Bennett, Emerson - Oliver Goldfinch Read online

  CHAPTER XI.

  THE REWARD OF DARING

  After waiting in much anxiety the time appointed by himself for calling upon Elmer, Edgar repaired to his lodgings and sent up his card. In a few minutes the servant returned with Elmer's compliments, (who was too busy himself to see any one) and a package neatly sealed' which Edgar took with a trembling hand and beating heart, for this he rightly judged contained the so long wished for decision. As soon as he was alone in the street, he hurriedly broke it open, and to his dismay found it to contain only his own manuscript and the following note: "Mr. Elmer begs leave to return Mr. Courtly his manuscript—not from want of merit, for it is an excellent production— but simply because he has selected one written by a friend which will answer his purpose." "And for this I have struggled, and toiled, and hoped!" said Edgar, bitterly, rending the manuscript into a thousand pieces, and scattering them like snowflakes upon the earth. "Well, well, well— the fates are against me, so why should I contend with my destiny. O, man! selfish, cruel, unfeeling man! O, that I could forever fly your sight, and in some far off wilderness end my days! Alas! poor Virginia!—she will weep when she knows my success, for she sanguinely counted on my gaining the prize. But I will seek again for manual labor. I must have something wherewith to cheer her.— But stay, let me look at this paper again;" and taking one of the daily journals from his pocket, he opened and read: "The noble stranger, who a day or two since so heroically saved the life of a lady in Centre street, at the risk of his own, is particularly requested to call at No. —, Eight Avenue, where he will find friends who are not ungrateful." "This is certainly a curious coincidence, or I must be the person meant," mused Edgar; "and if so, something advantageous may come of my answering the advertisement. Saved the life of a lady in Centre street! Well, it was in Centre street I checked the running horse, which, peradventure, left to himself, would have dashed the lady to pieces. At all events there can be no harm in ascertaining who is referred to, and I will go." Putting his determination in practice, Edgar in due time found himself before a stately mansion—rivalling, if not surpassing, his uncle's in splendor of appearance— on the door of which, engraved on a silver plate, he read the name of Calvin Morton. "Can this be the place?" he asked himself, and again had recourse to the advertisement. Yes, it must be, for the numbers tallied; and looking at his thread-bare garments, then at the beautiful marble steps, the silver bell-handle, and the high windows, hung with white and damask curtains, Edgar was debating whether to venture a ring or depart, when a female, richly dressed, but double-veiled for concealment, passed him hurriedly, and then paused, and like himself gazed curiously upon the handsome structure. Then ascending the steps, she took hold of the bell-handle, looked around eagerly, partly raised her veil, gave one glance at Edgar, veiled herself again quickly, and, without ringing at all, descended the steps in haste and departed in much apparent agitation. "Strange!" mused Edgar; "what can this mean? Some new mystery I suppose.— Those features—surely, I have seen them before! Ha! now I bethink me, but for the place where I find her, I could almost swear they were those of Ellen Douglas." Edgar might have so sworn with impunity, for Ellen Douglas it was; and the reader will doubtless find less cause to marvel at her appearance there and manner than he did. Decided at last to enter, Edgar rang the bell, and on inquiring of the servant for Mr. Morton, was shown into a library at the far end of the hall, where sat a mild, middle-aged gentleman, plainly dressed, of benevolent aspect, who looked up through his spectacles from among a huge pile of books with which he was partly surrounded, and to which it would seem he made frequent reference, as many of them were lying open. Before him was a table strewn with manuscripts, and in his hand a pen, which, as he carlessly nodded Edgar to a seat, he dipped in ink and commenced writing with great vigor and haste. For something like five minutes, he neither looked up nor spoke; and Edgar, fancying himself an unwelcome intruder, at last rose to take his leave, when the other, motioning with his hand for him to be seated, said, hurriedly: "In a moment, sir." Edgar sat down again, but found the moment of another five minutes duration; and picking up a huge volume by his side, he was fast becoming interested in a statute on forgery—for the books were those of the law—when the gentleman, putting down his pen, moving back his chair and slipping up his spectaeles, said: "Now, sir, I am at your service." "I beg pardon, for intruding upon you while so busy," began Edgar; "but seeing this advertisement, (pointing to it) I thought I would answer it." "What!" cried Morton, his whole manner and expression changing from a cold business air to one of eager, delighted surprise, "are you the young man who so nobly saved the life of my dear daughter Edith?" "Of that," said Edgar, "I am not certain, and you may mean another. I saw a lady in danger, however, from a runaway horse; and thinking it possible to save her, I stepped forward,knocked the animal down, and, as she was thrown, caught her in my arms." "It was you, then!" cried Morton, starting up and seizing Edgar by the hand, which he shook long and heartily. "God bless you, sir, for the deed! God bless you! I say—and I mean it. But for you, I should now be childless, and then, oh!— But I will not think of that. Come, come— let us to the parlor, and Edith shall thank you in person." "I pray you excuse me," said Edgar, coloring; "but you see I am hardly in fit condition to enter a lady's presence;" and he glanced wofully over his well-worn, faded garments. "Poh! poh! young man—don't talk to me of dress. Look at me, sir! Mine is but little, if any, better than yours. Dress is nothing, sir—nothing; a mere tailor can make that. The mind, sir—the mind— the soul—is every thing: that is the jewel to look to, and that is of God's manufacture. But come with me—come! Did I hear your name?" "Edgar Courtly." "And a fine name it is, too. I once did some business for a namesake of yours, and I found him a perfect gentleman. Perhaps some relation! He was from Baltimore, and his Christian name Ethan." "My father!" exclaimed Edgar, with a start of surprise. "Your father!" rejoined the other, in equal astonishment. "God bless you! you come of good stock. But fortune changes, I see," he added, glancing at Edgar's faded garments. "When I knew your father, he was rich. How fares he now?" "Alas, sir, he has been five years dead!" answered Edgar, mournfully. "Ah! indeed!—sorry to hear it. He was a gentleman, every inch of him. And your mother?" "She—she too—is—is dead," said Edgar, vainly striving to suppress the tears that came bursting through his eyelids. "My father died worth near a million— my mother starved to death in a land of plenty." "Starved, say you, Mr. Courtly? Good Heaven! I trust not starved?" "Ay, Mr. Morton, starved, and in this very city. But wo to them that did it!-- for so sure as there is a God in Heaven, their damnable deeds shall recoil upon their guilty heads, even to the third and fourth generation!" "Of whom do you speak, Mr. Courtly? Has wrong been done you?" "Ay, sir, the foulest! But come, you knew my father, you seem to take an interest in my fate, and, to make us better acquainted, I will give you a sketch of my history." "Do so—you could not confer a greater pleasure," returned Morton. By this time the two had reached the parlor, and taking seats, Edgar at once proceeded to sketch the most prominent events of his past life, not overlooking the villainy of his uncle. "Great God! how much you have suffered!" ejaculated Morton, as the other paused. "And no one left but yourself and sister, and you almost starving! Well, well, thank God! I have enough; and while Calvin Morton lives, you shall not need a friend. But who is this base uncle? and where can he be found? The miscreant! he shall be exposed, let him be whom he may, if such a thing be in my power." "And yet," rejoined Edgar, "should I tell you his name, you would be tempted to discredit my story." "Not I, in faith," said Morton; "for your story comes too much from the heart to be an imposition. I have seen and studied too much of human nature, I fancy, to be easily deceived." "What say you, then, to Oliver Goldfinch?" Had a bolt of lightning at that moment descended from the heavens and torn up the ground beneath his feet, Morton would scarcely have exhibited greater astonishment and dismay than at this simple announcement. "Oliver Goldfinch?" he exclaimed. "No, no, Mr. Courtly—there must be some mistake
!— for he, I assure you, bears a stainless reputation, and is one of our most opulent citizens." "If there is any mistake," said Edgar, "it must be on your part, in not knowing him so well as I. But I here tell you, under oath if you like, that noble, and rich, and stainless in reputation as he is, it was Oliver Goldfinch who took possession of my father's property, and afterwards denied his own sister, refusing her money to buy food, even when she was dying of starvation." "Be this so, may God's curses light upon him!" said Morton, a good deal excited. "And they will—on him and his—sooner or later," returned Edgar. "All things find their level at last." "And my Edith is as good as engaged to his son." "To Acton?" cried Edgar. "The same." "Then, as you love your daughter, forbid the bands and all farther intercourse— for he is a villain of but little remove from the blackness of his father. Now I see it all; and it was to this lady Ellen alluded, when she said he should never marry her," continued Edgar, as if to himself; "and it was she, then, I saw at the door! She came to warn Edith; and no wonder she was agitated, poor girl!" "Of whom are you speaking, Mr. Courtly?" "Of the victim of Acton Goldfinch— poor Ellen Douglass!" answered Edgar; "of her who so generously supplied me with money, when my mother lay a corpse, and her living children had not wherewithal to keep them long from joining her; of one who has been most foully, most damnably wronged!" and Edgar proceeded to detail what he knew of Ellen and her seducer. "And this is the man that aspires to the hand of my daughte r?" said Morton, when Edgar had done. "O, the scoundrel! But his cause here is hopeless. Edith shall know all; and if you have told me true, which I believe, she shall spurn him hence as a worthless dog. But speaking of Edith, reminds me you have not seen her to receive her grateful thanks. Excuse my neglect; but so taken up was I with your story, I forgot all else;" and as he spoke, he rang a bell. "Bid my daughter and her mother come hither at once," he said to the servant; and scarcely three minutes elapsed, ere the door opened, and Mrs. Morton, followed by Edith, entered. The former was a fine, matronly-looking lady of forty, with nothing to distinguish her, unless it were a mild, sweet, benevolent expression, which lingered on her open features as naturally as sunlight upon a flower, and inspired the beholder at once with confidence and pleasure. But the countenance of Edith was marked— not so much with the strong lines of light and shade, which the artist readily seizes and transfers to canvas, as with the expression of intellect and nobleness of soul that was every where visible, but more especially in her soft, gray eyes, which sweetly beamed through their long lashes, like the sun of an unclouded summer's morn gently struggling through a grove of weeping willows. Not a feature but was perfectly moulded; and yet not on one, nor on all combined, could you fix the beauty which you acknowledged as both triumphant and charming. Chisel them in marble, let the soul be wanting, and they would be but marble still, as unattractive as the face of a doll; but light them with the intellect they now displayed, and they spoke to you more eloquently than the tongue of an orator. Around a face of classic mould, and over a beautiful neck of alabaster whiteness, that rounded off in a swelling bust, floated a mass of golden ringlets, less the work of art than nature. A dimpled hand and form of airy lightness, elastic with the fresh vigor of seventeen summers, made Edith Morton an object not to be lightly passed over by one susceptible of woman's charms. And such an one was our hero, who, as at a single glance he took in all we have described, felt his frame thrill with an emotion to which he had hitherto been a stranger. For a moment, as she entered, his eyes encountered hers; and then his gaze instantly dropped to the ground, and for the first time, perhaps, in his life, he felt really embarrassed in the presence of a lady. He could not but remember now, with a feeling of pride he had not before experienced, it was this lovely being's life he had saved—that to him she owed the sweetest of all debts, the gratitude of a grateful heart. "My wife and daughter," spoke Morton, "allow me to present to you Edgar Courtly, the noble young man to whom Edith is indebted for her life." "Indeed, sir, was it you?" said Mrs. Morton, seizing both the hands of Edgar in her own, and pressing them warmly. "May Heaven bless you, young man, for the heroic deed! Here, Edith, come and thank him!" "I do, mother," returned Edith, approaching and modestly extending her hand to Edgar, who took it in one, that, in spite of himself, trembled: "I do thank him, from my very soul." Her eyes, as she spoke, were looking sweetly into his; but from some cause, as she concluded, they sank toward the ground, and a bright tint heightened the beauty of her cheeks. Edgar would have given the world to speak freely; but somehow his tongue, at all other times an obedient member, now clove to his mouth; and it was not till after two or three vain attempts, he managed to articulate, in a tremulous voice: "I did but my duty." "So say all high minded persons, when they do a noble act," rejoined Mr. Morton; "but the obligation is none the less binding on our part, that you are pleased to consider the matter in so modest a light. Eh! Edith, what think you?" "That I shall never be able to repay Mr. Courtly for what he terms a simple act of duty." "Not so, Miss Morton; I am repaid already, a thousand times—ay, even were my claim to your gratitude a thousand times greater than it is," returned Edgar, with an earnestness of tone and manner that again brought the bright crimson to the lovely face of Edith, and made his own blush correspondingly. "As the preserver of my life, at the risk of your own, I can never cease to remember you with gratitude," rejoined Edith, in a voice full of music to the soul of Edgar, accompanied as it was with a sweet but modest smile. "Who would not," he thought to himself, "have done as much for a like reward?" "To cut matters short, and end any thing like formality," joined in Mr. Morton," you must know, Edgar—excuse the familiarity I take with your Christian name—that we all feel ourselves under the deepest obligations to you, and will do all in our power to cancel the debt. Look upon this house, sir, as your home, and to me for any assistance you may need." The earnest manner in which this was spoken, showed Edgar, conclusively, the speaker was sincere; and so affected him, that the tears sprang to his eyes, and it was with difficulty, as he grasped the other's proffered hand of friendship, he could articulate: "God bless you! for through you my day seems dawning once more." "Ah, poor youth, God grant it!—for it is high time, methinks, it dawned again to you. Yours has indeed been a stormy night of wretchedness. And your poor sister—Heaven pardon me! I had almost forgotten her—bring her here, and she shall have a home and be as my daughter." "You overwhelm me," returned Edgar, tremulously, brushing away an obdurate tear. "Have you then a sister?" cried Edith, eagerly. "O, by all means, bring her here! for I know I shall love her so." "Ay, do, Mr. Courtly, do!" chimed in Mrs. Morton. "Edith has often wished for a sister, and yours shall be hers." "And, mother, we will send the carriage for her at once," pursued Edith, with an expression of heart-felt eagerness. "O, I am so anxious to see her! Ring, father, for the coachman!" "Nay, I would you let me prepare my sister first," interposed Edgar, gently.— "To-morrow, if so you desire it, I will conduct her hither myself." "We must perforce wait your pleasure," smiled Edith, "though the sooner you bring her, the better I shall be pleased. Does she resemble you?" she inquired, naively. "There is, some say, a slight resemblance," replied Edgar; "but in justice to dear Virginia, I must own she is younger and far the best looking." Edith looked as though she thought the latter impossible, but simply said, in an artless tone, that again brought the blood to Edgar's cheek: "O, I know I shall love her. Virginia! what a sweet, beautiful name!" Edgar just then thought Edith full as sweet. In like manner the conversation proceeded for half an hour, when Mr. Morton, on the plea of business, reconducted Edgar to the library. As the latter took leave of the ladies, both Mrs. Morton and Edith pressed him warmly to tarry for dinner, and made Mr. Morton promise to do his best to detain him. What a wonderful change a little time had wrought in the condition and feelings of Edgar. An hour before he was an object for commiseration, and felt too wretched to exist.— Now he was surrounded by influential friends, and would not have exchanged places with the proudest monarch. O, uncertain life! O, vacillating human nature! We are but p
uny chess-men, changed at the will of the Great Player, and are much or nothing, according to our position in relation to one another. "Edgar Courtly," said Mr. Morton, abruptly, as they entered the library, "there is something about you I like." "Thank you," returned Edgar, coloring. "Stop! no thanks, sir!—at least none to me—for I want nothing but what is my own; and thanks for liking you, is much like thanking a man to eat a good dinner at your expense. No, Edgar; if you thank any body, thank God, for having made you what you are—one of his noblest works. There, stop, now—don't interrupt me!" he continued, as he saw Edgar about to make reply. "Don't interrupt me, I repeat! for I am a singular man, and like to say what I think, without hindrance or contradiction. It is seldom I tell a man I like him, for I see very few I can say thus to and speak the truth, and it is my rule to speak nothing but what I mean. But a truce to this. I have no time to spare, as an important case, which comes on in two days, requires all my time and closest attention. To be brief, then, what can I do for you?" "A thousand thanks for your offer! but I require nothing at present." "You seemed annoyed at the appearance of your dress, when I first invited you to join the ladies. You are a young man, have your fortune to make, and I appreciate your feelings--for dress, in the eyes of the world, is every thing. Here is a check for fifty dollars." "No, Mr. Morton, a thousand thanks for your generosity! but I will accept nothing, unless you show me a way to earn it first." "Rightly spoken, like a nobly spirited youth! You would make a capital lawyer, methinks. What say you to the profession?" "It is precisely to my mind." "Will you take me for a tutor?" "The very favor I would have asked." "Enough! Consider the matter set tled. I can pay you what salary I please, you know. Come to-morrow, sir, and bring your sister, and I will put you to your task. Shall I see you at dinner?" "Not to-day, as my sister would be uneasy at my absence." "I shall see you to-morrow, then?" "God willing, you will." "Will you accept this money in advance?" "Not to-day, I thank you!" "And so Oliver Goldfinch is the uncle who so basely used you!" he said, musingly, making an abrupt change to the subject that now bore upon his mind. "Ay! ay! I must look to this—I must look to this. If I can get any hold upo n him, friend Edgar, you shall have justice. And Acton is a villain, too! So, so—this shall be attended to. To-morrow I shall look for you early. Good morning, sir—good morning, Edgar;" and turning quickly away, the lawyer resumed his writing, without deigning even another look at his visiter. As Edgar quitted the mansion and slowly took his way homeward, he mused, with a lightened heart, upon the events we have just described—upon the curious chain of circumstances which had so suddenly placed him on terms of intimacy with one of the most opulent families of the city—upon the striking contrast between him he had just parted from and his own uncle—but, most of all, upon the sweetly smiling countenance, the light and sylph-like form, and the soft, melodious voice of the fair and lovely Edith Morton.