 | CHAPTER X.
THE BETRAYER AND HIS VICTIM. Oliver Goldfinch, or, The hypocrite |  |
10. CHAPTER X.
THE BETRAYER AND HIS VICTIM.
As the reader may have some curiosity
to know something more of Acton Goldfinch,
an individual destined to fill a dark
page in this history, we will return to the
splendid apartment of Ellen Douglas.—
Ere he entered her presence, Ellen had
resumed her reclining posture on the settee,
from which, as the door opened, she
languidly raised her head to give him a
faint welcome. As he advanced to her
side, the light, falling full upon him, revealed
a young man of slight but handsome
figure, some three and twenty years
of age, with a countenance peculiarly calculated
to arrest and rivet the attention
of the most casual observer. Though
slightly effeminate, it was comely, much
beyond what is generally seen in one of the
male sex—possessing that singular beauty
which is far more apt to fascinate than
please the fastidious. His features were
fine and regular, with dark, eloquent black
eyes, capable of a soft and languishing, a
bright and merry, or dark and piercing expression,
according to the varying moods
of their possessor. A rather high, though
somewhat narrow forehead, a slightly aquiline
nose, a pertectly formed mouth, filled
with a beautiful set of ivory teeth, and a
him a physiognomy that would have been
prepossessing as it was handsome, were it
not for a something in the expression,
seen at intervals, like a light cloud passing
athwart the sun, which warned one to
be chary in bestowing confidence. His
complexion was dark, but very clear, almost
transparent, adding much to his
beauty; and as he raised his hat, he displayed
a comely-shaped head, covered with
a profusion of dark brown, natural curls.
He was richly but rather gaudily dressed,
nearly every article differing in color,
though each the brightest and most showy
of its kind; while a profuse display of jewelry,
all incompatible with good taste,
proved his vanity paramount to his judgment.
And this, if he had any at all, might
be set down as the ruling passion of Acton
Goldfinch—for to gratify his vanity, he had
been led into those very excesses which
were fast and surely hastening him to his
own destruction. Unlike his father, he
was not far-seeing, and lacked the cunning,
shrewdness and intellect to be a
great schemer. He was a villain, but not
a deep one; and this not on the score of
principle—for in this he was deficient—
but because he lacked the mental power
necessary to make him such. Honor of a
certain kind he had—a sort of fashionable
honor—which causes disolute young men
to pay their gambling debts, though many
times at the expense of such as do them
menial services. Honesty he had to a certain
degree—insomuch, that having enough
of his own, he never thought to steal
from others. He was benevolent, too, in
some respects—that is, he could and
would give freely whenever his fancy
prompted and his vanity seemed likely to
reward him; but he would go no farther—
the usual claims which suffering penury
has upon our sympathies, having no effect
upon his. If he had any veneration, it
was for the man who could best handle a
pack of cards, make the largest single
count at billiards, or prove champion in a
pugillistic encounter. In short, his mind
was gross and selfish, and adapted rather
to sensual than intellectual enjoyments.
Yet he could be remarkably fascinating to
the opposite sex—too much so for their
own good—for his consummate vanity and
unprincipled nature, ever led him to take
advantage of their innocence whenever
opportunity favored. It was to gratify his
vanity he completed the ruin of Ellen
Douglas; and it was alone her beauty, of
which it was his pride to boast among his
associates, that had thus far kept him
from utterly deserting her. Perhaps the
reader, acquainted with the localities of
New York, and knowing Acton so vain,
will be surprised he did not board Ellen in
a more fashionable quarter of the city;
but for this he had his reasons, of which
it is unnecessary we should speak.
To all the qualities, good and bad, of
Acton Goldfinch, we must add one other,
more dangerous than all the rest. If he
had a countenance and an eye to fascinate,
he certainly had a voice to charm,
whose every intonation was melody itself—and
this was by far the most dangerous
weapon with which he assailed the
citadel of virtue. Possessing a good flow
of language, he could talk for hours, in
a way to please, soothe and enchant, like
the music of a murmuring stream—and
yet never advance one grand or original
idea, or inculcate one highly moral principle.
But the mass of mankind look
more to the manner of delivery than the
sentiment; and hence a gem of thought,
plainly spoken, will make less impression
than a stale idea brilliantly uttered. In
this latter virtue lay the power of Acton
Goldfinch, and he both knew and used
it.
“Well, Ellen,” he said, in a bland but
carless tone, “you are looking disconsolate
—how is this?”
“I seldom look happy,” was the grave
reply; “or if I do, my looks belie my
heart.”
“Not happy,” he rejoined, pertly, stroking
his chin with an air of self-complaisance,
“and a rich man's son for your lover!
Fie, Ellen, fie!”
“I would he were a poor man's son,”
said Ellen.
“Why so?”
“I could then hope.”
“Hope? poh! will you never cease of
You have the reality before you, so for
what need you hope?”
“That he who sits beside me, will redeem
his many broken vows, and in part
repair the wrong he has done me.”
“Nonsense, Ellen—what has put you
to thinking of this again?”
“It is never absent from my mind.”
“Well, well,” rejoined Acton, hurriedly,
and seeming somewhat embarrassed; “all
in good time, Ellen—all in good time.”
“You procrastinate,” said Ellen, fixing
her dark eyes upon him. “You even use
less protestation of compliance than formerly.”
“Poh! you mistake, girl.”
“No,” cried Ellen, with vehemence,
grasping his arm somewhat wildly, “I do
not mistake! You have some other plan
in view—you intend to desert me!”
“No, on my honor!” returned Acton, in
some confusion: “I tell you you mistake.”
“And I tell you I do not mistake!” rejoined
Ellen, more vehemently than ever,
now fully roused to a sense of meditated
baseness on the part of her lover.
“And can you for a moment, my dear,
beloved Ellen, think I would desert you?
No, on my knees, I swear—”
“Hold!” interrupted the other: “swear
no more, Acton Goldfinch! for you have
broken oaths enough already to damn one
far less guilty than yourself. Swear no
more, I tell you, for the thought of it sickens
and fills me with horror! On your
bended knees, calling Heaven to witness,
you swore, three years ago, to make me
your wife. A dozen times since have you
done the same thing—and yet what am I
now? A thing to be loathed and despised
by all virtuous people—a poor human
wretch, destined to fill a guilty grave! Oh!
Acton, why did you come to me, when I
was happy, and beeause I loved you and
trusted you, coldly and cruelly betray my
confidence, and put a stain upon my name
that an ocean of repentant tears can never
wash away? Why did you come to me,
I say, when I was happy, and with insiduous
arts forever ruin my peace of mind,
making of me a wretch that abhors her
own existence? You knew I loved you,
wildly and madly—so madly, oh God! that
I forsook my own home and my beloved
mother at your request! For you I disregarded
the righteous counsels of one whom,
but for you, I would have drained my heart
of its blood sooner than so offended. And
what have been the awful consequences
which I have struggled to bear for your
sake? Look at them, Acton, as I do, with
a quailing eye! My mother is in her grave
—her broken heart crumbling to dust—
a noble heart, broken by the conduct of
me, her daughter, because she loved me
more than life. And I—I—” she fairly
screamed in frenzy, griping his arm fiercely,
and letting her dark eyes burn into his,
that quailed before their powerful glance
and sunk to the ground—“I broke that
heart for you—for you—who in return only
blighted mine, as the frost does the flower,
and made me the victim of false-sworn
vows! Look at the three years of suffering
I have borne—suffering beyond the
power of mortal tongue to describe—suffering
full of wo unatterable, ruined
hopes, corroding remorse, and a guilty conscience,
still made guiltier by the damning
deeds of daily perpetration! Think of it,
Acton—look upon it—and let the thought
harrow up your soul to a redeeming virtue!
Remember all this has been done for you
—for love only—by one you once basely
betrayed, and have now planned to desert
and cast away, as we throw chaff upon the
wind!”
Ellen paused, and gazing upon her trembling
lover for a moment—now trembling
with fear rather than regret—she relaxed
her grasp, sank slowly back on her seat,
and covered her face, as if to shut out the
horrid scenes her memory had called up
from the eventful past.
For a few minutes Acton made no reply,
and for the simple reason he knew not
what to say. What he had just heard he
felt was true; and he was completely confounded
at Ellen's seeming knowledge of
what he had supposed a profound secret,
and overawed by her wild, impetuous manner.
Never had he seen her thus but once,
and that the time already referred to by
herself, when she forced from him a solemn
vow to make her his. Three years had
quiet, docile being; and he had fancied
himself secure—that her spirit was crushed—the
lion of her nature forever subdued.
But now was he suddenly made aware of
his mistake, and saw himself entangled in
a perplexity whence there appeared little
chance of extrication. What was to be
done! He fain would have lied on, but she
had stepped his oaths and would not receive
his vows, and therefore had made
him dumb of protestations. Should he
come out boldly, own all, and brave her to
her teeth? He feared to do so, and yet
this might produce the desired effect. At
all events, he resolved to try duplicity once
more, and should this again fail him, he
would be guided by circumstances. Having
resolved, he turned to her, and gently
taking her hand, which she passively permitted,
he, in his blandest and most musical
tones, said:
“Ellen, dearest Ellen—idol of my heart
—my soul's adoration—you wrong me!
What you have said of suffering on your
own part, I know to be true; but it seems
you have overlooked mine. I too have
suffered under the vigilant eyes of a suspicious
father, lest our secret should be discovered,
and either I be ruined in prospects,
or all intercourse between us be broken
off forever. How can you accuse me, for
a moment, of thinking to desert you?—you
whom I love almost to madness, and for
whom I have done so much. Look around
you, upon the splendors of this apartment!
Is there a thing here that was not purchased
with my money?—and would I have bestowed
it thus, had I not loved you?”
“Take back all you have given me!”
said Ellen, sternly, uncovering her pale
face, and fixing her dark, determined, unquailing
eye upon his; “take back all,
strip me of every thing I possess, clothe
me in rags, feed me on bread and water,
but make me your lawful wife, and I will
bear all without a murmur—will never reproach
you more—nay, will daily bless
you, and do all that within me lies to render
you happy. You say you love me!
Give me the proof of your hand and I will
be happy—Or if not happy,” she added,
quickly, correcting herself, “I will at least
make no complaints, and will ever greet
your coming with a smile, your going forth
with a blessing.”
“But,” hesitated Acton, “if I were to
do this, and it should reach my father's
ears—”
“But it shall not,” interrupted Ellen.
“There is no necessity of making the affair
public. We can be privately married,
and none be the wiser of our secret.”
“Well, I will see what can be done.”
“Then you must see quickly, for I have
set my heart upon it, and it must speedily
be accomplished. Ay, for that matter, a
license can be procured, and the ceremony
performed at once. Why should we delay?”
“Certainly,” returned Acton, stammering;
“but you see—the fact is—I—that
is—”
“Hold!” exclaimed Ellen, springing to
her feet and gazing upon him with the
dignified calmness of suppressed passion.
“Hold, Acton Goldfinch, ere the love I
have borne you turns to hate, and these
hands do a deed time can never undo! I
see it all! You do not love me, and never
did—all your false oaths to the contrary
notwithstanding. And now, Acton Goldfinch,
you almost hate me—and for why?
Because you fancy I stand in your way.
Well, sir, you fancy truly. I do and will
stand in your way, so long as I am cursed
with an existence; and if you farther
wrong me, my sinful spirit shall rise from
my grave to haunt you. Now mark me,
and ponder well on all I say! for not one
word will be spoken that has not been
carefully weighed. You are on the point,
or at least you think so, of forming a
wealthy alliance. Nay, start not, and use
not thy lying tongue, for you see I know
all! The daughter of Calvin Morton is no
small prize; and I can hardly wonder you
should seek to cast off for her, one whose
artless innocence you succeeded in betraying,
and whose now blasted reputation
would, as your wife, add nothing to
your besetting sin of vanity. I do not
wonder, I say, you seek to cast her off for
another. But this may not be. Edith
Morton, I learn, is an angelic creature of
pure virtue. She must not link herself to
Besides, I, who now stand before you a polluted
wretch, was once, perhaps, as good
aud pure as she. Who made me what I
am? You, Acton Goldfinch—you—and to
you I look for such reparation as lies in
your power.”
“But surely, Ellen, you would not
blight my fair prospects?” pleaded Acton,
greatly astonished at her knowledge of
what he believed her ignorant.
“Blight your fair prospects!” repeated
Ellen, with indignant scorn: “Blight
your fair prospects! Why not? Have
you not blighted mine—not only temporally
but eternally?”
“But you know that was in the, excess
of youthful passion, when the brain was
hot.”
“And having cooled on my disgrace,
the passion fled, you would say?” rejoined
Ellen, with the utmost difficulty suppressing
a burst of indignation.
“Why, not exactly that, though something
like it,” answered Acton, mistaking
the apparent tranquility of the other for
something more real. “But come, let us
settle this matter amicably, as two lovers
should. You have a strong claim upon
me, I admit; but I am wealthy, and will
buy it up. By Jove! you shall be rich;
and with riches, you know, come all the
other creature comforts. Come, what say
you?”
It is impossible to describe the expression
on the countenance of Ellen, as these
heartless words escaped the lips of her
perfidious lover. It was a curious mingling
of scorn, hate, grief, self-reproach and
remorse. In a moment, as it were, the
scales had fallen from her eyes, and she
beheld Acton Goldfinch the mean trifling
villain he was. A villain, to some extent,
it is true, she had always believed
him; but she was unprepared for such
cold-hearted baseness. He seemed no
longer anxious to put her off with even
false promises, but rather to let her understand
she was a commodity to be
trafficked with—to be bought and sold as
a beast or slave. Hitherto, amid all the
stormy passion of her ill-fated existence,
there had been no period when the bea
con-light of hope appeared completely extinguished.
It had burned dim and dimmer—had
been almost lost sight of in the
mists of the distance—but still its vicinity
could ever be traced, and by it her frail
bark had been saved from destruction. Now
a single breath had extinguished it, and
she was left to grope her way in darkness.
It is a terrible thing to feel utter desolation—to
know your last hope is gone—
that you have now nothing more cheerful
to look to than death and the cold silent
tomb! How it chills the heart, making
the very blood that courses your veins like
ice-bound streams, and your soul shrink
within itself with a trembling, undefinable
horror!
Ellen made no loud demonstrations of
anger or disappointment; but she looked
fixedly at Acton, till his eyes, that at first
encountered hers triumphantly, sank to
the ground, and an awe, he in vain sought
to shake off, held him spell-bound and
speechless.
“You have spoken,” she said, in a voice
so changed and sepulchral that its tones
startled him;” you have, in a moment,
turned to hate the love of one whose greatest
fault has hitherto been that of loving
you too well. Well, be it so; but take
yourself hence at once and forever!—
Henceforth I would forget, during the short
period I may survive, I have ever seen one
who bore the name of Acton Goldfinch—
one whom I now hate with all the bitterness
of my nature. Go, sir! begone! and let
us never meet again, or I may be tempted
to do what can never be undone!”
“But, dear Ellen,” pleaded Acton, “you
surely will not follow to persecute me?—
you will let me go my ways in peace?”
“So far as this: I solemnly swear, before
that Almighty God in whose presence
ere long I expect to stand, that if in my
power, I will expose you to Edith Morton,
that she may be saved, if she will but
take heed. Farther than this I care not”
“You swear to do this?” cried Acton,
starting up in rage.
“I do.”
“Then, by—! you shall not!” he cried,
seizing a silver hilted dagger that rested on
the table. “Sooner than be so exposed by
let out your heart's blood!” and he made
towards her, as if to strike, his countenance
expressive of the blackness of his
heart.
Ellen showed no signs of fear, but calmly
folding her arms on her breast, again
fixed her dark, penetrating eye upon his.
Acton, encountering that look, paused irresolute.
“Fool!” she said, tauntingly; “for what
do you take me?” And then added sternly:
“Begone, Acton Goldfinch—begone!”
As he did not seem disposed to comply
at once, she suddenly sprang forward,
and ere he was aware her object,
wrenched the weapon from his hand and
wildly brandished it before his eyes.
“It is my turn now,” she exclaimed,
triumphantly, as he took a step or two
backwards in alarm. “Begone, I say!
or, by my mother's soul, I strike this to
your heart!”
“I go,” he said, hastily quitting the appartment
and shutting the door behind
him. “I go,” he muttered again, to himself;
“but I will have my revenge! She
will expose me, eh?” he continued, biting
his lips. “Expose me—make me the
laughing-stock and gossip of the town!
No, no, by —! she shall not; I will see
her dead first;” and with these dark words,
uttered by his heart as well as lips, he
left the house.
As for Ellen, as soon as he was gone,
she turned, staggered to the settee, and
throwing herself upon it, in a state of exhaustion,
burst into tears.
Poor girl! Her heart was now indeed
desolate—her last hope had fled.
| CHAPTER X.
THE BETRAYER AND HIS VICTIM. Oliver Goldfinch, or, The hypocrite | |