The world has done its worst, you need not heedIts praise or censure now.—Your name is heldIn deep abhorrence by the good: the badMake it a sad example for fresh guilt.—S.M.
The world has done its worst, you need not heedIts praise or censure now.—Your name is heldIn deep abhorrence by the good: the badMake it a sad example for fresh guilt.—S.M.
We will leave Anthony Hurdlestone to weep and watch beside the newly dead, and conduct our readers into the cottage occupied by Farmer Mathews and his family.
Returning the night before from market, very much the worse from liquor, the farmer had fallen from his horse, and received a very severe concussion of the brain. William, surprised at his long absence, left the house at daybreak in search of his father, and found him lying, apparently dead, within sight of his own door.
With Mary's assistance, he carried him into the house. Medical aid was called in, and all had been done that man could do to alleviate the sufferings of the injured farmer, but with little effect. The man had received a mortal blow, and the doctor, when he left that evening, had pronounced the fatal sentence that his case was hopeless; that, in all probability, he would expire before the morning.
As the night drew on, the elder Mathews became quite unconscious of surrounding objects, and but for the quick hard breathing, you would have imagined him already dead.
The door of the cottage was open, to admit the fresh air; and in the door way, revealed by the solitary candlewhich burnt upon the little table by the bed-side, stood the tall athletic figure of William Mathews. His sister was sitting in a low chair by the bed's head, her eyes fixed with a vacant stare upon the heavy features of the dying man.
"William," she said, in a quick deep voice, "where are you? Do come and watch with me. I do not like to be alone."
"You are not alone," returned the ruffian sullenly; "I am here; and some one else is here whom you cannot see."
"Whom do you mean?"
"The devil, to be sure," responded her brother. "He is always near us; but never more near than in the hour of death and the day of judgment."
"Good Lord, deliver us!" said the girl, repeating unconsciously aloud part of the liturgy of the Church to which nominally she belonged.
"All in good time," responded the human fiend. "Has father shown any sign of returning sense since the morning?"
"No, he has remained just in the same state. William, will he die?"
"You may be sure of that, Mary. Living men never look as he does now."
"It is a terrible sight," said his sister. "I always did hope that I should die before father; but since I got into this trouble I have wished that he might never live to know it. That was sin, William. See how my wicked thoughts have become prophecy. Yet I am so glad that he never found out my crime, that it makes the tears dry in my eyes to see him thus."
"You make too much fuss about your condition, girl!What is done cannot be undone. All you can now do is to turn it to the best possible account."
"What do you mean, William?"
"Make money by it."
"Alas," said the girl, "what was given away freely cannot be redeemed with gold. Had I the wealth of the whole world, I would gladly give it to regain my lost peace of mind. Oh, for one night of calm fresh sleep, such as I used to enjoy after a hard day's work in the field. What would I not give for such a night's rest? Rest! I never rest now. I work and toil all day; I go to bed—heart-weary and head-weary—but sleep never comes as it used to come. After long hours of tossing from side to side, just about the dawn of day, a heavy stupor comes over me, full of frightful sights and sounds, so frightful that I start and awake, and pray not to sleep again."
"And what has made such a change—that one act?" said the ruffian. "Pshaw! girl. God will never damn your soul for the like of that. It was foolish and imprudent; but I don't callthatsin."
"Then what is sin?" said the girl solemnly.
"Why, murder, and theft, and—"
"And what?"
"Hang me! if I wish to go deeper into the matter. But if that is sin, which you make such a to-do about, then the whole world are sinners."
"Do you think that you are not a sinner, William?"
"I never thought a word about it," said the man. "I am not a whit worse than others; but I am poorer, and that makes my faults more conspicuous. There is Godfrey Hurdlestone, every whit as bad as I am, yet were we to be tried by the same jury, the men that would hang me would acquit him. But his day is over," he continued, talking tohimself. "He is now as poor as me; and if the rich heiress does not marry him, will be much worse off."
"Marry!" cried Mary, springing from her seat, and grasping her brother's arm. "Who talks of Godfrey Hurdlestone marrying?"
"I talk of it—every one talks of it—he boasts of it himself. I was told last night by Captain Whitmore's serving-man, that his master had given his consent to the match, and that the young lady was coming round, and that Mr. Godfrey was every day at the house. Perhaps the Colonel being cooped up in jail may spoil the young man's wooing."
"In jail! Colonel Hurdlestone in jail! Can that be true?"
"Fact."
"And Mr. Godfrey? What will become of Mr. Godfrey?"
"He will become one of us, and have to take care of himself. And if he does marry Miss Whitmore, he will have enough to take care of you."
"Do you think that I would share his affections with another woman?" cried the girl, her pale cheeks flushing to crimson. "Brother, I am not sunk so low as that—not quite so low."
"You are sunk quite low enough for anything, Mary. You may be as bad as you like now, the world will think no worse of you than it does at present. You have made a bad bargain, and you must stand by it. If you cannot be the man's wife, you must rest content with being his mistress; married or single you will always be Godfrey Hurdlestone's better half. Miss Whitmore is not to compare to you, in spite of her pretty waxen face, and she is not the woman to please such a wild fellow as him. Hewill grow tired of her before the honeymoon is over, and you will have it all your own way."
"Juliet Whitmore shall never be his wife, nor any other woman, while I live. But, William, if he is as poor as you say he is, what use will it be to you my continuing to live with him in sin? He cannot give me money if he has none for himself."
"Hush," said the ruffian, drawing nearer, and glancing quickly round, to be certain that they were alone. "Did you never hear of the rich miser, Mark Hurdlestone?"
"Mr. Anthony's father?"
"The same. And do you not know that, were Anthony out of the way, removed by death or any other cause, Godfrey Hurdlestone would be his heir?"
"Well, what of that? Anthony is alive and well, and may outlive us all."
"Strong men often die very suddenly. There is an ill-luck hangs about this same Mr. Anthony. I prophesy that his life will be a short one. Hark! Was that a groan? Father is coming to himself."
He took the candle and went up to the bed. The sick man still breathed, but remained in the same stupor as before. "This cannot last long," said his son, stooping over the corpse-like figure. "Father was a strong man for his age, but 'tis all up with him now. I wish he could speak to us, and tell us where he is going; but I'm thinking that we shall never hear the sound of his voice again. The bell will toll for him before sunrise to-morrow."
He had scarcely finished speaking when the slow, deep boom of the death-bell awoke the sluggish stillness of the heavy night. The brother and sister started, and Mary gave a loud scream.
"Who's dead?" said Mathews, stepping to the open door"some of the quality, or that bell would not speak out at this late hour of night. Ha! Mr. Godfrey Hurdlestone. Is that you?"
"What's wrong here?" cried Godfrey, glancing rapidly round the cottage. "Mathews, have you heard the news? My poor father's dead."
"Dead!" exclaimed both his companions in a breath. "Colonel Hurdlestone dead! When did he die?"
"This evening, at sunset. 'Tis a bad piece of business, Mathews. He died insolvent, and I am left without a penny."
"Alas, what will become of us all!" shrieked Mary, flinging herself frantically upon the bed. "William, he has ceased to breathe. Our father too is dead!"
The grief of the lower orders is generally loud and violent. Unaccustomed to restrain their feelings, Nature lifts up her voice, and tells, in tones which cannot be misunderstood, the blow which has left her desolate. And so Mary Mathews poured forth the anguish of her soul over the parent that, but a few days before, she had wished dead, to conceal from him her guilt. Yet now that he was gone—that the strong tie was broken, and her conscience reproached her for having cherished for a moment the unnatural thought—she wept as if her heart had never known a deeper sorrow. Her brother and lover strove in vain to comfort her. She neither saw nor heeded them, but in a stern voice bade them depart and leave her alone.
"The wilful creature! Let her have her own way, Mr. Godfrey. Grief like that, like the down-pouring of a thunder-shower, soon storms itself to rest. She will be better soon. Leave her to take care of the dead, while you and I step into the kitchen and consult together about the living."
Godfrey, who had suffered much that day from mental excitement, felt doubly depressed by the scene he had just witnessed, and gladly obeyed.
Mathews lighted a fresh candle, and led the way into the kitchen. The fire that had been used to prepare the evening meal was nearly out; Mathews raked the ashes together and threw a fresh billet into the grate; then reaching from a small cupboard a bottle and a glass, he drew a small table between them, and stretching his legs towards the cheering blaze he handed a glass of brandy to his companion.
"Hang it, man! don't look so down in the mouth. This is the best friend in time of need. This is my way of driving out the blue devils that pinch and freeze my heart."
Godfrey eagerly seized the proffered glass and drained it at a draught.
"Well, that's what I call hearty!" continued the ruffian, following his example. "There's nothing like that for killing care. I don't wonder at your being low. I feel queer myself—devilish queer. It is a strange thing to lose a father. A something is gone—a string is loosened from the heart, which we feel can never be tied again. I wonder whether the souls gone from among us to-night are lost or saved—or if there be a heaven or hell?"
"Pshaw!" said Godfrey, lighting his pipe, "do you believe such idle fables?"
"Why, do you see, Master Godfrey, I would fain think them false for my own sake—mere old women's tales. But terrible thoughts will come into my mind; and though I seldom think of heaven, I often hear a voice from the shut up depths of my heart—a voice that I cannot stifle. Do not smile," said the man gloomily, "I am in no mood to belaughed at. Bad as I am, confound me if you are not ten times worse."
"If you are so afraid of going to hell," said Godfrey, sarcastically, "why do you not amend your life? I, for my part, am troubled with no such qualms of conscience."
"If you had seen blood as often upon your hand as I have upon mine, you would tell a different story. Kill a man, and then see if what we hear of ghosts and spirits are mere fables. I tell thee, Godfrey Hurdlestone, they never die, but live and walk abroad, and haunt you continually. The voice they speak with will be heard. In solitary places—in the midst of crowds—at fairs and merry-makings—in the noon of day, and at the dead of night, I have heard their mocking tones." He leaned his elbows upon his knees, and supported his chin between the palms of his hands, and continued to stare upon Godfrey with vacant bloodshot eyes.
"Don't take me for a ghost," said Godfrey, the same sarcastic smile passing over his handsome face. "What does it matter to us where our fathers are gone? If there is a place of future rewards or punishments, depend upon it we shall only have to answer for our own sins; and as you and I have, at present, but a small chance of getting to heaven, we may as well make the most of our time on earth."
"Confound that death-bell," said the smuggler, "it has a living voice to-night. I never hear it but it reminds me of Newgate, and I fancy that I shall hear it toll for my own death before I die."
"A very probable consummation, though certainly not a very pleasant one," said Godfrey ironically. "But away with such melancholy presages. Take another sup of thebrandy, Mathews, and tell me what you are going to do for a living. The lease of your farm expires in a few days. Mr. ---- has taken possession of the estates, and means, Johnstone tells me, to put in another tenant. What will become of you and Mary in the meanwhile?"
"I have not thought about it yet. At any rate, I can always live by the old trade, and fall upon my feet. At all events, we must leave this place. It is little that father has saved. The neighbors think him rich, but a drunkard never dies rich; and you know, Mr. Godfrey, that the weight of a pig is never known until after it is dead. There will not be much more than will bury him. There are the crops in the ground, to be sure, and the cattle, and a few sticks of furniture; but debts of honor must be paid, and I have been very unlucky of late. By the by, Master Godfrey, what does your cousin mean to do with himself?"
"He must go home to his miserly dad, I suppose."
"Humph! I think that I will go to Ashton and settle in that neighborhood myself; I like to be near old friends."
"What can induceyou, Mathews, to go there?"
"I have my reasons. Strong reasons too, in which I am sureyouwill heartily concur." He looked into his companion's eyes, with an expression so peculiar, that Godfrey started as if some new light had suddenly flashed upon his soul, while Mathews continued in a lower voice, "Suppose, now that we could get up a regular quarrel between old Ironsides and his son; who would then be the miser's heir?"
Godfrey took the hand of the smuggler and pressed it hard.
"Can you form no better scheme than that?"
"I understand you, Mr. Godfrey. You are a perfectgenius in wickedness. The devil never found a fitter agent for doing his business on a grand scale. Yes, yes, I understand you."
"Would it be possible?"
"All things are possible to those who have the courage to perform. If I could remove this obstacle out of your way, what would be my reward?"
"A thousand pounds!"
"Your conscience! Do you think that I would risk my neck for such a paltry bribe?"
"You have done it often for the hundredth part."
"That's neither here nor there. If I have played the fool a dozen times, that's no reason that I am to do so again. Go shares, and promise to make an honest woman of Mary, and you shall not be long out of possession."
"The sacrifice is too great," said Godfrey, musing. "Let us say no more about it at present."
"You will think about it?"
"Thoughts are free."
"Not exactly. Evil thoughts lead to evil deeds, as surely as fruit follows flowers upon the tree. Try to lay that babe of the brain to rest, and see if it will not waken to plague you yet."
"It was one of your own begetting—you should know best how to quiet the imp."
"Leave me alone for that. The day is breaking; we must part. We have both melancholy duties to perform."
"I wish the funeral was over," said Godfrey, "I hate being forced to act a conspicuous part in so grave a farce."
"Your cousin will help you out. He is the real mourner; you, the actor. Remember what I hinted to you, and let me know your opinion in a few days."
"The risk is too great," said Godfrey, shrugging his shoulders. "When I am reduced to my last shift, it will be time enough to talk of that."
The grey misty dawn was just struggling into day, when Godfrey left the cottage. Mathews looked after him, as, opening a side gate that led to a foot-path that intersected the park, he vanished from his sight.
"Well, there goes the greatest scoundrel that ever was unhung," he muttered to himself. "He has never shed blood, nor done what I have done, but hang me if I would exchange characters with him, bad as I may be. He thinks to make a fool of me; but if I do not make him repay a thousand fold the injuries he has heaped on me and mine, may we swing on the same gallows."
In no very enviable mood, Godfrey pursued his way though the lonely park. The birds had not yet sung their matin hymn to awaken the earth. Deep silence rested upon the august face of nature. Not a breath of air stirred the branches, heavy with dew-drops. The hour was full of beauty and mystery. An awe fell insensibly upon the heart, as if it saw the eye of God visibly watching over the sleeping world. Its holy influence was felt even by the selfish heartless Godfrey.
The deep silence—the strange stillness—the uncertain light—the scenes he had lately witnessed—his altered fortunes—his degrading pursuits—the fallen and depraved state of his mind, crowded into his thoughts, and filled his bosom with keen remorse and painful regrets.
"Oh, that I could repent!" he cried, stopping, and clasping his hands together, and fixing his eyes mournfully upon the earth,—"that I could believe that there was a God—a heaven—a hell! Yet if there be no hereafter, why this stifling sense of guilt—this ever-haunting miserableconsciousness of unworthiness? Am I worse than other men, or are all men alike—the circumstances in which they are placed producing that which we denominate good or evil in their characters? What if I determine to renounce the evil, and cling to the good; would it yet be well with me? Would Juliet, like a good angel, consent to be my guide, and lead me gently back to the forsaken paths of rectitude and peace?"
While the voice in his heart yet spake to him for good, another voice sounded in his ears, and all his virtuous resolutions melted into air.
"Godfrey," said the voice of Mary Mathews, "dear Mr. Godfrey, have I become so indifferent to you, that you will neither look at me nor speak to me?"
She was the last person in the world who at that moment he wished to see. The sight of her recalled him to a sense of his degradation, and all that he had lost by his unhappy connexion with her, and he secretly wished that she had died instead of her father.
"Mary," he said, coldly, "what do you want with me? The morning is damp and raw; you had better go home."
"What do I want with you?" reiterated the girl. "And is it come to that? Can you, who have so often sworn to me that you loved me better than anything in heaven or on earth, now ask me, in my misery, what I want with you?"
"Hot-headed rash young men will swear, and foolish girls will believe them," said Godfrey, putting his arm carelessly round her waist, and drawing her towards him. "So it has been since the world began, and so it will be until the end of time."
"Was all you told me, then, false?" said Mary, leaningher head back upon his shoulder, and fixing her large beautiful tearful eyes upon his face.
That look of unutterable fondness banished all Godfrey's good resolutions. He kissed the tears from her eyes, as he replied,
"Not exactly, Mary. But you expect too much."
"I only ask you not to cease to love me—not to leave me, Godfrey, for another."
"Who put such nonsense into your head?"
"William told me that you were going to marry Miss Whitmore."
"If such were the case, do you think I should be such a fool as to tell William?"
"Alas! I am afraid that it is only too true." And Mary burst into tears afresh. "You do not love me as you did, Godfrey, when we first met and loved. You used to sit by my side for hours, looking into my face, and holding my hand in yours; and we were happy—too happy to speak. We lived but in each other's eyes; and I hoped—fondly hoped—that that blessed dream would last for ever. I did not care for the anger of father or brother—woe is me! I never had a mother. One kiss from those dear lips—one kind word breathed from that dear mouth—sunk from my ear into my heart, and I gloried in what I ought to have considered my shame. Oh, why are you changed, Godfrey? Why should my love remain like a covered fire, consuming my heart to ashes, and making me a prey to tormenting doubts and fears, while you are unmoved by my anguish, and contented in my absence?"
"You attribute that to indifference, which is but the effect of circumstances," returned Godfrey, somewhat embarrassed by her importunities. "Perhaps, Mary, you arenot aware that the death of my father has left me a poor and ruined man?"
"What difference can that possibly make in our love for each other?" And Mary's eyes brightened through a cloud of tears. "I rejoice in your loss of fortune, for it has made us equals."
"Not quite!" cried the young man, throwing her from him, as if stung by an adder. "Birth, education, the prejudices of society, have placed an eternal barrier between us. Impoverished though I be, I never can so far forget myself as to mate with a vulgar peasant!"
"Say that word again—that word of misery!" cried the unhappy girl, clinging to his arm. "Recall your many promises—the awful oath you swore on that fatal night, when I first yielded to temptation, when you solemnly declared, in the name of Almighty God, that the moment you were your own master, you would make me your wife."
"Mary," said Godfrey, sternly, "do not deceive yourself—I never will make you my wife!"
"Then God forgive you, and grant me patience to bear my wrongs!" murmured the poor girl, as she sunk down upon the ground, and buried her face in the dewy grass; while her heartless seducer continued his solitary walk to the Lodge.
My mind is like a vessel tossed at seaBy winds and waves—her helm and compass lost;No friendly hand to guide her o'er the waste,Or point to rocks and shoals that yawn beneath.—S.M.
My mind is like a vessel tossed at seaBy winds and waves—her helm and compass lost;No friendly hand to guide her o'er the waste,Or point to rocks and shoals that yawn beneath.—S.M.
The day after his uncle's funeral, as Anthony sat alone in the good rector's study, pondering over his recent loss, painfully alive to his present condition, and the uncertainty of his future prospects, he was informed by the servant that a gentleman wished to see him.
Since Algernon's death, he and Godfrey had not met except at the funeral, in which they had assisted as chief mourners. He was very anxious to speak to his cousin, and consult with him about their private affairs; and he obeyed the summons with alacrity. Instead of the person whom he expected to see, a well-dressed intelligent-looking young man advanced to meet him.
"Mr. Anthony Hurdlestone," he said, "I hope you will not consider my present visit an intrusion, when I inform you that I am your near kinsman, the son of that Edward Wildegrave who held the office of judge for so many years in India, in which country he died about six years ago. My father and your mother were first cousins by the father's side. Brought up in a distant part of England, I never had an opportunity of falling in with the only remaining branch of the Wildegrave family; and it was not until the death of my father, which left me an independent man, that I was even aware of your existence. A few months ago I bought the property of Milbank, in the parish of Ashton, which once belonged to my unfortunate uncle; and I heard your history from the wife of our farm servant, Ruth Candler. This led me to make many inquires about you; and Ruth's relations were fully confirmed by the statements of my lawyer. His account of your early trials and singular position created in my mind such an intense interest in your fate, that I lost no time in riding over to offer my services, and a share of my house until you can arrange your plans for the future. I hope you will not refuse to grant me this favor. My offer is made in the sincerity of friendship; and I shall be deeply disappointed if you refuse to accept it."
"I will most thankfully accept it," said Anthony, his fine face glowing with pleasure at this unexpected meeting. "But are you certain, Mr. Wildegrave, that my doing so will in no way inconvenience you?"
"Inconvenience me? a bachelor! Your society will be a great acquisition."
"And poor Ruth Candler—is she still living? She was a mother to me during my motherless infancy, and I shall be so glad to see her again. As to you, Mr. Wildegrave, I cannot express half the gratitude I feel for your disinterested kindness. The only circumstance which casts the least damp upon the pleasure I anticipate in my visit to Ashton, is the near vicinity of my father, who may take it into his head to imagine that I come there in order to be a spy upon his actions."
"I know the unhappy circumstances in which you are placed; yet I think that we shall be able to overrule them for your good. However disagreeable your intercourse with such a man must be, it is not prudent to lose sight ofhim altogether. While you are in his immediate neighborhood, he cannot easily forget that he has a son. That artful designing old scoundrel, Grenard Pike, will do all in his power to keep you apart. Your living with me will not affect Mr. Hurdlestone's pocket; and his seeing you at church will remind him, at least once a week, that you are alive."
"Church! Can a man destitute of charity feel any pleasure in attending a place of worship, that teaches him that his dearest enjoyment is a deadly sin?"
"It seems a strange infatuation; but I have remarked, that, let the weather be what it may, neither cold nor heat, nor storm nor shine, ever keeps Mark Hurdlestone from church. He is still in the old place; his fine grey locks flowing over his shoulders, with as proud and aristocratic an expression on his countenance as if his head were graced with a coronet, instead of being bound about with an old red handkerchief, which he wears in lieu of a hat; the rest of his person clothed in rags, which a beggar would spurn from him in disdain."
"Is he insensible to the disgust which his appearance must excite?"
"He seems perfectly at ease. His mind is too much absorbed in mental calculations to care for the opinion of any one. If you sit in the family pew, which I advise you to do, you will have to exercise great self-control to avoid laughing at his odd appearance."
"I am too much humiliated by his deplorable aberration of mind to feel the least inclination to mirth. I wish that I could learn to respect and love him as a father should be respected and loved; but since my last visit to Ashton my heart is hardened against him. A dislike almost amounting to loathing, has usurped the place of the affection whichnature ever retains for those who are bound together by kindred ties."
"If you were more accustomed to witness his eccentricities you would be less painfully alive to their absurdity. Use almost reconciles us to anything. If you were to inhabit the same house with Mark Hurdlestone, and were constantly to listen to his arguments on the love of money, you might possibly fall in love with hoarding, and become like him a worshipper of gold."
"Avarice generally produces a reaction in the minds of those who witness its effects," said Anthony. "I will not admit the truth of your proposition, for experience has proved that the son of a miser commonly ends in being a spendthrift."
"With some exceptions," said Frederic Wildegrave, with a good-humored smile. "But really, when he pleases, your father can be a sensible, agreeable companion, and quite the gentleman. The other day I had a long chat with him, partly upon business, partly from curiosity. I wanted to buy from him an odd angle of ground, about half an acre, that made an awkward bite into a favorite field. I went to him, and, knowing his habits, I offered him at once the full value of the land. He saw that my heart was set upon the purchase, and he trebled the price. I laughed at him; and we held a long palaver of about two hours, and never came one inch nearer to the settlement of the question. At length I pulled out my purse, and counted the gold down upon the table before him. 'There is the money,' I said. 'I have offered you, Mr. Hurdlestone, the full value of the land. You can take it or leave it.'
"The sight of the gold acted upon him like the loadstone upon the needle. He began counting over the pieces; his fingers literally stuck to them. One by one they disappeared from my sight, and when all were gone, he held out his hand and begged for one guinea more. I put the pen into his hand, and the paper before him; he sighed heavily as he signed the receipt for the full sum, and told me that I was a prudent young man; that I deserved to be rich; and must succeed in the world, for I knew as well how to take care of my money as he did. He then entered upon subjects of more general interest, and I was so much pleased with his talents and general information (chiefly obtained, I believe, from books, which are his sole amusement, and with which he is amply furnished from the library at the Hall,) that I invited myself to come over and spend an evening with him. The old fox took the alarm at this. He told me that he was quite a recluse, and never received company; but that some evening, when I was quite alone, he would step in and take a cup of coffee with me—a luxury which he has never allowed himself for the last twenty years."
The conversation was interrupted by the entrance of Mr. Grant. Young Wildegrave entered immediately upon the purport of his visit, and the rector, who had a very large family to support upon very limited means, readily consented to Anthony's removal to Ashton.
The morning was spent in preparing for his journey, and not without a feeling of regret Anthony bade adieu to his kind host, and the place in which he had passed the only happy years of his life.
As his friend slowly drove through Norgood Park, and past Hazelwood Lodge, he turned an anxious gaze towards the house. Why did the color flush his cheek as he hastily looked another way? Juliet was standing in the balcony, but she was not alone; a tall figure was beside her. It was Godfrey Hurdlestone, and the sight of him at such a time,and so situated, sent a pang of anguish through the heart of the young lover.
Frederic Wildegrave marked the deep dejection into which his companion had fallen, and rightly concluded that some lady was the cause. "Poor fellow," thought he, "has he, to add to his other misfortunes, been indiscreet enough to fall in love?"
Wishing to ascertain if his suspicions were true, he began to question Anthony about the inhabitants of the Lodge, and soon drew from his frank and confiding cousin the history of his unhappy passion, and the unpleasant misapprehension that had closed Captain Whitmore's doors against him.
"Well, Anthony," he said, "it must be confessed that you are an unlucky fellow. The sins of your father appear to cast a shadow upon the destinies of his son. Yet, were I in your place, I should write to Captain Whitmore, and clear up this foul stigma that your treacherous cousin has suffered to rest upon your character."
"No," said Anthony, "I cannot do it; I am too proud. She should not so readily have admitted my guilt. Let Godfrey enjoy the advantage he has gained. I swore to his father to be a friend to his son, to stand by him through good and bad report; and though his cruel duplicity has destroyed my happiness, I never will expose him to the only friend who can help him in his present difficulties."
"Your generosity savors a little too much of romance; Godfrey is unworthy of such a tremendous sacrifice."
"That does not render my solemn promise to my uncle less binding. Forbearance on my part is gratitude to him; and my present self-denial will not be without a reward."
Frederic was charmed with his companion, and couldAnthony have looked into his heart, he would have been doubly convinced that he was right.
They struck into a lonely cross-country road, and half an hour's smart driving brought them to Wildegrave's residence. It was a pretty farm-house, surrounded by extensive orchards, and a large upland meadow, as smooth as a bowling-green. Anthony was delighted at the locality. The peaceful solitude of the scene was congenial to his feelings, and he expressed his pleasure in lively tones.
"'Tis an old-fashioned place," said Frederic; "but it will not be without interest to you. In that chamber to the right, your grandfather and your mother were born."
"They were both children of misfortune," replied Anthony. "But the fate of my grandfather, although he died upon the scaffold, beneath the cruel gaze of an insulting mob, was a merciful dispensation, to the death by inches which awaited his unhappy child."
"That room," resumed Frederic, "contains the portraits in oil of your grandfather and your mother. The one in the prime of life, the other a gay blooming girl of fifteen. From the happy countenances of both you would never augur aught of their miserable doom."
"You must let me occupy that chamber, cousin Wildegrave. If I may judge by my present prospects, I am likely to inherit the same evil destiny."
"These things sometimes run in families. It is the 'visiting the sins of the fathers upon the children, until the third and fourth generation,'" said Frederic, pulling up his horse at the front gate. "The mantle of the Wildegrave, Anthony, has not descended upon you alone."
On the steps of the house they were welcomed by a very fair interesting-looking girl of sixteen; but so fragile andchildlike that she scarcely seemed to have entered upon her teens. She blushed deeply as she received the stranger and her brother.
"Anthony, permit me to introduce you to another cousin. This is my sister Clarissa."
"You did not inform me that you had a sister. This is indeed an unexpected and happy surprise," said Anthony, shaking hands with the young lady.
"I thought it best to introduce all my pets together," returned Wildegrave, patting his sister's meek head. "Clary is a shy, timid, little creature, very unlike your sparkling Juliet, with whom I happen to be personally acquainted; but she is a dear good girl, and the darling of her brother's heart. Her orphan state seems to press painfully upon her young mind. She seldom smiles, and I can never induce her to go into company. But we must try and break her of these monastic habits, for she is not so young as she looks, and by this time she should know her position in society."
"I do not love the world, nor the world's ways, Frederic," said his sister, gravely. "It contains but one happy spot, my own dear tranquil home, and I love it so well, that I never wish to leave it."
"But you must not expect to live at home for ever, Clary," said her brother, as he took his place at the tea-table. "Suppose I was to take it into my head to marry, what would you do then? Perhaps you would not love my wife so well as you do me."
"It is time to prepare for that when she comes," said Clary. "I think I shall live along with you, dear Fred, as long as I require an earthly home."
Something like a sad smile passed over the pensive faceof the fair child, for a child she still was, in stature and simplicity.
"And so you shall, my darling. I have no idea of bringing home a new mistress to Millbank; and long may you live to enjoy your birds, and lambs, and dogs, and cats, and all the numerous pets that you have taken upon yourself to adopt and cherish."
"Ah! Fred, that reminds me of a pair of lovely Barbary doves I got to-day from some unknown friend. They came from London by the coach, in a pretty green cage, with no note or message; but simply directed to 'Miss Wildegrave.' I must bring them to show you; they are such loves."
Away ran Clary to fetch her new pets. Frederic looked after her, and laughed. "I sent for the doves, Anthony, as a little surprise. How delighted she is. She is a fragile creature, Cousin Hurdlestone; and I much fear that she will not require my care long. My mother died in giving her birth; and, since the death of my sister Lucy, who was a mother to Clary, the child has drooped sadly. She was always consumptive, and during the last two months I can perceive a great change in her for the worse."
"I do not wonder at your anxiety. Oh, that I had such a sister to love!"
"Love! she was made to love. So gentle, affectionate, and confiding. It would break my heart to lose her."
"You must not anticipate evil. And, after all, Cousin Wildegrave, is death such a dreadful evil to a fair young creature, too good and amiable to struggle with the ills of life? If I were in her place, I think I could exclaim, 'that it was a good and blessed thing to die!'"
"You are right," whispered the sweet low voice of Clarissa Wildegrave. "Death is our best friend. I see, Mr. Hurdlestone, that you and I are related—that we shall love each other, for we think alike."
This would have been a strange speech, could it have been taken in any other sense than the one in which it was meant; and Anthony, as he took the dove, the emblem of purity, from the fair hand of Clary, thought that a beautiful harmony existed between the bird and its mistress.
"I am sure we shall love each other, Miss Wildegrave. Will you accept me as a second brother?"
"I don't want two brothers, Mr. Hurdlestone. I love Frederic so well that I never mean him to have a rival. No; you shall remain my cousin. Cousins often love as well as sisters and brothers."
"And sometimes a great deal better," said Frederic, laughing. "But since you have made up your mind to love Anthony, sit down and give us another cup of tea."
"There is some one below-stairs, Mr. Anthony, who loves you at any rate," continued Clary, after handing the gentlemen their replenished cups. "One who is quite impatient to see you, who is never tired of talking about you, and calls you her dear boy, and says that she never loved any of her own sons better than you."
"Ruth! is she here? Let me see her directly," said Anthony, rising from the table.
"Sit down, Mr. Hurdlestone. I will ring the bell for her. She can speak to you here."
In a few minutes, a plainly-dressed, middle-aged woman entered the room.
"My dear foster-mother! Is that you?" said Anthony, springing to meet her.
"Why yees, Muster Anthony," said the honest creature, flinging her arms round his neck, and imprinting on eithercheek a kiss that rang through the room; while she laughed and cried in the same breath. "The Lord love you! How you bees grown. Is this here fine young gentleman the poor half-starved little chap that used to come begging to Ruth Candler for a sup o' milk and a morsel o' bread? Well, yer bees a man now, and able to shift for yoursel, whiles I be a poor old woman, half killed by poverty and hard work. When you come in for your great fortin, don't forget old Ruth."
"Indeed I will not, my good mother; if ever that day arrives, I shall know how to reward my old friends. But you make a strange mistake, Ruth, when you call yourself old. You look as young as ever. And how are all my old play-fellows?"
"Some dead; some in service; and my eldest gal, Mr. Anthony, is married to a Methody parson, only think, my Sally, the wife of a Methody parson."
"She was a good girl."
"Oh, about as good as the rest on us. And, pray, how do old Shock come along? Is the old dog dead?"
"Of old age, Ruth. He got so fat and sleek in my uncle's house, you never would have known the poor starved brute."
"In truth, you were a poverty pair—jist a bag o' bones the twain o' ye. I wonder the old Squire warn't ashamed to see you walk the earth. An' they do tell me, Measter Anthony, that he be jist as stingy as ever."
"Age seldom improves avarice."
"Why, nothing gets the better for being older, but strong beer. An' that sometimes gets a little sourish with keeping."
Anthony took the hint. "Ah, I remember. Your husband was very fond of ale—particularly in harvest-timeYou must give him this, to drink my health." And he slipped a guinea into her hand. "And to-morrow, when I come over the hill, I shall expect him to halloo largess."
"The Lord love you, for a dear handsome young gentleman. An' my Dick will do that with the greatest of pleasure." And, with an awkward attempt at a curtsey, the good woman withdrew.
After chatting some little time with Frederic and Clary, Anthony retired to the room appropriated to his use.
The quiet, unobtrusive kindness of his young relatives had done much to soothe and tranquillize his mind; and he almost wished, as he paced to and fro the narrow limits of his airy little chamber, that he could forget that he had ever known and loved the beautiful and fascinating Juliet Whitmore.
"Why should mere beauty possess such an influence over the capricious wandering heart of man?" he thought; "yet it is not beauty alone that makes me prefer Juliet to the rest of her sex. Her talents, her deep enthusiasm, captivate me more than her handsome face and graceful form. Oh, Juliet! Juliet! why did we ever meet? or is Godfrey destined to enact the same tragedy that ruined my uncle's peace, and consigned my mother to an early grave?"
As these thoughts passed rapidly through his mind, his eyes rested upon his mother's picture. It was the first time that he had ever beheld her but in dreams. Radiant in all its girlish beauty, the angelic face smiled down upon him with life-like fidelity. The rose that decked her dark floating locks, less vividly bright than the glowing cheeks and lips of happy youth; the large black eyes, "half languor and half fire," that had wept tears of unmitigated anguish over his forlorn infancy—rested upon his own, as if they were conscious of his presence. Anthony continued togaze upon the portrait till the blinding tears hid it from his sight.
"Oh, my mother!" he exclaimed, "better had it been for thee to have died in the bloom of youth and innocence, than to have fallen the victim of an insidious—villain," he would have added, but that villain was his father; and he paused without giving utterance to the word, shocked at himself that his heart had dared to frame the impious word his conscience forbade him to speak.
What a host of melancholy thoughts crowded into his mind while looking on that picture. The grief and degradation of his early days: his dependent situation while with his uncle: the unkind taunts of his ungenerous cousin; his blighted affections and dreary prospects for the future. How bitterly did he ponder over these!
What had he to encourage hope, or give him strength to combat with the ills that beset him on every side? Homeless and friendless, he thought, like Clary, that death would be most welcome, and sinking upon his knees, he prayed long and fervently for strength to bear with manly fortitude the sorrows which from his infant years had been his bitter portion.
Who ever sought counsel of God in vain? An answer of peace was given to his prayers. "Endure thou unto the end, and I will give thee a crown of life." He rose from his knees, and felt that all was right; that his present trials were awarded to him in mercy; that had all things gone on smoother with him, like Godfrey, he might have yielded himself up to sinful pleasures, or followed in the footsteps of his father, and bartered his eternal happiness for gold.
"This world is not our rest. Then why should I wish to pitch my tent on this side of Jordan, and overlook all the blessings of the promised land? Let me rather rejoice intribulations, if through them I may obtain the salvation of God."
That night Anthony enjoyed a calm refreshing sleep. He dreamed of his mother, dreamed that he saw her in glory, that he heard her speak words of comfort to his soul, and he awoke with the rising sun, to pour out his heart in thankfulness to Him who had bestowed upon him the magnificent boon of life.
The beauty of the morning tempted him to take a stroll in the fields before breakfast. In the parlor he had left his hat and cane. On entering the room to obtain them, he found Clary already up and reading by the open window. "Good morning, gentle coz," and he playfully lifted one of the glossy curls that hid her fair face from his view. "What are you studying?"
"For eternity," said Clarissa, in a sweet solemn tone, as she raised to his face her mild serious eyes.
"'Tis an awful thought."
"Yes. But one full of joy. This is the grave, cousin Anthony. This world to which we cling, this sepulchre in which we bury our best hopes, this world of death. That which you call death is but the gate of life; the dark entrance to the land of love and sunbeams."
What a holy fire flashed from her meek eyes as she spoke! What deep enthusiasm pervaded that still fair face! Could this inspired creature be his child-like simple little cousin? Anthony continued to gaze upon her with astonishment, and when the voice ceased, he longed to hear her speak again.
"Tell me, Clary, what power has conquered, in your young heart, the fear of death?"
"Truth!—simple truth. That mighty pillar that upholds the throne of God. I sought the truth. I loved the truth,and the truth has made me free. Death! from a child I never feared death.
"I remember, Anthony, when I was a very little girl, so young that it is the very first thing that memory can recal, I was sick, and sitting upon the ground at my dear sister Lucy's feet. My head was thrown back upon her lap, and it ached sadly. She patted my curls, and leaning forward, kissed my hot brow, and told me, 'That if I were a good girl when I died I should go to heaven.' Eagerly I asked her—What was death, and what was heaven?
"Death, she told me, was the end of life here, and the beginning of a new life that could never end, in a better world. That heaven was a glorious place, the residence of the great God, who made me and the whole world. But no pain or sorrow was ever felt in that blissful place. That all the children of God were good and happy.
"I wept for joy when she told me all this. I forgot my pain. I longed to die and go to heaven; and from that hour death became to me a great anticipation of future enjoyment. It mingled in all my thoughts. It came to me in dreams, and it always wore a beautiful aspect.
"There was a clear deep pond in our garden at Harford, surrounded with green banks covered with flowers, and overhung with willows. I used to sit upon that bank and weave garlands of the sweet buds and tender willow shoots, and build castles about that future world. The image of the heavens lay within the waters, and the trees and flowers looked more beautiful reflected in their depths. Ah, I used to think, one plunge into that lovely mirror, and I should reach that happy world—should know all. But this I said in my simplicity, for I knew not at that tender age that self-destruction was a sin; that man was forbidden to unclosea gate of which the Almighty held the key. His merciful hand was stretched over the creature of his will, and I never made the rash attempt.
"As I grew older, I saw three loved and lovely sisters perish one by one. Each, in turn, had been a mother to me, and I loved them with my whole heart. Their sickness was sorrowful, and I often wept bitterly over their bodily sufferings. But when the conqueror came, how easily the feeble conquered. Instead of fearing the destroyer, as you call Death, they went forth to meet him with songs of joy, and welcomed him as a friend.
"Oh, had you seen my Lucy die! Had you seen the glory that rested upon her pale brow; had you heard the music that burst from her sweet lips ere they were hushed for ever; had you seen the hand that pointed upward to the skies; you would have exclaimed, with her, 'O death, where is thy sting! O grave, where is thy victory?'"
The child paused, for her utterance was choked with tears. Anthony took her hand; he started, for pale as it was, it burnt with an unnatural heat. Fever was in every vein. "Are you ill, Clary?"
"Ill? Oh, no! but I never feel very well. I have had my summons, Anthony; I shall not be long here."
Seeing him look anxiously in her face, she smiled, and going to a corner of the room, brought forward a harp which had escaped his observation, and said, playfully, "I have made you sad, cousin, when I wished to cheer you. Come, I will sing to you. Fred tells me that I sing well. If you love music as I do, it will soon banish sorrow from your heart."
There was something so refreshing in the candor of the young creature, that it operated upon the mind of Anthonylike a spell, and when the finest voice he ever in his life heard burst upon his ear, and filled the room with living harmony, he almost fancied he could see the halo encircling the lofty brows of the fair young saint:
The flowers of earth are fairAs the hopes we fondly cherish;But the canker-worm of careBids the best and brightest perish.The heavens to-day are bright,But the morn brings storm and sorrow;And the friends we love to-nightMay sleep in earth to-morrow.Spirit, unfold thy drooping wing;Up, up to thy kindred skies.Life is a sad and weary thing;He only lives who dies.His the immortal fruits that growBy life's eternal river,Where the shining waves in their onward flowSing Glory to God for ever.
The flowers of earth are fairAs the hopes we fondly cherish;But the canker-worm of careBids the best and brightest perish.The heavens to-day are bright,But the morn brings storm and sorrow;And the friends we love to-nightMay sleep in earth to-morrow.
Spirit, unfold thy drooping wing;Up, up to thy kindred skies.Life is a sad and weary thing;He only lives who dies.His the immortal fruits that growBy life's eternal river,Where the shining waves in their onward flowSing Glory to God for ever.
These lines were sung to a wild, irregular air, but one full of pathos and beauty.
"You must give me that hymn, Clary."
"It is gone, and the music with it. I shall never be able to remember it again. But I will play you another which will please you better, though the words are not mine." And turning again to the harp, she sang, in a low, plaintive strain, unlike her former triumphant burst of song:
Slowly, slowly tolls the bell,A heavy note of sorrow;But gaily will its blithe notes swellThe bridal peal to-morrow,To-morrow!The dead man in his shroud to-nightNo hope from earth can borrow;The bride within her tresses brightShall wreathe the rose to-morrow,To-morrow!The drops that gem that lowly bier,Though shed in mortal sorrow,Will not recall a single tearIn festal halls to-morrow!To-morrow!'Tis thus through life, from joy and grief,Alternate shades we borrow;To-night in tears we find relief,In smiles of joy to-morrow,To-morrow!
Slowly, slowly tolls the bell,A heavy note of sorrow;But gaily will its blithe notes swellThe bridal peal to-morrow,To-morrow!
The dead man in his shroud to-nightNo hope from earth can borrow;The bride within her tresses brightShall wreathe the rose to-morrow,To-morrow!
The drops that gem that lowly bier,Though shed in mortal sorrow,Will not recall a single tearIn festal halls to-morrow!To-morrow!
'Tis thus through life, from joy and grief,Alternate shades we borrow;To-night in tears we find relief,In smiles of joy to-morrow,To-morrow!
"What divine music!"
"And the words, Cousin Anthony—you say nothing about the words."
"Are both your own?"
"Oh, no; I am only in heart a poet. I lack the power to give utterance to—
'The thoughts that breathe and words that burn.'
'The thoughts that breathe and words that burn.'
They were written by a friend—a friend, whom, next to Fred, I love better than the whole world—Juliet Whitmore."
"And doyouknow Juliet?"
"I will tell you all about it," said Clary, leaving her harp and sitting down beside him. "After dear Lucy died, I was very, very ill, and Fred took me to the sea-side for the benefit of bathing. I was a poor, pale, wasted, woe-begone thing. We lodged next door to the house occupied by Captain Whitmore, who was spending the summer upon the coast with his family.
"He picked acquaintance with me upon the beach one day; and whenever nurse took me down to bathe, he would pat my cheek, and tell me to bring home a red rose to mix with the lily in my face. I told him, laughingly, 'That roses never grew by the sea shore,' and he told me to come with him to his lodgings and see. And then he introduced me to Juliet, and we grew great friends, for though she was much taller and more womanly, she was only one year older than me. And we used to walk, and talk a great deal to each other, all the time we remained at ——, which was about three months; and, though we have not met since Fred bought Millbank, and came to this part of the country, she often writes to me sweet letters, full of poetry,—such poetry as she knows will please me; and in one of her letters, Cousin Anthony, she wrote a good deal about you."
"About me!—Oh, tell me, Clary, what she said about me."
"She said," replied the child, blushing very deeply, and speaking so low that Anthony could only just catch the words, "that she loved you. That you were the only man she had ever seen that realized her dreams of what man ought to be. And what she said of you made me love you too, and I felt proud that you were my cousin."
"Dear amiable Clary," and the delighted Anthony unconsciously covered the delicate white hand held within his own with passionate kisses.
"You must not take me for Juliet," and Clary quietly withdrew her hand. "But I am so glad that you love her, because we shall be able to talk about her. I have a smallportfolio she gave me, full of pretty poems, which I will give to you, for I know all the poems by heart."
Anthony no longer heard her. He was wrapt up in a blissful dream, from which he was in no hurry to awaken. Many voices spake to his soul, but over all, he heard one soft deep voice, whose tones pierced its utmost recesses, and infused new life and hope into his breast, which said—"Juliet loves you.'"
She hath forsaken God and trusted man,And the dark curse by man inheritedHath fallen upon her.—S.M.
She hath forsaken God and trusted man,And the dark curse by man inheritedHath fallen upon her.—S.M.
We must now return to Godfrey Hurdlestone, and we find him comfortably settled in the hospitable mansion of Captain Whitmore, a great favorite with aunt Dorothy, and an object of increasing interest and sympathy to the fair Juliet.
Had she forgotten Anthony? Oh, no. She still loved him, but dared not whisper to her own heart the forbidden fact. Did she believe him guilty? Not exactly. But the whole affair was involved in mystery, and she had not confidence enough in her own judgment to overrule the prejudices of others. She could not pronounce him innocent, and she strove to banish his image as a matter of necessity—a sacrifice that duty demanded of her—from her mind.
Could she receive with pleasure the attentions of such a man as Godfrey Hurdlestone? She did, for he was so like Anthony, that there were times when she could almost have fancied them one and the same. He wanted the deep feeling—the tenderness—the delicacy of her absent lover, but he had wit, beauty, and vivacity, an imposing manner, and that easy assurance which to most women is more attractive than modest merit.
Juliet did not love Godfrey, but his conversation amusedher, and helped to divert her mind from brooding over unpleasant thoughts. She received him with kindness, for his situation claimed her sympathy, and she did all in her power to reconcile him to the change which had taken place in his circumstances. Godfrey was not insensible to the difference in her manner, when addressing him, to what it had been formerly, and he attributed that to a growing attachment which was but the result of pity. Without giving him the least encouragement to entertain hopes she never meant to realize, Juliet, with all the romance of her nature, had formed the happy scheme of being able to convert the young infidel from the paths of doubt and error, and animating him with an earnest zeal to obtain a better heritage than the one he had lost.
Young enthusiasts are fond of making proselytes, and Juliet was not aware that she was treading upon dangerous ground, with a very subtle companion. Untouched by the sacred truths she sought to impress upon his mind, and which indeed were very distasteful to him, Godfrey, in order to insinuate himself into the good graces of his fair instructress, seemingly lent a willing ear to her admonitions, and pretended to be deeply sensible of their importance.
Since he had arrived at an age to think for himself, he had rejected the Bible, and never troubled himself to peruse its pages. Juliet proposed that they should read it together, and an hour every afternoon was chosen for that purpose. Godfrey, in order to lengthen these interviews, started objections at every line, in his apparent anxiety to arrive at a knowledge of the truth.
With all the zeal of a youthful and self-elected teacher, Juliet found a peculiar pleasure in trying to clear up the disputed points; in removing his doubts and strengthening his faith; and, when at length he artfully seemed to yieldto her arguments, the glow that brightened her cheeks, and proclaimed the innocent joy of her heart, gave to her lovely countenance a thousand additional charms.
One evening their lecture had been protracted to an unusual length; and Juliet concluded from the silence of her pupil, that he was at last convinced of the truth of her arguments. She closed the sacred volume, and awaited her companion's answer, but he remained buried in profound thought.
"Mr. Godfrey, do you still believe in the non-existence of a Deity?"
"Forgive me, Juliet, if my thoughts had strayed from heaven to earth. I will, however, tell you the purport of them. If all men are equal in the sight of the Creator, why does not the same feeling pervade the breast of his creatures?"
"Because men are not endowed with the wisdom of God, neither can they judge righteously, as he judges. That all men are equal in his sight, the text we have just read sufficiently proves: 'The rich and the poor meet together. The Lord is the maker of them all.'"
"Then why is wealth an object of adoration to the crowd, whilst poverty, even in those who once possessed great riches, is regarded with contempt and pity?"
"The world gives a value to things which in themselves are of no importance," said Juliet. "I think, however, that I should scorn myself, could I regard with indifference the friends I once loved, because they had been deprived of their worldly advantages."
"You make me proud of my poverty, Miss Whitmore. It has rendered me rich in your sympathy."
"Obtain your wealth from a higher source, Mr. Hurdlestone," said Juliet, not, perhaps, displeased with the compliment, "and you will learn to regard with indifference the riches of the world."
"But supposing, my dear friend, for argument's sake, that you had a lover to whom you were fondly attached, and he was suddenly deprived of the fortune which had placed you on an equality, would this circumstance alter your regard for him?"
"Certainly not."
"And, in spite of these disadvantages, you would become his wife?"
"That would depend on circumstances. I might be under the guidance of parents, who, from prudential motives, might forbid so rash a step; and it would be no act of friendship to the man I loved, to increase his difficulties by attempting to share them."
"And in such a case would you not act upon the decision of your own heart?"
"I dare not. The heart, blinded by its affections for the object of its love, might err in its decision, and involve both parties in ruin."
"But you could not call this love?"
"Yes, Mr. Hurdlestone, and far more deserving of the name than the sickly sentiment that so often wears the guise of real affection."
"This girl is too much of a philosopher. I shall never be able to win her to my purpose," said Godfrey, as Juliet quitted the room.
A few days after this conversation, Godfrey proposed taking a ride on horseback with Miss Whitmore.
Juliet was fond of this exercise, in which she greatly excelled. This evening she did not wish to go, but was overruled by her father and Aunt Dorothy. The evening waswarm and cloudy, and Juliet often looked upwards and prophesied a storm.
"It will not come on before night," said her companion. "I remember Anthony and I, when boys, were overtaken on this very spot by a tremendous tempest." It was the first time he had suffered the name of his cousin to pass his lips in the presence of Juliet. It brought the color into her cheeks, and in a timid voice she inquired if he knew what had become of Anthony?
"He had a second cousin, it seems, a Mr. Wildegrave, who is residing in his father's parish; Anthony has found a temporary home with him."
Why did Juliet turn so pale? Did the recollection of the fair amiable girl she had met and loved at —— trouble her? She spoke no more during their long ride. On their way home, they entered a dark avenue, that led to the Lodge, and passed through Norgood Park.
"I hate this road," said Godfrey. "I have never travelled it since the old place passed into the hands of strangers."
"It was thoughtless in me to propose this path, Mr. Godfrey; let us return by the road."
She checked her horse as she spoke, when her attention was aroused by a female figure, seated in a dejected attitude beneath an old oak tree. Her hair hung wildly about her shoulders; and her head was buried between her knees.
Godfrey instantly recognised the person; and looking up at the heavy dark clouds, which had for some time been encroaching upon the rich saffron hues in the west, he said hastily turning his horse, "You are right, Miss Whitmore we are going to have a storm, and you have chosen a dangerous path. Let us get from under these trees as fast as we can."
"Stay a few minutes. I want to speak to this poor woman."
"It is only some gipsy girl who has been sleeping under the tree. See, it begins to rain. Do you not hear the large drops pattering upon the leaves? If you do not put your horse on, you will get very wet."
"I am not afraid of a few drops of rain. The person seems in distress—I must speak to her."
At this moment the girl slowly rose from her seat, and revealed the faded, attenuated features of Mary Mathews.
"Mary!" exclaimed Juliet, shocked and astonished at the recognition; "what are you doing here? The rain is falling fast. Had you not better go home?"
"Home!" said the girl gloomily. "I have no home. The wide world is my home, and 'tis a bad place for the motherless and moneyless to live in. My father is dead; Mr. —— seized our things yesterday for the rent, and turned us out into the streets; my brother is gone to Ashton to look for employment, and I thought this place was as good as another; I can sit here and brood over my wrongs."
Juliet was inexpressibly shocked. She turned to address a remark to her companion, but to her increasing surprise, he was no longer in sight. A vague suspicion flashed upon her mind. She was determined to satisfy her doubts. Turning again to the girl, she addressed her in a kind soothing tone.
"Have you no friends, Mary, who can receive you until your brother is able to provide for you?"
"I never had many friends, Miss Juliet, and I have lost those I once had. You see how it is with me," she cried, rising and wringing her hands. "No respectable person would now receive me into their house. There is the work-house, to be sure. But I will die here, beneath the broad ceiling of heaven, before its accursed walls shall shut me in."
Juliet's heart prompted her to offer the wretched girl an asylum; but she dreaded the indignation of her fastidious aunt. Whilst she paused, irresolute how to act, the girl, emboldened by despair, suddenly caught hold of her bridle, and fixing her dim eyes upon her face, continued:—
"It is to you, Miss Juliet, that I owe all this grief and misery—yes, to you. Had you been a poor girl, like myself, I need not have cared for you. My face is as pretty as yours, my figure as good. I am as capable of love, and of being loved; but I lack the gold, the fine clothing, and the learning, that makes you my superior. People say that you are going to marry Mr. Hurdlestone; and it is useless for a poor girl like me to oppose the wishes of a grand lady like you. But I warn you not to do it. He is my husband in the sight of God; and the thought of his marrying you has broken my heart. Despair is strong; and when I saw you together just now, I felt that I should like to murder you both!"
"Mary," said Juliet, gravely, "you should not give ear to such reports—they are utterly false. Do you imagine that any young woman of principle would marry such a man as Mr. Hurdlestone?"
"Then why are you constantly together?" returned Mary, with flashing eyes. "Did he not ride away the moment he saw me?"
"You have mistaken one Mr. Hurdlestone for the other. The gentleman that just left me was Mr. Godfrey."
"And is it not Mr. Godfrey I mean? Good kind Mr. Anthony would not harm a lamb, much less a poor motherless girl like me!"
Again wringing her hands, she burst into a fit of passionate weeping. Juliet was dreadfully agitated; and springing from her horse, she sat down upon the bank beside the unfortunate young woman, regardless of the loud roaring of the thunder, and the heavy pouring of the rain, and elicited from her the story of her wrongs.
Indignant at the base manner in which she had been deceived by Godfrey Hurdlestone, Juliet bade Mary follow her to the Lodge, and inform her aunt of the particulars that she had just related to her.
"I will never betray the man I love!" cried Mary, passionately. "When I told you my secret, Miss Whitmore, it was under the idea that you loved him—that you meant to tear him from me. Tell no one, I beseech you, the sad story, which you wrung from me in my despair!"
She would have flung herself at Juliet's feet; but the latter drew back, and said, with a sternness quite foreign to her nature:
"Would you have me guilty of a base fraud, and suffer the innocent to bear the brand of infamy, which another had incurred? Affection cannot justify crime. The feelings with which you regard a villain like Godfrey Hurdlestone are not deserving of the name of love."
"Ah, you young ladies are so hard-hearted," said Mary, bitterly. "Pride hinders you from falling into temptation, like other folk. If you dared, you would be no better than one of us."
"Mary, do not change my pity for your unhappy situation into contempt. Religion and propriety of conduct can protect the poorest girl from the commission of crime. I am sorry for you, and will do all in my power to save you from your present misery. But you must promise me to give up your evil course of life."
"You may spare yourself the trouble," said the girl, regarding her companion's beautiful countenance, and its expression of purity and moral excellence, with a glance of envious disdain. "I ask no aid; I need no sympathy; and, least of all, from you, who have robbed me of my lover, and then reproach me with the evil which your selfish love of admiration has brought upon me."
A glow of anger passed over Miss Whitmore's face, as the girl turned to leave her. She struggled a few minutes with her feelings, until her better nature prevailed; and following Mary, she caught her by the arm: