 | CHAPTER XX.
THE DAMNING DEED. Oliver Goldfinch, or, The hypocrite |  |
20. 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
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 dissipation,
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
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 coxcomb-vanity
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
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
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, springing
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
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
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!
| CHAPTER XX.
THE DAMNING DEED. Oliver Goldfinch, or, The hypocrite | |