After a moment of silent thought, he continued,—
"No,—no,—this wealth cannot pass into the hands of the seven! When Gulian, in his last hour, intrusted it to Martin Fulmer, bequeathing it, after the lapse of twenty-one years, to seven persons, in different parts of the union, he doubtless thought that chance, to say nothing of Providence, would find among the number at least four with good hearts and large mental vision. He did not think,—he did not dream, that at least five out of the seven would prove totally unworthy of his hopes, altogether unfit to possess and wield such an incredible wealth. And, believing in Providence, I cannot think, for a moment, that He will permit this engine of such awful power to pass into hands that will use it to the ruin and the degradation of the human race. The child will appear, and God will bless that child."
A sound pealed clear and distinct throughout the mansion. It was the old clock in the hall, striking the hour. Ezekiel stood as if spell-bound, while the sounds rolled in sad echoes through the mansion.
It struck the hour of twelve. The cycle of twenty-one years was complete.
The old man sank on his knees, and burying his face in his hands, sent up his soul, in a voiceless prayer.
"Come what will, this matter must be left to the hands of Providence," he said, in a low voice, as he rose. "If the child does not appear at four o'clock, Martin Fulmer has no other course, than to divide this untold wealth among such of the seven as are present. Before morning light his trust expires. But,—but,—" and he pressed his clenched hands nervously together,—"the child will appear."
Taking up a silver candlestick, he lighted the wax candle which it held, and went, in silence, through the seven vaults, (described in a previous chapter) which contained the title-deeds, a portion of the specie, and the secret police records of the Van Huyden estate.
As he passed from silent vault to silent vault, not a word escaped his lips.
He was thinking of the incredible wealth, whose evidences were all around him,—of the awful power which that wealth would confer upon its possessors,—of Nameless, or Carl Raphael, the son of Gulian Van Huyden,—of the appointed hour, now close at hand.
"What if Martin Fulmer should burn every title-deed and record here,"—he held the light above his head, as he surveyed the vault,—"thus leaving the estate in the hands of the ten thousand tenants who now occupy its houses and lands? These parchments once destroyed, every tenant would be the virtual owner of the house or lot of land which he now occupies. This would create, in fact, ten thousand proprietors,—perhaps twenty thousand,—instead of seven heirs."