"It will be too late," returned the agitated young man, whilst his cheeks glowed with the crimson blush of shame, as a thousand agonising recollections crowded upon his brain, and, covering his face with his hands, he groaned aloud. A long and painful pause succeeded. At length a desperate thought flashed through his mind.
He drew nearer, and fixed his dark expanded eyes upon his father's face, until the old man cowered, beneath theawful scrutiny. Again he spoke, but his voice was calm, dreadfully calm. "Father, will you grant my request? Let your answer be briefly, yes—or no?"
"No!" thundered the miser. "I will part with my life first."
"Be not rash. We are alone," returned the son, with the same unnatural composure. "You are weak, and I am strong. If you wantonly provoke the indignation of a desperate man, what will your riches avail you?"
The miser instinctively grasped at the huge poker that graced the fireplace, in whose rusty grate a cheerful fire had not been kindled for many years. Anthony's quick eye detected the movement, and he took possession of the dangerous weapon with the same cool but determined air.
"Think not that I mean to take your life. God forbid that I should stain my hand with so foul a crime, and destroy your soul by sending it so unprepared into the presence of the Creator. It is not blood—but money I want."
"Would not a less sum satisfy you?" and the miser eyed fearfully the weapon of offence, on which his son continued to lean, and again drew forth the key.
"Not one farthing less."
Mark glanced hurriedly round the apartment, and listened with intense anxiety for the sound of expected footsteps. The sigh of the old trees that bent over the hovel, swept occasionally by the fitful autumnal blast alone broke the deep silence, and rendered it doubly painful.
"Where can the fellow stay?" he muttered to himself; then as if a thought suddenly struck him, he turned to his eon, and addressed him in a more courteous tone. "Anthony, I cannot give you this great, sum to-night. Butcome to me at this hour to-morrow night, and it shall be yours."
"On what surety?"
"My word."
"I dare not trust to that. You may deceive me."
"When was Mark Hurdlestone ever known to utter a lie?" and a dark red flush of anger mounted to the miser's face.
"When he forged the news of his brother's death, to murder by slow degrees my unhappy mother," said Anthony, scornfully. "The spirits of the dead are near us in this hour; silently, but truly, they bear witness against you."
The old man groaned, and sunk his face between his hands as his son continued;
"I cannot wait until the morrow. This night alone is mine. If you cannot readily lay your hands upon the money, write me an order upon your banker for the sum."
"I have neither pen, ink, nor paper," said the miser, eagerly availing himself of the most paltry subterfuge, in order to gain time until the return of Grenard Pike, or to escape paying the money.
"I can supply you." And Anthony drew forth a small writing case, and placed paper before him, and put a pen into his father's hand.
"Anthony, you had better trust to my word," said Mark, solemnly. "Gold is a heavier surety than paper, and by the God who made us, I swear to keep my promise."
"Aye, but you forget the old proverb, father. 'A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.'"
The old man eyed him with a glance of peculiar meaning as with a trembling hand he proceeded to write the order.When he had finished, he folded the paper carefully together, and presented it to his son. "You will not trust to my honor. Be it so. Take this paper, Anthony Hurdlestone, for a Hurdlestone you are, and for the first time in my life I believe that you are my son. But it is the sole inheritance you will ever receive from me. Go, and let me see your face no more."
"God bless you, sir," said the youth, in a faltering voice. "Forgive my late intemperate conduct; it was influenced by despair. From this moment I will love and respect you as my father."
The miser's thin lips quivered as his son turned to leave him. He called faintly after him, "Anthony, Anthony! Don't leave me alone with the spirits of the dead. To-morrow I will do you justice. At this hour to-morrow."
His son stopped, but the entrance of old Pike stifled the rising gleam of paternal regard, and dismissed the ghastly phantoms of the past from the excited mind of the gold-worshipper. He grumbled a welcome to his minion, and sternly waved to the unwelcome intruder to quit the house. His wishes were instantly obeyed.
Murder most foul hath been committed here,By thee committed—for thy hand is red,And on thy pallid brow I see impress'dThe mark of Cain.—S.M.
Murder most foul hath been committed here,By thee committed—for thy hand is red,And on thy pallid brow I see impress'dThe mark of Cain.—S.M.
A thrilling feeling of joy at having gained the object of his visit to Oak Hall, and obtained the means of wiping off the stain he so much dreaded from his character, was throbbing in the breast of Anthony Hurdlestone, as he reached, about nine o'clock in the evening, his nominal home.
He had sold his birthright for a mere trifle, but the loss of wealth weighed lightly in his estimation against the loss of honor. On entering Frederic's study, he found his cousin Godfrey and the ruffian Mathews awaiting his return.
Godfrey had dogged his steps to Ashton, had seen him enter the miser's hovel, and from the length of his visit guessed rightly the cause. His anxiety to know the result of this meeting induced him to return a part of the money he had the day before received from his cousin, which he had neither lost at play, as he had affirmed to Anthony, nor paid to the Jew the fictitious debt which he had declared was due to him. These falsehoods had been planned by him and his base companion, in order to draw the unsuspecting young man into their toils, and bring about the rupture they desired with his father.
"My dear Anthony," he said, shaking him heartily by the hand, as he rose to meet him. "I have not enjoyed a moment's peace since we parted this evening. Here is half the sum you so kindly advanced, and if you can wait for a few days, I hope to have the rest ready for you."
With a heavy sigh, Anthony received the notes from his cousin, and counting them over he locked them up in the desk, doubly rejoiced that he had the means of replacing the whole sum.
"You have been to Oak Hall," said Godfrey, carelessly. "How did the old place look?"
"I did not notice it. My mind was too much agitated. When I left you ruin stared me in the face; as a last desperate chance to free myself, I determined to visit my father, and request the loan of the money."
"A daring move that," said Godfrey, with a smile to his companion; "particularly after the rebuff you got from him, when you visited him on behalf of my poor father. May I ask if you were successful?"
"Here is the order for the money;" and with a feeling of natural triumph, Anthony took the order from his pocket-book.
"Is it possible! The philosopher's stone is no fable, if words of yours could extract gold from a heart of flint. Brave Anthony! you have wrought a miracle. But let me look at the order. Seeing's believing; and I cannot believe such an improbable thing without I witness it with my own eyes."
"Nay, convince yourself of the truth, Godfrey. What object can I have in attempting to deceive you? It would be against my own interest so to do, as you are still my debtor for two hundred pounds."
Godfrey took the paper from his cousin's hand, and wentto the table to examine it by the light. As he glanced over the contents he gave a sudden exclamation of surprise, and a smile curled his lip.
"Do you believe me now?" said Anthony, who knew not exactly how to interpret the dubious expression of Godfrey's face.
"Read for yourself," returned Godfrey, giving back the paper. "When you deal with such an accomplished scoundrel as Mark Hurdlestone, you should give the devil a retaining fee."
"What do you mean, Godfrey?" and his cousin eagerly snatched the paper from his grasp. "He has not dared to deceive me!"
Still, as he read, his countenance fell, a deadly paleness suddenly pervaded his features, and uttering a faint moan, in which all the bitter disappointment he experienced was visibly concentrated, he sank down in a swoon at Godfrey's feet.
"What on earth's the matter with the lad?" said Mathews, as he assisted Godfrey in lifting him to the sofa. "What's in the wind?"
"A capital joke," whispered Godfrey. "I could almost love the old sinner for his caustic humor. The order for the money is drawn up in the usual manner, but instead of the words 'To pay,' the crafty old fox has written, 'Not to paythe bearer the sum of four hundred pounds.'"
"Excellent! But let old skinflint look to himself; with that malignant joke he has signed his own death-warrant."
Anthony by this time had recovered from his swoon. But he sat like one stupefied; his throbbing temples resting upon his hands, and his eyes fixed on vacancy. Godfrey's voice at length roused him to a recollection of whathad happened, and in faint tones, he requested his two companions to leave him.
"Not in this state of mind. Come, Anthony, clear up that cloudy brow. I am sorry, sorry that I have been the means of drawing you into this ugly scrape, but for my poor father's sake you must forgive me. If you were to make a second application to your ungracious dad, he might, in the hope of ridding himself of such an importunate beggar, give down the two hundred pounds yet wanting. Such a decrease in your demand might work wonders. What think you? Matters cannot be worse between you than they are at present."
Anthony recalled his father's parting look—his parting words.
"To-morrow, I will do you justice if you come to me, at this hour, to-morrow;" and hope again shed a faint glimmer in his breast. He repeated these words to Godfrey. Had he noticed the glance which his cousin threw towards his partner in guilt, he would have been puzzled to read its meaning. Mathews understood it well.
"Go, by all means, Anthony. I have no doubt that his heart will relent; that he already feels ashamed of his barbarous conduct. At all events, it can do no harm—it may do good. Take that infamous piece of writing in your hand, and reproach him with his treachery. My father's injured spirit will be near you, to plead your cause, and you must be successful."
"Yes, I will go," said Anthony. "Either he or I must yield. My mind is made up upon the subject. Godfrey, good night."
"He is ours, Mathews," whispered Godfrey, as they left the house. "The old man's days are numbered. Remember this hour to-morrow night!"
Glad to find himself once more alone, Anthony continued to pace the room, revolving over in his mind his interview with his father. He felt convinced that the old man had repented of the cruel trick he had played him; that but for the entrance of Grenard Pike, he would have recalled the paper and given him the sum he desired. At all events, he was determined to see him at the hour the miser had named, and tell him, without disguise, his thoughts upon the subject.
In the midst of all this tumult of passion, the image of Juliet glided into his mind, and seemed to whisper peace to his perturbed spirit. "Oh, that I had a friend to advise me in this gloomy hour, into whose faithful bosom I could pour out my whole soul! Shall I tell Clary? Shall I confide to the dear child my guilt and folly?" He rang the bell. Old Ruth, half asleep, made her appearance.
"How is your mistress, Ruth?"
"Better the night, sir."
"Will you tell her that I wish very much to see her."
"You won't disturb the poor lamb, sure. Why, Mr. Anthony, she has been in her bed these two hours. She asked after you several times during the day, and was very uneasy at your absence. Poor child! I believe she is mortal fond of you."
"Of me, Ruth?"
"Of you, sir. I am sure Miss Clary is over head and ears in love with you. Arn't it natural? Two handsome young creatures living in the same house together, walking, and talking, and singing and playing, all the time with each other. Why, Master Anthony, if you don't love the dear child, you must be very deceitful, after making so much of her."
The old woman left him, still muttering to herself someanathema against the deceitfulness of men; while Anthony, shocked beyond measure at the disclosure of a secret which he had never suspected, threw himself upon the sofa, and yielding to the overpowering sense of misery which oppressed him, wept—even as a woman weeps—long and bitterly.
"Why," he thought, "why am I thus continually the sport of a cruel destiny? Are the sins of my parents indeed visited upon me? Is every one that I love, or that loves me, to be involved in one common ruin?"
And then he wished for death, with a longing, intense, sinful desire, which placed him upon the very verge of self-destruction. He went to Frederic's bureau, and took out his pistols, and loaded them, then placed himself opposite to the glass, and deliberately took aim at his head. But his hand trembled, and the ghastly expression of his face startled him—so wan, so wild, so desperate. It looked not of earth, still less like a future denizen of heaven.
"No, not to-night," he said. "He the stern father may relent, or fill up the full measure of his iniquities. The morrow; God knoweth what it may bring for me. If all should fail me, then this shall be my friend. Yes, even in his presence will I fling at his feet the loathed life he gave!"
He threw himself upon the sofa, but not to sleep. Hour after hour passed onward towards eternity. One, two, three, spoke out the loud voice of Time, and it sounded in the ears of the watcher like his knell.
And she, the fair child—she who had, at sixteen, outlived the fear of death. Had he won her young spirit back to earth, to mar its purity with the stains of human passion? There was not a feeling in his heart at that moment so sad as this. How deeply he regretted that he ever had been admitted to that peaceful home.
But was she not a Wildegrave, and was not misery hers by right of inheritance? And then he thought of his mother—thought of his own desolate childhood—of his poor uncle—of his selfish but still dear cousin Godfrey, and overcome by these sad reflections, as the glad sun broke over the hills, bringing life and joy to the earth, he sunk into a deep, dreamless sleep, from which he did not awaken until the broad shadows of evening were deepening into night.
When old Ruth dusted out the parlor, she was surprised to find him asleep upon the sofa. He looked so pale and ill, that she flung Miss Clary's large cloak over him, and went up stairs to inform her mistress of such an unusual occurrence.
All day Clary had sat beside him, holding, almost unconsciously, his burning hand in hers. Often she bathed his temples with sal-volatile and water, but so deep were his slumbers, so blessed was the perfect cessation from mental misery, that he continued to sleep until the sun disappeared behind the oak hills, and then, with a deep sigh, he once more awoke to a painful consciousness of his situation.
Clary dropped the hand she held, and started from the sofa, over which she had been leaning, the vivid flush burning upon her cheek, and sprang away to order up tea. Anthony rose, marvelling at his long sleep, and went to his chamber to make his toilet; when he returned to the parlor, he found Clary waiting for him.
"My kind little cousin," he said, taking her hand, "you have been ill—are you better?"
"I am quite well, and should be quite happy, dear Anthony, if I could see you looking so. But you are ill and low-spirited; I read it all in your dim eye and dejected looks. Come, sit down, and take a cup of tea. You haveeaten nothing all day. Here is a nice fowl, delicately cooked, which Ruth prepared for your especial benefit. Do let me see you take something."
"I cannot eat," said Anthony, pushing the plate from him, and eagerly swallowing the cup of refreshing tea that Clary presented. "I am ill, Clary, but mine is a disease of the mind. I am, indeed, far from happy; I wish I could tell you all the deep sorrow that lies so death-like at my heart."
"And why do you make it worse by concealment?" said Clary, rising and going round to the side of the table on which he was leaning; "you need not fear to trust me, Anthony; there is no one I love on earth so well, except dear Frederic. Will you not let your little cousin share your grief?"
"My sweet child," said Anthony, winding his arm around her slender waist, and leaning his head on her shoulder, "you could render me no assistance; the knowledge of my sorrow would only make you miserable."
"If it is anything about Juliet, tell me freely. Perhaps, you think, dear Anthony, that I am jealous of you and Juliet; oh, no, I love you too well for that. I know that I can never be as dear to you as Juliet; that she is more worthy of your love—Good Heavens! you are weeping. What have I said to cause these tears? Anthony, dear Anthony, speak to me. You distract me. Oh, tell me that I have not offended you."
Anthony's lips moved, but no word issued from them. His eyes were firmly closed, his brow pale as marble, and large tears slid in quick succession from beneath the jet-black lashes that lay like a shadow upon his ashen cheeks. And other tears were mingling with those drops of heart-felt agony—tears of the tenderest sympathy, the mostdevoted love, as, leaning that fair face upon the cold brow of the unhappy youth, Clary unconsciously kissed away those waters of the heart, and pressed that wan cheek against her gentle bosom. She felt his arm tighten round her, as she stood in the embrace of the beloved, scarcely daring to breathe, for fear of breaking the sad spell that had linked them together. At length Anthony unclosed his eyes, and looked long and earnestly up in his young companion's face—
"Oh, Clary! how shall I repay this love, my poor innocent lamb? Would to God we had never met!"
"Do not say that, Anthony. I never knew what it was to be happy until I knew you."
"Then you love life better than you did, Clary?"
"I love you," sighed Clary, hiding her fair face among his ebon curls, "and the new life with which you have inspired me is very dear."
"Oh, that I could bid you cherish it for my sake, dear artless girl! But we must part. In a few hours the faulty being whom you have rashly dared to love, may be no longer a denizen of earth."
"What do you mean?" cried Clary, starting from his arms, and gazing upon him with a distracted air. "While I have been idling in my bed something dreadful has happened. I read it in your averted eyes—on your sad, sad brow. Do not leave me in this state of torturing doubt. I beseech you to tell me the cause of your distress?"
"Clary, I cannot; I wish to tell you, but the circumstances are so degrading, I cannot find words to give them utterance; I feel that you would despise me—that all good men would upbraid me as a weak unprincipled fool; yet I call Heaven to witness, that at the moment I committed the rash act I thought not that it was a crime."
"It is impossible, Anthony, that you could do anything unworthy of yourself, or that could occasion this bitter grief. You are laboring under some strong delusion, and are torturing yourself to no purpose. Frederic will be home to-morrow; he will counsel you what to do, and all will be right."
"Frederic home to-morrow!" and Anthony gasped for breath.
"Oh, I am so glad. It seems an age since he left us. By the bye, I have a letter for you, which I quite forgot. It came this morning by the post. I am sure it is from my brother, for I know his hand." Going to the mantel-shelf, Clary handed him the letter. Anthony trembled violently as he broke the seal; it ran thus:
"My Dear Anthony,"I know not in what manner to interpret your unkind silence. Your failing to forward the money I left in your hands has caused me great mortification and inconvenience, and will oblige me to leave—to-morrow, without transacting the business that took me from home."Though I am certain that you will give me very satisfactory reasons for your non-compliance with my very urgent request, I feel so vexed and annoyed by it, that it makes me half inclined to quarrel with you. You would forgive this if you only knew what an irritable mortal I am. I advise you and Clary to frame some notable excuse for your negligence, or you may dread the wrath of your affectionate friend,"Frederic."
"My Dear Anthony,
"I know not in what manner to interpret your unkind silence. Your failing to forward the money I left in your hands has caused me great mortification and inconvenience, and will oblige me to leave—to-morrow, without transacting the business that took me from home.
"Though I am certain that you will give me very satisfactory reasons for your non-compliance with my very urgent request, I feel so vexed and annoyed by it, that it makes me half inclined to quarrel with you. You would forgive this if you only knew what an irritable mortal I am. I advise you and Clary to frame some notable excuse for your negligence, or you may dread the wrath of your affectionate friend,
"Frederic."
This letter, though written half in joke, confirmed Anthony's worst fears. He imagined that Frederic suspectedhim of dishonorable conduct, although he forbore to say so in direct terms; and his repugnance to confess what he had done, to either Clary or her brother, was greatly strengthened by the perusal.
It was this want of confidence in friends who really loved him, which involved him in ruin. Had he frankly declared his folly and thrown himself upon Wildegrave's generosity, he would as frankly have been forgiven; but pride and false shame kept his lips sealed.
He was a very young man—a novice in the ways of the world; and even in some degree ignorant of the nature of the crime, the commission of which had made him so unhappy. Instead of a breach of trust, he looked upon it as a felonious offence, which rendered him amenable to the utmost severity of the law. The jail and the gallows were ever in his thoughts; and worse than either, the infamy which would for ever attach itself to his name.
He determined to see his father for the last time, and if he failed in moving his compassion, he had formed the desperate resolution of putting an end to his own life in his presence; a far greater crime than that for which he dreaded receiving a capital punishment.
"Clary," he said, hastily thrusting the letter into his pocket, "business of importance calls me away to-night. Do not be alarmed if I should be detained until the morning."
"You cannot go to-night, Anthony. It has rained all the afternoon; the ground is wet. The air is raw and damp. You are not well. If you leave the house you will take cold!"
"Do not attempt to detain me, Clary, I must go. I shall leave a letter for your brother on the table, which you must give him if I do not return."
"Something is wrong. Tell me, oh, tell me what it is!"
"You will know all to-morrow," said Anthony, greatly agitated. "I cannot speak of it to-night." He took her hand and pressed it sadly to his heart. "Should we never meet again, dear Clary, will you promise to think kindly of me; and in spite of the contempt of the world, to cherish your cousin's memory?"
"Though all the world should forsake you, yet will I never desert you," sobbed Clary, as, sinking into his extended arms, she fainted on his breast.
"This will kill you, poor innocent. May God bless and keep you from a knowledge of my guilt." He placed her gently upon the sofa, and kissed her pale lips and brow, and calling Ruth to her assistance, sought with a heavy heart his own chamber.
He sat down and wrote a long letter to Frederic, explaining the unfortunate transaction which had occurred during his absence. This letter he left upon the study table, and putting a brace of loaded pistols into his pocket he sallied out upon his hopeless expedition.
It had been a very wet afternoon. The clouds had parted towards nightfall, and the moon rose with unusual splendor, rendering every object in his path as distinctly visible as at noonday. The beauty of the night only seemed to increase the gloom of Anthony Hurdlestone's spirit. He strode on at a rapid pace, as if to outspeed the quick succession of melancholy thoughts, that were hurrying him on to commit a deed of desperation. He entered the great avenue that led up to the back of the Hall, and past the miser's miserable domicile, and had traversed about half the extent of the darkly shaded path, when his attention was aroused by a tall figure leaning against the trunk of a large elm tree. A blasted oak, bare of foliage, on the opposite side theroad, let in a flood of light through its leafless branches, which shone full upon the face of the stranger, and Anthony, with a shudder, recognised William Mathews.
"A fine evening for your expedition, Mr. Hurdlestone. It might well be termed the forlorn hope; however I wish with all my heart that you may be successful." As he spoke he lowered a fowling-piece from his shoulder to the ground. "Do you hear that raven that sits croaking upon the rotten branch of the old oak opposite? Does not his confounded noise make you nervous? It always does me. It sounds like a bad omen. I was just going to pull down at him as you came along. I fancy, however, that he's too far above us for a good shot."
"I am in no humor for trifling to-night," said Anthony, stopping and glancing up at the bird, who sat motionless on a decayed branch a few yards above his head. "If you are afraid of such sounds, you can soon silence that for ever."
"It would require a good eye, and an excellent fowling-piece, to bring down the black gentleman from his lofty perch. I have heard that you, Mr. Hurdlestone, are accounted a capital shot, far before your cousin Godfrey. I wish you would just give me a trial of your skill."
"Nonsense!" muttered Anthony. "The bird's only a few yards above us. A pistol would bring him down."
"I should like to see it done," said Mathews, with a grin. "Here, sir, take my gun."
Impatient of interruption, and anxious to get rid of the company of a man whose presence he loathed, Anthony drew one of the pistols from his breast pocket, and, taking a deliberate aim at the bird, he fired, and the raven fell dead at his feet. Picking it up, and tossing it over to Mathews, he said—"Do you believe me now? Pshaw! itwas not worth staining my hands and clothes with blood for such a paltry prize."
Mathews laughed heartily at this speech; but there was something so revolting in the tones of his mirth, that Anthony quickened his pace to avoid its painful repetition. A few minutes more brought him in sight of the miser's cottage. No light gleamed from the broken casement, and both the door and the window of the hovel were wide open, and flapping in the night wind. Surprised at a circumstance so unusual, Anthony hastily entered the house. The first object that met his sight rivetted him to the threshold.
The moon threw a broad line of silver light into the dusty worm-eaten apartment, and danced and gleamed in horrid mockery upon a stream of dark liquid which was slowly spreading itself over the floor. And there, extended upon the brick pavement, his features shockingly distorted, his hands still clenched, and his white locks dabbled in blood, lay the cold, mutilated form of his father.
Overpowered with horror, unable to advance or retreat, Anthony continued to gaze upon the horrid spectacle, until the hair stiffened upon his head, and a cold perspiration bedewed all his limbs.
Still as he gazed he fancied that the clenched hands moved, that a bitter smile writhed the thin parted lips of the dead; and influenced by a strange fascination, against which he struggled in vain, he continued to watch the ghastly countenance, until horror and astonishment involved every other object in misty obscurity.
He heard the sound of approaching footsteps, but his limbs had lost the power of motion, his tongue of speech, and he suffered the constables, who entered with Grenard Pike, to lead him away without offering the least resistance.They placed him in a post-chaise, between two of the officers of justice, and put the irons upon his wrists, but he remained in the same state of stupefaction, making no remark upon his unusual situation, or taking the least notice of his strange companions. When the vehicle stopped at the entrance of the county jail, then, and not until then, did the awfulness of his situation appear to strike him. Starting from his frightful mental abstraction, he eagerly demanded of the officers why his hands were manacled, and for what crime they had brought him there?
When told for the murder of his father, he regarded the men with a look of surprised incredulity. "My poor father! what interest could I have to murder my father? You cannot think I committed this horrid crime?"
"We do not know what to think, Mr. Hurdlestone," said one of the men. "I am very sorry to see you in this plight, but appearances are very much against you. Your father was an old man and a bad man, and it is little you owed to his parental care. But he could not have lived many years, and all the entailed property must have been yours; it was an act of insanity on your part to kill him. A fearful crime to send him so unprepared into the presence of his God."
"You cannot believe me guilty," said Anthony.
The men shook their heads. "I condemn no man until the law condemns, him," returned the former spokesman. "But there is evidence enough in your case to hang a hundred men."
"I have one witness in my favor. He knows my innocence, and to Him I appeal," said Anthony, solemnly.
"Aye, but will he prove it my lad?"
"I trust He will."
"Well, time will show. The assizes will be held next week, so you have not long to remain in doubt. I would be inclined to think you innocent, if you could prove to me what business you had with loaded pistols in your possession—why one was loaded, and the other unloaded, and how your hands and clothes came stained with blood—why you quarrelled with the old man last night, and went to him again to-night with offensive weapons on your person, and at such an unseasonable hour? These are stubborn facts."
"They, are indeed," sighed the prisoner. A natural gush of feeling succeeded, and from that hour Anthony resigned himself to his fate.
O dread uncertainty:Life-wasting agony!How dost thou pain the heart,Causing such tears to startAs sorrow never shedO'er hopes for ever fled!—S.M.
O dread uncertainty:Life-wasting agony!How dost thou pain the heart,Causing such tears to startAs sorrow never shedO'er hopes for ever fled!—S.M.
What a night of intense anxiety was that to the young Clary! Hour after hour, she paced the veranda in front of the cottage; now listening for approaching footsteps, now straining her eyes to catch through the gloom of the fir-trees the figure of him for whom she watched and wept in vain. The cold night wind sighed through her fair locks, scattering them upon the midnight air. The rising dews chilled the fragile form, but stilled not the wild throbbing of the aching heart.
"Oh, to know the worst—the very worst—were better than this sore agony." Years of care were compressed into that one night of weary watching. "He will never come. I shall never, never see him again. I feel now, as I felt when my sisters were taken from me, that I should see them no more on earth. But I cannot weep for him as I wept for them. I knew that they were happy, that they were gone to rest, and I felt as if an angel's hand dried my tears. But I weep for him as one without hope, as for one whom a terrible destiny has torn from me. I love him, but my love is a crime, for he loves another. Oh, woeis me! Why did we ever meet, if thus we are doomed to part?"
She looked up at the cold clear moon—up to the glorious stars of night, and her thoughts, so lately chained to earth, soared upwards to the Father of her spirit, and once more she bowed in silent adoration to her Saviour and her God.
"Forgive me, holy Father!" she murmured. "I have strayed from thy fold, and my steps have stumbled upon the rough places of the earth. I have reared up an idol in thy sacred temple, and worshipped the creature more than the Creator. The love of the world is an unholy thing. It cannot satisfy the cravings of an immortal spirit. It cannot fill up the emptiness of the human heart. Return to thy rest, O my soul! I dedicate thee and all thy affections to thy God!"
She bowed her head upon her hands and wept; such tears purify the source from whence they flow, and Clary felt a solemn calm steal over her agitated spirit, as, kneeling beneath the wide canopy of heaven, she prayed long and earnestly for strength to subdue her passion for Anthony, and to become obedient in word, thought, and deed, to the will of God; and she prayed for him, with a fervor and devotion which love alone can give—prayed that he might be shielded from all temptation, from the wickedness and vanity of the world, from the deceitfulness of his own heart.
She was still in the act of devotion, when the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps caused her to start suddenly from her knees. A man ran past at full speed, then another, and another: then a group of women without hats and shawls, running and calling to one another. What could all this mean, at that still hour of night, and in that lonely place?
Clary's heart beat tumultuously. She rushed to the garden gate, that opened from the lawn into the main road. She called aloud to one of the retreating figures to stop and inform her what was the matter. Why they were abroad at that late hour, and whither they were going? No one slackened their speed, or stayed one moment to answer her enquires. At length an old man, tired and out of breath, came panting along; one whom Clary knew, and springing into the road she intercepted his path.
"Ralph Hilton, what is the matter? Is there a fire in the neighborhood? Where are you all going?"
"Up to the Hall, Miss Clary. Dear, dear, have you not heard the news? The old man has been murdered. Murdered by his son. Alack, alack, 'tis a desperate piece of wickedness! The coroner is up at the old cottage, sitting upon the body, and I want to get a sight of the murdered man, like the rest of 'un."
"Who is it you mean? Who has been murdered?" gasped out the terrified girl.
"Why old Squire Hurdlestone. He has been shot dead by his own son—that young chap who has been staying here so long. They have got him safe, though. And by this time he must be in jail. Oh, I hope they will hang 'un. But hanging is too good. He should be burnt alive."
And here the old man hobbled on, eager to get a sight of the frightful spectacle, and to hear all the news from the fountain head.
The first blush of the red dawn was glowing in the east; but Clary still remained in the same attitude, with her hand resting upon the half-open gate, her eyes fixed on vacancy, her lips apart, a breathing image of despair. The stage coach from —— drove briskly up. A gentleman sprang from the top of the vehicle. A portmanteau wasflung down to him by the guard.—"All right," and the horses were again at full gallop.
"Clary, dear Clary, who would have thought of your being up so early to meet me?"
That voice seemed to recall the wandering spirit of the pale girl back to its earthly tabernacle. With a long wild cry, she flung herself into her brother's arms. "Hide me in your heart, Frederic, hide me from myself. I am sick and weary of the world!"
Unable to comprehend the cause of this violent agitation, Frederic Wildegrave carried his now insensible sister into the house, and calling Ruth, who was busy kindling the fires, he bade her awake Mr. Anthony. The woman shook her head mysteriously.
"He's gone, sir. He left us suddenly last night, and Miss Clary has been up ever since."
"I fear it is as I suspected. He must have robbed me. Yet, if he has deceived me, I never will trust to physiognomy again."
He opened his desk, and found two hundred pounds in notes, and turning to the window to examine them, he recognised the letter addressed to him by Anthony that was lying on the table.
With feelings of compassion and astonishment, he hastily glanced over the affecting account it contained of the thrilling events of the past week. Several times the tears sprang to his eyes, and he reproached himself for having suspected Anthony of having eloped with the money left in his charge. He knew what agony of mind his cousin must have endured before he could prevail upon himself to petition his relentless father for the loan of the sum he had imprudently lent to Godfrey. He only blamed him for the want of confidence which had hindered him from communicating his situationto his friend. Fearing that he had been induced to commit some desperate act, he did not wait to change his dress, or partake of the breakfast old Ruth had provided, but mounting a horse, rode full speed to Ashton.
Long before he reached the village he learned the dreadful tale of the murder, and though he did not like to believe Anthony guilty, he knew not how to get satisfactorily over the great mass of circumstantial evidence, which even his own letter contained against him. Every person with whom he talked upon the subject held the same opinion, and many who before had execrated the old man, and spoke with abhorrence of his conduct to his son, now mentioned him with pity and respect, and decried the young man as a monster, for whom hanging was too good, who deserved to die a thousand deaths.
Deeply grieved for his unfortunate relative, Wildegrave at first defended him with some warmth, and urged as an excuse for his conduct the unnatural treatment he had from infancy received from his father.
"Sir," said an old farmer, who had formed one of the jury during the inquest, "with all his faults, old Mark was an honest man, and doubtless he had good reasons for his conduct, and knew the lad better than we did, as the result has proved."
"It has not been proved yet," said Frederic, "and I believe, however strongly appearances are against him, that Anthony Hurdlestone never committed the murder."
"Mr. Wildegrave, I am sorry to contradict a gentleman like you, but did not Grenard Pike see him with his own eyes fire at the old man through the window? And has he not known the lad from a baby?"
"He will be hung," said another farmer, riding up; "and that's not half punishment enough for such a villain!"
"He should be torn to pieces," cried a third.
"He was a queer little boy," said a fourth; "I never thought that he would come to any good."
"His uncle was the ruin of him," said a fifth. "If he had never taken him from his father, the old man would have been alive this day."
"Oh hang him!" cried another. "I don't pity the old miser. He deserved his death—but 'twas terrible from the hand of his own son."
"Old Mark is to have a grand funeral," said the first speaker. "He is to be buried on Monday. All the gentlemen in the county will attend."
"It would break his heart, if he were alive," said another, "could he but see the fine coffin that Jones is making for him. It is to be covered all over with silk velvet and gold."
"How old was he?" asked some voice in the group.
"Just in his sixty-fifth, and a fine hale man for his years; he might have lived to have been a hundred."
"Did they find any money in the house?" whispered a long-nosed, sharp-visaged man; "I heard that he had lots hidden away under the thatch. Old Grenard knows that a box containing several thousand gold guineas was taken away."
"Then the devil, or old Grenard, must have flown away with it," said the sexton of the parish, "for I was there when they seized the poor lad, and he had not a penny in his possession."
"Will they bury him with his wife?" asked the old farmer.
"He'll never rest beside her," said a man near him. "He treated her about as well as he did her poor boy."
"How can the like o' him rest in the grave?" chimed ina female voice. "I've no manner of doubt but he'll haunt the old Hall, as his father did afore him. Mercy on us, sirs! what an awful like ghost he will make!"
"Was old Squire Anthony ever seen?" said another woman, in a mysterious whisper.
"Ay, scores of times. I've heard that the old miser met him one night himself upon the staircase, and that was the reason why he shut up the Hall."
"Who'll heir the property?" asked the old farmer.
"Algernon's son Godfrey; a fine handsome fellow. He'll make ducks and drakes of the miser's gold. We shall have fine times when he comes to the Hall."
"He'll lower the rents and the tithes upon us. Come, my lads, let's go to the public-house and drink his health."
The male portion of the group instantly acceded to the proposal; and Frederic Wildegrave set spurs to his horse and rode off, disgusted with the scene he had witnessed, and returned to his home with a sorrowful heart.
All the fond visions faithful mem'ry kept,Rush'd o'er his soul; he bow'd his head and wept,Such tears as contrite sinners pour alone,When mercy pleads before the eternal throne,When naked, helpless, prostrate in the dust,The spirit owns its condemnation just,And seeks for pardon and redeeming grace,Through Him who died to save a fallen race.—S.M.
All the fond visions faithful mem'ry kept,Rush'd o'er his soul; he bow'd his head and wept,Such tears as contrite sinners pour alone,When mercy pleads before the eternal throne,When naked, helpless, prostrate in the dust,The spirit owns its condemnation just,And seeks for pardon and redeeming grace,Through Him who died to save a fallen race.—S.M.
By the light of a solitary candle, and seated at a small table in the attic of a public-house, and close to the miserable bed in which Mary Mathews was tossing to and fro in the restless delirium of fever, two men were busily engaged in dividing a large heap of gold, which had been emptied from a strong brass-bound box, that lay on the floor.
"Well, the old fellow died game," said Mathews. "Did you see how desperately he clenched his teeth, and how tightly he held the key of his treasures. I had to cut through his fingers before I wrenched it from his grasp. See, it is all stained with blood. Faugh! it smells of carrion."
"He took me for Anthony," said Godfrey, shuddering; "and he cursed me—oh, how awfully! He told me that we should meet in hell; that the gold for which he had bartered his soul, and to obtain which I had committed murder, had bought us an estate there. And then he laughed—that horrid, dry, satirical laugh. Oh, I hear ityet. It would almost lead me to repentance, the idea of having to pass an eternity with him."
"Don't feel squeamish now, man. This brave sight," pointing to the gold, "should lay all such nervous fancies to rest. The thing was admirably managed; and between ourselves, I think that, if we had not pinked him, that same virtuous son of his would. What did he want with pistols? It looks queer."
"It will condemn him."
"Let us drink to his rising in the world," said the ruffian, handing the brandy bottle to his companion in guilt. "How much money is there?"
"Two thousand five hundred pounds in gold."
"A pretty little fortune. How do you mean to divide the odd hundreds?"
"I want them for a particular purpose. There is a thousand; I think you ought to be satisfied. It was my bullet that unlocked the box, when I brought the old man down."
"You don't mean to say, that you intend to appropriate five hundred pounds for the mere act of shooting the old dog, when I ran as much risk as you?"
"Sit down, Bill;" for the smuggler had sprung to his feet, and stood before his colleague in a menacing attitude; "and don't look so fierce. It won't do for you and I to quarrel. I meant it for a marriage portion for Mary; surely you don't wish to rob her?"
"It's just the same as appropriating it to yourself," growled the villain; "you know that she can't keep anything from you."
"Mary, my pet," said Godfrey, now half intoxicated with the brandy he had drank, taking up a handful of the money and going up to the bed, "I heard you say a few days agothat you wanted a new frock; look, here is plenty of money to buy you a score of smart dresses. Will you not give me a kiss for all this gold?"
The girl turned her wide wandering eyes upon him, glanced at his hands, and uttered a wild scream.
"Why, Mary! what the deuce ails you?"
"What's that upon your hands, Godfrey? What's that upon your hands? It's blood—blood! Oh, take it away! don't bring to me the price of blood!"
"Nonsense; you are dreaming, girl—gold can gild every stain."
"I have been dreaming," said Mary, rising up in the bed, and putting back the long hair which had escaped from under her cap, and now fell in rich neglected masses round her pallid face. "Yes. I have been dreaming—such an awful dream! I see it before me yet."
"What was it, Mary?" asked her brother, with quivering lips.
"It was a lonesome place," continued the girl, "a dark lonesome place; but God's moon was shining there, and there was no need of the sun, or of any other light, for all seemed plain to me as the noon day.
"I saw an old man with grey hairs, and another man old and grey was beside him. The countenances of both were dark and unlovely. And one old man was on his knees—but it was not to God he knelt; he had set up an idol to worship, and that idol was gold; and God, as a punishment, had turned his heart to stone, so that nothing but the gold could awaken the least sympathy there. And whilst he knelt to the idol, I heard a cry—a loud, horrid, despairing cry—and the old man fell to the earth weltering in his blood; but he had still strength to lock up his idol, and he held the key as tightly as if it had been the key of heaven.And I saw two young men enter the house and attack the old man, while his companion, whom they did not see, stole out of a back door and fled. And they dashed the wounded old man against the stones, and they marred his visage with savage blows; and they trod him underfoot, and tore from him his idol, and fled.
"And I saw another youth with a face full of sorrow, and while he wept over the dead man, he was surrounded by strange figures, who, regardless of his grief, forced him from the room. And while I pondered over these things in my heart, an angel came to my bed-side, and whispered a message from God in my ears. And I awoke from my sleep; and lo, the old man's idol was before me, and his blood was upon your hands, Godfrey Hurdlestone."
"Is this a dream?" cried Godfrey, glancing instinctively at his hands, on whose white well-formed fingers no trace of the recently enacted tragedy remained, "did you really witness the scene you have just described; tell me the truth. Mary, or by ——"
"Could these feeble limbs carry me to Ashton," said the girl, interrupting the dreadful oath ere it found utterance, "or could this rocking brain steady them, were I, indeed, able to rise from my bed—"
"Mathews," cried Godfrey, "what do you think of this?"
"That we should be off, or put such dreamers to silence."
"Be off! That's impossible. It would give rise to the suspicion that we were the murderers. Besides, are we not both subpœnaed as witnesses against him."
"I don't like it," said Mathews, gloomily. "The devil has revealed every circumstance to the girl. What if she were to witness against us?"
"Nonsense! Who would take the evidence of a dream?" said Godfrey.
"I'm not so sure that it was a dream. You know her of old. She's very cunning."
"But the girl's too ill to move from her bed. Besides, she never would betray me."
"I'm not so sure of that. She's turned mighty religious of late. It was only last night that I heard her pray to God to forgive her sinful soul; and then she promised to lead a new life. Now I should not wonder if she were to begin by hanging us."
"If I thought so," said Godfrey, grasping a knife he held in his hand, and glancing towards the bed. "But no. We both do her injustice. She would die for me. She would never betray me. Mary," he continued, going to the bed-side, "what was the message that the angel told you?"
"It was in the unknown tongue," said Mary. "I understood it in my sleep, but since I awoke it has all passed from my memory." Then laughing in her delirium, she burst out singing:
His voice was like the midnight windThat ushers in the storm,When the thunder mutters far behindOn the dark clouds onward borne;When the trees are bending to its breath,The waters plashing high,And nature crouches pale as deathBeneath the lurid sky.'Twas in such tones he spake to me,So awful and so dread;If thou would'st read the mystery,Those tones will wake the dead.
His voice was like the midnight windThat ushers in the storm,When the thunder mutters far behindOn the dark clouds onward borne;When the trees are bending to its breath,The waters plashing high,And nature crouches pale as deathBeneath the lurid sky.'Twas in such tones he spake to me,So awful and so dread;If thou would'st read the mystery,Those tones will wake the dead.
"She is mad!" muttered Godfrey, resuming his seat at the table. "Are you afraid, Bill, of the ravings of amaniac? Come, gather up courage and pass the bottle this way; and tell me how we are to divide the rest of the spoil."
"Let us throw the dice for it."
"Agreed. Who shall have the first chance?"
"We will throw for that. The lowest gains. I have it," cried Mathews, clutching the box.
"Stop!" said Mary. "Fair play's a jewel. There are three of you at the table. Will you not let the old man have one chance to win back his gold?"
"The Devil!" cried Mathews, dropping the box, and staggering to his seat, a universal tremor perceptible in his huge limbs. "Where—where is he?"
"At your elbow," said Mary. "Don't you see him frown and shake his head at you? How fast the blood pours down from the wound in his head! It is staining all your clothes. Get up, William, and give the poor old man the chair."
"Don't mind her, Mathews, she is raving," said Godfrey. "Do you see anything?"
"I thought I saw a long, bony, mutilated hand, flitting to and fro, over the gold. Ah! there it is again," said Mathews, starting from his chair. "You may keep the money, for may I be hanged if I will touch it. Leave this accursed place and yon croaking fiend. Let us join the boys down stairs, and drink and sing, and drive away care."
And so the murderers departed, leaving the poor girl alone with the gold, but they took good care to lock the door after them. When they were gone, Mary threw an old cloak about her, which formed part of the covering to the bed, and stepped upon the floor.
"They are gone," she said; "I have acted my part well.But, alas, this is no place for me. I am called upon by God himself to save the innocent, and the mission shall be performed, even at the expense of my worthless life.
"They think not that I followed them to the spot—that, weak as I am, God has given me strength to witness against them. I feel ill, very ill," she continued, putting her hand to her head. "But if I could only reach the Lodge, and inform Captain Whitmore, or Miss Juliet, it might be the means of saving his life. At all events, I will try."
As she passed the gold that glittered in the moonbeams, she paused. "I want money for my journey. Shall I take aught of the accursed thing? No. I will trust in Providence to supply my wants. I have read somewhere that misery travels free."
Then slowly putting on her clothes, and securing a slice of coarse bread, that Mrs. Strawberry had brought for her supper, in her handkerchief, Mary approached the window. The distance was not great to the roof of the lean-to, and she had been used to climb tall forest trees when a child, and fearlessly to drop from any height. She unclosed the casement and listened. She heard from below loud shouts and boisterous peals of laughter, mingled with licentious songs and profane oaths.
When the repentant soul is convinced of sin, how dreadful does the language once so familiar appear! The oath and the profane jest smite upon it with a force which makes it recoil within itself; and it flies for protection to the injured Majesty it so often wantonly defied. "Alas, for the wicked!" said Mary. "'Destruction and misery are in their paths, and the way of peace they have not known.' How long have I, in word, thought and deed, blasphemed the majesty of the Most High, and rebelled against his holy laws! Ought I then to condemn my fellows ininiquity? Am I in reality any better than they? I will go to the grave of my child—that sight will make me humble—that little mound of dark earth holds all that the world now contains for me."
She dropped from the window to the ground. The watch-dog knew her and forbore to bark. He thrust his cold nose into her wasted hand, and wagging his tail looked up inquiringly into her face. There was something of human sympathy in the expression of the generous brute. It went to the heart of the poor wanderer. She leant down and kissed the black head of the noble animal. A big bright tear glittered among his shaggy hair, and the moonbeams welcomed it with an approving smile.
Like a ghost Mary glided down the garden path, overgrown with rank weeds, and she thought that the neglected garden greatly resembled the state of her soul. A few necessary wants had alone been attended to. The flower-beds were overgrown and choked with weeds—the fruit-trees barren from neglect and covered with moss. "But He can make the desolate place into a fruitful field," said Mary. "The wilderness, under his fostering care, can blossom like the rose."
She crossed the lane, and traversing several lonely fields she came to the park near the old Hall, within whose precincts the gothic church, erected by one of the ancestors of the Hurdlestones, reared aloft its venerable spire. How august the sacred building looked in the moonlight! how white the moonbeams lay upon the graves! Mary sighed deeply, but hers was not a mind to yield easily to superstitious fears. She had learned to fear God, and there was nothing in his beautiful creation which could make her tremble, save the all-seeing eye which she now felt was upon her.
Passing the front of the church, where all the baptized children of the village for ages had found their place of final rest, she stepped behind a dark screen of yews at the back of the church, and knelt hastily upon the ground beside a little mound of freshly turned sods. Stretching herself out upon that lowly bed, and embracing it with passionate tenderness, the child of sin and sorrow found a place to weep, and poured out her full heart to the silent ear of night.
The day was breaking, when she slowly rose and wiped away her tears. Regaining the high road, she was overtaken by a man in a wagon, who had been one of the crowd that had been to look at the murdered man. He invited Mary to take a seat in the wagon, and finding that he was going within a few miles of Norgood, she joyfully accepted the offer—and before Godfrey and her brother recovered from their drunken debauch, or found that she was missing, she was near the end of her journey.
The lyre is hush'd, for ever hush'd the hand,That woke to ecstacy its thrilling chords;And that sweet voice, with music eloquent,Sleeps with the silent lyre and broken heart.—S.M.
The lyre is hush'd, for ever hush'd the hand,That woke to ecstacy its thrilling chords;And that sweet voice, with music eloquent,Sleeps with the silent lyre and broken heart.—S.M.
"Why do you look so sad, Juliet," said Captain Whitmore to his daughter, as they stood together at the open window, the morning after her perilous meeting with Mary Mathews in the park. "HaveIsaid anything to wound your feelings?"
"I thought that you would have been so glad to find him innocent, papa," said Juliet, the tears again stealing down her cheeks, "and I am disappointed—bitterly disappointed."
"Well, my girl. I am glad that the lad is not guilty of so heinous an offence. But I can't help feeling a strong prejudice against the whole breed. These Hurdlestones are a bad set—a bad set. I have seen enough of them. And, for your own happiness, I advise you, my dear Juliet, to banish this young man for ever from your thoughts. With my consent you never shall be his wife."
"Without it I certainly never shall." And Juliet folded her hands together, and turned away to hide the fresh gush of tears that blinded her eyes. "At the same time, papa, I must think that the ill-will you bear to an innocent person is both cruel and unjust."
"Juliet," said the Captain, very gravely, "from the earnestness of your manner, I fear that you feel a deeper interest in this young Hurdlestone than I am willing to believe. Answer me truly—do you love the lad?"
"Father, I do love him. I feel that my happiness is inseparably connected with his." This was said with that charming candor which was the most attractive feature in Juliet Whitmore's character. It had its effect upon the old man's generous nature. He could no longer chide, however repugnant to his feelings the confession she had just made. He drew her gently to his manly breast, and kissed away the tears that still lingered on her cheeks.
"My poor girl, I am sorry for you—very sorry. But I see no chance of your ever becoming his wife."
"I am contented to remain single, papa; I never can love another as I love him."
"Stuff and nonsense! What should hinder you? Why, child, you will get over this romantic passion. Few people are able to marry the first person with whom they fall in love; and, in nine cases out of ten, they would be grievously disappointed if they did. This Anthony Hurdlestone may be a good young man, but his father is a very bad man. His children may inherit some of the family propensities, which you know, my little daughter are everything but agreeable. I should not like to be grandpapa to a second edition of Mark Hurdlestone, or even of his hopeful nephew, Master Godfrey."
"Ah, my dear father," said Juliet, with great simplicity, "this may be all very true; but how do you know that we should have any children?"
This unexpected confession threw the old Captain, in spite of his grave lecture, into convulsions of laughter, whilst it covered his daughter's face with crimson blushes.
"Miss Juliet!" cried her aunt, who entered just intime to hear her niece speak her thoughts aloud, "I am perfectly astonished at you. Have you no sense of decorum?"
"Pshaw, Dolly!" said the Captain, still laughing. "It was quite accidental. Your over delicate ladies are the most indelicate people in the world. I am sure what the child said was perfectly natural."
"Nature, Captain Whitmore, is not the best book for young ladies to study," said Miss Dorothy, drawing herself up to her full height. "If we were to act entirely from her suggestions, we should reduce ourselves to a level with the brutes. Young ladies should never venture a remark until they have duly considered what they have to say. They should know how to keep the organ of speech in due subjection."
"And pray, Dolly, will you inform me at what age a lady should commence this laudable act of self-denial? for I am pretty certain that your first lesson is still to learn."
Oh, how poor Aunt Dorothy flounced and flew, at this speech! how she let her tongue run on, without bit or bridle, while vindicating her injured honor from this foul aspersion, quite forgetting her own theory in the redundancy of her practice! There never was, by her own account, such a discreet, amiable, well-spoken, benevolent, and virtuous gentlewoman! And how the cruel Captain continued to laugh at, and quiz, and draw her out: until Juliet, in order to cause a diversion in her aunt's favor, pinched her favorite black cat's ear. But this stratagem only turned the whole torrent of the old maid's wrath upon herself.
"How cruel you are, Miss Juliet!" she cried, snatching the ill-used darling to her bosom. "You never think thatthese poor animals can feel ill-treatment as severely as yourself. I despise young ladies who write poetry, and weep and whine over a novel, yet are destitute of the common feelings of humanity."
"Puss will forgive me," said Juliet, holding out her small white hand to the cat, which immediately left off rubbing herself against Aunt Dorothy's velvet stomacher, to fawn upon the proffered peace-offering.
The old Captain, who had remained for some minutes in deep thought, now suddenly turned from the window, and said:
"Juliet, would you like to visit London?"
"What, at this beautiful season of the year!" And Juliet left off caressing the cat, and regarded her father with surprise, not unmixed with curiosity.
"The flowers of the gay world, Julee, always blossom at the same time with those in the country; only the latter have always this advantage, that they are never out of season, and blossom for the day, instead of for the night. But, my dear child, I think it necessary for you to go. The change of scene and air will be very beneficial to your health, and tend to invigorate both your mind and body. Now, don't pout and shake your head, Juliet; I do most earnestly wish you to go. The very best antidote to love is a visit to London. You will see other men, you will learn to know your own power; and all these idle fancies will be forgotten. Aunt Dorothy, what say you to the trip?"
"Oh, sir, I am always ready at the post of duty. Juliet wants a little polishing—she is horribly countryfied. When shall we prepare for the journey?"
"Directly. I will write to her Aunt Seaford by tonight's post. She will be delighted to have Juliet with her.The little sly puss is the old lady's heir; but she is quite indifferent to her good fortune."
"I never covet the possession of great wealth," said Juliet. "Mark Hurdlestone is an awful example to those who grasp after riches. I do not anticipate much pleasure in this London visit, but I will go, dear papa, as you wish it."
"There's a dear good girl!" and the old man fondly kissed her. "I wish I could see the rose's blush once more upon this pale face. You look so like your mother, Julee, it makes my heart ache. Ah! just so thin and pale she looked, before I lost her. You must not leave your poor old father in this cold-hearted world alone."
Juliet flung her arms round his neck. "Do not make my heart ache, dear papa, as I know not how soon we may part. You once loved poor Anthony," she whispered: "for Julee's sake, love him still."
"She will forget him," said the Captain looking fondly after her, as she left the room, "she will forget him in London."
And to London they went. Juliet was received by her rich aunt with the most lively demonstrations of regard. She felt proud of introducing to the notice of the gay world a creature so beautiful. Admired for her great personal attractions, and courted for her wealth, Juliet soon found herself the centre of attraction to a large circle of friends. But ah! how vapid and tasteless to the young lover of nature were the artificial manners and the unmeaning flatteries of the world. Professions of attachment, breathed into her ears by interested admirers, shocked and disgusted her simple taste, and made her thoughts turn continually to the one adored object, whose candid and honest bearing had won her heart. His soul had been poured forth at thesame shrine, had drunk inspiration from the same sacred fount, and his sympathies and feelings were in perfect unison with her own.
How could she forget Anthony whilst mingling in scenes so uncongenial to her own pursuits? Was he not brought every hour nearer to her thoughts? Was she not constantly drawing contrasts between him and the worldly beings by whom she was surrounded! Did not his touching voice thrill more musically in her mental ear, when the affected ostentatious tones of the votary of fashion and pleasure tried to attract her attention by a display of his accomplishments and breeding? There was a want of reality in all she heard and saw that struck painfully upon her heart; and after the first novelty of the scene had worn off, she began to pine for the country. Her step became less elastic, her cheek yet paler, and the anxious father began to watch more closely these hectic changes, and to tremble for the health of his child.
"I am sick of this crowded place, of these sophisticated people, papa. I shall die here. Let me return to the country."
Frightened at the daily alteration in her appearance, the Captain promised to grant her request. Her aunt gave a large party the night before they were to leave town; and Juliet, to please her kind relative, exerted herself to the utmost to appear in good spirits.
"There has been a shocking murder committed in your neighborhood, Miss Whitmore," said the officer, with whom she had been dancing, as he led her to a seat. "Have you seen the papers?"
"No," said Juliet, carelessly. "I seldom read these accounts. They are so shocking; and we read them too much as matters of mere amusement and idle curiosity, without reflecting sufficiently upon the awful guilt which they involve."
"This is a very dreadful business indeed. I thought you might know something of the parties."
"Not very likely. We lead such a secluded life at the Lodge, that we are strangers to most of the people in the neighborhood."
"You have heard of the eccentric miser, Mark Hurdlestone?"
"Who has not?" and Juliet started, and turned pale. "Surely he has not been murdered?"
"Yes; and by his own son."
"His son? Oh, not by his son! His nephew, you mean?"
"His son. Anthony Hurdlestone. The heir of his immense wealth."
He spoke to a cold ear. Juliet had fainted.
How did that dreadful night pass over the hapless maiden? It did pass, however, and on the morrow she was far on her journey home.
"I never thought he could be guilty of a crime like this," said the Captain to his sister as she sat opposite to him in his travelling carriage. His arm encircled the slender waist of his daughter, and her pale cheek rested on his shoulder. But no tear hung in the long, dark, drooping eyelashes of his child. Juliet was stunned; but she had not wept.
"He is not guilty," she cried, in a passionate voice. "I know and feel that he is not guilty. Remember Mary Mathews—how strong the circumstantial evidence against him in that case. Yet he was innocent—innocent, poor Anthony!"
The Captain, who felt the most tender sympathy for the state of mind into which this afflicting news had thrown his child, was willing to soothe, if possible, her grief.
"If he is innocent it will be proved on the trial, Julee darling. We will hope for the best."
"It will be proved," said Juliet, sitting upright, and looking her father earnestly, if not sternly in the face. "I am so confident of his innocence that, on that score, I have not shed a single tear. Ah! we are drawing near home," she continued with a sigh. "Dear home! why did I leave it? There is something pure and holy in the very air of home. See, papa! there is the church spire rising above the trees. The dear old elm trees! We shall have time to think here, to hope, to pray; but who is that woman lying along the bank. She is ill, or dead."
"Perhaps she is intoxicated," said Miss Dorothy.
"It is—yes—it is Mary Mathews!" cried Juliet, without noticing her aunt's remark. "What can bring her here?"
"No good, you may be sure," remarked the Captain.
"Oh! stop the carriage, dear papa, and let us speak to her. She may know something about the murder."
"You are right, Juliet; let us ask her a few questions."
They both left the carriage, and hurried to the spot where Mary, overcome with fatigue and fever, lay insensible and unconscious of her danger by the roadside.