University of Virginia Library

17. CHAPTER XVII.
THE HAPPY DELIVERANCE.

Not more astonished was Virginia at
the sudden entrance of Dudley and the
officers of police, than was Ellen herself—
for these new-comers formed no share
in her plot, which only concerned a
few inmates of the house, with whom she
had so arranged, that, at a given signal,
they were to rush in and witness the chagrin,
rage and disappointment of Acton;
and, in case he meditated violence, prevent
him doing injury.

In fact Dudley did not appear by any
preconcerted arrangement, but by one of
those singular yet common-place accidents,
which, happening at an unlooked
for and important crisis, seem strange and
mysterious, and almost force one into the
belief of a special Providence. He had
been in the lower part of the city on business,
and was on his return home at a
rather advanced hour, when the fancy
struck him that he wished to see Edgar—
we will not say that he did not think of
Virginia, but leave the reader to his own
inference—and he therefore shaped his
course accordingly, trusting to good fortune
to find the party he sought still astir.

As he came in sight of the house, a
coach was standing before the door; and
almost at the same moment a female entered
it, followed by a gentleman,and
then it drove away, leaving a third party

behind. Dudley would have thought nothing
of this, but that he somehow fancied
the female was Virginia Courtly, and that
the manner of Wesley—whom he well
knew as a sort of attorney of Goldfinch,
and whom the light of a lamp under which
he now passed enabled him to recognize—
had something in it calculated to arrest
attention; for he shook his fist after the
carriage, and muttered words, the import
of which Dudley could only judge from
his actions was of a threatening nature.
To say the least, there was something
very singular in all this, time and place
considered; and perceiving a man standing
in the door of the lower story, Dudley
hastened to him, and inquired if he
knew the persons who had just driven off
in the carriage. The man replied that
the lady was a tenant of his, whose brother
had just been arrested for forgery and
taken to the Tombs; but that the gentleman
who accompanied her was one he
had never before seen.

As a matter of course, the intelligence
of Edgar's arrest for so startling a crime
as forgery, fell upon Dudley with stunning
force, and for a few moments he
stood as one bewildered. Then bethinking
himself of Wesley, who he fancied
must know all about it, he darted away to
overtake him, leaving his informant to
stare after him and wonder whether or no
he was in his right senses. Turning the
corner where he had last seen Wesley disappear,
Dudley hastened on for a square
or so, when he again came in sight of him,
moving along at a very leisure pace. As
he drew near, and was in fact about to accost
him, he discovered that the attorney
was in one of those deep reveries, when
the mind, turned upon itself, takes no
cognizance of outward things, and was
muttering, but loud enough for Dudley to
overhear:

“Yes, by heavens! I'll do it; and then
he may make his money save him if he
can. I've had this matter on my conscience
long enough; and after I've forced
him to buy my silence, I'll to —”
Here the words became indistinct, though
the speaker grumbled to himself for some
time afterwards. At length Dudley heard
him say, as if in conclusion: “But first
to see this madcap fairly caught in his
own trap.”

The effect of this on Dudley was to alter
his first determination, and, without
letting himself be seen, keep the attorney
in sight, rightly judging from his words
and manner there was some dark scheme
afoot, a knowledge of which he might
never gain by showing himself too soon.
Accordingly when Wesley stoped in Mott
street, before the house where Ellen resided,
Dudley screened himself, so that he
could, unseen by the other, not only watch
all his his motions, but note every thing
taking place around him.

Here his patience was much tried by
long waiting, and he was just on the point
of throwing up his office of spy and accosting
the attorney as to the meaning of his
singular manœuvers, when the carriage,
containing Acton and Virginia, halted nearly
abreast of him, and he heard the dialogue
between them as they entered the house.
There was no longer doubt in his mind as
to who they were—for well he knew them
both—and remembering their first meeting,
when he had interfered to save Virginia
from insult, he felt almost certain
the latter was now the victim of some
damnable plot. His first impulse was to
spring forward to her rescue, but prudence
counselled the wiser course of being positive
he was not mistaken in the matter,
and then going armed with the strong majesty
of the law. He therefore turned on
his heel, and the next instant stood confronting
the astonished Wesley, who
would scarcely have been more surprised
had a specter arose in his place. Seizing
the attorney with a grip that both pained
and startled him, he said, in a low, eager,
emphatic tone, pointing with his other
hand toward the house opposite:

“Who are those I have just seen enter?”

“How should I know?” replied Wesley,
trembling.

“Villain! you do know!” rejoined Dudley,
firmly, but still in a low, deep tone;
“and if you do not tell me on the instant,
I will have you arrested by the night-watch
and dragged to prison!”

“By what authority?” asked Wesley,
attempting to assume an easy assurance
he was far from feeling.

“By the authority of that law, sir, which
punishes most severely a foul conspiracy
like this. Nay, do not seek to evade me
by inventing falsehood. It will not pass.
I have long been watching you, and know
enough already to put you in limbo.
Speak quick, make a clean breast of it,
and you may go—otherwise I will give
you into custody.”

Thus menaced, fearful of the consequences
if he remained obdurate, anxious to
escape and at the same time deepen his revenge
on Acton, the trembling attorney
only stipulated that he should not be
called in question, and then in a few
words hurriedly put Dudley in possession
of the whole scheme of his confederate,
his designs upon Virginia, and the part he
had himself played to prevent the accomplishment
of his fell purpose. So eagerly
spoke both, that the time consumed was
scarce five minutes, ere Dudley had gained
all be then cared to know; and bidding
Wesley go home, as he valued his own
safety, he turned away to seek means for
punishing the offender, and rescuing one
who had, for some time, occupied no small
share of his thoughts.

As chance would have it, the coach
was still in waiting, and the driver, who
had delayed departure on some business of
his own, was just in the act of mounting
his box. Hailing him, Dudley bade him
remain a few minutes; and then hurrying
away, he summoned a couple of the watch,
informed them what had transpired, and
requested their assistance—which being
readily granted, he, in their company, appeared
upon the scene of action at what
time and in what manner the reader has
already seen.

Thither let us again repair.

Overcome with astonishment, fear and
rage, it was not until Virginia, half-fainting,
had been placed on a seat by Dudley,
and the room been tolerably well filled
with the inmates of the house, drawn
hither by alarm and curiosity, that Acton
found sufficient command over his voice
to render his words intelligible.

“Villian!” he cried at last, addressing
himself to Dudley; “this is the second
time you have crossed my path, and, by
—! you shall rue it!”

“Keep your threats for those who fear
you,” retorted Dudley in a calm tone; “and
beware what villainies you attempt in future,
or it will not be the last time you will
find me a stumbling block in your guilty
course.”

“O, that I were free!” shouted Acton,
making as if he would spring upon Dudley,
were he not restrained by the officers.

“If so you like, gentlemen,” returned
Dudley, addressing the latter, “set him
free; and if he want justice and chastisement
at my hands, he shall have both, to
his full satisfaction—I only protesting,
that if I am forced to soil my fingers on
so mean a coward as one who has sought
by the basest arts to degrade a lady to his
own level—that lady his lawful cousin—I
do it merely to show him he now stands in
the presence of his master and superior.”

Saying which, Dudley folded his arms
on his breast, and fixing his eyes steadily
upon Acton's, gave him such a look of cool,
calm, resolute defiance, that the gaze of
the latter quailed before it and fell.

“No, no, gentlemen—we can't have
any quarreling here!” now spoke up one
of the watch.

“Have no fear,” replied Dudley, sarcastically;
“the youth is perfectly harmless
among his own sex;” and he turned away
to speak with Virginia.

“By my soul, you shall eat your words
some day!” replied Acton, fiercely, whose
courage, like that of many others, always
rose as the danger diminished.

“Look at him!” cried Ellen, tauntingly,
pointing at Acton with her finger, and
addressing those around her. “Is he not
a brave youth and proper, to steal away
his own cousin by treachery, for his own
foul ends? Look at him—mark him—
that is Acton Goldfinch—son of the great
millionaire, Oliver Goldfinch—who is, I
have learned, the first in his profession of
a hypocritical villain. By my faith! he has
a hopeful pupil in his own son;” and she
concluded with a hysterical laugh, that
thrilled the nerves of all who heard it.

Even Acton himself, who was gnashing
his teeth in rage at her taunts, suddenly
changed countenance when he heard that
laugh, and glanced toward her a startled
expression, in which something like pity
could be traced. As he did so, he saw her
stagger, and fall, and heard the females
around her cry that Ellen Douglas had
fainted.

Mortified, abashed, ashamed of himself,
Acton now quitted the room in company
with the officers; and as he did so, he saw
Ellen borne behind him to her own apartment,
in a state of unconsciousness.

As slowly he threaded his way to the
gloomy Tombs—reflecting upon his past
career, his disolute course and deeds of
villainy—the pale specter of Ellen Douglas
seemed to rise up before him,with a
wobegone visage, and point to him as the
author of her misery—her sad voice, in
humble entreaty, seemed sounding in his
ear—and for the first time in his life, perhaps,
Acton felt the bitter stings of a conscience
touched with remorse.

“Are you able to ride, Virginia?” asked
Dudley, in a low, tender voice, as soon as
the room had become partially vacated.
“If so, we will at once away, for this is no
place for such as you.”

“But whither shall I go?” interrogated
Virginia, bursting into tears. “I have
no home now; and my poor brother, God
help him! is in prison.”

“Nay, do not weep, Virginia—I pray
you, do not!” pleaded Dudley, in soothing
tones. “Your brother shall soon be restored
to you—for he has friends more powerful
than he thinks—and like you, I
believe him innocent. He is doubtless the
victim of some foul conspiracy; and rest
assured he shall yet triumph, while his
enemies plunge into the pit they have dug
for him. I have my suspicions of the author
of this black scheme; and if I find
them verified, he shall wish he had never
been born. But come! if you feel able to
ride, we will no longer tarry here.”

“But whither will you take me?”

“To the widow Malcolm's, or Calvin
Morton's, whichever you prefer; and I, being
acquainted with both parties, will insure
you a warm reception at either place.”

“To the latter, then,” said Virginia, “if
it will not incommode them and you too
much—for thither dear Edgar bade me
repair.”

“Speak not of incommoding, Virginia,”
said Dudley, earnestly, while a warm, enthusiastic
glow overspread his features,
“for I would go to the ends of the earth
to serve you!”

“I thank you!” faltered Virginia, blushing
and giving the other one sweet look
from her soft blue eyes, that thrilled his
soul as never look had done before. And
then she added quickly, as if to cover a
rising embarrassment: “But I must see
Ellen before I go, and thank her for her
kindness in protecting me!”

In this Virginia was disappointed; for
on inquiry, she learned that Ellen, having
partially recovered from her swoon, was
now delirious, and would not recognize her.

“Poor child of grief and misfortune!”
sighed Virginia, as she turned away, and,
accompanied by Dudley, quitted the house.

The coach which had borne her hither
was still standing at the door, and entering
it again, but with a very different companion,
Virginia rode away, with a heart
much lightened by a strong feeling of
protection and hope, the first she had experienced
since Edgar's arrest.

On their way to the Mortons, Dudley and
Virginia conversed freely—he detailing
the manner he had been brought to her
rescue— and she, all she knew of the imposition
which had caused her to need his
assistance.

“That rascally attorney had more to do
with this affair than I thought,” said Dudley,
as Virginia explained the stratagem
he had used to entice her away; “but he
only serves a master whom I may yet
make tremble for his black-hearted deeds.
The very fact of his being there at the time
of arrest, shows plainly that Oliver Goldfinch
is the master-worker of the plot,
doubtless contrived to ruin you and Edgar,
so that none may be left to bring
his former villainies to light. But he has
over-shot himself in this matter; and will
find, to his cost, that he has roused a spirit
that can and will be as bold in the cause
of right as he dare be in that of wrong!”

It was past midnight when the coach
drove up before the door of Calvin Morton.
Save a light in the hall, all appeared
dark and gloomy; and Dudley, as he boldly
rang the bell, doubted not that all
the inmates were locked in slumber. But
in this he was mistaken; for scarcely had
the echoes of the bell died away, ere he
heard quick footsteps along the hall, and
the next moment the door was thrown
open, and Calvin Morton himself, with a
book in his hand and a pen in his mouth,
stood before him.

“Why, bless my soul! is this you?” he
said, in his rapid, impetuous manner.—
“Come in—come in! Heaven save us all!
I trust nothing alarming has occurred?
Your mother is well, eh?”

“Quite well, I thank you, Mr. Morton,”
replied Dudley, glancing at the coach significantly.

“Eh! what!” said Morton, following
the other's glance with his own. “Who
is in there, eh?”

“One who needs your kindest protection,
as she amply deserves it.”

“God bless her, then, she shall have it!”
rejoined Morton, emphatically.

“A word in private first,” said Dudley;
and drawing the other aside, out of earshot
of Virginia, he hurriedly narrated the
leading events of the night, beginning
with Edgar's arrest, and ending with his
own rescue of Virginia from her cousin.

“So, so—the foul fiend seize them that
play the devil's game, say I! The old
one plans, and the young one executes.
A hopeful pair, truly. Heaven help and
God bless him! poor Edgar has been sent
to prison! Well, well, it shall work out
his own salvation; for when the devil
prompts too much, you know his pupils
often lose most where most they think to
win. I am glad to see you on the right
side, Cla——”

“Hush! a word in your ear!” interrupted
the other.

“O, yes—certainly, Mr. Dudley—any
thing to oblige. I see you are sly; but no
matter; we all have our whimsicalities.
Why, bless my soul! here I am rattling
away, and yonder sits the maiden, waiting
as patiently as a bird in a cage;” and he
darted down the steps to the carriage, exclaiming,
as he reached out his hand to
Virginia:

“My dear Miss Courtly, I don't know
that we ever met before—but I knew your
lamented father, and a gentlemen he was
—I know your brother, and a most noble
young man he is—I have heard of you;
and so pardon me, if I eschew all formality,
consider ourselves acquainted, and welcome
you here as I would a long absent
daughter.”

“I can but thank you,” replied Virginia,
her eyes moist and voice faltering, at
the frank and hearty kindness with which
the other received her.

“Why, Heaven bless you, sweet creature!”
pursued Morton, as he assisted her
to alight and conducted her up the steps
of his dwelling, “what more could one
ask than thanks from such pretty lips, unless
it were a taste of their sweetness!—
But pshaw! compliments are not in my
line; and so I'll leave them and you to my
friend Ma—Dudley here, while I go and
call Edith.”

“Stay!” said Virginia, earnestly, touching
his arm as he was moving away;
“do not, I beg of you, disturb any one tonight,
on my account! I fear I have
proved too troublesome already.”

Why, Lord bless your modest soul!” replied
Morton, with warmth, smiling cheerfully
upon his guest, “I see you don't
know us yet, or you wouldn't talk of being
troublesome to those who are indebted
to your noble brother that this house is
not decked in the sable weeds of mourning.
Why, Edith has done nothing but
talk about you all day, and would grieve
herself sorely, should I let you sleep here
without her knowledge. Conduct her into
the parior—a—Dudley—you know the
way—and I will soon join you.”

Saying which, Mr. Morton hastened
forward, threw open the parlor door as he
passed, and disappeared up a flight of
stairs at the far end of the hall. Scarcely
had Dudley complied with his request,
and seated his fair charge and himself, ere
the other again made his appearance, saying
Edith would soon be with them.

“And now,” he concluded, “as I have

important business that must be attended
to before I sleep, I trust to your good
sense to excuse me. Good night, Virginia,”
he added, taking her hand and pressing
it warmly; “I shall see you, I trust,
at breakfast, and will immediately take
what steps I can to release your brother,
who, I doubt not, is in prison by means
of a foul plot. Dudley, let me see you
early, to concert our plan of operations.
Good night again—God guard us all!” and
bowing he withdrew.

In a few minutes Edith glided into the
parlor, with a step so light that neither
of her guests heard her till she stood before
them. With a graceful bow and smile
of recognition to Dudley, she at once
sprang to Virginia, and seizing her hand,
kissed her affectionately, and bade her
welcome to her new home, which she
trusted would always be one to her. In
return, Virginia thanked her warmly, with
tearful eyes; and in a moment, as it were,
these two artless beings felt they were
friends for life.

“No one—not even yourself, dear Virginia,”
said Edith, naively, “can feel more
deeply grieved for your noble brother than
I; but father says the charge against him
is false, and I believe him; for surely, if
ever a man was incapable of crime, it is
he.”

Virginia, unable to repress her emotion
longer, burst into tears; while Edith,
with true affection, hastened to console
her.

“Grieve not, my dear sister,” she said,
—“for you shall be a sister to me,—to-morrow,
trust me, will set all right. “And
Acton, too—I have heard of his baseness,
and have torn him from my heart as
I would a viper from my bosom. Oh,
the wickedness of those to whom we look
for ennobling virtues!—but they will not
always prosper; and Retribution, with a
heavy hand, will surely overtake them
at last. Let us put our trust in a Higher
Power, and with an easy conscience, fear
not the machinations of the evil minded.
Sin ever carries its own punishment, and
sooner or later the guilty must feel it.”

“Nobly spoken!” chimed in Dudley,
rising to take his leave; and then, motion
ing Edith aside, he whispered a few words
in her ear. Edith smiled, glanced slyly
toward Virginia, and rejoined:

“I will remember, Mr. Dudley.”

“Do so,” said Dudley, “and put me under
an obligation. Cheer up your fair
guest, Edith, and count on seeing me early
in the morning. Good night to both,
and pleasant dreams;” and bowing he departed,
sprang into the coach and was driven
home.

“You are fatigued, dear Virginia,” said
Edith, as Dudley left, “and need repose.
Come, you shall be my guest for the night;”
and she conducted the latter to her own
splendid apartment, where for the present
we leave them both.