University of Virginia Library

8. CHAPTER VIII.
The Test.

The following day was warm and pleasant,
and Gustavus Burnam, for the first
time since his wound, walked out into the
open air, leaning upon Frederick's arm.

Without any previously expressed intention,
both, as if with one accord, directed
their steps towards Mr. Acton's house.

Burnam had already learned that Frederick
loved Edith Irving, and Mrs. Farley
had informed him that that lady was so blind
to exellence as to show a preference for the
Rev. Mr. Everett. Burnam saw how matters
stood at once; both the clergyman and
doctor would gladly have won Miss Edith,
but the former having been first and longest
at the siege, had made the greatest impression
on the citadel of her affections. She
liked them both, but if either had her love,
it was the preacher.

It so happened that Burnam and the young
physician met Everett at the house of Mr.
Acton. Edith and these three gentlemen
were at first alone together, and Burnam
had an opportunity of studying the characters
of the young lady and the two suitors,
and of comparing those of the young men.
He was not mistaken in the high opinion he
had formed of Edith, but found her an admirable
woman in every sense of the term.
With regard to Frederick, he liked him the
better the more he saw of him, and never
had he seen him to better advantage than in
the presence of her he loved. The clergyman
was intellectual, brilliant in conversation,
and easy in address; but Burnam, after
contemplating him long, set it down in
his mind that learned though he was, and
good though he appeared, he wanted the noble
qualities of his rival, and was less worthy
than he to be her accepted suitor.

In a short time Mr. Acton entered with
his wife, and introduced her to the distinguished
stranger.

Why was Burnam, who possessed such
self-command, so agitated then?'

None remarked his emotion, for, although
he was very pale, that fact was attributed to
his recent wound.

In a short time Burnam had recovered his
self-possession, and then he became the life
of the company. His conversation was varied
and easy, his wit brilliant, and his reflection
deep. He was near thirty-five years
of age, and a good portion of his life had
been spent in foreign lands, where he had
gathered a rich store of useful and entertaining
knowledge. Mrs. Acton and her
sister listened to his words enraptured; Mr.
Acton and Frederick, as they had always
done since they had made his acquaintance;
and even the Rev. Mr. Everett was obliged
to acknowledge the superior intellect and
extraordinary powers of the fascinating
stranger.

Burnam and Frederick Farley remained
only an hour at Mr. Acton's, but during
that short space of time the former had seen
more and reflected more than most men
would have done in years!

On the following morning Burnam visited
the Actons again, unaccompanied by
Frederick, and in the afternoon Louis, his
valet de chambre, came for him in a carriage,
and he returned to Boston.

At his hotel, he found his apartments in
order, Louis having made sumptuous arrangements
for the comfort of his master.—
The faithful servant was again rewarded by
the brief but cheering words which sounded
so sweetly to his ears when uttered by
Mr. Burnam—

`Tu as bien fait—you have done well!'

Burnam's apartments were of an extraordinary
character. In his library were books
of every description; grave and gay; scientific
and polite; historical and fictitious;
in many languages. And Burnam understood
them all.

In his cabinet were curiosities from almost
every quarter of the globe; natural
and artificial; rude creations of savages—
together with the most exquisite works of
art; old swords of curious workmanship,
and slender rapiers; delicate silettoes and
rude bowie-knives; rifles, pistols, and other
weapons of defence.

During his master's absence Louis had
neglected nothing, but had kept his wardrobe
as free from dust, the ottomans as scrupulously
clean, and every piece of silver or
steel as bright as if Burnam had been ever
there to overlook his work.

`You have done well,' repeated Burnam,
reclining amid the luxuries of his apartments.
`And now for the private matters
I have entrusted to your charge. I must
know whether this Gordon is indeed the
man I suspect him to be. There is one way
of ascertaining; can you be my agent in
this also?'

`I will try to serve you,' said Louis.

`One word,' pursued Burnam, `spoken
in the hearing of this Gordon, will give the
information I desire. It is a single name.—
If he starts at it, or betrays any emotion,
he is the individual I suspect. If, on the
other hand, he hears it as he would any other
name, with no emotion, I am wrong.—
You must repeat it in his hearing, Louis,
and report to me the effect it produces.'

The valet bowed, and waited for his master
to proceed.

Burnam then taught him to pronounce a
single word—a name—which the Frenchman
soon learned to speak as distinctly as
any in his own tongue.

`Now go, Louis,' said his master, `and be
cautious.'

From the luxury and splendor of Burnam's
residence we must now descend to one
of the lowest haunts in Boston—a grog-shop
in Ann street.

It was evening, and there was a goodly

company assembled in a low but spacious
room, which offered convenience for drinking,
dancing, and carousing. The walls
were smoky and disfigured, the windows
covered with dust which supplied the want
of curtains, and the floor exceedingly rough
and dirty, except in such places as had been
worn smooth by `hornpipes,' `pigeon-wings,'
and `double shuffles.'

The proprietor of this respectable establishment
was the fat, red faced, coarse looking
gentleman who stood in the bar dealing
out `drinks,' and eyeing his customers with
his bloodshot orbs of vision as the serpent
watches its prey.

The principal man in the room, the venerable
landlord excepted, was an old acquaintance
of the reader. Gordon had
money, and felt its value. Instead of using
the sum he had extorted from Mr. Acton
to some good purpose, or reforming and engaging
in some respectable business, the
grovelling wretch only became the more degraded
by its possession. He was not miserly,
yet he had ever concealed from Mag
Munson the fact that he had money, and
kept it carefully hid in a snug corner at
home. He used it freely, however, to the
glory of himself, and the infinite gratification
of his low companions.

On the evening in question he had been
drinking with his old associates, and treating
them until there were but few individuals
in the room who could conscientiously
be called sober.

Joe was Gordon's favored friend, for he
had kept his secret, and had not asked to
share his money; yet Joe was cautious, and
although repeatedly urged to drink, he scrupulously
kept within the bounds of sobriety.
He, too, had a part to play.

There were two other sober individuals in
that gay company, who deserve the attention
of the reader.

The most remarkable of these was a
young man who seemed made for better society.
There were no marks of dissipation
on his countenance, and his dress was in
some measure superior to that of his companions.
He wore heavy black whiskers,
and hair that quite conccaled his intellectual
brow; and his keen eyes were disguised
by green glasses.

This individual had the reputation of being
a `good fellow,' although a `hard nut,'
and of having `seen a thing or two' in the
world. His name was Marvin, and he it
was who had the satisfaction of knowing
that he had been the means of Kate Munson's
ruin. He had evidently seen good society,
but had either been expelled from respectable
circles, or sought the company of
the vicious for variety, and from choice.

The other individual we mentioned as being
sober, was none other than Louis, Burnam's
valet de chambre. He was sitting on
a low bench by the stove, looking about with
an air of reckless listlessness, as if he were
one of the company; but he was in fact disgusted
with the scene, and instead of gazing
around him with no object, he was
watching with a penetrating eye the actions
of Gordon and his associates.

Louis had been sitting on the bench alone
for some minutes, when Light Joe and Marvin,
the man in the green glasses, came and
sat down immedtately in front of him.

`Where is Kate, now?' asked Marvin.—
`Have you seen her lately?'

`Why do you ask about her?' returned
Joe, sullenly. `You care nothing about
her.'

`Oh, of course not,' said the other; `I
have given up my claims to you. Only, as
an old friend, I'd like to know where she
is.'

`Well,' said Joe, `I suppose there can be
no harm in telling you. You won't mention
it, I'm sure.'

Joe said something in a low tone, of
which Louis could distinguish only one
word—`Acton'—at which he started, and
leaned forward, in order to hear more distinctly.

`The fact of it is,' said Joe, `Kate is going
to reform;' and as he spoke he looked
Marvin full in the face, watching the expression
of his features with an eagle eye;
`she is really going to reform. Then you
see, when she gets to be a good respectable
girl, I shall adopt some sober profession—
the pulpit, perhaps—and marry her. What
d'ye think of that, eh? How would it sound
—the Rev. Joe Jenks and lady? or, perhaps,
I'd change my name, and be called—'

The next word Joe whispered in Marvin's
ear. What it was Louis could not tell, but
it was doubtless something potent, for the
man in the green glasses started as if a
dagger had pierced him, giving Joe a look
like that of a wounded snake. That look
was full of surprise, hatred, and revenge.

`What do you mean?' he asked in a moment,
having recovered his self-possession.

`Nothing in particular, of course,' replied
Joe, whittling a stick with his knife.
`Wouldn't that sound well? What do you
think?'

`I must postpone my answer until another
time,' replied Marvin, looking meaningly
at Joe. `I shall see you soon and have
a talk with you. Meanwhile, let me say if
you do get to be a minister, don't forget
me, your old friend.'

This was uttered in such a light tone that
Louis was thrown off his guard, and felt
that his first suspicions must have been without
foundation.

At that moment Gordon came that way,
to the great relief of Joe, who felt that he
was getting in deep water, and urged the
whole company to `step up and drink.'

`Plenty of money!' he exclaimed, jingling
some silver in his pockets—`good liquor—good
company—hurrah!'

Thus the inebriated fellow ran on, wild
with artificial joy, until, above his own voice
and the confused sounds about him, there
arose a full, deep ominous voice, that pronounced
a single word.

In an instant Gordon's joy was turned to
terror. He looked about him, shivering
with dread, his eyes starting from their sockets,
and his countenance deathly pale.—
Nobody seemed to have heard that voice
except himself, and none present to have
given utterance to that terrible word. Yet
he heard it plainly as if he himself had spoken
it, and could not be deceived.

Could it be that there was something supernatural
in it—that it was a warning,
which Heaven intended should recal to his
startled soul all his dark career of crime
and its fearful close?