Mark Hurdlestone heard of his brother's departure and safe arrival in India with unspeakable satisfaction. With cautious steps he pursued the path suggested to him by the implacable spirit of revenge. Before many months had elapsed, the death of Mrs. Hurdlestone afforded him an opportunity of obtaining a fresh introduction to Miss Wildegrave. At his mother's particular request, Mrs. Wildegrave and her daughter had visited her frequently during her dying illness; and as it exactly suited his own purpose, Mark offered no objection, but did all in his power to meet his mother's wishes. The dying woman felt an intense desire to see the person for whom her favorite son had sacrificed so much, and she was so pleased with his choice, that she forgave her all the trouble she had occasioned, kept her constantly near her person during her last illness, and finally expired in her arms.
To Elinor she owed much of the attention she received at that time from her stern unloving son. He treated her with a degree of tenderness quite unusual to him, anticipated all her comforts, and seldom left her apartment. "They may call the Squire a harsh cruel man," said Elinorto her mother, "but I must say, that I never saw a kinder or a better son."
After the funeral, Mark called upon Mrs. Wildegrave, to deliver into her hands a few memorials of his mother's regard, to which he added some handsome ornaments for Elinor out of his own purse, and he expressed in the warmest terms his grateful thanks for their attention and kindness to the deceased. He displayed so much feeling on this melancholy occasion, and spoke with such affection and respect of his departed parent, that it made a deep impression upon Mrs. Wildegrave and her daughter.
Encouraged by this favorable reception, the Squire soon repeated his visit, and by adroitly flattering the elder lady, he continued to ingratiate himself into her favor. Mrs. Wildegrave was a kind well-meaning woman, but she had struggled so long with poverty, that wealth had acquired, as a natural consequence, too great an ascendancy over her mind. The possession of these coveted riches gave to Mark Hurdlestone an importance in her eyes, which made her blind to the defects of his character, and she secretly wished that her daughter had not entered into a rash engagement with his brother, which must unavoidably extend over an indefinite number of years, but could transfer her affections to the handsome owner of Oak Hall. Alas! how often are mothers, and fond mothers too, induced to sacrifice the earthly and eternal peace of a beloved child to the demon of this world, the selfish soul-destroying power of wealth, that daily slays its thousands and tens of thousands, yet never finds one worshipper the less.
About this period, Mr. Hurdlestone purchased the cottage rented by the widow, and appeared in a new character, that of a landlord. The old lady was fond of planningimprovements, which gave him an opportunity of gratifying her taste; and he took no small pains in accommodating himself to her wishes. "He was a fine generous man," she said, "one whom the world has greatly misrepresented. All his father's faults have been heaped upon his innocent head. She had had sore reason to hate the illiberal narrow-minded father, but she admired and esteemed the son."
"I do not think that Algernon did his brother justice," said Elinor; "but members of the same family are often blind to each other's merits. Certainly the Squire is not the bad selfish man I took him for."
"He has behaved like an angel to us," returned the mother; "and I for my part, prefer him to Algernon."
Elinor rejected this preference with disdain; but the old lady persisted in maintaining her own opinion. Her daughter at last relinquished the argument, by saying, "That the Squire, with his grave serious face, and stiff polite manners, might suit the taste of a middle-aged woman; but he never would win the regard of a young girl."
At first, Elinor had shunned the company of Mr. Hurdlestone, for his presence recalled painful thoughts, and she was prejudiced against him on his brother's account; but his attentions were so kind and considerate, that, stern as he was, she began to entertain a better opinion of him, and to think that perhaps Algernon, who was very passionate, might have given him some provocation for the unjust distribution of his father's property. His manners were austere, and somewhat misanthropic, but his book-knowledge was extensive, and, though naturally taciturn, he could, when he pleased, converse well upon any subject. Free from the influence of malignant passions, he was a sensible and interesting companion.
Elinor knew that the brothers had not parted friends, nor was she ignorant of the cause of the quarrel; but she was willing to believe, from what she heard and saw of Mark Hurdlestone, that he was less in fault than he had been represented to her by Algernon; and the hope of bringing about a reconciliation, and by so doing, shorten her lover's period of exile, took a lively hold of her imagination.
The Squire was so plausible, that he found it an easy task to deceive a girl as unsophisticated as Elinor Wildegrave, who was a perfect novice in the ways of the world. She could not believe it possible that Mr. Hurdlestone could stoop from his dignity to act a despicable part; that deception could lurk beneath such a grave demeanor. Elinor was not the first human being whose faith has been built on reeds.
When alone with Miss Wildegrave, Mark never failed to make his brother the theme of conversation. He lamented, most feelingly, the unfortunate difference which existed between them, which appeared the more unnatural, considering that they were twins. He laid the fault of their disunion entirely to their parents—his father adopting him as a pet, and his mother lavishing all her affections upon Algernon.
This partiality, he said, had destroyed all confidence between them, and produced a rivalry and misunderstanding of each other's character from their earliest years, substituting envy for generous emulation, and hatred for love. In all their quarrels, whether right or wrong, his mother defended Algernon, and his father sided with him so that well-doing was never rewarded, and ill-doing never met with an adequate punishment. Was it to be wondered at that they had grown up perfectly indifferent to each other?
There was much truth in this statement; but Mark Hurdlestone made the best of it, in order to justify himself.
As they became more intimate, Elinor ventured to inquire why his father had been induced to act so unjustly to Algernon on his death-bed; that she could hardly believe that Algernon's attachment to her could have drawn down upon him such a heavy punishment.
"My father was a man of headstrong prejudices," said the Squire. "If he once took a notion into his head, it was impossible to knock it out of him. To dislike a person, and to hate them, were with him the same thing. Such were the feelings he entertained towards your father, whom he regarded as having been his bitterest enemy. The idea of a son of his uniting himself to a daughter of Captain Wildegrave seemed to impugn his own loyalty. It was with him a personal insult, an unforgivable offence. Algernon has accused me of fomenting my father's displeasure, for the base purpose of robbing him of his share of the property. You have been told this?"
"I have."
"And you believe it?"
"I did believe it; but it was before I knew you."
"Dismiss such an unworthy idea of me from your breast for ever. I did all in my power to restore Algernon to my father's favor. I earnestly entreated him, when upon his death-bed, to make a more equitable will. On this point the old man was inflexible. He died muttering curses on his head."
Elinor shuddered.
"It was my determination to have rendered Algernon justice, and shared the property equally between us; but in this Algernon prevented me. He left the Hall in atempest of rage; and when I made the proposal through my mother, my offer was rejected with scorn. I wrote to him before he left for India on the same subject, and my letters were returned unopened. You see, my dear Miss Wildegrave, I have done all in my power to conciliate my brother; but, like my poor father, his enmity is stronger than his love, and will not be entreated."
This statement of Mr. Hurdlestone's was not only very plausible, but it was partly true. He had indeed begged the dying man to forgive Algernon, and consent to his marriage with Miss Wildegrave; but then, he well knew that his father would neither do the one nor the other; while his own hypocritical interference only aggravated the old man's anger in a tenfold degree, and would be the sure way of producing the result which he so ardently desired. He had offered to settle a handsome sum upon his injured brother, but he well knew that it would be rejected with scorn by the high-spirited young man. Elinor could not contradict these statements. She knew the impetuous disposition of her lover, and she more readily admitted their probability. Mark had been represented to her by him as a sullen, morose, avaricious young man, selfish, unfeeling, and cruel, suspicious of his friends, and implacable to his enemies. She had found him the reverse of all this; and she began to entertain doubts of Algernon's veracity, and to conclude that it was for some more cogent reason than for any with which she was yet acquainted that his father had struck him out of his will, so anxious was she to acquit herself of being the cause of her lover's exile, and the unfortunate circumstances in which he was placed. This, too, was selfish; but Elinor had been an only child, and very much indulged by her mother. She was a good, gentle, beautiful girl; but not exactly the stuff of which angels are made.
After this explanation had taken place, Mr. Hurdlestone became a daily visitor at the cottage; and his society and friendship contributed greatly to the comfort and amusement of its inhabitants. He never, to Elinor, made the least allusion to his passion. The passion, indeed, had long ceased to exist; he sought her not for love, but for revenge.
Time glided on. Algernon had been three years away; but his letters still continued to breathe the same ardent attachment, and Elinor was happy in the consciousness of being the sole possessor of his heart.
Her mother, who had more ambitious views for her daughter, often lamented her long engagement, which might never be completed. "She would rather," she said, "have the rich Squire for her son-in-law; and she would not be at all surprised if Elinor herself was to change her mind before the ten years expired."
Six years of the allotted period had expired. Algernon had been promoted to the rank of major; and his letters were full of happy anticipations. Elinor herself began to look forward to their union as a thing likely to take place; and she spoke of her lover's perseverance and constancy with proud delight.
"He has done better than I expected of him," said the Squire. "There is nothing like adversity for trying what a man's made of. But who can wonder at his exerting himself to obtain such a reward?" And he bowed to the blushing Elinor, as she sat with Algernon's letter in her hand, radiant with joy.
"He talks of returning in less than two years: I wish it were now. I am already three-and-twenty; by that time I shall begin to look old."
Mark thought that she never looked younger, or more beautiful, than at that moment, and he told her so.
"Ah, but you are my friend—are partial. Will not Algernon see a change?"
"Yes—for the better."
"I wish I could believe you. But I feel older. My heart is not so fresh as it was; I no longer live in a dream; I see things as they really are."
"And do you expect to find no change in your lover? The burning climate of India is not a great beautifier."
"I can only see him as he was. If his heart remains unchanged, no alteration in his personal appearance could shake my regard, particularly when those changes have been incurred for my sake."
"Oh, woman, great is your faith!" said Mark, with a sigh. "Gladly would I give my fortune to be Algernon."
Elinor started, and looked anxiously at her companion. It was the first time he had ever alluded to his secret passion. Did he love her? The question made Elinor tremble. She folded her letter, and turned the conversation into another channel. But the words haunted her, "I would give my fortune to be Algernon." Could he be in earnest? Perhaps it was only a passing compliment—men were fond of paying such. But the Squire was no flatterer; he seldom said what he did not mean. She re-read Algernon's letter, and thought no more about the words that his brother had let fall.
That letter was the last she ever received from her lover. After enduring the most torturing suspense for eighteen months, and writing frequently to demand the cause of his unnatural silence, Elinor gave herself up to the most gloomy forebodings. Mr. Hurdlestone endeavored to soothe her fears, and win her to the belief that his brother's letters must have miscarried, through the negligence of private hands, to whom they might have been entrusted. But when these suggestions failed in arousing her from the stupor of grief into which she had fallen, he offered the most tender consolations which could be administered to a wounded mind—an appearance of heartfelt sympathy in its sufferings.
While musing one morning over the cause of Algernon's silence, the Squire's groom approached the open window at which she was seated, and placed a letter in her hands; it was edged and sealed with black; and Elinor hastily broke the seal, and opened it. Her eye glanced, hurriedly over the first few words. She uttered a loud cry; and sank down, weeping, at her mother's feet.
Mrs. Wildegrave lifted her to the sofa, and taking the letter from her cold and nerveless grasp, read its contents. They were written by Mark Hurdlestone.
Oak Hall, June 16, ——"My Dear Miss Wildegrave:"It is with the utmost reluctance that I take up my pen to communicate tidings which, I well know, will occasion you great distress. This morning's post brought me the mournful intelligence of my brother Algernon's death, which melancholy event took place on the morning of the 4th of August last, at the house of a friend in Calcutta. Mr. Richardson's letter I will transmit to you as soon as you are able to bear its contents. My poor brother was on his way to England; and his death was so sudden, that he made no arrangement of his affairs previous to his dissolution. That Heaven may comfort and sustain you under this severe trial, is the earnest prayer of your sincere friend,"Marcus Hurdlestone."
Oak Hall, June 16, ——
"My Dear Miss Wildegrave:
"It is with the utmost reluctance that I take up my pen to communicate tidings which, I well know, will occasion you great distress. This morning's post brought me the mournful intelligence of my brother Algernon's death, which melancholy event took place on the morning of the 4th of August last, at the house of a friend in Calcutta. Mr. Richardson's letter I will transmit to you as soon as you are able to bear its contents. My poor brother was on his way to England; and his death was so sudden, that he made no arrangement of his affairs previous to his dissolution. That Heaven may comfort and sustain you under this severe trial, is the earnest prayer of your sincere friend,
"Marcus Hurdlestone."
"Oh, mother! mother! My heart—my poor heart! How shall I learn to bear this great sorrow?" was all that the forlorn girl could utter, as she pressed her hands tightly over the agitated bosom that concealed her convulsed and bursting heart. No sound was heard within that peaceful home for many days and nights but the sobs and groans of the unhappy Elinor. She mourned for the love of her youth, as one without hope. She resisted every attempt at consolation, and refused to be comforted. When the first frantic outbreak of sorrow had stagnated into a hopeless and tearless gloom, which threatened the reason of the sufferer, the Squire visited the cottage, and brought with him the merchant's letter, that fully corroborated his former statement, and the wretched heart-broken girl could no longer cherish the most remote probability to which hope could cling.
Twelve months passed away. The name of Algernon was never mentioned in her presence; and she still continued to wear the deepest mourning. A strange apathy had succeeded her once gay flow of spirits, and she seemed alike indifferent to herself and all the world. To the lover-like attentions of Mark Hurdlestone she paid no regard, and appeared wholly unconscious of his admiration. Mortified by her coldness, even his patience was nearly exhausted; when the death of her mother, who had been a long time in declining health, cast Elinor, friendless and unprotected, on the world. This circumstance, hailed with unspeakable joy by Mr. Hurdlestone, plunged the poor girl, doubly an orphan, into despair.
A lady in the neighborhood, pitying her distress, received her into her family, until she could adopt some plan for her future maintenance; but all her attempts to console Elinor for her loss proved abortive. Her tears flowed unceasingly, her health and spirits were impaired; and she felt, with bitterness, that she no longer possessed strength or fortitude to combat with poverty and the many ills of life.
At this critical juncture, Mark Hurdlestone, generously, as all the world thought, came forward, and offered her his hand; inviting her, in the most delicate manner, to share his splendid home and fortune.
His disinterested offer, at such a time, filled Elinor with respect and gratitude, but she did not love him; and, trembling and irresolute, she knew not how to act. She had but one relative—an uncle, in India—who had never written to her mother since her father died upon the scaffold. Whether this uncle was still living, was married, or single, she could not ascertain. To him, therefore, it was useless to apply. She had no home—she was at present dependent upon the bounty of a stranger, who could ill afford to be burdened with an additional member to her already large family. What could she do? She consulted that friend; and the worthy woman strongly advised her to accept the Squire's offer, wondering, all the while, how she could, for one moment, think of a refusal. So it was all settled; and Elinor reluctantly consented to become Mark Hurdlestone's wife.
Thousands in her situation would have done the same. But we must blame her, or any other woman, whatever her circumstances may be, who consents to become the bosom-partner of a man she cannot love. Miserable are such unions; from them flow, as from a polluted stream, all the bitterest sorrows and ills of life.
Young maiden, whosoever you may be, whose eyes glance at this moment on my page, take the advice of one who has been both a happy wife and mother: never sacrifice the best and holiest affections of your heart on the sordid shrine ofwealth or worldly ambition. Without reciprocal love, the heart becomes a moral desert How can you reasonably expect to receive that from another, of which you are destitute yourself? Will the field that never was sown yield to the possessor a plentiful harvest? I do most firmly believe, that to this want of affection in parents to each other may be traced the want of the same feeling in children towards their parents. If a woman hates her husband, her offspring are not very likely to feel a strong attachment to their father; for children inherit, in a strong degree, not only the disposition of their parents, but their mental and physical peculiarities.
A virtuous woman will rarely place her affections upon an unworthy object if she be true to herself and the education she has received; and if she cannot consent to encounter a few trials and privations for the sake of the man she loves, she is not worthy to be his wife.
The loving and beloved partner of a good man may be called upon to endure many temporal sorrows, but her respect and admiration for his character will enable her to surmount them all, and she will exclaim with pious exultation,—"Thank God! I have been happy in my choice. His love is better to me than gold, yea, than much fine gold!"
Oh Lord, thou hast enlarged the griefOf this poor stricken heart,That only finds in tears relief,Which all unbidden start:Long have I borne the cruel scornOf one I could not love nor hate;My soul, with secret anguish torn,Yields unresisting to its fate—S.M.
Oh Lord, thou hast enlarged the griefOf this poor stricken heart,That only finds in tears relief,Which all unbidden start:Long have I borne the cruel scornOf one I could not love nor hate;My soul, with secret anguish torn,Yields unresisting to its fate—S.M.
Mark Hurdlestone's triumph was complete; his revenge fully gratified, when he led his beautiful bride from the altar to the carriage, which was in readiness to convey her to her future home. She was his, and Algernon might return as soon as he pleased. Elinor Wildegrave was beyond his reach. She could never be his wife.
Tranquil, but not happy, Elinor viewed the change in her circumstances as an intervention of Providence to save her from a life of poverty and suffering; and she fancied that, if she did not love her benefactor, feelings of gratitude and a sense of duty would always prevent him from becoming to her an object of dislike or indifference.
How little had she studied human nature; how ignorant was she of the mysterious movements of the human heart; and when, after much painful experience, she acquired the fatal knowledge, how bitter were the effects it produced upon her own.
When once his victim was in his toils, Mr. Hurdlestone did not attempt to conceal from her his real disposition.
He laughed at her credulity in believing that love alone had actuated him in making her his wife. He related to her, with terrible fidelity, the scene he had witnessed between her and Algernon in the garden, and the agonies of jealousy that he endured when he discovered that she loved another; and he repulsed with cold and sarcastic neglect every attempt made by Elinor to render their union more tolerable, and his home more comfortable.
To Elinor his conduct was perfectly unaccountable. She could not believe that he did not love her, and she was not a little mortified at what she considered his unnatural coldness and neglect.
"Marcus," she said to him one evening, as she sat on a cushion at his feet, after making many vain attempts to attract his notice, or win from him one kind look or word, "you did not always treat me with indifference; there was a time when I thought you loved me."
"There was a time, madam, when I adored you!—when I would have given all I possessed in the world to obtain from you one smile."
"Then why this coldness? What have I done to merit your dislike?"
"You loved Algernon. You love him still. Aye, that blush! Your face tells no falsehood. You cannot conceal it from me."
"I do not deny my love. But he is dead. Why should you be jealous of the dead?"
Mark smiled a grim bitter smile. "But if he were alive?"
"Ah!" and she pressed her small white hand tightly on her heart. "But then, Marcus, I should not be your wife. It would no longer be my duty to love another."
"You think it, then, your duty to love me?"
"Yes. You are my husband. My heart is lonely and sad. It must be filled by some object. Dear Marcus, suffer me to love you."
She laid her fair cheek meekly upon his knee, but he did not answer her touching appeal to his sympathy with a single caress.
"I cannot make you happy, Elinor. Algernon alone can do that."
"Algernon! Why Algernon?" said Elinor, bursting into tears. "Is it to make me more miserable that you constantly remind me of my loss?"
"How do you know that he is dead?"
"I have your word for it; the evidence of your friend's letter; his long silence. What frightful images you conjure up! You seem determined to make me wretched to-night."
She sprang from her lowly seat, and left the room in an agony of tears. Mark looked after her for a moment:—"Aye, he still keeps your heart. But I have had my revenge."
The agony which he had endured in the garden on that memorable night, when he first discovered that Elinor loved his brother, was light in comparison to the pangs which shook the inmost soul of his unhappy wife, when time at last revealed the full extent of her misery, and of her husband's deep-laid treachery—and Algernon returned from India with an independent fortune to claim his bride, and found her the wife of his brother.
The monster who had supplanted him in his father's affections had now robbed him of his wife. Algernon did not seek an explanation from Mrs. Hurdlestone, either personally or by letter. He supposed that her present position was one of her own choosing, and he was too proudto utter a complaint. The hey-day of youth was past, and he had seen too much of the world to be surprised at the inconstancy of a poor girl, who had been offered, during her lover's absence, a splendid alliance. He considered that Elinor was sufficiently punished for her broken vows in being forced to spend her life in the society of such a sordid wretch as Mark Hurdlestone.
"God forgive her," he said; "she has nearly broken my heart, but I pity her from my very soul."
When the dreadful truth flashed upon the mind of Mrs. Hurdlestone, she bitterly accused her husband of the deception he had practised. Mr. Hurdlestone, instead of denying or palliating the charge, even boasted of his guilt, and entered into a minute detail of each revolting circumstance—the diabolical means that he had employed to destroy her peace.
This fiend, to whom in an evil hour she had united her destiny, had carefully intercepted the correspondence between herself and Algernon, and employed a friend in India to forge the plausible account he had received of her lover's death—and finally, as the finishing stroke to all this deep-laid villany, he had overcome his avaricious propensities, and made Elinor his wife, not to gratify a sensual passion, but the terrible spirit of revenge.
Poor Elinor! For a long time her reason bowed before the knowledge of these horrible facts, and when she did at last recover her senses, her beauty had faded beneath the blight of sorrow like the brilliant but evanescent glow of the evening cloud, which vanishes at the approach of night. Weary of life, she did not regret the loss of those fatal charms which had been to her a source of such misery.
The last time the rose tint ever visited her once blooming cheeks was when suddenly informed by Mr. Hurdlestone of his brother's marriage with a young lady of large fortune. "May he be happy," she exclaimed, clasping her hands together, whilst the deepest crimson suffused her face. "I was not worthy to be his wife!" Ere the sentence was concluded the color had faded from her cheek, which no after emotion recalled.
His brother's marriage produced a strange effect upon the mind of Mark Hurdlestone. It cheated him of a part of his revenge. He had expected that the loss of Elinor would have stung Algernon to madness; that his existence would have become insupportable without the woman he loved. How great was his mortification when, neither by word nor letter, nor in conversation with his friends, did his injured brother ever revert to the subject! That Algernon did not feel the blow, could scarcely be inferred from his silence. The grief he felt was too acute for words, and Algernon was still too faithful to the object of his first ardent attachment to upbraid her conduct to others. Mark, who could not understand this delicacy of sentiment, concluded that Elinor was no longer regarded with affection by her lover. Elinor comprehended his silence better, and she loved him more intensely for his forbearance.
Algernon the world reputed rich and happy, and the Squire despised Elinor when her person was no longer coveted by his rival. His temper, constitutionally bad, became intolerable, and he treated his uncomplaining wife with such unkindness, that it would have broken her heart, if the remembrance of a deeper sorrow had not rendered her indifferent to his praise or censure. She considered his kindest mercy was neglect.
Having now no other passion to gratify but avarice,Mark Hurdlestone's hoarding propensities returned with double force. He gradually retrenched his domestic expenses; laid down his carriage; sold his horses; discharged his liveried servants; and, to the astonishment of his wondering neighbors, let the noble park to a rich farmer in the parish, with permission to break it up with the plough. He no longer suffered the produce of his extensive gardens to be consumed in the house, or given to the poor; but sold the fruit and vegetables to any petty greengrocer in the village, who thought it worth his while to walk up to the Hall, and drive a bargain with the stingy Squire. He not only assisted in gathering the fruit, for fear he should be robbed, but often acted as scarecrow to the birds, whom he reviled as noisy, useless nuisances, vexatiously sent to destroy the fruits of the earth.
Elinor gently remonstrated with him on the meanness and absurdity of such conduct; but he silenced what he termed her impertinent interference in matters which did not concern her. He bade her to remember that she brought him no fortune, and he was forced to make these retrenchments in order to support her. After this confession, there was no end to his savings. He discharged his remaining domestics; sold most of the splendid furniture by public auction; and, finally, shut up the Hall to avoid paying the window-tax, only allowing the kitchen, one parlor, and two bed-rooms to be visited by the light of day. The only person whom he allowed to approach the house was the gardener, Grenard Pike, who rented a small cottage at the end of the avenue that led to the back premises of the once noble mansion.
This favored individual was the Squire in low life; and the gossip dealers in the village did not scruple to affirm that the likeness was notmerelyaccidental; that GrenardPike was brother to the Squire in a natural way; but whether this report were true or false, he and his master, if unrelated by blood, possessed kindred spirits, and perfectly understood and appreciated each other. This man had neither wife nor child, and the whole business of his life was how to get money, and, when got, how to turn it to the best advantage. If the Squire was attached to anything in the world, it was to this faithful satellite, this humble transcript of himself.
The wretched Elinor, shut out from all society, and denied every domestic comfort, was limited by her stingy partner to the awkward attendance of a parish girl, who, together with her mistress, he contrived to half starve; as he insisted on keeping the key of the pantry, and only allowed them a scanty meal twice during the twenty-four hours, which he said, was sufficient to keep them in health; more was hurtful both to the mind and body.
Elinor had dragged on this miserable existence for twelve years, when, to her unspeakable grief, she found that she was likely to become a mother, for the prospect of this event served rather to increase, than diminish her sorrows. It was some time before she dared to communicate this unwelcome intelligence to her sordid lord. Still, she hoped, in spite of his parsimony, that he might wish for a son to heir his immense wealth. Not he! He only thought of a spendthrift, who would recklessly squander all that he toiled and starved himself to save; and he received the promise of his paternal honors with a very bad grace.
"All the world!" he exclaimed, "are conspiring together to ruin me. I shall be ate out of house and home by doctors and nurses, and my rest will be constantly disturbed by squalling brats; for I suppose, madam, that like myworthy mother, you will entail upon me two at a time. But my mother was a strong healthy woman, not delicate and puling like you. It is more than probable that the child may die."
"And the mother," sighed Elinor.
"Well if He who sends is pleased to take away, He will find me perfectly resigned to His will. You need not weep, madam. If my conduct appears unnatural, let me tell you that I consider those human beings alone fortunate who perish in their infancy. They are in no fear of coming to the gallows. They are saved from the threatened torments of hell!"
Elinor shrank from the wild flash of his keen dark eyes, and drew back with an involuntary shudder. "Happy had it been for me if I had died an infant on my mother's breast."
"Aye, if you had never seen the light. You were born to be the bane of my house. But since you have confided to me this precious secret, let me ask you what you think will be the probable expense of your confinement?"
"I really cannot tell. I must have a doctor—a nurse—and some few necessaries for the poor babe. I think, with great economy, ten pounds would be enough."
"Ten pounds!"
"It may cost more, certainly not less."
"You will never get that sum from me."
"But, Marcus, what am I to do?"
"The best way you can."
"You would not have your wife solicit charity?"
"An excellent thought. Ha! ha! you would make a first-rate beggar, with that pale sad face of yours. But, no, madam, you shall not beg. Poor as I am, I will find means to support both you and the child. But, mark me—it must not resemble Algernon."
"How is that possible? I have not seen Algernon for eighteen years."
"But he is ever in your thoughts. Let me not trace this adultery of the heart in the features of my child."
"But you are like Algernon. Not a striking likeness, but still you might be known for brothers."
"So, you are trying to find excuses in case of the worst. But, I again repeat to you, that I will not own the boy if he is like Algernon."
This whim of the miser's was a new cause of terror to Elinor; from that moment an indescribable dread lest the child should be like Algernon took possession of her breast. She perceived that her husband already calculated with selfish horror the expense of the unborn infant's food and raiment; and she began to entertain some not unreasonable fears lest the young child, if it should survive its birth, would be starved to death, as Mark barely supplied his household with the common necessaries of life; and, though Elinor bore the system of starvation with the indifference which springs from a long and hopeless continuation of suffering, the parish girl was loud in her complaints, and she was constantly annoyed with her discontented murmurings, without having it in her power to silence them in the only effective way.
The Squire told Ruth, that she consumed more food at one meal than would support him and her mistress for a week; and he thought that what was enough for them might satisfy a cormorant like her. But the poor girl could not measure the cravings of her healthy appetite by the scanty wants of a heart-broken invalid and a miser. Her hunger remained unappeased, and she continued to complain.
At this period Mark Hurdlestone was attacked, for thefirst time in his life, with a dangerous illness. Elinor nursed him with the greatest care, and prescribed for him as well as she could; for he would not suffer a doctor to enter the house. But finding that the disorder did not yield to her remedies, but rather that he grew daily worse, she privately sent for the doctor. When he arrived, Mr. Hurdlestone ordered him out of his room, and nearly exhausted what little strength he still possessed, in accusing Elinor of entering into a conspiracy with Mr. Moore to kill him, and, as the doctor happened to be a widower, to marry him after his death, and share the spoils between them.
"Your husband, madam, is mad—as mad as a March hare," said Mr. Moore, as he descended the stairs. "He is, however, in a very dangerous state, it is doubtful if he ever recovers."
"And what can be done for him?"
"Nothing in his present humor without you have him treated as a maniac, which, if I were in your case and in your situation, I most certainly would do."
"Oh, no, no! there is something dreadful in such a charge coming from a wife, though he often appears to me scarcely accountable for his actions; but what can I give him to allay this dreadful fever?"
"I will write you a prescription." This the doctor did on the back of a letter with his pencil, for Elinor could not furnish him with a scrap of paper.
"You must send this to the apothecary. He will make it up."
"What will it cost?"
The doctor smiled. "A mere trifle; perhaps three shillings."
"I have not had such a sum in my possession for the last three years. He will die before he will give it to me."
"Mad, mad, mad," said the doctor, shaking his head. "Well, my dear lady, if he will not give it to save his worthless life, you must steal it from him. If you fail, why let Nature take her course. His death would certainly be your gain."
Returning to the sick room, she found the patient in a better temper, evidently highly gratified at having expelled the doctor. Elinor thought this a good opportunity to urge her request for a small sum of money to procure medicines and other necessaries; but on this subject she found him inexorable.
"Give you money to buy poison!" he exclaimed. "Do you take me for a fool, or mad?"
"You are very ill, Marcus; you will die, without you follow Dr. Moore's advice."
"Don't flatter yourselves. I don't mean to die to please you. There is a great deal of vitality in me yet. Don't say another word. I will take nothing but cold water; I feel better already."
"Pray God that you may be right," said Elinor. But after this fit of rage, he fell into a stupor, and before night he was considerably worse. His unfortunate wife, worn down with watching and want of food and rest, now determined to have a regular search for the key of his strongbox, that she might procure him the medicines prescribed by the doctor, and purchase oatmeal and bread for the use of the parish girl and herself.
She carefully examined his pockets, his writing-desk, and bureau, but to no purpose—looking carefully into every drawer and chest that had not been sold by public auction or private contract. Not a corner of the chamber was left unexplored—not a closet or shelf escaped her strict examination, until, giving up the search as perfectly hopeless,she resumed her station at his bed-side, to watch through the long winter night—without a fire, and by the wan gleam that a miserable rush-light shed through the spacious and lofty room—the restless slumbers of the miser. She was ill, out of spirits, fatigued with her fruitless exertion, and deeply disappointed at her want of success.
The solitary light threw a ghastly livid hue on the strongly-marked features of the sleeper, rendered sharp and haggard by disease and his penurious habits; she could just distinguish through the gloom the spectre-like form of the invalid, and the long bony attenuated hands which grasped, from time to time, the curtains and bedclothes, as he tossed from side to side in his feverish unrest. Elinor continued to watch the dark and perturbed countenance of the sleeper, until he became an object of fear, and she fancied that it was some demon who had for a time usurped the human shape, and not the brother of Algernon—the man whom she had voluntarily attended to the altar, and in the presence of Almighty God had sworn to love, honor, and obey, and to cherish in sickness and in health.
A crushing sense of all the deception that had been practiced upon her, of her past wrongs and present misery, made her heart die within her, and her whole soul overflow with bitterness. She wrung her hands, and smote her breast in an agony of despair; but in that dark hour no tear relieved her burning brain, or moistened her eyes. She had once been under the dominion of insanity; she felt that her reason in that moment hung upon a thread; that, if she pursued much longer her present thoughts, they would drive her mad; that, if she continued to gaze much longer on the face of her husband, she would be tempted to plunge a knife, which lay on the table near her, into hisbreast. With a desperate effort she drew her eyes from the sleeper, and turned from the bed. Her gaze fell upon a large full-length picture in oils, which hung opposite. It was the portrait of one of Mark's ancestors, a young man who had fallen in his first battle, on the memorable field of Flodden. It bore a strong resemblance to Algernon, and Elinor prized it on that account, and would sit for hours with her head resting upon her hand, and her eyes riveted on this picture. This night it seemed to regard her with a sad and mournful aspect; and the large blue eyes appeared to return her fixed gaze with the sorrowful earnestness of life.
"My head is strangely confused," she murmured, half aloud. "Into what new extravagance will my treacherous fancy hurry me to-night? Ah me! physical wants and mental suffering, added to this long watching, will turn my brain."
She buried her face in her hands, and endeavored to shut out the grotesque and phantom-like forms that seemed to dance before her. A deathlike stillness reigned through the house, the silence alone broken by the ticking of the great dial at the head of the staircase. There is something inexpressibly awful in the ticking of a clock, when heard at midnight by the lonely and anxious watcher beside the bed of death. It is the voice of time marking its slow but certain progress towards eternity, and warning us in solemn tones that it will soon cease to number the hours for the sufferer for ever. Elinor trembled as she listened to the low monotonous measured sounds; and she felt at that moment a presentiment that her own weary pilgrimage on earth was drawing to a close.
"Oh, Algernon!" she thought; "it may be a crime, but I sometimes think that if I could see you once more—onlyonce more—I could forget all my wrongs and sufferings, and die in peace."
The unuttered thought was scarcely formed, when a slight rustling noise shook the curtains of the bed, and the next moment a tall figure in white glided across the room. It drew nearer, and Elinor, in spite of the wish she had just dared to whisper to herself, struggled with the vision, as a sleeper does with the night-mare, when the suffocating grasp of the fiend is upon his throat. Her presence of mind forsook her, and, with a shriek of uncontrollable terror, she flung herself across the bed, and endeavored to awaken her husband. The place he had occupied a few minutes before was vacant; and, raising her fear-stricken head, she perceived, with feelings scarcely less allied to fear, that the figure she had mistaken for the ghost of Algernon was the corporeal form of the miser.
He was asleep, but his mind appeared to be actively employed. He drew near the table with a cautious step, and took from beneath a broad leathern belt, which he always wore next his skin, a small key. Elinor sat up on the bed, and watched his movements with intense interest. He next took up the candle, and glided out of the room. Slipping off her shoes she followed him with noiseless steps. He descended the great staircase, and suddenly stopped in the centre of the entrance hall. Here he put down the light on the last step of the broad oak stairs, and proceeded to remove one of the stone flags that formed the pavement of the hall. With some difficulty he accomplished his task; then kneeling down, and holding the light over the chasm, he said in hollow and unearthly tones that echoed mournfully through the empty building:
"Look! here is money; my father's savings and my own. Will this save my soul?"
Elinor leaned over the sordid wretch, and discovered with no small astonishment that the aperture contained a great quantity of gold and silver coins; and the most valuable articles of the family plate and jewels.
"Unhappy man!" she mentally cried; "dost thou imagine that these glittering heaps of metal will purchase the redemption of a soul like thine, or avert the certainty of future punishment?—for never was the parable of the servant who buried his talent in the dust more fully exemplified than in thee."
"What, not enough?" growled forth the miser. "By heavens! thou hast a human conscience. But wait patiently, and I will show you more—aye, more—my brother's portion, and my own. Ha, ha! I tricked him there. The old man's heart failed him at the last. He was afraid of you. Yes, yes, he was afraid of the devil! It was I formed the plan. It was I guided the dead hand. Shall I burn for that?"
Then, as if suddenly struck with a violent pain, he shrieked out, "Ah, ah! my brain is cloven with a bolt of fire. I cannot bear this! Algernon mocks my agonies—laughs at my cries—and tells me that he has a fair wife and plenty of gold, in spite of my malice. How did he get it? Did he rob me?"
Elinor shrunk back aghast from this wild burst of delirium; and the miser, rising from his knees, began re-ascending the stairs. This task he performed with difficulty, and often reeled forward with extreme pain and weakness. After traversing several empty chambers, he entered what had once been the state apartment, and stooping down, he drew from beneath the faded furniture of the bed a strong mahogany brass-bound chest, which he cautiously opened, and displayed to his wondering companion a richer store of wealth than that on which she had so lately gazed.
"How! not satisfied yet!" he cried in the same harsh tones, "then may I perish to all eternity if I give you one fraction more."
As he was about to close the chest, Elinor, who knew that without a necessary supply of money both her unborn infant and its avaricious father would perish for want, slid her hand into the box, and dextrously abstracted some of the broad gold pieces it contained. The coins, in coming in contact with each other, emitted a slight ringing sound, which arrested, trifling as it was, the ear of the sleeper.
"What! fingering the gold already?" he exclaimed, hastily slapping down the lid of the strong box. "Could you not wait till I am dead?"
Then staggering back to his apartment, he was soon awake, and raving under a fresh paroxysm of the fever. In his delirium he fancied himself confined to the dreary gulf of eternal woe, and from this place of torment he imagined that his brother could alone release him, and he proffered to him, while under the influence of that strong agony, all his hidden treasures if he would but intercede with Christ to save his soul.
These visions of his diseased brain were so frequent and appalling, and the near approach of death so dreadful to the guilty and despairing wretch, that they produced at last a strong desire to see his brother, that he might ask his forgiveness, and make some restitution of his property to him before he died.
"Elinor," he said, "I must see Algernon. I cannot die until I have seen him. But mark me, Elinor, you must not be present at our conference. You must not see him."
With quivering lips, and a face paler than usual, his wife promised obedience, and Grenard Pike was despatched to Norgood Hall to make known to Algernon Hurdlestone hisdying brother's request, and to call in, once more, the aid of the village doctor.
As Elinor watched the grim messenger depart, she pressed her hands tightly over her breast to hide from the quick eye of the miser the violent agitation that convulsed her frame, as the recollection of former days flashed upon her too retentive memory.
"Surely, surely," she thought, "he will never come. He has been too deeply injured to attend to a verbal summons from his unnatural brother."
Although strongly impressed that this would be the case, the desire of once more beholding the love of her youth, though forbidden to speak to him, or even to hear the sound of his voice, produced a state of feverish excitement in her mind which kept alive her fears, without totally annihilating hope.
The misty, grey dawn was slowly breaking along the distant hills, when Grenard Pike, mounted upon a cart-horse which he had borrowed for the occasion, leisurely paced down the broad avenue of oaks that led through the park to the high road. Methodical in all his movements, though life and death depended upon his journey, for no earthly inducement but a handsome donation in money would Grenard Pike have condescended to quicken his pace. This Elinor had it not in her power to bestow; and she calculated with impatience the many hours which must elapse before such a tardy messenger could reach Norgood Hall. Noon was the earliest period within the range of possibility; yet the sound of the horse's hoofs, striking against the frosty ground, still vibrated upon her ear when she took her station at the chamber window, to watch for the arrival of the man whose image a separation of nearly twenty years had not been able to obliterate from herheart. Such is the weakness of human nature, that we suffer imagination to outspeed time, and compress into one little moment the hopes, the fears, the anticipations, and the events of years; but when the spoiler again overtakes us, we look back, and, forgetful of our former impatience to accelerate his pace, we are astonished at the rapidity of his flight.
Elinor thought that the long day would never come to a close; yet it was as dark and as short as a bleak, gloomy day in November could be. Evening at length came, but brought no Algernon. Mr. Moore had paid his visit, and was gone. He expected nothing less than the death of his patient, after giving his consent to such an extraordinary event; and he had even condescended to take a draught and some pills from the doctor's hands. It is true that the sight of him, and the effects of the nauseous medicines he had administered, had put the miser into a fever of ill-temper; and he sullenly watched his wife, as she lingered hour after hour at the window, till, in no very gentle accents, he called her to his bed-side.
At that moment Elinor fancied that she heard the sound of approaching wheels, and she strained her eyes to discern, through the deepening gloom, some object that might realize her hopes. "No," she sighed, "it was but the wind raving through the leafless oaks—the ticking of the old dial—the throbbing of my own heart. He will not—he cannot come!"
"Woman! what ails you?" cried the invalid. "Reach me the drink."
Elinor mechanically obeyed; but her head was turned the other way, and her eyes still fixed upon the window. A light flashed along the dark avenue, now lost, and now again revealed through the trees. The cup fell from hernerveless grasp, and faintly articulating, "Yes—'tis he!" she sank senseless across the foot of the bed, as a carriage and four drove rapidly into the court-yard.
The miser, with difficulty, reached the bell-rope that was suspended from the bed's head, and, after ringing violently for some minutes, the unusual summons was answered by the appearance of Ruth, who, thrusting her brown; curly head in at the door, said, in breathless haste:
"The company's come, ma'arm! Such a grand coach! Four beautiful hosses, and two real gemmen in black a' standing behind—and two on hossback a' riding afore. What are we to do for supper? Doubtless they maun be mortal hungry arter their long ride this cold night, and will 'spect summat to eat, and we have not a morsel of food in the house fit to set afore a cat."
"Pshaw!" muttered the sick man. "Silence your senseless prate! They will neither eat nor drink here. Tell the coachman that there are excellent accommodations at the Hurdlestone Arms for himself and his horses. But first see to your mistress—she is in a swoon. Carry her into the next room. And, mark me, Ruth—lock the door, and bring me the key."
The girl obeyed the first part of the miser's orders, but was too eager to catch another sight of the grand carriage, and the real gentlemen behind it, to remember the latter part of his injunction.
Is this the man I loved, to whom I gaveThe deep devotion of my early youth?—S.M.
Is this the man I loved, to whom I gaveThe deep devotion of my early youth?—S.M.
Algernon Hurdlestone in his forty-second, and Algernon Hurdlestone in his twenty-fourth year, were very different men. In mind, person, and manners, the greatest dissimilarity existed between them. The tall graceful figure for which he had once been so much admired, a life of indolence, and the pleasures of the table, had rendered far too corpulent for manly beauty. His features were still good, and there was an air of fashion about him which bespoke the man of the world and the gentleman; but he was no longer handsome or interesting. An expression of careless good-humor, in spite of the deep mourning he wore for the recent death of his wife, pervaded his countenance; and he seemed determined to repay Fortune for the many ill turns he had received from her in his youth, by enjoying, to their full extent, the good things that she had latterly showered upon him.
He had been a kind manageable husband to a woman whom he had married more for convenience than affection; and was a fatally indulgent father to the only son, the sole survivor of a large family that he had consigned to the tomb during the engaging period of infancy. Godfrey, a beautiful little boy of two years old, was his youngest and his best beloved, on whom he lavished the concentrated affections of his warm and generous heart.
Since his marriage with the rich and beautiful MissMaitland, he had scarcely given Elinor Wildegrave a second thought. He had loved her passionately, as the portionless orphan of the unfortunate Captain Wildegrave; but he could not regard with affection or esteem the wife of the rich Mark Hurdlestone—the man from whom he had received so many injuries. How she could have condescended to share his splendid misery, was a question which filled his mind with too many painful and disgusting images to answer. When he received his brother's hasty message, entreating him to come and make up their old quarrel before he died, he obeyed the extraordinary summons with his usual kindness of heart, without reflecting on the pain that such a meeting might occasion, when he beheld again the object of his early affections as the wife of his unnatural brother.
When he crossed the well-known threshold, and his shadow once more darkened his father's hall, those feelings which had been deadened by his long intercourse with the world resumed their old sway, and he paused, and looked around the dilipidated mansion with eyes dimmed with regretful tears.
"And it was to become the mistress of such a home as this, that Elinor Wildegrave—my beautiful Elinor—sold herself to such a man as Mark Hurdlestone, and forgot her love—her plighted troth to me!"
So thought Algernon Hurdlestone, as he followed the parish girl up the broad uncarpeted oak stairs to his brother's apartment, shocked and astonished at the indications of misery and decay which on every side met his gaze. He had heard much of Mark's penurious habits, but he had deemed the reports exaggerated or incorrect; he was now fully convinced that they were but too true. Surprised that Mrs. Hurdlestone did not appear to receivehim, he inquired of Ruth, "if her mistress were at home?"
"At home!—why, yes, sir; it's more than her life's worth to leave home. She durst not go to church without master's leave."
"And is she well?"
"She be'ant never well; and the sooner she goes the better it will be for her, depend upon that. She do lead a wretched life, the more's the pity; for she is a dear kind lady, a thousand times too good for the like o' him."
Algernon sighed deeply, while the girl delighted to get an opportunity of abusing her tyrannical master, continued:
"My poor mistress has been looking out for you all day, sir; but when your coach drove into the court-yard she died right away. The Squire got into a terrible passion, and told me to carry her up into her own room, and lock her in until company be gone. Howsumever I was too much flurried to do that; for I am sure my dear missus is too ill to be seen by strangers. He do keep her so shabby, that she have not a gownd fit to wear; and she do look as pale as a ghost; and I am sure she is nearer to her end than the stingy old Squire is to his."
Algernon possessed too much delicacy to ask the girl if Mark treated Mrs. Hurdlestone ill; but whilst groping his way in the dark to his brother's room, he was strongly tempted to question her more closely on the subject. The account she had already given him of the unfortunate lady filled his mind with indignation and regret. At the end of a long gallery the girl suddenly stopped, and pointing to a half-open door, told him that "that was the Squire's room," and suddenly disappeared. The next moment, Algernon was by the sick-bed of his brother.
Not without a slight degree of perturbation he put aside the curtain; Mark had sunk into a kind of stupor; he was not asleep, although his eyes were closed, and his features so rigid and immovable, that at the first glance Algernon drew back, under the impression that he was already dead.
The sound of his brother's footsteps not only roused the miser to animation, but to an acute sense of suffering. For some minutes he writhed in dreadful pain, and Algernon had time to examine his ghastly face, and thin attenuated figure.
They had parted in the prime of youthful manhood—they met in the autumn of life; and the snows of winter had prematurely descended upon the head of the miser. The wear and tear of evil passions had made such fearful ravages in his once handsome and stern exterior, that his twin brother would have passed him in the streets without recognition.
The spasms at length subsided, and after several ineffectual efforts, Algernon at length spoke.
"Mark, I am here, in compliance with your request; I am very sorry to find you in this sad state; I hope that you may yet recover."
The sick man rose slowly up in his bed, and shading his eyes with his hand, surveyed his brother with a long and careful gaze, as though he scarcely recognised in the portly figure before him the elegant fashionable young man of former days. "Algernon! can that be you?"
"Am I so much altered that you do not know me?"
"Humph! The voice is the voice of Algernon—but as for the rest, time has paid as little respect to your fine exterior as it has done to mine; but if it has diminished your graces, it has added greatly to your bulk. One thing,however, it has not taught you, with all its hard teachings."
"What is that?" said Algernon, with some curiosity.
"To speak the truth!" muttered the miser, falling back upon his pillow. "You wish for my recovery!—ha! ha! that is rich—is good. Do you think, Algernon, I am such a fool as to believe that?"
"Indeed, I was sincere."
"You deceive yourself—the thing is impossible. Human nature is not so far removed from its original guilt.Youwish my life to be prolonged, when you hope to be againerby my death. The thought is really amusing—so originally philanthropic, but I forgive you, I should do just the same in your place. Now, sit down if you can find a chair, I have a few words to say to you—a few painful words."
Algernon took his seat on the bed without speaking. He perceived that time had only increased the bitterness of his brother's caustic temper.
"Algernon," said the miser, "I will not enter into a detail of the past. I robbed you of your share of my father's property to gratify my love of money; and I married your mistress out of revenge. Both of these deeds have proved a curse to me—I cannot enjoy the one, and I loathe the other. I am dying; I cannot close my eyes in peace with these crimes upon my conscience. Give me your hand, brother, and say that you forgive me; and I will make a just restitution of the money, and leave you in the undisturbed possession of the wife."
He laughed, that horrid fiendish laugh. Algernon shrunk back with strong disgust, and relinquished the hand which no longer sought his grasp.
"Well, I see how it is. There are some natures thatcannot amalgamate. You cannot overcome the old hate; but say that you forgive me; it is all I ask."
"If you can forgive yourself, Mark, I forgive you; and I pray that God may do the same."
"That leaves the case doubtful; however, it is of no use forcing nature. We never loved each other. The soil of the heart has been too much corrupted by the leaven of the world, to nourish a new growth of affection. We have lived enemies—we cannot part friends; but take this in payment of the debt I owe you."
He drew from beneath his pillow a paper, which he placed in his brother's hand. It was a draft upon his banker for ten thousand pounds, payable at sight. "Will that satisfy you for all you lost by me?"
"Money cannot do that."
"You allude to my wife. I saved you from a curse by entailing it upon myself; for which service I at least deserve your thanks."
"What has proved a curse to you would have been to me the greatest earthly blessing. I freely forgive you for wronging me out of my share of the inheritance, but for robbing me of Elinor, I cannot."
He turned from the bed with the tears in his eyes, and was about to quit the room. The miser called him back. "Do not be such a fool as to refuse the money, Algernon; the lady I will bequeath to you as a legacy when I am gone."
"He is mad!" muttered Algernon, "no sane man could act this diabolical part. It is useless to resent his words. He must soon answer for them at a higher tribunal. Yes—I will forgive him—I will not add to his future misery."
He came back to the bed, and taking the burning hand of the miser, said in a broken voice, "Brother, I wrongedyou when I believed that you were an accountable being; I no longer consider you answerable for your actions, and may God view your unnatural conduct to me in the same light; by the mercy which He ever shows to His erring creatures. I forgive you for the past." The stony heart of the miser seemed touched, but his pride was wounded. "Mad—mad," he said; "so you look upon me as mad. The world is full of maniacs; I do not differ from my kind. But take the paper, and let there be peace between you and me."
Twenty years ago, and the high-spirited Algernon Hurdlestone would have rejected the miser's offer with contempt, but his long intercourse with the world had taught him the value of money, and his extravagant habits generally exceeded his fine income. Besides, what Mark offered him was, after all, but a small portion of what ought to have been his own. With an air of cheerful good-nature he thanked his brother, and carefully deposited the draft in his pocket-book.
After having absolved his conscience by what he considered not only a good action, but one of sufficient magnitude to save his soul, Mark intimated to his brother that he might now leave him—he had nothing further to say; a permission which Algernon was not slow to accept.
As he groped his way through the dark gallery that led from the miser's chamber, a door was opened cautiously at the far end of the passage, and a female figure, holding a dim light in her hand, beckoned to him to approach.
Not without reluctance Algernon obeyed the summons, and found himself in the centre of a large empty apartment which had once been the saloon, and face to face with Mrs. Hurdlestone.
Elinor carefully locked the door, and placing the lighton the mantel-shelf, stood before the astonished Algernon, like some memory-haunting phantom of the past.
Yes. It was Elinor—his Elinor; but not a vestige remained of the grace and beauty that had won his youthful heart. So great was the change produced by years of hopeless misery, that Algernon, in the haggard and careworn being before him, did not at first recognise the object of his early love. Painfully conscious of this humiliating fact, Elinor at length said—"I do not wonder that Mr. Algernon Hurdlestone has forgotten me; I once was Elinor Wildegrave."
A gush of tears—of bitter, heart-felt, agonizing tears—followed this avowal, and her whole frame trembled with the overpowering emotions which filled her mind.
Too much overcome by surprise to speak, Algernon took her hand, and for a few minutes looked earnestly in her altered face. What a mournful history of mental and physical suffering was written there! That look of tender regard recalled the blighted hopes and wasted affections of other years; and the wretched Elinor, unable to control her grief, bowed her head upon her hands, and groaned aloud.
"Oh, Elinor!—and is it thus we meet? You might have been happy with me. How could you, for the paltry love of gain, become the wife of Mark Hurdlestone?"
"Alas, Algernon! necessity left me no alternative in my unhappy choice. I was deceived—cruelly deceived. Yet would to God that I had begged my bread, and dared every hardship—been spurned from the presence of the rich, and endured the contempt of the poor, before I consented to become his wife."
"But what strange infatuation induced you to throw away your own happiness, and ruin mine? Did not myletters constantly breathe the most ardent affection? Were not the sums of money constantly remitted in them more than sufficient to supply all your wants?"
"Algernon, I never received the sums you name, not even a letter from you after the third year of our separation."
"Can this be true?" exclaimed Algernon, grasping her arm. "Is it possible that this statement can be true?"
"As true as that I now stand before you a betrayed, forsaken, heart-broken woman."
"Poor Elinor; how can I look into that sad face, and believe you false?"
"God bless you, my once dear friend, for these kind words. You know not the peace they convey to my aching heart. Oh, Algernon, my sufferings have been dreadful; and there were times when I ceased to know those sufferings. They called me mad, but I was happy then. My dreams were of you. I thought myself your wife, and my misery as Mark's helpmate was forgotten. When sanity returned, the horrible consciousness that you believed me a heartless, ungrateful, avaricious woman, was the worst pang of all. Oh, how I longed to throw myself at your feet, and tell you the whole dreadful truth. I would not have insulted you to-night with my presence, or wounded your peace with a recapitulation of my wrongs, but I could no longer live and bear the imputation of such guilt. When you have heard my sad story, you will, I am sure, not only pity, but forgive me."
With feelings of unalloyed indignation, Algernon listened to the iniquitous manner in which Elinor had been deceived and betrayed, and when she concluded her sad relation, he fiercely declared that he would return to the sickman's chamber—reproach him with his crimes, and revoke his forgiveness.
"Leave the sinner to his God!" exclaimed the terrified Elinor, placing herself before the door. "For my sake—for your own sake, pity and forgive him. Remember that, monster though he be, he is my husband and your brother, the father of the unfortunate child whose birth I anticipate with such sad forebodings."
"Before that period arrives," said Algernon, with deep commiseration. "Mark will have paid the forfeit of his crimes, and your child will be the heir of immense wealth."
"You believe him to be a dying man," said Elinor. "He will live. A change has come over him for the better; the surgeon, this morning, gave strong hopes of his recovery. Sinner that I am, if he could but have looked into my heart he would have been shocked at the pain that this communication conveyed. Algernon, I wished his death. God has reversed the awful sentence; it is the mother, not the father of the unhappy infant, that will be called hence. Heaven knows that I am weary of life—that I would willingly die, could I but take the poor babe with me; should it, however, survive its unfortunate mother, promise me, Algernon, by the love of our early years, to be a guardian and protector to my child."
She endeavored to sink at his feet, but Algernon prevented her.
"Your request is granted, Elinor, and for the dear mother's sake, I promise to cherish the infant as my own."
"It is enough. I thank my God for this great mercy; and now that I have been permitted to clear my character, leave me, Algernon, and take my blessing with you. Only remember in your prayers that such a miserable wretch as Elinor Wildegrave still lives."
The violent ringing of the miser's bell hurried her away. Algernon remained for some minutes rooted to the spot, his heart still heaving with the sense of intolerable wrong. Elinor did not again appear; and descending to what was once the Servants' Hall, he bade Ruth summon his attendants, and slipping a guinea into that delighted damsel's hand, he bade a long adieu to the home of his ancestors.