University of Virginia Library

7. CHAPTER VII.
Discoveries.

IT WAS natural that Mr. Acton should
converse with his wife about the distinguished
stranger whose acquaintance he had
made, and it is by no means to be wondered
at that, knowing her husband's character as
she did, she should be surprised at the influence
Burnam already began to exert over
him, and should feel a lively curiosity to see
that remarkable individual. Both she and
her sister Edith were deeply interested in
his account of Mr. Burnam, and compared
it with sketches of him which they had seen
in the Boston papers.

Mrs. Acton had observed that her husband,
since his interview with Gordon, of
which she had not the slightest suspicion,
had been frequently lost in thought, and

wholly absorbed by dark reflections; and,
hoping to restore his spirits, she encouraged
his acquaintance with Mr. Burnam, whose
society was so fascinating and enlivening.

On the following day Mr. Acton visited
his new friend, but he spent a greater part
of it in Boston.

In the evening, true to his appointment
with Gordon, he was early at the place of
rendezvous, awaiting the burglar's arrival.

It was a pleasant night, although frequent
clouds obscured the moon, and cast their
dark shadows along the earth.

Mr. Acton walked impatiently to and fro,
for Gordon did not appear at the hour.—
Soon, however, a dark figure might have
been seen among the trees, stealing towards
the spot; and the next moment Acton and
his evil genius stood face to face.

`You've come at last,' said Acton, gruffly'
`When you play such stupendous games as
that, one would suppose you would be more
prompt.'

`Are you in a hurry to hand over that
snug little bribe?' asked Gordon, with a
sneer.

`I had a good will not to come here at
all,' said Acton, abruptly.

`Do you know what I would have done if
you hadn't?' asked Gordon, with a grin.

`Well?'

`I should have presented myself to your
wife!'

Mr. Acton turned upon his tormentor so
fiercely, and with a look of such terrible
passion, that the villain instinctivey started
back and raised his hand, as if to ward an
expected blow.

`Fear not,' said Acton, through his teeth,
and in a tone of bitter irony; `I can bear
your taunts—anything! I cannot resent
them! Oh! go on—there is no danger!'

Gordon did not go on, however, for the
strange manner of his companion made him
shiver with fear and dread. He saw how
desperate he had made his victim, and felt
sure that he would as soon take his life as
bear another taunt.

`Why should we be enemies?' he asked.
`We were once friends.'

`Friends! friends!' echoed the other,
with a scornful, bitter laugh; `ha! ha!'

`At least,' pursued Gordon, `we were
not at open enmity, and interest kept us together.'

`That time,' said Acton, `is at an end.—
We both profited by our former connection,
and you now come down on me as if I alone
had been benefited, and that at your expense.'

`Did you not gain by it more than I?'
demanded Gordon. `Was it not through
me that you won—'

The burglar checked himself, for Mr. Acton
turned upon him again so fiercely, that
he dare not utter the word that trembled on
his tongue.

`You think,' said Mr. Acton; `indeed
you said, that you have me in your power,
and that I dare not resent your insults. I
tell you I dare, and that you are in my power
rather than I in yours. How easy would
it be for me to shut you up in prison!'

`You!'

`For the affair of night before last. There
was a robbery—or, rather, an attempt—'

`Where?' interrupted Gordon, turning
pale.

`You need not pretend ignorance, for I
have proof you have no suspicion of. You
are the man who wounded Mr. Burnam.—
Don't attempt to deny it, for I know it. But
deal honorably with me and I will not expose
you. Answer me this question: are
you not a robber by profession?'

`A devil, perhaps,' replied Gordon; `but
that is nothing here nor there. You dare
not expose me, for you know my spirit.—
But let us be friends; the world has dealt
better by you than by me, and now that I
am poor, it is no more than right that you
should help me. Give me one thousand dollars,

and you shall never hear from me, or
be troubled by me again.'

`So you said twelve years ago,' returned
Mr. Acton. `But you have spent the money
I gave you then, and now you must have
more; and so it will be in ten years hence
if I give you money now. How do I know
when I am safe? What reliance can I place
on your word?'

`I swear that I will never ask you for
money again; and I never even promised
you this before. I pledged myself never to
return to you where you then lived, and that
was all. Now I swear never to demand anything
of you again, provided you grant me
this.'

Mr. Acton looked the robber full in the
face, as if with those keen, flashing eyes of
his, he would have pierced his soul.

`Can I trust you?' he demanded, looking
as if he would murder him if he lied.

`Yes,' answered Gordon, firmly.

`Then take this,' said Mr. Acton, putting
a package into his hand, `and remember
well what I tell you. If you ever cross my
path again in any way like this, I will kill
you as if you were a serpent or a dog!'

The two parted; not with friendly adieus,
but with curses on each other. Gordon
clutched the package with a grin of triumph,
and slunk away, glancing behind him, as if
he feared Acton would anticipate his perjury,
and carry his last words into execution.

With a heart filled with bitterness and
self-reproach, Acton strode back towards
his house, his hands clenched, and his teeth
pressed angrily against his bloody lips. He
was goaded to desperation.

Gordon, fearing lest Acton was not alone
in being convinced of his guilt, and nervously
anxious to get off with his prize, hastened
back to Boston. Not a little excited
by imaginary fears, he did not take a stage,
deeming it unsafe to come in contact with
more than one man at a time, but walked or
ran the whole distance to his house in Centre
street.

A dark figure had followed Gordon all
the way from Acton's house to his own miserable
abode, sometimes near, and sometimes
at a distance, but always keeping him
in sight; and now, while the burglar was
eagerly tearing open the package he had received
of Acton, anxious to know that there
was no deception, that dark figure turned
upon its heel and hurried back by the road
it came. Once more in the country, it passed
by Acton's house again, and by the very
spot where the interview we have described
took place, then hurrying onward still, arrived
at the door of Frederick Farley's
house.

A minute after, that figure was alone with
Gustavus Burnam in his apartment.

`Louis!' exclaimed Mr. Burnam, his eye
brightening; `you have brought good news
—let me hear it quickly.'

In the dark, mysterious visage that was
revealed to Burnam in the light of a lamp
that burned dimly upon the table, no stranger
could have read a single thought, or divined
from the expression there whether it
had feelings of triumph or despair; but
Burnam's penetrating eye discovered at a
glance that his servant was the bearer of
good tidings.

`I have seen a strange sight,' said Louis,
speaking in French—which we give in our
own English, not such as he would have
used.

`A strange sight, eh?' said Burnam, in
the same tongue. `What was it?'

`Le diable m'importe si je sais,' replied
the valet de chambre—`the devil may take
me if I know—but I will describe it to you.
Monsieur, and perhaps you can understand
it. I kept watch as you ordered—'

`Yes—'

`And followed Acton after I saw him go
out. He met another man in the orchard
and I overheard what was said, and saw all
that passed. I have found out who robbed
you night before last, and have learned
where one of the villains lives.'

And at the request of his master, who listened
to him with deep interest, Louis went
on to relate all he had seen and heard, comprising
nearly all that passed between Mr.
Acton and the burglar.

The intelligence was of more importance
even than Louis had anticipated. It mattered
very little with Burnam that he knew
who had attempted to rob him, but having
learned that there was some mysterious connection
between that individual and Mr. Acton,
he could not conceal his satisfaction.

`Tu as bien fait, Louis,' said he. `You
have done well. And now, if you will find
out who this robber is—for it is probable
Acton was right in charging him with being
such—if you will find out who he is, and
bring him in contact with me at some convenient
time, you will complete your good
work. If he is the man I suspect him to be,
judging from his conversation with Acton,
your discovery will be worth more to me
than any gold. Now leave me, for it is getting
late. Take good care of my apartments
in Boston, for I shall return to them
soon. I do not say this because I have ever
found you neglectful, but because your zeal
in my private business might cause you to
neglect matters of less importance. You
have done well, Louis, you can go.'

The valet de chambre bowed and withdrew.
There was no smile upon his face,
nor look of triumph in his dark eye; but in
his heart he felt more joy at the praise bestowed
upon him by the master whom he
loved, than the adulations of thousands could
have caused.

After he was gone, Gustavus Burnam sat
for half an hour in his easy chair, his hands
crossed upon his breast, his eyes closed, and
his whole frame as motionless as if he was
enwrapped in a deep sleep. At the end of
that time he started up, exclaiming with
more impatience than was his wont:—

`Would this wound were cured, for I long
to fathom this mystery! Yet it is owing to
the wound that I have discovered what I
have, and I ought rather to bless the accident
than curse my fortune. Henry Acton
—Maria Irving—the day of retribution is
at hand!'