CHAPTER XIX.
THE EXAMINATION.
About half an hour later in the morning, Calvin Morton was pacing the floor of his library with a hasty step and an anxious countenance, the latter expressive of fear mingled with hope, doubt weighed against faith. "Pshaw!" he said to himself, "it isn't possible! I could not be so deceived; and yet if it should prove true—But no! no! I will not so wrong him. I would he were come, that I might know the result of his interview. Ha! perhaps that is he!" he added, as at the moment he heard a coach drive up to the door. The lawyer was not long kept in suspense; for almost the next moment he heard rapid steps along the hall, and then the door was flung suddenly open and Dudley entered. "Well, you have seen him?" said Morton, quickly. "I have." "And how fares he?" - Page 99. ] "As well as could be expected under the trying circumstances. He was delighted to see me, and I thought would never cease shaking my hand and expressing his boundless gratitude." "You delivered my message?" "I did." "Well?" "And he vowed, by all he held sacred, that a child unborn was not more free from such a crime, even in thought, than he." "I knew it—I knew it!" almost shouted Morton, fairly dancing around the room in an ecstacy of delight. "God be thanked! I knew he was innocent! And what does he think of it?" "That it is a base plot of his uncle to crush him. The check for a thousand dollars—" "Yes, yes, I know all about that." "He found yesterday, after he saw you, and had it cashed." "Ha! yes—now I see—and his uncle arrests him for forging it?" "So he thinks." "But can he prove Goldfinch gave it to him?" "Yes, I will swear to that." "Then we are safe; and the old scoundrel shall find, ere long, it is imprudent to play carelessly with edge tools. Well, what about Acton?" "I thought Edgar would go demented, when I explained the infernal plot against his sister, and how I had succeeded in arresting his cousin in the very act of his villainy. He declares I must appear against him, with what other evidence I can find, and that he must be pushed to the extreme of the law. I replied I would consult with you, but that I was fearful it was one of those aggravated cases which the law will not reach. There can be nothing proved save deception—for Virginia herself admits she went willingly, under the supposition she was being taken here— and I know of no law that will reach such a case. What think you, Mr. Morton?" The lawyer mused seriously a moment, and then replied: "For a case of deception, such as you represent, the law has no penalty; but methinks this may be taken on another ground. Remain a moment—I must first question Virginia." Here Morton absented himself about ten minutes, and then returning, said: "We have him now, if we prefer the charge of false imprisonment—for he locked the door on Virginia, and by force detained her against her will. This can be proved by Ellen Douglas, who was in an adjoining apartment and witnessed all. In an aggravated form like the present one, this is a serious offence, and he will do well to escape imprisonment." "Which Heaven grant he may not do!" rejoined Dudley; "for if all I hear of him is true, it is time his infamous career received a check sufficient to startle him into a long needed reformation. But as I am to appear against him, I suppose it is high time I was there." "True; the Recorder holds his court early; and should his turn come, and there be no witnesses present, he will be discharged." "Then I will go at once. But as regards Virginia?" "Why, she must along with you.— Stay! I will inform her at once, and Edith shall be her companion. You will remain to Edgar's examination also, at which I will endeavor to be present myself;" and the lawyer hastened out of his library. In less than five minutes he returned, accompanied by Virginia and his daughter, both bonnetted and shawled for instant departure. Dudley greeted each warmly, and immediately conducted them to a splendid barouche standing at the door, attached to which was a noble span of black horses, and, holding the reins, a black driver in livery. Assisting the ladies into the vehicle, Dudley was in the act of following, when he heard his name pronounced in a low tone; and looking round, to his surprise and indignation, he beheld Nathan Wesley. "I've been seeking you some time," said the latter, "and would like a few minutes' conversation." "Another time, then," replied Dudley; and springing into the carriage, he gave some directions to the driver, who, cracking his whip, drove off in haste. Wesley gazed after him for some moments, with a crest-fallen countenance; then muttering something in a low tone, he ascended the steps and rang the bell. Inquiring for Mr. Morton, he was shown into the library, where he remained in eager conference with the lawyer for more than half an hour, when both came forth together, and the latter, ordering his carriage, rode swiftly away, while the other sauntered off leisurely in a mood of deep abstraction. Meantime Dudley and his companions reached the police-court, just as Acton was being brought forward for examination. His features were very pale and somewhat haggard, as though he had experienced a restless night of mental torture. As Dudley entered the court-room, in advance of Virginia and Edith, Acton gave him a look of hate and malicious defiance; but perceiving the next moment who followed, his features crimsoned to his forehead, his countenance fell, and he finally hung his head in very shame. And well he might! to behold his own cousin, whom he had so shamefully abused, in company with her to whom he had paid his devoirs, before whom he would have appeared the most honorable of his sex, and to whose hand he had already boasted of having a claim, much to the annoyance of at least a score of discomfited suitors. It was a punishment far beyond that of any prison, to be so exposed at such a time; and could he have had his wish at that moment, the stone walls of the mighty fabric beneath which he stood would have crumbled to pieces and buried him under their ruins. "Well, sir! what is your name?" said the sharp, clear, stern voice of the Recorder. "Acton Goldfinch." "Your occupation, sir?" "A gentleman at large," replied Acton, somewhat pompously, thinking such a course would best cover the disgrace he felt in being so arraigned and questioned. "Umph! hardly at large now," rejoined the other, dryly. "Well, sir, what brought you here?" "My legs." "Ha! sir, you are impudent! Have a care, young man, or I will commit you for contempt of court. Has any one present a charge to prefer against Acton Goldfinch?" he asked, looking around. "So please your Honor, I have," answered Dudley, stepping forward. "Well, sir, your name, residence and occupation?" Dudley drew close to the Bench, and gave satisfactory replies, in a low tone. He was then sworn and told to proceed with his accusation; which he did—stating clearly and concisely under what circumstances he had found the prisoner. Virginia being next called upon and put under oath, told her own story briefly, confirming the words of Dudley. The Recorder mused a moment, and then said: "As the lady went willingly, I do not think I can find this a criminal offence, although one worthy of the severest censure." "So please your Honor," returned Dudley, "I do hereby accuse Acton Goldfinch of detaining Virginia Courtly against her will." "Ha!" rejoined the magistrate, "is this so? Were you so detained, Miss Courtly?" "I was." "This alters the case materially. Have you any proof of this?" "One Ellen Douglas was a witness to it." "Let Ellen Douglas come forward." "I beg leave to say, your Honor," spoke up Dudley again, "she is too ill to attend court. I have seen her this morning, and she is unable to quit her apartment. But if your Honor like, her deposition can be taken." "It is scarcely necessary at this examination, unless the prisoner desire it. Let the officers who arrested Acton Goldfinch stand forward and state what they know of this affair." The watchmen appeared, and being sworn, gave in their evidence, which, so far as it went, corroborated what had gone before. The Recorder mused again a short time, and then said, addressing Acton: "Mr. Goldfinch, as the matter stands, I shall be under the necessity of binding you over to the next term of the Court of Sessions. You will give bail in the sum of one thousand dollars, or be remanded to prison." At this moment the father of the accused came rushing into the court-room, much excited; and glancing from one to another, with an expression of mortification and dismay, mingled with a look of defiance as his eye fell upon Dudley, he exclaimed, in a hasty, pompous tone: "What is this?—what is this?" "Silence, sir!" cried the Recorder, frowning. "Is there any one present who will go bail for Acton Goldfinch?" "I will," said his father
; and inquiring the amount, he proceeded to give bonds for his son's appearance at the proper time and place. Acton was now at liberty; and bestowing a glance of hate upon Dudley, who returned his look with perfect composure, he hurried from the court-room without speaking a word. "This is your doing, sirrah!" said Goldfinch, coming close to Dudley, and fairly hissing the words in his ear. "Do not flatter yourself I will easily forget it." "Rather say your own doing, in teaching your son so little the character of a gentleman," replied Dudley, calmly, but haughtily. "As to your forgetting or remembering, both are alike immaterial to me;" and turning his back on the other, he coolly walked away. Goldfinch glared after him with a look in which all his worst passions seemed blended. Then turning, his eye fell upon Edith, and his whole manner and appearance changed, from that of a fiend incarnate, to an humble, obsequious, affable, smiling gentleman. "How fares my fair Edith this morning?" he said, bowing politely, and speaking in his blandest tones: "and how is her good father?" "We are usually well, I thank you," Edith answered, somewhat coldly. "This is a very painful affair to a fond father's feelings," he pursued, in a low tone—"this youthful folly and indiscretion of Acton. I grieve sorely that my son should be tempted to such imprudence, by one in whom I had placed the utmost confidence. You must bear in mind, my dear Edith, that it was not a scheme of his own planning, and that he was drawn into it by the machinations of another. But it has taught him a painful lesson, which he will never forget. He already regrets it as much as myself; and you may rest assured, on the word of a father, he will never be guilty of the like again." "I trust not," rejoined Edith. "It rejoices me, sweet Edith, to see you take sufficient interest in him to be present at his examination. There," he added, as, coloring deeply, she was about to reply: "There, there—I see—no excuse: I will spare your blushes. But who is this pretty companion of yours?" and he glanced towards Virginia, who, on his addressing Edith in a low tone, had modestly withdrawn out of ear-shot, and now stood regarding him, with heightened color, and an expression in which maidenly timidity, sadness and curiosity were strangely mingled. "I have rarely seen a more lovely countenance." "Or a sweeter owner," rejoined Edith. "Shall I introduce you?" "O, with pleasure, Miss Edith." There was a smile of triumph on the features of the latter, as she advanced to her companion, and, taking her by the hand, said: "Miss Virginia Courtly, allow me to present you to your uncle, Mr. Oliver Goldfinch, the father of Acton, who had the kindness, no later than last night, to steal you away by treacherous arts, and basely misuse your confidence." Had an earthquake at that moment shook the Tombs to ruins, it would have added nothing to the astonishment and dismay of Oliver Goldfinch. As Edith began to speak, he was just in the act of bending forward, with a smile on his hypocritical features, and his hand partly extended to greet his new acquaintance; but as her first words caught his ear, he started back, his whole countenance changed, became as pale as death, and then as quickly flushed with bewildered confusion. For a moment he stood regarding her as one spell-bound, and then muttering a low, deep oath of disappointment, turned on his heel and rushed from the court-room. "Let the prisoner, Edgar Courtly, be brought forward for examination," said the sharp, clear voice of the Recorder at this moment; and both Virginia and Edith became very pale and tremulous as they heard the words. "Give yourselves no alarm, my friends," said Dudley, instantly joining the maidens; "for Edgar Courtly, believe me, will come off triumphant." As he spoke, Calvin Morton entered the court-room and advanced to the party with hasty steps. "Heaven save us all!" he exclaimed: "I trust I am not too late!" "Just in time for the examination of Edgar," replied Dudley, "but too late to witness the discomfiture of his uncle." "Ha! yes—I met him coming down the steps," rejoined Morton, "and, from his manner, I almost fancied him insane.— What has happ ened?" Edith hastened to explain. "Well, he will be worse confounded and discomfitted than this ere long," replied her father, "or I am very much mistaken. I have him now," he pursued, with sparkling eyes: "I have him now, the hypocritical villain! Virginia, you shall have justice!" At this moment Edgar Courtly entered the court-room, attended by an officer, and all eyes eagerly turned upon him. He was very pale, and evidently much excited; but there was the proud look of conscious innocence on his noble countenance, and his head was erect, and his step firm and bold. On seeing him, for a moment Virginia half supported herself against the agitated Edith, and the next could hardly resist the impulse to rush forward and throw herself into his arms. As Edgar beheld his friends, his features lighted with a look of joy and hope, and his feelings became powerfully excited.— Subduing them as much as possible, he made a cheerful bow of recognition to each; but the warm, tell-tale blood deeply crimsoned his fine, manly features, as he encountered the soft, gray eye of the lovely Edith fixed upon him, with an expression of sympathetic tenderness, while a close observer might have seen that her own fair countenance brightened with an unwonted glow. "Remain where you are for the present," said Morton to his daughter and Virginia; and advancing with Dudley to Edgar, each shook his hand warmly, and bade him be of good cheer. "Edgar Courtly," said the Recorder, glancing over a paper in his hand, "I perceive you are arrested at the instance of Oliver Goldfinch, on the accusation of forgery. Let the prosecutor stand forth." "He is not present, your Honor," replied Dudley. "If there is any one here who has the charge of forgery to prefer against the prisoner, Edgar Courtly, let him or her stand forth!" Not a soul moved. The Recorder repeated his words. Still no one stirred, and the silence was so deep you could have heard the fall of a pin. "Once more, and for the last time," said the magistrate, as he again repeated his words. Then finding the result the same as before, he added, hastily: "Our time is too valuable to be trifled with. Mr. Courtly, you are discharged." Scarcely was the last sentence uttered, when, with a cry of joy, Virginia sprang forward, and was caught in the arms of her brother, and their tears of happiness mingled. Then Edgar received the congratulations of his true friends—but heard nothing that thrilled more sweetly to his very soul, to be treasured there as "a joy forever," than the simple sentence uttered by Edith, as, her delicate hand locked in his, she fixed her mild, gray eyes tenderly upon him, and said, earnestly: "I knew—I knew you were innocent!" "Come," said Morton, "this is no place for us. Our carriages wait below. Edgar, you shall with me and Edith. Cla— Dudley I mean—we will trust Virginia to your gallantry. Sorry to part brother and sister at such an interesting time— but can't help it. I have something important to tell you all—but not until we reach home." No one of course objected to an arrangement so consonant to the feelings of each; and Edgar, offering his arm to Edith, while Dudley did the same to Virginia— preceded by Morton, who jocularly remarked he was one too many—the whole party quitted the Tombs, and descended the long flight of stone steps with very different feelings from what they had experienced in making their ascent. "Yonder," spoke Edith, in a low tone, pointing down before her, slightly shuddering, and pressing closer to the side of Edgar: "Yonder it was you saved my life." "The happiest act I ever performed," was the low, earnest reply. Entering the splendid vehicles which stood in waiting, each party signed the other a cheerful adieu, and then off went the horses at a gay, proud trot, as if conscious they bore away lighter hearts than they had brought hither. The ride was not long, it is true; but four of the company fancied it the most delightful they had ever experienced.
CHAPTER XX.
THE DAMNING DEED.
The communication which Morton had to make, was one of great importance to Edgar and all interested in his welfare, and was the result of his interview with the treacherous Nathan Wesley. What this communication was, it is not our purpose here to reveal; suffice, that it altered Edgar's previous arrangement of taking up law as a profession. A week rolled away, and both Edgar and Virginia remained the honored guests of the Mortons. Dudley was a daily visitor, and always found a cordial welcome; but from none a more heart-felt one, perhaps, than from Virginia. In company with him, her brother and Edith, she took daily rides or strolls through the city, and
appeared to enjoy herself as much as it was possible for one who had so recently been bereaved of an affectionate and beloved parent. But with herself and broth er, the sad thought of their poor mother would intrude itself upon them in their happiest moments, and cloud the sunshine that otherwise had lain upon their hearts. But leaving those who form the bright parts in this our picture of life, we must return to Acton Goldfinch. We have said that one of his strongest passions was that of vanity; and never had this received so powerful a shock as at his examination, when he was not only confronted with his cousin whom he had basely treated, but also with one in whose eyes he would have stood a paragon of virtue, and who, as he now saw, being the companion of the other, must necessarily know much of his dissolute and even guilty career. As soon as bonds had been entered into for his appearance, he quitted the Tombs, feeling himself abashed, humiliated and disgraced. With a clouded brow and hurried pace, he made his way homeward, plotting in his own dark mind what steps to take to make even a feint of maintaining his honor, by retaliation on those who had been the means of exposing him. That Wesley had played a double-game, he felt well convinced; and his design was to seek him out first, upbraid him with treachery, and should his suspicions prove correct, let his mode of revenge be the result of succeeding circumstances. As chance would have it, he met Wesley on the steps of his father's mansion— both having arrived from opposite directions at the same moment—and seizing him by the collar, he accused him at once of having betrayed him, and threatened his life on the spot should be dare to deny it. But notwithstanding this, Wesley did deny it, with all the brazen effrontery of which an accomplished villain like himself was capable. He did more. He not only denied having given even a hint of the matter to a living soul, but he openly accused Clarence Malcolm of being the cause, and said that he had, by some unaccountable means, played the spy upon them—overheard, he presumed, their secret conference—had been and warned Ellen Douglas, and then lain in wait to entrap them; and wound up by swearing roundly, that going to Mott street to see how the affair would terminate and be at hand, in case he (Acton) needed help, he had been chased by the watch set on by Clarence, and had barely escaped a night's imprisonment by out-runnlng them. To this story of course Acton did not give full credence—knowing the matchless ability of the attorney to forge a truth-like lie on any and all occasions where it suited his humor or purpose—but as he had no evidence to combat it, he was obliged to let it pass current: besides, his anger now having a more worthy and important subject on which to vent itself, he concentrated his whole soul upon devising means to punish the principal aggressor. "This hated Malcolm," he said, bitterly— "how shall I revenge myself on him for his insults?" "Challenge him," suggested Wesley, who, whatever might be the result, fancied Acton would get the worst of it, or at least become deeper sunk than ever in the mire in which he was already floundering. "Ay, that is it!" cried Acton. "Challenge him I will, and you shall be my second, Wesley!" And challenge him Acton accordingly did; but his answer was what might have been expected from one of Clarence Malcolm's upright, fearless, noble nature and should serve as a model for all such as, placed in similar circumstances, have the manly courage to do right, without regard to the opinions of a few empty-headed coxcombs, whose sole valor consists in fighting bravely, in imagination, before a parterre of sentimental ladies. The note ran thus. "Sir:—I regret you have made it a necessity for me to inform you I am not the hot-brained, mad-cap fool you take me for. That I neither love nor fear you, you may rest assured; and also, that when I require a target to shoot at, I shall not gratify your false vanity by selecting your person therefor, and thus exalting you in your own estimation to the dignified position of a hero. Our correspondence ceases here. All letters sent by you, henceforth, will be returned with unbroken seals. "Clarence Malcolm, "Of Malcolm Place." "To Acton Goldfinch, "Of No. —, — Street." This was severely cutting to Acton, and so he felt it, and swore he would have revenge; and had the parties soon met, doubtless something serious would have been the consequence; but as it was, some two or three days reflection served to dampen the ardor of the challenger for an encounter with one from whom he could only reasonably expect to come off second best.— In fact, the whole nature of Acton seemed to have undergone a remarkable change, even in this short period. From a gay, dashing, rollicking, piquant fellow, he had suddenly become morose, taciturn and gloomy, holding little communion with any thing save his own thoughts. He strolled through the city as usual, visited his old haunts of gambling and dis sipation, and often drank and played himself—yet with such an abstracted mood, such indifference as to success, and with so much silence and reserve, that his old associates often rallied him upon his gravity, and swore he must have the occupation of a Methodist parson in serious contemplation. But their jests and jeers moved him not, their remarks on his changed appearance fell unheeded, and their questions remained unanswered. Thus matters continued for a week, without showing any visible change in Acton after the first two days, though both his father and sister strove to break his gloomy depression of spirits—the former by agreeing to see him safely over the coming trial, only cautioning him to be more prudent hereafter—and the latter by promising to overlook, and endeavoring as much as lay in her power, to remove the disgrace he had put upon the family, and set him right again with Edith. In truth, Arabella loved her brother with a strong sisterly affection—perhaps from his nature being so different from her own— perhaps from a natural yearning of the heart for something to cling to and entwine itself around, as the vine does around the tree its supporter—and rarely to him displayed that haughty pride she did towards almost every other. But pride, as we have said elsewhere, was her ruling passion; and setting this aside, Arabella had fewer faults than many of her sex who have been upheld as models of perfection. With her, unlike her father, there was no duplicity—no artifice, to make herself appear better than she was—no masking for the occasion; but all was plain, straight-forward, frank and artless; and if she was not at all times courteous, she was at least ever honest in the expression of her opinions and sentiments. There was a wide difference between her pride and the coxcombvanity of her brother; for where hers ennobled, his debased; where hers made dignity, his excited ridicule; where hers upheld truth and honor, his gloried in craft and deceit; where hers required the inner sanctuary of her heart to be pure in the sight of Heaven, his only wanted the outward person to be attractive in the eyes of the world: in short, where hers applauded and sustained true virtue, his revelled and sunk in vice. Arabella was proud, and Acton was vain, and we have drawn the distinction as we understand it. And to do Arabella justice, we must say she was, for the most part, right at heart, and would not intentionally do a wrong action. Though she might be led into error in the heat of passion, she would sincerely regret it in moments of cool reflection, and, if possible to do so without wounding her haughty pride, would ever make the proper reparation. When she so scornfully told Clarence his statement concerning her father's ill-treatment of his kinspeople was false—that it was a base, willful, malignant slander—she believed she spoke the truth: not that she thought him seeking to deceive her, but that he himself had been deceived. The assertion of the Courtlys being in town at all, was as much as she could credit; and it was not until the exposure of Acton's abduction of Virginia, and the knowledge of Edgar's arrest at the instance of her father, the news of which fell upon her like a thunderbolt, that she began to admit to herself there might be some truth in Malcolm's report, and some concealed wrong which reflected severely on her father. Then, had there been an opportunity to make Clarence reparation, without too much humiliation, she would have embraced it, and recalled her hasty expressions. She would also have flown to Virginia, and stood her friend and protector, only that she knew she was now safe from farther insult, and felt how humiliating would be the result to herself, in case her motives should not be properly understood and appreciated. But to return to Acton. A week passed away, and found him, as we have said, a constant
visiter of the gambling hells and houses of dissipation. The reform so greatly needed, was still as much wanting as ever. He was changed, but not for the better; for at heart the demon of his nature was silently doing his work, and gradually leading him on to that fatal step in his already guilty career, which was destined to plunge him down, down—far down—into the dark gulf of lasting shame and endless remorse. Throughout the day preceding the night when we again introduce him, he had seemed much disturbed in mind, and had drank very freely—so much so, that at an early hour in the evening, he quitted one of the many drinking saloons with which Broadway abounds, with an uncertain step. It was a clear, cold, star-light night, and reeling against a lamp-post, he paused and cast his eyes upward to the shining host, as if in serious meditation upon the thousands of distant worlds thus revealed to his unsteady gaze. But he mused not on them—for dark and gloomy thoughts were flitting through a brain made feverish by the cursed cup, which contains ruin, insanity and death! At this moment two persons passed in eager conversation, and the mention of his own name arrested his attention. "An unpleasant fix, surely," said one, "to run off with his own cousin, and get so cozened himself. They say it was all a contrived plan to get him into an ugly scrape, and that Ellen was at the bottom of it all. She had sworn to have revenge on him, by making an exposure, and took this means to do it. By my faith, I should little like to be caught the same way, and have all my love intrigues made known to the girl I was about to marry!" "And I suppose Miss Morton rejects him?" "Of course, and that is why he looks so disconsolate." Poor fellow!—ha, ha, ha! By my faith, I should think it would teach him a little prudence in his amours hereafter!" "But do you think Ellen Douglas will appear against him?" "Think so? I know it. Do you think she would let such an opportunity slip?— Not she. She will send him to Sing-Sing, if her evidence is sufficient to do so." "No, by —! she won't!" swore Acton, deeply, as the voice of the speaker now died away in the distance. "So! I am the laughing stock of the town, as I expected. And this is her triumph! By my soul, it shall be a short one!" and somewhat sobered by the cold air, and the rousing of his worst passions, he drew his cloak, which had partly fallen from his shoulders, around him, and, turning into a by-street, disappeared. Half an hour later, a person so closely muffled in a cloak that only his eyes were visible, rapped at the door of Madame Costellan. To the woman who answered his summons for admittance, he handed an English crown, and requested permission to enter unquestioned. The temptation was strong, and after looking at him intently for a moment, the other gave a knowing wink and threw open the door. The stranger passed in, and with a hurried step ascended to the next story, where, finding the door of Ellen's apartment ajar, he entered without knocking, and immediately closed, locked it and withdrew the key. Then glancing around the apartment, with a nervous, eager look, and seeing no one present, the figure moved stealthily to a door at the right, which communicated with an elegant bed chamber of suitable dimensions, and pushing it slightly open, reconnoitered the ground before proceeding farther. Satisfied, apparently, that all was right, he swung the door back with some force, and walked in with a bold, determined air. This apartment was furnished in keeping with the larger one, with a splendid wardrobe, toilet-table, dressing-chair, bed, &c., on the last of which, her pale, thin features partly revealed by the dim light which stood on the center-table, reposed Ellen Douglas, now sleeping that feverish sleep which is often the result of mental anguish and bodily ailment, and all unconscious who stood by her side, gazing upon her with a darkened brow and lips compressed. The slumberer was evidently dreaming of that eventful period when all her fresh and tender passions were called into action, ere her now guilty soul had trod the dark paths of sin and misery— when she was beautiful in innocence— the gayest of the gay and the happiest of the happy—for she murmured, in tender, pleading, touching accents: "Nay, mother, you wrong him by such suspicions! I tell you he is all that is noble and manly; and O, mother, I love him! See! see! what a beautiful present he has given me, mother! It is a massive diamond ring—and it is to be our wedding ring. O, mother, he is so rich, so handsome, and he loves me so! Nay, now, you shall not chide me! I tell you my Acton is all that is noble, honorable and generous, and I will not listen to aught said against him!" On hearing these words, the intruder, who still remained muffled in his cloak, became violently agitated, and sinking upon a seat, bowed his face forward upon his hands and groaned. The groan started Ellen, without awaking her to consciousness, and apparently changed the current of her thoughts; for the next moment she turned over quickly, partly sprang up in bed, and pointing with her finger, as chance would have it, toward the figure in the cloak, exclaimed, vehemently: "There! there! do you not see him there? the base villain—the monster—the devil incarnate! I tell you beware of him!— for his sight is poison—his touch the seal of death! Avaunt, thou fiend in human shape!—avaunt! No, no, girl," she continued, hurriedly, "he shall not harm you! Me he has ruined, but you he shall not harm! No, sweet Virginia, you are safe, and he shall suffer for his baseness, so sure as there is a God of Justice!— What! your cousin? Heavens! how strange! Ha! you want proof, eh?—proof? Well, I am ill now, but as soon as able I will appear against him." "Never!" cried the intruder, sprin ging to his feet with an oath, letting the cloak fall, and disclosing the features of Acton, now frightfully distorted with angry passions. "Never!" he fairly shouted, drawing a dagger from his bosom. "By all my hopes of security, there shall be one witness the less!" His voice awoke Ellen to a full consciousness, and beholding him in an attitude so menacing, she sank back upon her pillow with a cry of alarm. For a moment she regarded him with a peculiar look, in which various passions mingled, and then said, in a calm, deep tone: "What do you here, Acton Goldfinch? Will you not allow me to die in peace?" "No!" cried Acton, fiercely; "you do not deserve such a death!" "Monster! begone, or you will drive me mad; and already I feel my poor brain on the verge of chaos. Is it not enough that you have ruined and brought me to this, but you must now appear, Satan like, to gloat in triumph above my dying bed?" "Prove to me," Acton rejoined, a dark gleam of malice in his now fiery eyes: "prove to me, Ellen Douglas, that it is your dying bed, and you shall see my face no more!" "And this is he whom I have so loved!" cried Ellen, bursting into tears; "for whom I have sacrificed earthly reputation, and perilled my soul eternally! Oh God! oh God! the way of the transgressor is truly hard!" "'Tis false!" returned Acton; "you never loved me! You thought to share my name and fortune, and played your part to perfection—but you never loved me!" "As I hope for mercy beyond the grave," rejoined Ellen, solemnly, "I loved you with a pure affection, and only thought of your position so far as it might exalt you and make you happy." "Then why did you turn against me in my hour of trouble?" "I did not. It was you who plotted against me, to cast me off forever, and put another in the place, which, in God's sight, was truly mine. You had resolved to wed Edith Morton!" "And you to prevent it?" "Yes, I resolved to prevent it, and trust I have." "And this was your love?" "Surely so; for if any one had a right to your hand, it was I—I who had sacrificed so much for you, and borne so patiently with your many failings and false vows. I had a right to expect you would give me your hand, if not your heart—nay, even felt I had a right to demand it." "And is it possible you could be so ignorant of the world, as to suppose I would bestow my name upon one who had disgraced her own?" "Villain!" cried Ellen, with all the vehemence her weak state would allow, starting up in bed, her eyes flashing fire, and her pale countenance disturbed by many contending passions: "Why do you come here, at this time, to taunt me with being the creature of your own devilish arts? If I disgraced my name, it was you who made me, and on you the sin shall deeply recoil! Ay," she added, with prophetic power, "it shall recoil upon you through all time!—and the demon Remorse shall gnaw at your heart's core, and, like the fabled Vampire of old, suck your blood drop by drop!—and you shall curse the hour that gave you existence! Even now I see, in your pale, haggard features, the first fruits of your guilty course.
Already you are a criminal in the eyes of the law, and are meditating another deed of the darkest import! Nay, look not so fiercely upon me, Acton Goldfinch! and clench not your weapon with such a nervous grasp! I can read in your dark countenance that you came here for the worst of purposes! Strike, then, while the devil prompts, and put the crowning act to your wickedness! Think not I fear you, or longer fear to die! Better death than life for one like me! I cannot live disgraced, without hope. See here! I bare my breast to your gaze. Here is my heart—a heart that beat the truest love for you, till your own unrighteous acts wrought a fearful change.— Place your steel here and drive it home; and as you have been the author of all my misery, be my delivering angel from a world of wo! As with you my dark career began—with you let it end! So may we part forever!" The tone and manner of Ellen, as she said this, was firm and decided. There was no tremor in her voice—no agitation aparent; and as she concluded, she again sank back, and fixed her eyes, in which was a cold and seemingly unearthly lght, steadily upon his. Acton looked at her fixedly a short time, and seemed undecided what course to pursue. In truth, he began to doubt if she were in her proper senses. At length he said: "If you loved me, as you have so often affirmed, why were you not always true to me?" "As God is my judge, Acton Goldfinch, and as I hope for His mercy hereafter, I solemnly declare to you, I have ever been as loyal to you as if bound by the laws of man in the holy covenant of wedlock!" "Then why did you plot with others against me?" "I never did. I heard of your meditated design upon a lovely creature, whom I would protect with my heart's blood, and I determined to thwart it, and shame you into repentance." "And was the dragging of me to prison a proper way to shame me into repentance?" "That was none of my planning, and took me as much by surprise as yourself." "How went the report abroad, then, that it was all a plot of your own to get revenge?" "Of that I know nothing." "And why have you made it your boast that you will appear against me at the coming trial?" "I have never so boasted." "Perhaps you will have the face to deny that you ever had intention of so appearing." "No, you mistake. I shall deny no such thing. If I am summoned as a witness, and it is in my power to get before the court, I shall be there, and give true evidence of all I know concerning your infamous proceeding in that affair of your cousin." "And you dare tell me this to my face?" cried Acton, with a burst of indignation. "Dare?" echoed Ellen, with emphatic scorn: "Why talk to me of dare? I dare do right, if I have done wrong; and I would to God you had the same courage! But I have said enough. Go! I am weak and ill. Go! your presence here burdens my sight." "Promise me you will not appear against me, and I will go," replied Acton. "I will not promise. On that point I am resolved. You have run too long a guilty course, and well deserve some punishment." "Look at me!" cried Acton, brandishing his dagger aloft. "Look well! I am a desperate man, Ellen; and, if goaded too far, would not stop short of a nameless crime! Now promise me, or—" "Never!" interrupted Ellen. "Acton Goldfinch, you are a coward; for none but a coward would steal in upon a weak, defenceless woman, and with the air and language of a common cut-throat, seek to awe her into silence, or extort from her a promise against her will. Begone, sir! and never enter my presence again!— With the fierceness of a tiger, you combine the courage of a mouse! Begone, sir! or I will call for aid." "It shall be your last call then!" cried Acton, foaming with rage. "You have dared and maddened me beyond myself. Take that!" As he spoke he sprang forward, and, scarcely conscious of what he did, struck a fell blow with his dagger. A deep groan sounded in his ear. He started back, all aghast, and a cry of horror escaped his lips. He beheld the white linen of the bed red with blood! He looked on his dagger, and saw its luster dimmed with blood! Upon his hand, and beheld it bloody also! It was the warm life-blood of her who had so loved him, and had sacrificed for him her own happiness! He turned his eyes upon her once more, and saw her already gasping in the death struggle! He strove to call her by name, but he could not speak. He strove to rush to her, but he could not move. He strove to shut the horrid sight from his eyes, but they were rivetted there—there, upon the bloody work of his own hand! Oh! what an age of misery--of woful misery— of hell itself—was in that awful moment. Blood upon the bed; blood upon his dagger; blood upon the floor; blood upon his hands; all—all was blood!—an ocean of blood it seemed to the horror-stricken, fear-stricken, conscience-stricken Acton Goldfinch. "Great God!" burst at last from the lips of the murderer: "Great God! what have I done! Wo, misery, remorse, and hell itself, are henceforth mine!" "I forgive you," said a feeble, gurgling voice, the last that ever passed the lips of the poor, ill-fated Ellen Douglas. "No! no!" cried Acton, wildly: "Not forgive! Say you curse me!—curse me eternally — forever — for this damnable deed!" At this moment there came a loud knock at the outer door of the house. It aroused the murderer to a sense of his danger.— He gave one hurried glance round, and darted into the other apartment, the door of which he unlocked in eager haste.— From this there was a hall which led to a window overlooking the back yard. He rushed to this, threw it up frantically, and, all reckless of consequences, leaped out. He struck the ground unharmed, and the next moment had cleared a high board fence and was in a dark alley. He paused one moment to decide upon his course. In that moment he heard an awful shriek— the first that told his crime was known. With a groan, wrung from his very soul, he turned and fled: fled from his crime, from justice, from light: fled fast and far into the darkness of the night: fled from all but himself, his conscience, and his God!
Bennett, Emerson - Oliver Goldfinch Page 18