University of Virginia Library

19. CHAPTER XIX.
The Wounded Spirit.

MR. ACTON had not the face to deny
the assertions of Burnam and Gordon.
He felt that he could not make his wife believe
him innocent of the villainy she was
charged with, and he knew how she despised
everything of that description. Yet he had
a hope that she would some day forgive him,
and love and respect him as before. Without
appearing to notice Gordon or Gustavus,
more than as though they had not been
there, he advanced and took Maria's hand.
She withdrew it coldly, and turned to Burnam,
who regarded her with a look of interest
and pity.

`I may never see you again, Charles,' she
said in tones of deep earnestness, `so before
we part, let me hear you say that you forgive
me for ever suspecting your innocence,
and for uniting myself with the man by whom
you have been so foully wronged. Believe
me, I was deceived. You know that I loved
you onca and must know that my heart too
was wrung by the villainy of which you were
the victim. Oh! say that you forgive me!'

Unable to restrain her feelings, Maria
sank upon her knees before Gustavus, and
covered her face with her hands.

`I forgive you freely,' said Burnam, raising
her gently from the floor. `We have
been alike the victims of a villainous plot.
But for him we might have been happy together,
but as it is we must bid each other
farewell. May Heaven bless you!'

So saying, he drew her arm through his
and conducted her to her carriage.

`Adieu!' said he, as she took her seat
within.

`Adieu, Charles!' she murmured, `adieu!'
And throwing herself back into the carriage,
she burst into tears.

Mr. Acton brushed by Gustavus without
uttering a word, and getting into the carriage

and taking his seat by Maria's side,
ordered the coachman to drive away.

Meanwhile Gordon was endeavoring to
make out some half a dozen words Mr. Acton
had taken an opportunity to write, with
a trembling hand, upon a piece of paper,
which he slipped into the burglar's hand as
he passed out to his carriage.

The words were as follows:

`To-night—at nine o'clock—in the orchard—for
your interest and mine—'

Gordon had scarcely read this laconic but
significant epistle, and put the paper in his
pocket, when Gustavus entered.

`I have no more use for you, Crowl,' said
he. `As I promised you shall not be punished,
through my influence, for any of your
past offences, but you are at liberty to go
where you please. Yet listen to a word of
advice. Give up your dishonest profession,
and earn your living lawfully, else you will
meet with worse fortunes than heretofore.
If I find you ready to reform, you may count
upon my assistance; but if otherwise, I shall
be the worst enemy you can have, for I shall
have an eye upon you.'

Gustavus rang for Louis, who appeared
immediately.

`Conduis cet homme a la porte,' he said to
the valet de chambre; and to Gordon—
`Good bye. When I hear from you again,
let it be as an honest man.

Gordon stammered something, but Gustavus
waved his hand and Louis hurried him
out of the room.

Meanwhile, Mr. Acton's carriage was
rolling along Washington street. Mr. Acton
was seated by Maria's side, but as yet neither
had spoken since they left Burnam's house.
Their feelings we leave to the imagination
of the reader, who cannot but picture to
himself something of the agony by which
their souls were racked.

`Maria,' said Mr. Acton at length.

Until now she had not looked at him nor
noticed him in any way, more than as if he
had not been there; but when he spoke, she
raised her head, and turned her eyes, from
which she had dried the tears, full upon his
face.

`Maria,' repeated Mr. Acton, shuddering
at the look of icy coldness which she gave
him, `why do you appear thus to me?'

Mrs. Acton's pale features exhibited not
the least emotion, and not a muscle moved
as she answered in a tone of startling calmness.
`I leave that question for your own
heart to answer.'

She turned away her eyes, so cold and so
full of the silent eloquence of that sorrow
which hath no hope, and not another word
was spoken by her until she reached home.

Mr. Acton made no reply to her last remark,
but sat there by her side with his
hands clenched together, his teeth set, and
his features wrought into an expression of
rage, hatred and angry disappointment.

Truly had Burnam had his revenge, for
Mr. Acton could have endured any thing
better than the scornful indignation of her
he loved so devotedly.

And she despised him, and she felt that
she must hate him!

He dared make no attempt at an apology,
for he knew her firm and lofty spirit too
well to think she would forgive him easily.

Arrived at his own house, Mr. Acton
waited on his wife with the tenderest attention,
for which she thanked him coldly, as
she entered her own apartment.

Mr. Acton was left alone. For an hour
he paced hurriedly to and fro in his solitary
chamber, muttering deep curses on Barnum,
on Gordon, and on himself.

Thus do our evil deeds, designed for the
injury of others, turn in time against ourselves;
and sin its own punishment.

With angry impatience Mr. Acton waited
for the hour of nine. Evening at length
came on. He was still alone, pacing to and
fro, and biting his lips in the bitterness of
remorse and rage. Every five minutes he
looked at his watch, cursing the slow-paced
moments that dragged so wearily along.

Scarce had the clock tolled nine when
Mr. Acton was in the orchard, waiting for
Gordon.

It was a cold night, and billows of black
clouds rolled across the sky, heaving in the
gale, like the billows of the deep.

Gordon appeared at length.

The burglar was well armed, for knowing
Acton's revengeful nature, he had good
cause to fear his rage.

The two men, facing each other, could
see, by the uncertain light, the expression
of each other's countenances. The one was
of remorse, vengeance and despair, the other
was of avarice, triumph and deceit.

`Crowl,' said Mr. Acton, passionately;
you are a damnable villain! After all your
promises you have betrayed me!'

`Not willingly,' said Gordon. That devil
of a Chivers was too much for me. He got
me into his power, and then I had the satisfaction
of being told that he knew who I
was, and had proofs of every piece of sly
work I ever did. I was obliged to do as I
do, or he would have sent me to rot in prison.
As it was, he had me shut up in his
own house until he had occasion to make
use of me, which was to day.'

`You have done me wrong, Crowl,' returned
Mr. Acton, `but as you are a professed
villain, I must let it pass. You would
do almost anything for money, I believe!'

`And you are not far out of the way! added
Gordon with a grim smile.

`Then we may still make it our interest
to be friends,' said Mr. Acton. You know
what cause I have to hate that Chivers?'

`I think I do.'

`And can probably guess what I want of
you. I must have vengeance on him, and
you are the man to serve me.'

`I understand you,' replied Gordon; and
he added in a whisper—`That Chivers must
be put out of the way, eh?'

`Whether by poison, powder or steel, I
care not,' said Mr. Acton; `I leave that to
you. Recollect, I have nothing to do with
the deed—you and I don't even know each
other; but when I hear of Chivers' death,
the sum of twelve hundred dollars is yours.'

`I understand you.'

`Then begone, and let me not see your
face again until I hear that you have earned
your money!'

Five minutes after, Gordon was hurrying
back to Boston, and Mr. Acton was in the
presence of his wife. His proud spirit was
crushed, but yet he was not sufficiently humble
to ask her to forgive him the wrong he
had committed, She was civil to him, but
very cold.

`Maria,' said he, `it is not becoming in a
wife to treat her husband in this manner.'

`Once for all, let me say to you.' she answered
in calm, firm tones, `that it is better
for us to drop the subject which has occupied
our minds this afternoon. We understand
each other better now than we ever
did before; and you must know my feelings.
You are my husband, and as such I shall always
endeavor to obey you, and to do nothing
to cause you displeasure; and after
what has passed, you can expect nothing
more. I beg of you now to let this subject
rest.'

Acton bit his lips, but remained silent.—
At last he said—

`I am not sure, I understand you, madam;
but if you mean to say that it is your
intention to treat me henceforth as you do
now, we cannot live together.'

`That will be as you desire, answered
Maria with the greatest indifference `I am
anxious to do everything to please you, and
you will find me ready to obey, whatever may
be your commands.'

`Shall we separate then?' demanded Mr.
Acton in a tone of suppressed passion.

Maria answered with the same imperturbable
calmness as before—

`That will be as you desire.'

Mr. Acton looked at her fixedly for a moment;
then with a smile—the first that had
curled his lip that evening; and it was a

smile of bitter hate—he turned and left the
room

Mr. Acton did not close his eyes once,
that night, to sleep, but all the time his brain
was racked by indescribable torments occasioned
by the various passions that possessed
his soul. In the morning he threw himself
upon a sofa, and enjoyed—if we may use the
term—a short slumber, which was broken
by hideous dreams.