 | CHAPTER XIX.
THE EXAMINATION. Oliver Goldfinch, or, The hypocrite |  |
19. 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?”
“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;
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
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
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 happened?”
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 XIX.
THE EXAMINATION. Oliver Goldfinch, or, The hypocrite | |