Bennett, Emerson - Oliver Goldfinch Read online

  CHAPTER IX.

  THE ABODE OF THE UNFORTUNATE.

  Although impatient to know the decision of Elmer regarding his production, Edgar did not deem it proper to intrude upon him for a day or two, or until all his competitors should have sent in their efforts. Feverish with anxiety as concerned his success, it was now his object to while away his time so as to think as little upon the matter as possible. For this purpose he sallied forth into the bustling city, passing through the main thoroughfares, along the quays, and, in short, visiting every place which he fancied would serve to withdraw his thoughts from what had now become a painful subject—painful, because he felt that in case of failure, the hope which had buoyed up his sinking spirits would be irrecoverably sunk in the dark waters of despair. After rambling about for several hours, he visited the hospital, in the hope to gain from the lips of Davis an explanation of his mysterious words; but in this he was sadly disappointed; for the physician informed him the man was delirious, and in all probability would not survive the attack, as anxiety and exposure had increased his malady to a very malignant form; and even should he recover, all conversation on worldly topics must be excluded for at least a couple of weeks. This was sore news to Edgar, as he had counted much on getting some clue to the supposed villainy of his uncle, whereby he might, if not convict him, at least force him to a satisfactory compromise, and regain enough of his father's property to render himself and sister independent. It was, therefore, with a heavy heart that he again shaped his cour se homeward, unconsciously passing over the very ground he had traversed in the morning. As he came along side of the Tombs and looked up to the huge pile, he felt a cold shudder pass over his frame, and his very soul recoil, as it were, with an undefinable fear. "Strange!" he mentally ejaculated; "strange, I should feel thus, when looking upon the walls of a prison! I have never done a wrong deed, that I should have such terror of the criminal's home. Is it—can it be a foreboding of farther evil! God grant that my worst trials are over!—for misery and I have too long been acquainted, and I had hoped we should again be strangers." Musing thus, he pursued his way until he entered Mott street, when an irresistable desire seized upon him to visit Ellen, his generous benefactress, whom neither himself nor sister had seen since changing their quarters, and also to look once more upon the wretched abode where his poor mother had ended her sufferings. As he drew near the place and glanced toward the miserable hovel, again tenanted with the most squalid poverty, his heart leaped to his throat, his eyes grew dim, and he was fain to turn quickly away to master his emotion. The dwelling of the unfortunate Ellen was nearly opposite, and to this he bent his steps. His first impression was that the house was tenantless—for the door was not only closed, but heavy wooden shutters barred all the windows. Although passed midday, there were no signs of life about the premises, and Edgar was on the point of leaving, thinking there were none within, when something altered his determination, and he at once advanced to the door and stoutly applied the knocker. After some little delay, Edgar heard the rattling of bars and the clanking of chains, and then the door swung ajar a few inches, but not sufficiently to admit the entrance or exit of even a child, and a hoarse, cracked female voice said: "Who are you? and what's wanting?" "Is Ellen Douglas within?" asked Edgar, in reply. "Well, 'sposen she is?" was the inhospitable rejoinder. "Why, then, I desire to see her," said Edgar, already half inclined to depart without more ado. "I'll see if she'll see you," said the voice. "Who'll I tell her wants her?" "Edgar Courtly." The door swung to—bolts, bars and chains rattled back to their places—and for a few minutes all was silent. Then a shutter cautiously opened over Edgar's head, as if for some one to peer down, and then as cautiously closed. Presently there was another rattling at the door, which this time swung open, and the same harsh voice said: "Come in." As Edgar crossed the threshold, he beheld a corpulent woman, some forty years of age, with a red, bloated countenance and blear eyes, dressed in a loose gown or wrapper, who eyed him coldly until he had cleared the swing of the door, which she shut with impatient violence and carefully refastened. Then turning, "Up stairs," she grumbled, rather than said, and led the way herself. Passing through a long, dark hall, preceded by the woman, Edgar ascended a flight of stairs, richly carpeted, to the second story, when, turning to the right, his conductress threw open a door into a fine apartment, magnificently furnished, and lighted, although broad daylight without, by a large alabaster lamp, whose mellow light gave to each object a rich, luxuriant softness. A splendid Brussells carpet covered the floor, over which, in elegant profusion, were arranged the most costly articles of furniture. Here stood mahogany and rosewood sofas, ottomans, settees and chairs, covered with purple and crimson silk-velvet; there two large marble tables, strewn with books and music; yonder an organ and piano of the most expensive workmanship; while the walls were adorned with mirrors, that doubled the splendors of the whole, and with busts, and statuetts, and with paintings worthy the attention of a connoiseur of art. As all this flashed upon Edgar, a refinement so far beyond what he had expected to find, he could hardly credit his senses, and was half beginning to fancy himself a subject of fairy magic, translated to an oriental palace, when his eye fell upon the object he sought, the beautiful Ellen, reclining on a settee at the farther side of the room, robed now in a costly silk, and resplendent with pearl, diamonds and gold. She did not rise, but motioned him to close the door and advance to her side. He did so, and as she reached out her hand to him, he saw she was very pale and a good deal agitated. "How is your sister? was her first question. "I thank you, she is well," replied Edgar, seating himself by her side; "but I fear I cannot say as much for you." "No," rejoined Ellen, with a sigh, "I am not well. I have been ailing ever since I saw you, and have not been out of my room for several days." "I thought there must be something of the kind, that you did not call upon us," returned Edgar, "and therefore came to see you." "You are very kind," said Ellen, scarcely able to repress her tears, "to take such disinterested interest in one despised by the world." "Not disinterested either," rejoined Edgar. "You forget you are our benefactress." "I would to God I could forget all other things as easy," she replied, with anguish. "That was nothing — nothing. If my money did you any service, I am rejoiced to know it—but I pray you mention it not again." "I am in hopes soon to restore it," said Edgar. "Nay, do no such thing!" returned Ellen, with energy. "I would rather you keep it; for in your hands, and that of your sweet sister, it will be used for virtuous ends; while in mine, base mortal that I am! it might only serve some unholy purpose. Oh, that I were dead and in my grave," she continued, bitterly, "away from the sight, the scorn and contumely of man! Were it not I dread the great and terrible Hereafter, another sun should not rise upon me in life." "Nay, Ellen, why talk thus?" returned Edgar, gently and soothingly. "You have done wrong, undoubtedly; so have I—so have all—for all human nature is prone to err in a greater or less degree. But there is one consolation left us: We can repent of our errors and reform our ways; and, Ellen, I beseech you, as one who has your happiness at heart, to change your present course!" "And be a thing for the world to point at, hiss at, and insult!" rejoined Ellen, mournfully. "No! no! I would rather be as I am—for now at least I am on an equality with those around me." "But leave here--go where you are unknown--live an upright life, and you need have no fears of being insulted," returned Edgar, seriously. "And think you, my friend—for of all men I have known, you are the only one I can truly venture to call so—that my guilty conscience would allow me to mingle again with the virtuous?—the wolf in the sheep's fold? No, no, no!" she pursued, hurriedly; "I can not do it: I have thought it all over time and again, and have wept such tears as only the conscience-stricken guilty can know. Go where I would, I should feel that all eyes were upon me, reading the thoughts of my poluted soul; and it would be a hell of torture to me far beyond even this. I am a woman, and well you know, when one of my sex is branded with shame, there is no door of mercy and pardon left open for us. No, do what we may, having onc
e done wrong, we are disgraced for ever, and towards us the world's finger of scorn stands eternally uplifted. I am proud as I am wretched, and to see myself shunned by all honest people, as a creature to be abhorred, would be a punishment I could not endure, and to which even death on the rack would prove a glad substitute. Oh, I am most wretched at times; and were it not, as I have just said, I dread the consequences hereafter, another sun should not rise save upon my livid corse." "Nay, let me entreat you to think differently, Ellen!" pleaded Edgar, gently, taking her hand. "Do not attempt entreaty!" she said, rapidly, "for you will only fail where others have failed before. There was one," she pursued, pressing her hands upon her throbbing temples, and looking wildly upon Edgar, "whose warning voice I disregarded ere I became criminal; and if she could not arrest me in my wayward course, think not that any have now the power to reclaim. My mother! oh, my mother! oh God, my mother!" she cried, in anguish; and again hiding her face, sobbed aloud. Edgar endeavored to console and tranquilize her, but for a long time without producing any effect, other than to cause a fresh burst of agony. At length, becoming a little more calm, and striving to repress all emotion, she resumed: "And can you indeed look upon me without abhorence, considering what I am?" "It is not that I consider what you are," answered Edgar, "so much as what you may become, if you will but heed my counsel, which makes you less criminal in my eyes than your own. The evil you do, or have done, no one can more heartily condemn than I. It is the good remaining to which I hopefully turn, to see you saved from a fate the most horrible to contemplate. You have intimated that here you are on an equality with your associates. Permit me to venture the assertion, that in nobleness of nature and refinement of soul, you are far, far their superior; and hence what to them is of easy endurance, to you is a torture almost unbearable. To them, sin is a golden ball of delightful temptation—to you, a grinning skull, horrifying to your senses. They have done and still do wrong, because it is the strongest passion they possess— you, because you have been seduced into error and fancy there is no escape." "You speak much truth," rejoined Ellen, mournfully. "Were I what I was once, with all the knowledge I now possess, not a world, were it laid at my feet, should tempt me to be what I am—b ut being what I am, a world, even had I such to offer, could not restore me to the purity and happiness I possessed ere the tempter came. My tale is brief and soon told— you take an interest in my fate—therefore listen to what these lips have never as yet revealed to mortal ear: "On the banks of the beautiful and romantic Hudson, some hundred miles or so above here, stands a lovely cottage, shaded in the summer by a sylvan grove, and by vines and flowers that entwine themselves gracefully and luxuriantly about it. Here, in times past, lived a happy family—a father, mother and daughter—the latter an only child, on whom both parents fondly doated—too fondly, I fear, for their good and her own. The fearful epidemic of 1832, called the father suddenly to eternity, and struck the first tell blow to the happiness of the two survivors. Time passed on, and the love of mother and daughter, which had been heretofore divi ded by a husband and father, now centered upon each other, with an intensity that softened their grief for the lost one. Fair and beautiful—alas! too beautiful for her own salvation—the daughter bloomed eighteen, the reigning belle of the village, with a host of admirers ever in her train. Unsuspicious as she was unsophisticated in the ways of a heartless world, and somewhat vain by nature, but more so by circumstances, she was thus a fit subject for the machinations of one of the handsomest and most accomplished young men she had ever beheld. Add to these attractions, that he was from the fashionable circles of New York, the son of a millionaire, and that to her, comparatively a country rustic, he paid the utmost defference, professing at the same time an ardent attachment, and you will scarcely wonder that, dazzled by his position and the prospective brought before her mind's eye, as well as grateful for the distinction she fancied conferred upon her, her affections should become enlisted, and she gradually be led on to her own destruction. This her mother saw and warned her of repeatedly; but when was an overindulged youth or maiden ever known to profit by the counsels of maturer years, unless coerced or brought to the thinking point by sad experience. Yet do not fancy she leaped from virtue to vice knowingly. No! all the world could never have persuaded her to that. She knew she was doing wrong, but did not dream of aught criminal, until the fatal Rubicon of vice had been passed, as in a dream, and she awoke to the horrible reality of knowing her steps could never be retraced— that her fair name and fame were blasted forever—her peace of mind forever ruined. Nor was this effected but with the basest deception. She was persuaded to elope with him she loved, and be privately married, that the news thereof might not reach his father's ears, and he thereby be cut off with a shilling. At night, and by stealth, she left the roof of her fond mother and came to this city, where she was joined in holy wedlock—or at least so led to suppose, until the awful truth of the ceremony being a sham was subsequently revealed to her. Then it was the lamb became a tigress, fearful to look upon; for all the wild passions of hell itself were stirred within her; and he who had brought her to this, was fortunate to escape with life until her first frenzy was over. As it was, even, when next she and her lover met, there was a fearful scene; and with the door of her apartment bolted upon him, a glittering dagger in her hand, there would have been a new tragedy— a horrifying tale of bloody retribution for the world to gossip over—had not he, on his bended knees, calling Heaven to witness, solemnly vowed to make her his lawful wife, and that, too, ere another month should roll over her guilty head. To jump detail," concluded Ellen, with mournful energy, raising herself to a sitting posture, "three years have since passed, and yet that vow has never been fulfilled." "But the lover—the seducer," asked Edgar, quickly, "what of him?" "He is her lover still; and if not by the laws of man, at least before high Heaven, Ellen Douglas is his true and loyal wife." "But when he broke the vow?" "He did it by giving good cause, and making another equally as strong and equally as futile. But I loved, trusted and forgave him—for what will not poor woman do for him she loves! He has made a dozen vows since then, only to break them all and leave me what I am." "Then why accuse yourself of being such a vile wretch, when the sin was not so much your own as another's?" asked Edgar. "But the sin was my own." said Ellen, mournfully; "for did not I disregard the counsels of a beloved mother, and basely, like a guilty being, forsake her in the dead hour of night?—alas! alas! to the breaking of her heart;" and turning away her face, the wretched girl burst into tears. "An I where is she now!" inquired Edgar. "Where!" echoed Eden, with startling emphasis; "where I would to God I were— with the dead!" and sinking back upon her seat, she remained for a few minutes completely overcome with the force of her feelings. Edgar made no reply, for he knew there were sorrows, and more especially those where a self-condemning conscience formed a portion, far beyond the power of human consolation, and the which it were but mockery to attempt to soothe. After a silence of some minutes, only broken by her sighs and sobs, Ellen turned to Edgar and resumed: "This, my friend, made me a wretch— this, and the thoughts of what I am, most wretched. But," she added, with a wild, startled look, "I could bear all—even my disgrace and the contumely of my fellow creatures—bear all to my death, without murmuring—were I assured that he, the idol of my heart, as he is the author of my misery, but loved me with one half the passion he has professed. Oh! it is the bitter, harrowing thought, that after all I may be abandoned, forsaken, and that for another, which keeps my brain on fire, and has driven me nigh distracted! But he shall never wed her and Ellen Douglas live!" she cried, with sudden vehemence, springing to her feet, greatly to the surprise of Edgar, and towering aloft like an indignant queen, while her dark eyes glared fearfully around: "No, he shall never wed her and I live poluted!—never never, never—I swear it before high Heaven!" and she threw back her head, cast her eyes upward, and raised her hand aloft, with a natural eloquence of gesture the mightiest orator might have envied. "And if I may be permitted the
question," said Edgar, almost fearful to hazard the inquiry, "who is the villain of whom you speak?" "Nay," cried Ellen, eagerly, suddenly grasping his arm and fixing her eyes upon his, "call him not a villain—it is too harsh a term! I may call him so, but I would not hear another." "I crave pardon!" returned Edgar, perceiving his mistake; "but my indignation got the better of my prudence." "As you are a stranger here," resumed Ellen, abruptly, seeming not to heed the apology, "and know not the personage in question, I will venture to answer you— but all in confidence, remember— Know then, he is the only son of one Oliver Goldfinch, well known here as a millionaire." "What!" exclaimed Edgar, springing to his feet in astonishment: "Acton Goldfinch?" "You know him, then?" cried Ellen, breathlessly. "Only by report, and as my cousin—not personally." "Your cousin?" almost screamed the other, grasping his arm and looking completely bewildered. "Your cousin, did you say?" "Unfortunately he is so," rejoined Edgar, setting his teeth hard in anger. "He your cousin!" repeated Ellen, who in her astonishment could think of nothing else; "and you thus!—such disparity between you! Pray tell me how is this?" "By the devil's own labor," replied Edgar, bitterly; "you know his servants seldom go without the good things of this world, whatever they may receive in the next. But come, we have been thrown together singularly, you have briefly sketched me your history, and as I believe our misfortunes both date from one source, sit down and I will briefly tell you mine;" and Edgar proceeded to give the outlines of what is already known to the reader. "And now, Ellen," he said, in conclusion, "as you know something of his history, I fancy you will be less credulous to what comes from his forked tongue; for that your betrayer will keep one vow with you, I solemnly do not believe." "Alas! what will then become of me?" groaned Ellen, in anguish of spirit. "Let me repeat my advice. Leave here and retire to some secluded part of the country, where you can ever remain unknown." "No, no, rejoined Ellen, "I could not do that. I am so constituted, my friend, that once certain I am not loved—once sure I am forsaken—But hark!" she exclaimed abruptly, starting up and springing to the window; "there is a knock at the door--perhaps it is Acton. It is!" she added, hurriedly, the next moment, as gently she opened the shutter and peered down. "Quick, quick, my friend, you must begone! I would not have you seen by your cousin for the world! He is already too jealous, and the sight of you would be my undoing! Pass out of the room at once, and as he approaches, appear to have come from another apartment! Now quick, my friend, quick! Adieu! I will see you another time—adieu!" and as she uttered these words rapidly, she fairly pushed Edgar from the apartment and closed the door. Edgar followed her instructions to the letter, and the next minute had passed his cousin, whom he now beheld for the first time, and was on his way, unsuspected by the other, to the street door, where the same female who gave him admittance now gave him exit.