University of Virginia Library

13. CHAPTER XIII.
An important Link in the Chain.

The failure of the attempted robbery of
Mr. Acton's house was a great disappointment
to Gordon and his accomplices.
Not an article of value was taken away, and
the burglars had the satisfaction of knowing
that all their deep laid plans and golden
hopes had been in vain.

Of them all, Mag Munson was, perhaps,
the greatest sufferer from the ill success of
the plot. This had been projected by her,
and she had fondly trusted in the skill of
Gordon and Light Joe to reap the harvest of
her schemes. When the failure was made
known to her, she was at first in a great
rage, but at last another plan of making
money out of the Actons, and of having a
sort of revenge on them, entered her head.
She mentioned it to Gordon, who, ready to
grasp at anything, approved of it, and on
the morning following the incidents related
in our last chapter, she set out to have a conference
with Kate.

This wretched girl, in whose heart the
balance of Good and Evil was in such a precarious,
varying state, forgot the good resolutions
she had made when there were no
bad influences to lead her astray, and once
more promised to lend her assistance to do a
work of evil.

Mag Munson then left her, their plans
having been completed, and a time set for
carrying them out.

In the afternoon there was a visitor at Acton
Hall. Mr. Acton and Edith Irving had
gone to Boston, and Mrs. Acton received
him alone. It was Gustavus Burnam.

It was on this occasion that the talents of
that distinguished gentleman shone in all
their brilliancy. Had there been hundreds
listening to him, he could not have displayed
the powers of his intellect to greater advantage.
Yet there was no effort—at least,
there appeared to be none—in his conversation
or his manners. He seemed at once

the perfect gentleman, the accomplished
scholar, the man of observation, and the profound
thinker.

He had been conversing for some time
on the subject his friends most loved to have
him dwell upon—viz: his travels—when
Mrs. Acton remarked in a careless manner:

`I believe there is not a quarter of the
globe worth visiting that you have not visited,
and of which I have not heard you relate
some interesting incident; but I think
I have never heard you say in what part of
the world you were born.'

`I am an American,' returned Gustavus,
briefly.

`I supposed so, but what part of—'

Burnam knew she was about to inquire
the place of his birth, and anxious to avoid
giving an answer to such a question, interrupted
her as if he had not heard her.

`I am an American,' said he, `and I glory
in the name. In all my travels I have
never seen a land I would more gladly own
as that of my nativity, than this. There are
no institutions like ours, no laws superior
to our own in the wide world. I speak this
from conviction, for, had I cause of prejudice,
it would probably be against that code
by which I myself have been made a sufferer—that
is, the American code of laws.'

Mrs. Acton started and looked at her visitor
earnestly, as if eager to hear an explanation
of his words.

`Start not,' pursued Gustavus, `when I
tell you that years ago, I suffered injustice
from the laws of my own country. An innocent
man, I was charged with murder,
convicted, and sentenced to be hung!'

Mrs. Acton sank back in her chair, and
became pale as if Death had that moment
breathed a pestilence upon her, marking her
for the tomb. Her frame became rigid, her
lips ashy, and a cold perspiration started
from her ghastly brow; and then she sat
motionless and dumb, her eyes fixed, as if
never to be removed thence, upon her visitor's
face.

Burnam, meanwhile, appeared as if nothing
had happened, and went on with the
same reserved coolness as before.

`I was condemned to be hung for a crime
of which I had not dreamed until it was announced
to me, and I was charged with it.
I was tried; circumstances were strong
against me; I was judged guilty. Before
the day set for my execution arrived, however,
I escaped from prison, and fled my native
land.

`I fled my native land, America, because
I had nothing to keep me here. I was in
despair, for I was not only deemed guilty
by the world at large, but—which was worse
by far!—by a lady whom I loved. She
thought me a criminal; she spurned me—
changed her love—for once she loved me
well—to bitter hatred; and I left her, keeping
as a sole remembrance of her inconstancy
and distrust, a jewel she had given me as
a memento of her love—THAT RING!'

And Burnam, having placed, unobserved,
a diamond of peculiar brilliancy, set in a
ring of purest gold, upon his hand, now held
it out before Mrs. Acton's eyes.

`That ring!' she shrieked—`I gave it to
you—I know it well—and you are—'

`The man you spurned as a criminal!'
interrupted Burnam with a bitter smile.

It was no time then for triumph or reproach,
for Mrs. Acton had fainted.

Gustavus took from his pocket a small
flask, the contents of which, the moment
it was applied to Mrs. Acton's lips, restored
her to consciousness. In an instant she
sprang to her feet and flew across the room,
as if to escape from the presence of a monster.

Burnam stood with folded arms and composed
features, following her with his stern
and steady gaze.

`Be seated,' said he, calmly, `I do not
intend to injure you in any way, but only to
convince you that I am not the guilty man
you have believed me to be till now. Had
you visited me in prison, and conversed with

me after my arrest, I might have convinced
you long ago; but you shunned me as if I
had been a reptile, and with admirable dispatch
united yourself to my rival, Mr. Acton.
Now I have the proofs of my innocence
within my reach, as well as the proofs
of another's guilt.'

Mrs. Acton quailed before the magic influence
of Burnam's stern black eye, and
sat down upon the sofa, burying her face
in her hands.

Burnam sat down by her side, and in winning
tones and eloquent language, endeavored
to soothe her, and calm her perturbed
spirit. His efforts were not in vain. Soon
she forgot that she had ever deemed him
guilty, and hung upon his words with the
same interest and delight as before she was
aware of his identity with him, who, years
before, was sentenced to suffer death. She
did not look upon him as her former lover,
nor as the despised criminal, nor as the accomplished
stranger whose acquaintance she
had recently made; but rather as a man of
a noble nature that had been foully wronged,
of deep feelings that had been deeply
wrung, and of a superior soul, that, when
the world would have depressed it, soared
beyond the scope of common mind, grasping
at all knowledge, and waxing but the
brighter from the clouds by which it had
been oppressed. If once she loved him,
she now regarded him with admiration and
awe. She could not pity him for what he
had suffered, for we have no such feeling for
those we consider superior to ourselves, but
she felt forced to respect him the more highly
for all he had endured. At times she
could not realize the identity between Burnam
and her old lover, and then again, the
truth would flash upon her mind, startling
her with the thought of the connection existing
between him and that strange man.

`Had you never,' asked Gustavus, at last,
`suspected who I was before to-day?'

`Your features, I often thought, resembled
some one I had seen before,' replied
Mrs. Acton, `but they are greatly altered
— as much so as I ever saw features alter in
the space of twelve years. The expression
— except of the eye alone, perhaps — is
changed entirely. Yet, now I think of it,
your countenance is the same, with the exception
of the sternness and dignified authority
time has added to it, and the dark hue
it has caught from the ardor of torrid climates.'

`And have you ever thought you recognized
me?' asked Burnam.

`I should have thought so sometimes,' answered
Mrs. Acton, `had not your assumed
name, and other circumstances, rendered
such a thing out of the question.'

`And Mr. Acton —'

`I never heard him speak of you except
as a new acquaintance, and do not think he
has any suspicions of who you are.'

`That is well,' replied Gustavus, `and for
the present I would not have him know me.
The time is not yet come for me to bring
forward proofs of my innocence, and until
that time comes, none but you must be entrusted
with the secret.'

Burnam's influence over Mrs. Acton was
almost supernatural, and she was readily
brought to promise that her husband should
know nothing of what had happened that afafternoon.

It was evening before the interview between
Mrs. Acton and Gustavus Burnam
was ended and the latter took his leave.

Meanwhile important events were taking
place in another quarter, to which we will
now turn our attention.

At dusk Kate went out to walk, and to
amuse Robert, Mr. Acton's only child.—
She played with him and ran with him until
they had got some distance from the house,
when they sat down together upon a rock
by the road near a rugged hill-side covered
with thickets.

`What noise is that?' asked Robert, hearing
a peculiar whistle in the bushes a short
way up the hill.

Kate was agitated, and as she made no reply,
the boy asked her if she was frightened.

`No,' she answered, `but what noise was
it? Sit here, Robert, and I will go and
see.'

`Go quick, dear Kate,' said he, `and I'll
wait for you here.'

Kate disappeared. Following the sound
which was again repeated, the girl soon
came in sight of an object crouched down
in the thicket. She approached it and it
advanced to meet her. It was not so dark
but that one could have seen plainly that it
was the form of a large and powerful woman.

`The child is there,' said Kate, `but I
beg of you not to take it. The more I think
of it—'

`Hush, your nonsense!' exclaimed Mag
Munson—for it was she—`you are always
prating about your conscientious scruples,
which you ought to be above. You've done
well to keep your promise, and now don't
spoil it all by feeling bad about it. Stop
here till I can get off with the boy, and then
make your way back to the house and tell
the best story you can.'

So saying, Mag Munson shook off the
girl rudely, and hastened down the hill.—
Kate covered her eyes with her hands, and
sobbed violently. Bitterly did she repent
having lent her hand to mischief, but it was
too late to atone for the error.

She heard a struggle and a cry, and heard
Robert call her by name for help, and then
there was a sound of rapid footsteps that
died away in the distance.

With a bursting heart she descended the
hill, to find that both Margaret and the boy
had disappeared. All about her was silence
and deep gloom, that filled her guilty soul
with terror. She would have fled, whither
she cared not—any where to avoid the presence
of those who had treated her so kindly,
and had been so foully wronged by her in
return—but the appearance of a carriage
caused her to return to Mr. Acton's house.