University of Virginia Library

20. CHAPTER XX.
Sorrows come not singly.

Let us return to Edith When Kate
made known to her that the man to
whom she had resolved to give her entire
heart—on whom she had determined to bestow
her hand, as upon one she deemed worthy
of all respect and love—when Kate told
her that he, the Rev. Mr. Everett, a professed
follower of Christ and a preacher of his
word, was a black hearted hypocrite and a
practiced villain, she was thunderstruck,
stupified by the startling news.

She dropped Kate's hand, which she had
held in hers, and gazed at her so strangely
with her piercing eye, that the poor girl
shuddered with fear.

`Oh, Miss Irving!' sobbed Kate, `forgive
me for telling you—or for not telling you
before—about Mr. Everett.'

`You have done right,' said Edith, after
a long silence. `But you are not deceiving
me?'

`How could I?' cried Kate.

`You speak the truth, then?'

`If ever I spake truth in my life! This
Everett is the same man who ruined my innocence—the
same who disguises himself so
that many would not recognize him, and visits
the haunts of vice, where he is known as
Richard Marvin.'

`I believe you now, for I recollect some
circumstances which go to prove the truth
of what you say,' returned Edith; but why
have you not told me of this before?'

`Because,' murmured Kate, `I met him
one day in the hall, when he threatened to
take my life if I exposed him. I was afraid
to tell you.'

`And have you no fears now?'

`Yes—but if I knew he would strangle
me for it, I could n't help telling you—you
have been so kind to me.'

`I thank you,' said Edith. `You shall
not suffer for having done your duty. I expect
this Everett here shortly. Stand by
me then, and I shall be under great obligations
to you.'

Edith was calm—but oh! how much she
felt! Her love and pride had received a
terrible wound, but she had sufficient self-command
to shut her sorrow up in her own
breast. To think she had reposed confidence
and centred her affections in a villain,
turned all her love and joy to bitterness.

Mr. Everett had promised to visit her that
afternoon, and she expected him every minute.
He kept his word; and when he arrived
Edith had everything prepared for his
reception.

Edith was polite, though somewhat cold,
while he on the other hand was more tender
towards her than he had ever appeared before.

`I am glad to see you,' said Edith. `Have
the goodness to look at this paper, and tell
me if you know that hand-writing.'

She gave him the letter Kate had left in
her possession.

The characters were greatly faded, but
at a glance Everett recognized his own
hand-writing, and the truth flashed upon
his mind. His villainy was discovered!

Edith's piercing eye observed a momentary
and almost imperceptible change in the
countenance of the preacher, but in an instant
the wonted color returned, and he raised
his eyes to Edith with an expression of
perfect coolness and unconcern.

`This appears to be a love-letter,' said he,
carelessly. `Nobody, I hope, has had the
impudence to send such to you?'

`I asked if you knew the hand-writing?'
said Edith.

`I am sure I do not.'

`You never knew then an individual named
Marvin—Richard Marvin?' pursued
Edith with a searching look.

She could perceive that Everett was a little
disconcerted. However, he answered
firmly and calmly that he knew no such
man.

`Who is he?' he asked.

`I am told,' replied Miss Irving, `that he
is a preacher like yourself, who bears a respectable
character in high society, but who,
in disguise, often visits the haunts of vice
from the mere love of vice itself.'

`I never heard of him before.'

`Come this way,' said Edith.

She approached a door leading into another
apartment, threw it open, and discovered
to the eyes of the clergyman the poor girl
whom he had betrayed.

`Did you ever hear of her?' asked Edith.

`Never till I came here,' answered Everett,
still unmoved.

`It is false!' sobbed Kate. `Heaven
knows you speak an infamous lie!'

`What is the meaning of this?' asked the
clergyman, turning to Edith.

`This,' replied Edith; `that she has told
a deliberate falsehood, which can avail her
nothing, or that you are the man who penned
this letter, which was sent to her by you.—
You can deny the charge she brings against
you, but if it is true, it will be readily proved;
if false you can make your innocence
appear. Until I am satisfied, let me not see
your face again.'

She left the room.

The clergyman was alone with Kate. He
looked cautiously about him at first, then
approached the girl.

`Shameless wretch!' he muttered through
his teeth; have you forgotten my threat—or
what I am? Did I not swear to be revenged
if you exposed me? Now, by the Almighty!
if you don't unsay all that you have said,
and convince Miss Irving that I am not the
man, you die within a week!'

So saying, he shook her rudely, while she
did nothing but sob and struggle to get free.
His rage against her was so furious that he
was tempted to tear her in pieces.

Now I am satisfied!'

Everet started at the sound of that voice
and turned quickly about. Edith Irving
stood before him, pale with indignation, and
his dark eyes flashing with scorn.

`Now I am satisfied,' she repeated, `that
you are a villain. I need no stronger proof
than this, Mr. Marvin. Heartless hypocrite!
after ruining this poor girl, you threaten
to destroy her bodily because she has
had the courage to expose your villainy to
me! But hear me before you take a single
step. Promise never to enter this house
again, and to leave this vicinity as soon as
possible, and I give you my word that as far
as I am concerned, there shall be no hindrance
to your doing so honorably—to all
appearances. I will not expose you publicly.
On the other hand, if you seek my presence
again, or if you linger near here, making
dupes of a whole congregation of Christians
who put confidence in you, or if you offer
an injury, whether serious or slight, to this
girl whom you have ruined, the world shall
know of your villainy, and you shall be
branded wherever you go. Remember my
words and leave the house at once.'

Everett would have spoken, but Edith was
gone in an instant, and Kate had already
disappeared.

The clergyman's eyes flashed with revenge,
but he opened not his lips. His
whole scheme of marrying a wealthy and respectable
lady had fallen to the ground, and
he found himself exposed, and in danger of
being publicly disgraced His anger knew

no bounds, yet he dared not give it vent.—
With a quick step he left the house.

It was shortly after this event that Mr.
Acton and Maria returned from Boston.

It was not Edith's intention to whisper
her discovery to even her sister, nor did she
mean that her look should betray that any
secret sorrow preyed upon her mind. If she
did not look so cheerful as usual—her disposition
was naturally gay—yet her brow
was unclouded as she went to meet her sister.

`Are you ill, Maria?' she asked. `You
are very pale.'

`I am not ill,' replied Mrs. Acton.

`How did you enjoy yourself at Mr. Burnam's?'
pursued Edith.

`Do not question me now, sister,' returned
Maria. `It was a fatal visit—you will
never see Mr. Burnam in this house again.'

`Indeed! why not?'

`Because, Edith, henceforth he and Mr.
Acton are mortal enemies.'

Edith started with surprise.

`What has happened?'

`To-morrow you shall know the whole
history,' replied Mrs. Acton. `But leave
me alone to-night. I have need of repose
to restore calmness to my mind, and to meditate
on the course I ought to pursue.'

Edith urged her no longer, but left her as
she desired.

On the following morning Mrs. Acton and
her sister sat down to the breakfast table
alone, not to partake of the food set before
them, but to review the history of the past,
and to advise with each other on what the
future and the present required of them.—
Maria told the secret of who Burnam was,
and of her own husband's guilt, and Edith
listened to the narration with all the interest
and sympathy of a sister.

Meanwhile Mr. Acton breakfasted alone,
and set out for Boston at an early hour,
without having spoken to his wife since the
day before.

The little sleep he had enjoyed had wrought
a wonderful change in his appearance and
feelings. All hope had passed, and he
was sunk into the depths of despair. He
felt weary of an existence which had no longer
a charm for him. Every tie that bound
him to earth was severed. He had lost his
child and worse than lost his wife; and his
self-respect was changed to remorse and
self-contempt. He scarcely knew what he
said—he was half insane.

At noon he returned home.

For three hours he was shut up in his
room, where he occupied himself in writing.
He had not eaten a morsel since the morning,
when his breakfast consisted of a cup
of coffee and a morsel of biscuit.

The sun was going down, and his golden
rays, melting richly on the dark brown
woodland and hill-side of faded gray, penetrated
the smoky October air and streamed
through the window of his room.

Mr. Acton sat gazing out upon the melancholy
scene presented to his view, and the
expression of his features became more calm
than they had been before since his last interview
with Burnam. And as the soft sunlight
faded in the red October sky, he seemed
looking his last farewell to the great luminary
of the world.

The day had gone out in the west, but its
light still lingered on the earth. Mr. Acton
then calmly arose, took a small neatly folded
paper from his pocket-book, and emptied a
powder it contained into a glass. Having
burned the paper, he added a few spoonsfull
of water to the powder, and without hesitation
drank the whole. He then carefully
washed the glass, and scrupulously destroying
every trace of the fatal powder, drew a
heavy sigh and threw himself upon a sofa,
groaning under the weight of his despair.