Old Mr. Alvord's Last Will

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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.

by George McWatters

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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 villainies. 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 Floramoud 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 even 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.

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, decrepit 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 know 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.”

The brother took it, opened it, and said, —

“This is not his writing-—-somebody’s else. It looks like a lawyer’s ‘quail tracks,’ but” (turning it over), “the signature is father’s.”

He tried to read it, but found himself puzzled; and one of the sisters tried to read it also, with like result. At last it was declared by them all that Floramond understood how to decipher poor writing better than the rest, and he read at it, making bungling work, however (pretendedly, of course, for well he knew every word of it). By this will Mr. Alvord had left all his estate to his “beloved son Floramond,” subject to the payment of certain annuities to some of the children, among whom was Margaret, who was to have six hundred dollars a year until her children should arrive at age, and then three hundred during her life. The rest all had less. Indeed, the minister, for whom Mr. Alvord had done most in the way of giving him money, was allowed an annuity of but one hundred dollars (which was to provide him a rental, the will said), for three years, and was then cut off entirely.

Mr. Alvord’s will was quite elaborate, and stated where his property was situated, —some in this and that farm, stock in manufacturing companies, money in banks and on interest; and they were all astonished at the large amount of it. The will had been written five years and more before, and there was one peculiar clause in it, —the suggestion of the crafty lawyer, probably, —which was to the effect that Mr. Alvord had never before made a will, and that he should never make another ; that he might destroy this, and leave all his children to share alike if he did so.

Margaret was confounded. She saw that she was left, as it were, in the hands of Floramond, her often-rejected suitor, and she thought she saw a smile of triumph on his face. She was greatly confused as to whether she should say anything about the other will or not; but she thought, finally, that if she was to ever say anything about it, now was the time, when all were there. So she told them all about it, and where it was kept; how Mr. Alvord had brought it home, and how it left a great deal more to then) all, and only one fourth to Floramond, and who witnessed it. This made the rest jealous of Floramond. With the old will they were in his hands: they were left comparatively poor. He had all, and the estate was far larger than any of them had thought, and it was probable that it had increased much in the five years, too.

Floramond professed to be astonished at what Margaret told, and said he was willing to abide, of course, as he would be compelled to do, by any subsequent will; but why, if father had made another will, did he not call for this one and tear it up? His not calling for it made him think, he said, that Margaret was probably mistaken. But Margaret was firm in her statement, and declared that her father had made her read it all over to him, and she told them about the thousand dollars left to John, and what John said about Mr. Alvord’s calling, on the way home, to get the will witnessed. Then they sent out for John, who was at work on the farm, and he came in and told his story before them all. He could not say that Mr. Alvord had left him a thousand dollars in the will, but that the day before he had it drawn he said he was going to do so, and he supposed he did.

At this point Floramond, in a mild way, exhibiting no uneasiness, blandly suggested that “before taking the will left with him to the surrogate’s office, the house ought to be searched thoroughly. Perhaps Mr. Alvord, who had become quite childish and fickle in the last few weeks of his life, and was always an over-cautious man, had, some time when Margaret was away, put the document into a safer place, intending to tell her where, but forgetting it;” and so it was resolved by all of them that such a search should be made at once, before they parted; and for an hour that house was searched in every nook, drawer, and possible hiding-place. Old linen, which had not been for twenty years drawn forth from trunks and chests which held it, was tumbled over, —in short, the search was complete as it could be, —but no will could be found; and there seemed but one way to do—for all to acquiesce, and accept their fate upon the terms of the will which Floramond produced, and which was all correct in form.

But there was no little feeling among the children, some of whom declared it impossible that Mr. Alvord intended to make such disposition, of his property; that Flommond must have in some way used improper influence with old Mr. Alvord; and all the public, when they came to hear of the will, were somehow impressed with the same opinion: nevertheless they all said that Floramond was a jovial fellow, and very thrifty; that Mr. Alvord liked thrifty people, and as he had provided Margaret with a sum sufficient in those days to live on, and had given her the rent of the house for life, perhaps it was, on the whole, just the thing he should have done. As for the lost will, that got noised about, and although everybody believed what Margaret said, yet the majority thought that probably Mr. Alvord had destroyed it. The will which Floramond had was duly presented and proved at the surrogate’s office, and the estate settled under it.

Time went on, and it brought Floramond frequently to see Margaret, —to look after her affairs, and occasionally to bring her money. Now that she was in these straitened circumstances he pressed his suit quite violently and provokingly at times; and although her patience was oftentimes sorely tried, she bore her vexation quite philosophically. It was evident that he did not want her for her money, for she had none; but she could not believe, after all, that he loved her, and she was sure that she did not love him. Floramond was a good business man, and aside from the property he got under the will, he had accumulated a handsome sum for himself, and in the course of a year or two from Mr. Alvord’s death he began to assume the airs and ways of a rich man;—enlarged his house and adorned his grounds quite expensively; built a row of houses in the village to rent, and possessed himself of “the best team in the county,” as he was pleased to declare his noble span of black coach horses.

All this while he was trying to court Margaret up to the accepting point, but he failed signally, and every time he visited her he grew less and less courteous; finally, in the third year, she could not get her annuity as she wanted it. He promised, but did not fulfil at the time as before, and he was “short” in his words with her, and spiteful at times. At last, as if determined to force her into compliance, he visited her one day, and having failed, though using as much severity as he could command to win her consent, he got quite angry, and wished to know of her if she intended to always spurn him; asked her if she had made up her mind to that, at any rate. She objected to the word “spurn,” for she wished, she said, to receive and treat him as a brother, but she had always declined his offers of marriage, as she thought, in a clear, frank way, and she considered that he ought to know, after all, that she could never consent to marry him.

“Then you shall suffer,” said he, bringing his teeth together with greater firmness, as if he would like to put an end to her existence with one bite; and he manifested himself with such a degree of anger that she was frightened, and arose from her chair to leave the room, when he rushed and caught her firmly by the hand, and telling her to look straight at him, exclaimed, —

“You proud thing! I tell you now that if you had consented to have me at first you should now have half of all father Alvord’s property as well as mine; but I have outwitted you. I got him to make his will as he did, and thanks to John’s blundering, I knew when he made the other; and now, as there’s no witness here, I’ll leave you to guess what became of it; and you may groan in poverty for all me, for you’ll have to sue me every time you get any more money out of the estate.”

He had hardly ejaculated these words, in anger, before he seemed to see his error, and as Margaret, now understanding his villainy, tore herself from his grasp, and rushed into another room, he followed her, and tried to laugh away the effect of what he had said.

“Ho! ho! Margaret, haven’t I told you a pretty story though? I wish it had been true, I declare; but I must tell you that I never believed a word about the second will. You must have been mistaken, and as to the first, father and Emerson, the old lawyer, got it up without my knowledge.”

Margaret, who now began to see into his real character, and who hated hypocrisy, turned upon him, and said, “There’s no occasion for you adding falsehood to your rudeness, sir. Father made that will under your direction, in my opinion, and as for the last will, you do believe that it existed, and I see now that you probably abstracted it, and I wish I could never see your face again till you can come prepared to prove that you did not. Good day, sir,” and she attempted to pass by him.

But he put himself in her way, and said she shouldn’t stir a step till she took back those words.

“I have spoken what I feel must be the truth, and I will not retract a word,” said she; “and you must let me pass, or I will call in John. There he is,” said she, pointing through the window at John, but a short distance off. The mild, quiet face of Margaret must have assumed great firmness then, for Floramond looked but once into her eyes, and stepped aside; and as she passed, exclaimed, —

“You shall live to rue this, to your full satisfaction.”

And she did suffer. Floramond managed to vex her in many ways, —sold off a portion of her garden, on which she depended for her vegetables, contending that it was only the rent of the house that was left her by the will; and sending her ten dollars on her annuity when she wanted perhaps thirty or forty; and getting up stories about her extravagance, etc. But, fortunately, she had a character and reputation formed, and he could only vex her in money matters to any great extent.

Weary months passed, and Margaret frequently thought of the wills, and what Floramond had said; and when the ministerial brother called to see her one day, about the time his hundred-dollar annuity “for a rental” was running out, Margaret told him something of her troubles, and her conviction that Floramond had stolen the will. The minister was not very astute in law matters, but he could see that it would only be by a “sort of miracle,” as he told her, that they could ever learn anything of what had become of the will; but Margaret was more hopeful, and continued to plan ways of getting at the truth.

“There was that old lawyer who had drawn the first will. May be he could find out something, —lawyers work for the side that employs them;” but the minister dampened her ardor in that direction, by telling her that Floramond probably held him under a general retainer, and he could not be reached; but finally Margaret was so anxious to have something done, that the minister consented to aid her to the extent of his little ability, as he was modestly pleased to say, and at last it came into his head that when he was once supplying for a few weeks a classmate’s pulpit in Brooklyn, he had one evening heard one of the congregation telling some marvelous stories about the adroitness and sagacity of detective officers, and he spoke to Margaret of this.

This was something novel to Margaret. She knew there were police officers, and so forth, but was not aware that there were organized forces of private officers, detectives. The minister told her one of the strange stories he had heard, and Margaret was quite astonished by it, and believed that if detectives could find out “such a thing as that they could really serve us,” and it was resolved by them that a detective should be obtained, and he might work out something.

All the rest of the children, except Floramond, were consulted, and agreed to contribute towards procuring the detective; and Margaret, who had got wrought up about the matter, and was a very capable woman to perform whatever she undertook, declared that she would procure the detective. Her cousin had long wished her to visit her at Jamaica (I think it was), Long Island, and in going through New York she would get some advice, and hunt up a detective; and thus it came that I chanced to be called in the case, and I obtained from her about what information I have thus far embodied in my narrative.

I told her it was apparently a hopeless case; that probably Floramond (who, I said, had doubtless abstracted the will) destroyed it at once, as any prudent man would have done, and that I saw no possible clue to the matter. But she was so urgent, and so willing to pay me for my time to go and see the rest of the family, and talk with them, and to look the matter over on the spot, that I consented to go, which I did duly. I learned but little more than I have recited, in the place where Margaret lived, but I thought I would like to visit Floramond’s lawyer, and found myself duly at his office.

I am very fond of the members of the profession generally. They are apt to be more “men of the world” than most other people. The practice of their profession brings them into contact with all classes of men, and they learn more or less of charity, and are, in fact, among the most reliable of citizens everywhere. But there was something in this lawyer’s face (old Boyd, we will call him and but for a son of his, an honorable man in an important position, I would call the old villain’s name fully) which revealed to me that I had a curious customer to deal with: that he lacked moral principle, and was capable of any sort of dark deed, murder included, perhaps.

I said to myself, instinctively, this old Boyd is at the bottom of this matter of the wills, and he has not let an opportunity pass to get Floramond Alvord in his clutches, and keep him there. That second will was taken by Floramond, I said to myself, and the chances are that he showed it to Boyd, and if he did, the old man was cunning enough to keep it. At this point I changed the plan of operations which I had in theory when I entered his office, and talked with him about things in general; told him I was a stranger from New York, stopping a day or two in the village; that when I was younger I had read law a little, and always felt more at home in a lawyer’s office than I did in a country bar-room or hotel parlor, and seeing his office, had wandered into it.

The old man had considerably many books, but they did not look very inviting; however, I complimented him on the size of his library, and at last asked him about his practice, and found that he had a good deal of patronage, considerable of which his age prevented him from attending to, such as that in justices’ courts; and finally I suggested that I had a brother who had studied law a few mouths in the city, and I thought it would be better for him to study with somebody in the country; there were a good many temptations for a young man to waste his time, in the city. He seemed pleased, brightened up a little, threw off the sombre shadows from his face, and went to bidding for my brother, by telling me of this and that man who had studied law with him, and who were now eminent in the profession, —which was a fact, as I afterwards learned.

So I contracted with him to have my brother come and study with him; and before I left the town I had secured good board at a moderate price for him, and went away. I lost no time in conferring with Margaret as to her ability to furnish me about such a given sum of money a month for three months, not over six at most, and I found she could do it. I told her that she must ask me no questions, and in fact must not know of any such man as I, or speak my name; and that if my plans succeeded, she would, of course, know the facts, and that would be enough; and if they failed, after proper trial, I would tell them to her, so that she should see what use her money had been put to. She was perfectly reasonable, and consented to all.

I found myself in New York city in two days from that time, and procured a young man, on whom I bestowed my last name, and sent him on with a proper letter of introduction to Mr. Boyd.

I told him he had better tell Mr. Boyd that he had forgotten all the law he had read, and that he guessed he had better read over Blackstone again at first. I had given the young man the points of the entire case as I understood it, and told him what I wanted him to do—to take his time, to study well, and to watch Floramond Alvord’s movements in connection with Mr. Boyd for the first two or three weeks, and to write me from time to time what he thought of Floramond. But the first thing he was to do, after being there three or four days, was to “slick up” the dusty office a little, sometime when Boyd was out, and surprise him by its neatness on his return, and thus beginning to win upon the old man’s respect as much as possible; to then take down and rearrange the books and the old papers, and so get himself familiarized to everything in the office; and to do these things, finally, in Boyd’s presence.

He was as shrewd a young man as I could possibly have found, and he was a handsome fellow, very. Old Boyd told him, when he presented the note of introduction, that he did not much resemble his older brother! (me), —which was a sad but absolute truth. But the young man was ready for him: —

“No,” said he; “brother takes after father’s family. I’m said to be mother’s boy.”

“Yes, yes,” said old Boyd, “I’d have known that if you hadn’t told me.”

My “brother” was not long in becoming popular in that village, and old Boyd was quite proud of him; but he did keep him studying, was “faithful” to him, as he promised me he would be. I frequently heard from my “brother,” and at last I got a letter, saying, “Come on; I will meet you at No. 1” (which meant Mrs. Margaret’s) “at such a time as you may appoint.”

I knew by this that my game had worked well, and that there was probably no time to lose; so I hastened on, and sending a letter before me, appointing the time, met my “brother” at Margaret’s. There was the document—the lost will! He had it with him. But what was to be done?

In the first place, the witnesses had long been away in California, as was supposed, and nobody knew where. Efforts had been made by Margaret to institute a correspondence with them. If they could not be found, however, we could prove their signatures by others, if we could find the experts; but Margaret had never been able to find anybody who ever saw their writing, except the old man’s, with chalk on his barn door, noting number of bushels of wheat, or when his cows would “come in,” and that would hardly do.

But I bethought me that they had sold out their farm when they went away, and must have signed the deed, the wife to convey her right of dower, and I felt easy. I instructed my brother to return to the office next morning as usual, and go on with his studies, and I would go to the county seat next day, hunt up the records, and possibly find the deed still on file there, as well as the record, and then, if it was not there, I would go to the grantees, and ask for the deed; but these people were indebted to Floramond largely, Margaret said, and would have to be approached carefully. She was still in ignorance of the will being found, but knew, of course, that I had some good reason for what I was about, and she was equally ignorant that my “brother” was studying with old Boyd.

I took the will and went next day to the county seat, and though I could not find on file there the deed which I expected to, I found the record of it, and the record and the deed, too, of another conveyance made by the same grantors, and, as luck had it, made on the very day after the will was signed; and the signatures to the two instruments were wondrously similar. I was satisfied on this point.

But there was another point to be gotten over; and this troubled my “brother” a good deal. Although he had been but two months with Mr. Boyd, he had fallen in love with a beautiful girl (who was the daughter of the richest man in the town, except Floramond Alvord, and was on intimate terms with Floramond’s daughters), and they were already “engaged,” and he wanted the matter worked so that he need not be found out in it, for the girl, he feared, would “sack him,” as the village phrase was, if he was known as having searched for and delivered up the will. So I managed to stop in disguise at the same hotel where I had been before, and to find my brother in when old Boyd was out, and learned precisely where he found the will, and the character of the documents which were in the same drawer with it; a drawer which had evidently not been opened for many years, save to hide away the will in. Among the other documents were some curious letters to old Boyd, from a man by the name of Andrew Wilcox, who had gone away years before to the west, and died, and who was a waggish fellow, and wrote funny letters, in a very peculiar style of penmanship.

I was put to my wits’ end how to work matters; but my brother told me that in two days old Boyd was going to start on a journey, to be gone a week; that the stage would leave the hotel at ten o’clock in the morning, and after that I could come in again, and may be could arrange something. But he had told me enough. I had formed my plan before his words were cold. That night I found myself at one of the adopted brother’s, about ten miles off; told him he must ask me no questions why, but that I wanted him to appear in the village at the time the stage was going off, and to ask old Boyd if he didn’t use to correspond with old Andrew Wilcox, —to which he would, of course, say “Yes;” and then Mr. Alvord was to say, “I thought so, and I’d like, for a certain reason, to get hold of some of his letters to read. He wrote such a curious hand, didn’t he?” that probably old Boyd would say he was going to be back in a week, and then he’d hunt them up; but Mr. Alvord should evince a desire to see them as soon as possible, and ask him if his clerk couldn’t hunt them for him; this to be done just as the stage was loading up to start; all of which was done, and resulted better than we expected, for old Boyd was in pretty good spirits that morning, very accommodating; and told Mr. Alvord that his clerk might hunt up the papers; though he didn’t call him his clerk but said, “Tell the handsome rascal in my office to hunt and get you all of Wilcox’s letters to read he can find; and I don’t mind if you take one or two along with you, so that you leave me some. Good morning!” and away the stage rolled.

I told Mr. Alvord that I would go over to the office, and he might drop in and ask the clerk for the letters, in the course of ten minutes. I went and arranged things, and he came and told my brother what Boyd had said. My brother made unsuccessful search in three or four places, and at last came upon the letters; hauled out a few of them, which Mr. Alvord run over, laughing here and there at the odd, eccentric expressions, which he said were just like the stories he had heard about the old man, when my brother asked if he would like to see more. As he wished to, they were produced, and among them was reposing the will where I had placed it.

Mr. Alvord was sitting by a little round table, and as my brother placed the second batch on the table, I asked him if he would not be kind enough to go over to the hotel (but a few steps off,) and buy himself a cigar, and bring some to me, handing him money. He went out; and placing my hand among the letters, I drew out the will, and placed it in Mr. Alvord’s hands—“You found that—do you understand? But I will take it, and be responsible for its return, if, after we have examined it, you think it better be returned.” He had no notion of the will yet, and acted with a sort of mechanical blindness, as I guided him, throughout wondering what I could be up to. (I had agreed to pay him very liberally for his time.) “When the clerk comes in,” said I, as I put the paper into my pocket, “remind him that old Boyd said you might take off some of the letters; the whole stage full heard him say so; and do you select a few, and when you come out, come over to the hotel, and find me. I’ll be there.”

The clerk came in, and brought me the cigars, and I offered one to Mr. Alvord, who declined to smoke, but kept on reading the letters; and I, bidding him good morning, walked out after lighting my cigar. In the course of an quarter of an hour he came out; said he found “Wilcox’s letters very interesting;” and now, said he, “I want to know what all this means.” I got him aside as soon as I could, and we went up to my room.

Locking the door, I said, “Mr. Alvord, on turning over these letters of Wilcox’s, you came across a paper which you took possession of for a moment. Now I want it understood that you kept possession of that; that the clerk handed you a bundle in which you found it, (poor fellow, what would he say, if he knew that he had unwittingly disclosed the profoundest secret in all old Boyd’s life and practice? But no matter for that.) You took the paper, and you handed it over to me, and I am going to keep it for the general good, unless you prefer to keep it. Do you understand?”

“Why, yes, and no, too,” said he. “I understand the language you use, but I don’t know what it’s all about Pray tell me at once, and end my suspense.”

“Well, you promise me on your word, as a gentleman, to be guided by me in the matter which is to follow, if you think what I shall point out to be right and just?”’

“Why, yes; any man could safely promise that.”

“Are you under any special obligations to your brother Floramond?”

“No, sir; only he has lent me little sums of money, from time to time—which” —

“You have doubtless always paid up?”

“Yes, with interest.”

“Ah, ha! then he was lending you money, and getting interest on it, which really ought to have been your own—wasn’t he?”

“Well, yes, I’ve felt so sometimes; but there’s doubt about it, perhaps.”

I had sounded the man deeply enough, and saw his temper towards Floramond; and so, drawing a little nearer him, I said, —

“You have heard of me before, but have never seen me till night before last; but we must be intimate friends for a while. Your sister Margaret has told you of me. I am the detective from New York; and this paper (pulling it from my pocket) is old Mr. Alvord’s last will and testament— the last one, and you are here entitled to a fortune.”

Mr. Alvord’s face turned pale with astonishment.

“Let me put my eyes on it!” said he; and I handed it to him, opened. He ran it over hurriedly, looked at the signature, saying, “There’s no mistake about it; and that’s father’s signature—just as Margaret always said it was. I had feared father had destroyed it, and I had entirely forgotten all about the matter for a good while. I gave up all as lost the day that Floramond produced the old will, and we searched the house, all of us, for this.”

It was not long from that morning before we had everything arranged for bringing Mr. Floramond Alvord to terms, and I remained near the scene directing matters. I held on to the will, while the brother wrote from his home to Floramond, that his father’s last will had been finally found; that he felt it his duty to inform him of it at once, and that legal steps would be taken directly; but this letter was not sent till on the day before old Boyd was expected back.

That day Mr. Floramond Alvord visited old Boyd’s office, very earnest to learn when he would be back, and asked my “brother” to ask Mr. Boyd to call on him at his house as soon as he should arrive. “Tell him I have a very important matter for him to attend to,” said he, “and want to see him at once.”

Old Boyd arrived, and the clerk gave him the word from Mr. Alvord.

“Some devilish speculation on hand, I ‘spose,” said old Boyd, gruffly, as he left his office, and proceeded to Alvord’s house. But he wasn’t gone long, and soon came back to the office, and went silently to rummaging his papers. He looked here and there, as if his memory didn’t serve him exactly; finally he came to the drawer with the Wilcox letters in them, and my brother watched his manner intently. The old man took up the letters, laid them out; took up other packages, and laid them out, and then laid them back, and looking at the Wilcox letters, said, —

“These look as if they had been disturbed lately. Have you been arranging this box?”

“No, sir. I’ve not been re-arranging the papers; but there’s a man been here, the morning you went off, and said you told him he might hunt for some letters of one Wilcox; and, in fact, as the door happened to be open, I overheard you tell him so, just as you got into the coach, and I hunted them up, and he took some of ‘em, as he said you said he might; but he said he would return them,” said my brother, very seriously, “if you thought, when you got home, that he had taken too many.”

“Did you ask him his name?” inquired old Boyd, very gravely.

“No, I didn’t think of that. I supposed, by the way you spoke to him, you were old friends, and I didn’t wish to question the gentleman,” replied my brother, naively, with a probable cock in his eye, which might have revealed a great deal if old Boyd had seen it.

Old Boyd, with an assumed manner of great composure, said, in response, —

“I wish you had asked his name. I do remember somebody speaking to me, in my haste of getting off, about Wilcox’s letters. Wonder who it was?”

“I hope he hasn’t taken off the most valuable ones,” replied the clerk.

“Well, I can’t tell; but I fear he has,” said old Boyd. “I must find out who he was. They’ll remember over to the hotel, perhaps,” and off he went over there; but it wasn’t long before the clerk saw him on his way to Alvord’s house. What transpired there then is only known to old Boyd and Floramond Alvord.

By the next day the matter was all in an able lawyer’s hands, and Mr. Frederic Alvord and he had a conference with Floramond and old Boyd.

Precisely all that happened between them I do not know; but it would seem that Floramond had given the latter will into Boyd’s hands, and he had been cunning enough to keep it as a terror over Floramond, who had indorsed his paper, etc., etc., besides always paying him enormous fees for legal business, which old Boyd managed to make quite considerable. Indeed, old Boyd had increased his property a great deal during the five or six years, and it is probable that he used Floramond to advantage in many ways.

Alvord thought best to settle with his brothers and sisters according to the terms of the lost will, and to pay them out of his fourth the income of which they had been respectively deprived of for the five years and more. Old Boyd, of course, settled his affairs with Floramond to suit himself, and it is presumed that he did not lose money; but it may be that he lost the former’s confidence. It must have been a bitter thing for old Boyd to consider how foolishly he played into Frederic Alvord’s hands through the Wilcox letters. But old Boyd is dead now, and never, I suppose, learned how Mr. Alvord was led to inquire for old Andrew Wilcox’s funny letters.

Margaret was overjoyed with the success of affairs, and declared, as did all the rest of the family, that after this she would consider nothing impossible, and never lose hope, even in the darkest hour. She is living still, a beautiful but older woman, with her children grown up about her, and married, I believe.

My “brother,” the clerk, took to the profession of the law, and studied with old Boyd for a year or more, and finished his studies in Judge —’s office, in Albany, —eventually marrying the young lady to whom I have alluded, and who brought him a fortune quite too large to be “laughed at;” but he did not continue at the profession long, but went into mercantile business, and is now a member, and has been for some years, of one of the most successful firms in New York city. The firm name is favorably known in all parts of the land. I should say that he was, through me, paid by Margaret a quite handsome sum of money for his “good behavior” in the premises; enough to enable him with economy to “pursue” his studies—and his lady. I have had many substantial reasons in my life for not forgetting the Alvord family, who believe that but for me they would still be lacking comfortable, indeed, large fortunes.

Floramond had enough with his one fourth; besides he had a fortune of his own. He ceased to persecute Margaret instantly on the development of his villainy, and two years afterwards married a woman, who, I am told, came to learn of his conduct (which it was for sundry reasons attempted to keep secret in the family), and being a woman of spirit, and much extravagance, leads him a funny life—probably using her knowledge of his conduct as a means of controlling him.

Floramond, should this sketch ever meet his eye, is welcome to reflect that he was once out-generalled by a man, of whom, happening to see him (me) one day at the hotel in his village, he asked of the landlord, “Who is that simpleton?” The landlord was only able, of course, to give him my assumed name, and say that I was from “Sandy Hill, Washington County “ (as I had registered myself), he believed.

“Yes; well I should think he was dug out of the sand, somewhere,” was Floramond’s response. I hope he still thinks so, for it must be a comfort to him.