University of Virginia Library

17. CHAPTER XVII.
The two Suitors.

THAT evening Mr. Acton received a
note from Gustavus Burnam, in which
that gentleman apologized for not having
called on his family or written to him before,
saying that he had been prevented by circumstances
he could not well explain; he
also spoke very feelingly concerning the recent
loss of their child, and ended by extending
an invitation to Mr. Acton and his lady
to take dinner with him on the following
day.

Mr. Acton would have accepted the invitation
without hesitation, but Maria, knowing
now with whom they had to deal, and
fearing some terrible outbreak when Burnam
should make himself known to her husband
as Charles Chivers, did all in her power to
dissuade him from his purpose. However,
as she could not advance any tangible reason
for not accepting the invitation, and
feared awaking her husband's suspicions,
she yielded at last, and it was resolved that
on the following day they should take dinner
with Mr. Burnam in town.

As Gustavus merely wished Mr. Acton to
remember him to Edith Irving, and did not
extend the invitation to her, she was left
alone on the afternoon in question. Her
sister and Mr. Acton went to Boston at an
early hour, and she had all the afternoon before
her, which looked long and tedious in
the prospect, as she thought of the enjoyment
they would experience in the fascinating
society of Gustavus Burnam.

Edith Irving had much to occupy her
mind besides that which related to the whole
family. True, her personal anxieties had
been wholly absorbed of late in her sympathy
with Mr. Acton, and Maria for the loss
of their only child, but yet on the afternoon
in question, when she was alone, her
thoughts would revert to her private perplexities.

Two young men of equal standing in society,
of equal talents as near as she could
judge, and of apparently equal worth, bestowed
upon her attentions of too marked a
character, for her to consider them as merely
on the ground of friendship. They were
both very agreeable to her, but before she
allowed her affections to centre on either of
them, she candidly weighed the question in
her own mind—

`Which is the worthier?'

Dr. Frederick Farley—the Rev. Mr. Everett—which
should she choose?

She had known the clergyman the longest,
and his claims had been presented first.
She felt that she could love him passionately
did she but allow her affections to go out to
him, and this decided her in his favor.

She had given neither of her suitors a
final answer as yet, and she was debating in
her mind how she could do this with the
most delicacy, when a visitor was announced.
It was no other than Frederick Farley,
whom she had resolved to reject.

The young doctor called, he said, to learn
if anything had been heard of Robert; to
see how Mrs. Acton's health withstood the
shock of his loss; and to perform many other
little neighborly duties, which was very
natural and very kind in him to do; but any
person with half an eye would have seen at
once, by a certain confusion in his appearance,
that he was thinking more of Edith
than of her sister, or of her sister's child.

In fact, Frederick, who had desired an
opportunity of speaking with Edith alone,
on a subject we need not name, was glad to
find her, on the present occasion, disengaged,
yet he suffered not a little embarrassment
on finding himself subject to the full fire of
those eyes he so much admired. We need
not weary the reader with details of the
manner in which Frederick introduced the
subject he longed to speak with her upon,
nor depict the embarrassment of both parties
when he asked her to pronounce the

significant monosyllable on which his destiny
hung.

`Could she love him?'

`No.'

Kindly and feelingly; but it was not the
less a decisive answer—`no!'—she could
not love him except as a highly respected
friend; and what consolation was that to an
impassioned nature like his own?'

Frederick had recovered his self-possession
when Edith gave him her final answer,
and great as was the effect it had upon him,
he succeeded in preserving his calmness to
an admirable degree, and thanking her for
her frankness, he expsessed a wish that the
circumstance might be forgotten, and that
they might be friends to each other as they
had been before.

She said it should be as he desired; but
are such circumstances easily forgotten.

After Frederick had gone, Edith, remembering
how very pale he was when he took
his leave, and how agitated by emotions he
endeavored to suppress, knew that he must
love her well, and half regretted her refusal.

It was a sad half hour Edith Irving spent
—that immediately following Frederick's departure.
Alone, she now longed for some
friend with whom to converse, that her mind
might be diverted from its gloomy reflections.

Whilst her feelings were in this state, Kate
had occasion to enter the room. She was
going out again directly, when Edith, remarking
how pale and sad she looked, called
her back.

`What has happened to cause you sorrow?'
she enquired, taking the girl kindly by the
hand.

`Nothing—not much—' stammered Kate,
turning away.

`And yet you are very sad. Ever since
the night Robert disappeared—'

Kate's pale features suddenly became
crimson.

`Can it be,' pursued Edith, `that his loss
alone makes you so melancholy?'

Kate made no answer, for she could not
lie, and she dared not tell the truth.

Edith urged her; kindly, yet with firmness.

`Oh!' sobbed Kate, unable longer to restrain
her feelings—`I am such a bad girl!'
And she wept like a child.

`My dear Catherine,'—Edith spoke with
much feeling, her own tears flowing the
while—`something troubles you of late.—
Why not confide in me? Tell me your
griefs, and I doubt not but I can do something
for you—console and comfort you at
least. Speak freely now, Catherine, let
what will be the matter. I know you are
not bad by nature, and if you have been
guilty of faults, I can forgive them in one
like you.'

`You don't know how bad I have been—
how bad I am!' murmured Kate, still sobbing.
`Oh! you would despise me as I deserve.'

`Not if you are repentant, surely,' said
Edith, in tones so kind that, while they made
Kate weep more violently than before, caused
her heart to yearn towards her companion,
and to love her as if she had been her
guardian angel. `Think rather that I would
give you the advice and consolation of a
friend,' added Miss Irving.

Kate raised her head, and brushing away
the hot tears that streamed down her cheeks,
looked for a moment full in the face of her
companion; it was a look full of earnest
entreaty, gratitude and timid hope—one that
seemed to read the soul of Edith, to learn if
she could indeed confide to her the secrets
of her heart.

`Tell me your history,' urged Edith, as
Kate once more bowed her face upon her
hands. `Let me know who you are and
what you have been?'

`I have been virtuous as you,' sobbed
Kate.

`I don't doubt it.'

`But I was thrown in the way of temptation—'

`Well.'

`Oh! it is a sad tale,' murmured Kate.

`Go on,' said Edith, kindly.

`I am an orphan—'

`Poor girl!' thought Edith, but strongly
pressed Kate's hand to encourage her to go
on.'

`I have lived with my aunt since I was
quite young. She is a bad woman, for it is
through her that I was ruined.'

`Ruined! through her influence!'

`Yes, alas! I was earning my bread by
honest labor, and we were very poor, when
one evening I received a letter.'

`A letter?'

`Yes—and I have kept it till now, in remembrance
of him who wronged me. I always
carry it here.'

And Kate drew from her bosom a worn
and faded letter, which she gave to Edith.
It read as follows:

`Although we are unknown to each other,
I love you. When and where I have
seen you, I need not explain, but I have beheld
you often, and never without longing to
speak with you, and to make known to you
the sentiments of my heart. Excuse this
mode of addressing you, and grant me an
interview to-night at your own house.

`And you received him by request?' said
Edith.

`Yes—but not from my own choice,' replied
Kate. `I should not have noticed the
letter, but my aunt said I ought to know
who Mr. Marvin was before I passed judgment
upon him, and absolutely commanded
me to receive him that night. I did so—I
found him agreeable—more of a gentleman
than any man I ever knew. I suspected
nothing, but invited him to call again. He
came to see me frequently for a long time
making both my aunt and me rich presents

My aunt believed him wealthy. She was
avaricious, intriguing and unprincipled.—
Her influence over me was fatal. I had
learned to love Mr. Marvin, and to confide
in him. I believed his fair promises. I
could not think he would even desert me.
Oh! then I had a double temptation to overcome—nay,
the temptation was three-fold.
When he was away my aunt poisoned my
soul with her own immoral principles; and
he, with the cunning of the serpent, let no
opportunity pass of inspiring me with voluptuous
dreams of guilty pleasure. Added to
this was the natural sinfulness of my own
nature to be resisted—my own selfishness
and my own passions.'

`No wonder that you fell!' exclaimed
Edith, in a tone of pity

Kate bid her face in her hands, and for a
moment neither spoke nor moved.

`Go on,' said Edith, kindly as before.

`Would you believe me?' murmured Kate.
`That man who professed to love me so, betrayed
me, and deserted me!'

`As men too often do!' exclaimed Edith.
`You are one of thousands—but you are
better than many unfortunate ones, for there
is much goodness still remaining in your
heart, while the greater part of those who
fall, are plunged into ruin inevitable, and
instead of repenting and reforming, became
more depraved than ever.'

`It was so with me, alas!' sighed Kate.
`I became as bad as it is possible for a creature
to become. I associated with the worst
of my own sex, and with the criminal and
guilty of the other.'

`But now you regret it?'

`How bitterly do I!'

`And would become virtuous once more?'
said Edith.

`Miss Irving,' replied Kate, earnestly; `if
I had all the wealth of this world at my
command, I would give it to blot out the

past from my memory, and become as pure
in heart and happy as I once was!'

`And what hinders you?' asked Edith.
You have been frank with me, and have put
confidence in my friendship, and you shall
not be disappointed in your trust. I will
assist you, Catherine; you shall live with
me, and I will be your friend rather than
your mistress. I promise you, if you are
virtuous, you shall be happy. Associate
with the vicious no more, but live a life of
innocence and peace.'

Thus Edith went on to pour sweet words
of consolation into Catherine's ears, and by
her sympathy and kindness, to awaken in
her heart stronger sensations of joy she had
never felt before.

`One thing,' said Kate, after a long pause,
`I now feel compelled to confess to you. If
I die for telling it to you, you shall know a
secret that may save you much sorrow and
regret. This Marvin—I should have told
you that he is one of those who delight in
vice for its own sake; who, while they are
able to move in the first society, often seek
out the company of the low and degraded
out of choice.'

`Well?'

`You know him!'

Edith started.

`I know no one by that name,' she said,
after a pause.

`But he has another name.'

`What is it?'

`It is a name you respect,' said Kate; a
name that will startle you when you hear it.'

`Speak!'

`It is the Reverend Mr. Everett.