prayed fervently for the soul of the deceased. I then took my leave of the first and the last of all my ancestors.

      To this scene succeeded the usual period of outward sorrow, the interment, and the betrayal of the expectations of the survivors. I observed that the house was much frequented by many who rarely or never had crossed its threshold during the life of its late owner. There was much cornering, much talking in an undertone, and looking at me that I did not understand, and gradually the number of regular visitors increased until it amounted to about twenty. Among them were the parson of the parish, the trustees of several notorious charities, three attorneys, four or five well-known dealers of the stock exchange, foremost among whom was Sir Joseph Job, and three of the professionally benevolent, or of those whose sole occupation appears to be that of quickening the latent charities of their neighbors.

      The day after my ancestor was finally removed from our sight, the house was more than usually crowded. The secret conferences increased both in earnestness and in frequency, and finally I was summoned to meet these ill-timed guests in the room which had been the sanctum sanctorum of the late owner of the dwelling. As I entered among twenty strange faces, wondering why I, who had hitherto passed through life so little heeded, should be unseasonably importuned, Sir Joseph Job presented himself as the spokesman of the party.

      “We have sent for you, Mr. Goldencalf,” the knight commenced, decently wiping his eyes, “because we think that respect for our late much-esteemed, most excellent, and very respectable friend requires that we no longer neglect his final pleasure, but that we should proceed at once to open his will, in order that we may take prompt measures for its execution. It would have been more regular had we done this before he was interred, for we cannot have foreseen his pleasure concerning his venerable remains; but it is fully my determination to have everything done as he has ordered, even though we may be compelled to disinter the body.”

      I am habitually quiescent, and possibly credulous, but nature has not denied me a proper spirit. What Sir Joseph Job, or any one but myself, had to do with the will of my ancestor did not strike me at first sight; and I took care to express as much, in terms it was not easy to misunderstand.

      “The only child and, indeed, the only known relative of the deceased,” I said, “I do not well see, gentlemen, how this subject should interest in this lively manner so many strangers!”

      “Very spirited and proper, no doubt, sir,” returned Sir Joseph, smiling; “but you ought to know, young gentleman, that if there are such things as heirs there are also such things as executors!”