Captain Whitmore lifted up the unhappy girl from the ground, and placed her in the carriage, greatly to the indignation of Miss Dorothy, and conveyed her to the Lodge. A medical gentleman in the neighborhood was sent for; and Juliet, in the deep interest she felt for the alarming state of the poor sufferer, for a while forgot her own poignant grief.
The next morning, on entering the parlor, she found Frederic Wildegrave in close conversation with her father.
After the usual compliments had passed between them,Juliet asked, with an air of intense anxiety depicted on her fine countenance, if Mr. Wildegrave thought it possible that Anthony Hurdlestone had committed the murder?
He replied sorrowfully, "My dear Miss Whitmore, I know not what to think."
"Have you seen him since his imprisonment?"
"I have not. Many sorrows have confined me at home. This melancholy business has had a sad effect upon the weak nerves of my poor little sister. Clary is ill. I fear dying. She has expressed such a strong desire to see you, Miss Whitmore, once again, that I came over to make known to you her urgent request. It is asking of you a very great favor; but one, I hope, that you will not refuse to grant to our tears."
"Juliet is in very poor health herself," said her father. "If she could be spared this trying scene, it would be the better for her."
"Poor, pretty Clarissa; and she is ill—is dying," said Juliet, speaking unconsciously aloud. "This dreadful affair has killed her; and she wishes to see me. Yes, I will go."
"My child, you know not what you are about to undertake," said the old man, coming forward. "It may be the death of you."
"Dear papa, I am stronger than you think. I have borne a worse sorrow," she added, in a whisper. "Let me go."
"Please yourself, Julee; but I fear it will be too much for you."
Frederic was anxious that Clary should be gratified; and, in spite of Captain Whitmore's objections, he continued, backed by Juliet, to urge his request. Reluctantly the old man yielded to their united entreaties.
Before Juliet set out upon her melancholy journey, she visited the sick chamber of the unconscious Mary Mathews, whom she strongly recommended to the care of Aunt Dorothy and her own waiting-woman. The latter, who loved her young mistress very tenderly, and who perhaps was not ignorant of her attachment to young Hurdlestone, promised to pay every attention to the poor invalid during her absence. Satisfied with these arrangements, Juliet kissed her father; and begging him not to be uneasy on her account, as for his sake she would endeavor to bear up against the melancholy which oppressed her, she accepted Mr. Wildegrave's escort to Ashton.
During the journey, she found that Frederic was acquainted with Anthony's attachment to her; and the frank and generous sympathy that he expressed for the unhappy young man won from his fair companion her confidence and friendship. He was the only person whom she had ever met to whom she could speak of Anthony without reserve, and he behaved to her like a true friend in the dark hour of doubt and agony.
The night was far advanced when they arrived at Millbank. Clary was sleeping, and the physician thought it better that she should not be disturbed.
The room allotted to Miss Whitmore's use was the one which had been occupied by Anthony. Everything served to remind her of its late tenant. His books, his papers, his flute, were there. Her own portfolio, containing the little poems he so much admired, was lying upon the table, and within it lay a bunch of dried flowers—wild flowers—which she had gathered for him upon the heath near his uncle's park; but what paper is that attached to the faded nosegay? It is a copy of verses. She knows his handwriting, and trembles as she reads—
Ye are wither'd, sweet buds, but love's hand can portrayOn memory's tablets each delicate hue;And recall to my bosom the long happy dayWhen she gathered ye, fresh sprinkled over with dew.Ah, never did garland so lovely appear,For her warm lip had breathed on each beautiful flower;And the pearl on each leaf was less bright than the tearThat gleamed in her eyes in that rapturous hour.Ye are wither'd, sweet buds, but in memory ye bloom,Nor can nature's stern edict your loveliness stain;Ye are fadeless and rich in undying perfume,And your sweetness, like truth, shall unaltered remain.When this fond beating heart shall be cold in the grave,Oh, mock not my bier with fame's glittering wreath;But bid on my temples these wither'd buds wave,Through life fondly cherish'd, and treasured in death.
Ye are wither'd, sweet buds, but love's hand can portrayOn memory's tablets each delicate hue;And recall to my bosom the long happy dayWhen she gathered ye, fresh sprinkled over with dew.Ah, never did garland so lovely appear,For her warm lip had breathed on each beautiful flower;And the pearl on each leaf was less bright than the tearThat gleamed in her eyes in that rapturous hour.
Ye are wither'd, sweet buds, but in memory ye bloom,Nor can nature's stern edict your loveliness stain;Ye are fadeless and rich in undying perfume,And your sweetness, like truth, shall unaltered remain.When this fond beating heart shall be cold in the grave,Oh, mock not my bier with fame's glittering wreath;But bid on my temples these wither'd buds wave,Through life fondly cherish'd, and treasured in death.
And had he really kept these withered flowers for her sake? How did her soul flow up into her eyes, to descend upon those faded blossoms in floods of tears, as sadly she pressed them to her lips and heart!
Then came the dreadful thought—He whom you thus passionately love is a murderer, the murderer of his father! The hand that penned those tender lines has been stained with blood. Shuddering, she let the flowers fall from her grasp. She turned, and met the mild beautiful eyes of his mother. The lifeless picture seemed to reproach her for daring for a moment to entertain such unworthy suspicions of her child, and she murmured for the hundredth time, since she first heard the tale of horror, "No, no, I cannot believe him guilty."
She undressed and went to bed. The bed in which he had so lately slept, in which he had passed so many wakeful hours in thinking of her; in forming bright schemes of future happiness, and triumphing in idea over the seeming impossibilities of his untoward destiny. His spirit appeared to hover around her, and in dreams she once more wandered with him through forest paths, eloquent with the song of birds, and bright with spring and sunshine.
Oh, love! how strong is thy faith! How confiding thy trust. The world in vain frowns upon the object of thy devotion. Calumny may blacken, and circumstances condemn, but thou, in thy blind simplicity, still clingest, through storm and shine, to the imaginary perfections of thy idol.
To believe in the innocence of Anthony Hurdlestone was to hope against hope; yet Juliet firmly, confidingly, and religiously believed him guiltless. Oh, who might not envy her this love and faith!
The robin red-breast from his fading bower of hawthorns warbled in the early dawn of the cold, bright, autumnal day. The first rays of the sun gilded the gay changing leaves of the vine that clustered about the windows with hues of the richest dye, and the large bunches of grapes peeping from among the leaves looked more temptingly ripe, bathed in dew and brightened in the morning beam. A slight rap at her chamber door dispelled Juliet's slumbers, and Ruth Candler entered the room.
"Is anything wrong, Ruth?"
"My mistress is awake, and wishes to see you, Miss," said Ruth, bursting into tears. "It's the last morn. I'm thinking, that she'll ever see on earth. She's in no pain, she says, but she is so pale, and her eyes do not look like the eyes of the living. Alas! alas! what shall we do when she is gone? The dear sweet young creter!"
Ruth wept aloud with her face to the wall while Juliet hurried on her clothes, and, with a full heart, followed the old woman to the chamber of the invalid.
She found Clary sitting up in the bed, supported bypillows. Cold as it was, the casement was open to admit the full beams of the rising sun, and the arms of the dying girl were extended towards it, and her countenance lighted up with an expression of angelic beauty and intense admiration. Her brother was seated upon the bed, his face concealed in the pillow, while ever and anon a deep sob burst from his full laboring heart.
He had watched there through the long night—had watched and prayed while the dear one slept her last sleep on earth; and he knew that the young spirit had only roused itself to look once more upon the lovely creation of God before it plumed its bright wing for its final flight.
"Sun, beautiful sun! I shall see thee no more," said the child. "Thou glorious emblem of the power and love of God. But I go to him who is the Sun of the spirit-world, the life and light of the soul. There is joy in my heart—deep joy—joy which no mortal tongue can express, for the happiness I feel is not of the world. The fresh breezes of morning fan my brow; to-morrow they will sigh over my grave. The earth returns to the earth, the spirit to the God who gave it. Weep not for me, dear brother. For this hour I was born. For this hour I came into the world, and you should rejoice and be exceedingly glad that I have so soon obtained my passport to the skies."
"Ah, my sister, what will life be to me, when you are gone? You are the last kindred tie that binds me to earth."
"There will be another strong tie to draw you towards heaven, my brother. Our spirits will not be divided. I shall still live in your memory—still visit you in dreams. Your love for me will grow stronger, for it will never know diminution or decay."
She paused for a few seconds, and folded her poor wastedhands together, whilst a serene smile passed over her wan features, lighting them with a holy joy.
"I had a dream last night, Frederic. A beautiful dream. If I have strength I will try and tell it to you. I thought much of Death last night, and my soul shrunk within me, for I felt that he was near. I did not fear Death while my heart was free from earthly love, but now he seemed to wear a harsh and terrible aspect. I prayed long and fervently to God to give me strength to enable me to pass tranquilly through the dark valley; but in my heart I felt no response to my prayer. Soon after this, the pains, that had racked me all yesterday, left me, and I fell into a deep sleep. And then me-thought I stood in a narrow pass between two vast walls of black rock, that enclosed me on either side, and appeared to reach to the very clouds. The place was lighted by a dim twilight that flowed through an enormous arch that united in the far distance these gigantic walls; an arch, high and deep enough to have sustained the weight of the whole world. I felt like an atom in immensity, alone in that strange place. Still as I gazed in bewildered awe upon that great gateway, a figure rose like a dim mist out of the darkness, and it grew and brightened into a real and living presence; its dazzling robes of snowy whiteness shedding a sort of glorious moonshine all around. Oh, the beauty, the surpassing beauty of the heavenly vision! it filled my whole soul with light.
"Whilst I continued to gaze upon it with increasing awe and admiration, it addressed me in a voice so rich and melodious that it awoke echoes of soft music from those eternal rocks.
"'Child of earth,' he said, 'is my aspect so terrible that men should shrink from me in horror?'
"'Not so,' I exclaimed, in an extasy of joy. 'Yourface is like the face of the angel of the Lord, when he welcomes the beloved with a smile of peace into the presence of God.'
"'Yet I am he whom men regard as their worst enemy, and shrink from with cowardly fear. Yes, maiden, I am Death! Death, the friend of man, the conqueror of grief and pain. I hold in my hand the keys of the unknown world. I am the bright spirit who unlocks for the good the golden gates of eternal joy.'
"He took my out-stretched hands, and drawing me forward, bade me look through the black archway into the far eternity. Oh, that glorious land, those rivers of delight—those trees and flowers, and warbled songs—that paradise of living praise! I long, my brother, to break these bonds asunder, to pass the dark archway, and tread that heavenly shore."
"Happy Clary," said Juliet, softly approaching the bed. "Dear blessed girl, who would wish to detain you in this cold miserable world, when heaven offers you a brighter home?"
"You are come to see your poor friend, my Juliet," said Clary, twining her thin white arms about her neck. "The sight of you recalls me back to earth, filling my mind with sad thoughts and dark forebodings. Brother," she continued, turning to Frederic, "leave us for a few minutes. I must speak to Juliet Whitmore, for a short space, alone."
For some seconds the two young creatures remained locked in each other's arms. Clary was the first to speak.
"The thoughts of heaven," she said, "are full of rapture; the recollections of earth, full of anguish and tears. It is not for myself, Juliet, I weep. It is for the living I mourn —for the friends I leave behind. For me—I have lived long enough. It is better for me to go, Juliet; I am dying; will you kiss me once more, and tell me that you forgive your poor little Clary for having dared to love one whose whole heart was given to you, and who was by you beloved again?"
"Was Anthony dear to your gentle heart, Clary?" said Juliet, stooping down, and kissing fervently the cold damp brow of the dying girl. "Oh, dearer far dearer are you to me, in having thus shared, to its full extent, all the deep sorrow that weighs down my spirit."
"My love, Juliet, was full of hope and joy, of blissful dreams and visions of peace and happiness. The storm came suddenly upon me, and the feeble threads that held together my frail existence parted in the conflict. I am thankful and resigned, and bless the hand that, in mercy, dealt the blow." After a few minutes' silence, she said very solemnly, "Anthony Hurdlestone is accused of having perpetrated a great crime. Do you, Juliet, believe him guilty?"
"When you believe that yon burning orb of fire is a mass of cold unmeaning ice," said Juliet, pointing to the sun, "then will I suspect the man I love to be a base unnatural monster, a thief and a parricide."
"Then you, and you alone, Juliet, are worthy of his love. And he loves you. Ah! so truly, so well, that I feel that he is innocent. A voice from heaven tells me so. Yes, dearest Juliet, God will yet vindicate his injured servant, and you and Anthony will meet again."
"In heaven," said Juliet, weeping.
"On earth," returned Clary in feebler accents. "When you see each other, Juliet, tell him that Clary loved him and prayed for him to the last; that dying she blessed him,and believed him innocent. To you, Juliet, I leave my harp, the friend and companion of my lonely childhood. When you play the sweet airs I loved so well, think kindly of me. When you wander by sparkling brooks, and through flowery paths, listening to the song of birds, and the music of forest shades, remember me. Ah! I have loved the bright and beautiful things of this glorious earth, and my wish has been granted, that I might pass hence with sunshine about my bed, and the music of Nature's wild minstrels ringing in my ears. Sun of earth, farewell. Friends of earth we shall meet again. See, heaven opens. Its one eternal day streams in upon my soul. Farewell.
"Happy spirit, welcome in;Hark! the song of seraphimHails thy presence at the throne—Earth is lost, and Heaven is won!Enter in."
"Happy spirit, welcome in;Hark! the song of seraphimHails thy presence at the throne—Earth is lost, and Heaven is won!Enter in."
The voice died away in faint indistinct murmurs; the eye lost the living fire; the prophetic lip paled to marble, quivered a moment, and was still for ever. The spirit of Clary had passed the dark gateway, and was the new-born of heaven.
"My sister; oh, my sister! Is she indeed gone from me for ever?" exclaimed Frederic, bursting into the room, and flinging himself upon the bed beside her. "Clary! my angel! Clary! What! cold and dead? Oh, my poor heart!"
"Oh, how I envy her this blessed change!" said Juliet.
"Aye, 'tis a sin to weep for her. But grief is selfish, Miss Whitmore; it will have its way. Oh! sister, dear sister, why did you leave me alone, the last survivor of an unfortunate race?"
And thus sorrow poured forth its querulous wailings into the cold ear of death. The storm which bereaves us of our best affections passes over; the whirlwind, the thunder, and the shower, desolating our harvest of expected joys; but the sun bursts forth again. Hope blossoms afresh in its beams, and the heart of man revives to form new schemes of future enjoyment. Such is life.
And hast thou sought me in this dreary cell,This dark abode of guilt and misery;To win my sadden'd spirit back to earthWith words of blessed import?—S.M.
And hast thou sought me in this dreary cell,This dark abode of guilt and misery;To win my sadden'd spirit back to earthWith words of blessed import?—S.M.
The assizes were rapidly approaching. Conscious of his innocence, as far as the murder of his father was concerned, Anthony Hurdlestone looked forward to his trial with firmness and composure. There never was a greater mass of circumstantial evidence brought against a prisoner than in his memorable case.
Holding an elevated position in society, his trial created a great amount of interest and curiosity among all ranks, and the court was crowded to excess. The youth of the criminal, his gentlemanly bearing, his fine expressive countenance, his thoughtful mild eye and benevolent brow excited surprise in the beholders, and gave rise to many doubts as to his being the murderer; and the calm dignified manner in which he listened to the evidence given against him tended greatly to increase the interest which was expressed by many in his awful situation.
Grenard Pike was the first witness called, and he deposed,
That on the evening of the tenth of October, between the hours of eight and nine, he and the elder Hurdlestone wereseated at a table counting money into a mahogany brass-bound box. He (Grenard) saw a tall figure pass the window. Mr. Hurdlestone instantly called out, "Grenard, did you see that man?" and he (the witness) answered, "Yes, it is your son." Mr. Hurdlestone replied, in some alarm, "I told him to come to-night; but I did not think that he would take me at my word. What can he want with me?" The next moment a pistol was fired through the casement. The ball passed through Mr. Hurdlestone's shoulder. He fell to the floor across the money-box, exclaiming, "My son! my cruel son! He has murdered me for my money; but he shall not have my money!" Witness looked up, and saw the murderer, by the light of the moon, standing by the window. He could swear to the person of Anthony Hurdlestone. Thinking his own life in danger he made his escape into a back room, and got out of the window, and ran as fast as he could to the village, to give the alarm and procure a surgeon. When he returned he found the prisoner leaning, apparently conscience-stricken, over the corpse. He offered no resistance when seized by the constables; he had no money in his possession. A pair of pistols was found in his coat pocket. One had been recently used; the other was still loaded; and there were stains of blood upon his hands and clothes.
He then related Anthony's previous visit to the cottage; the manner in which he had threatened his father; and the trick the miser had played off upon him, which circumstance had been faithfully detailed to him by old Mark, who regarded the latter as an excellent joke, although, Grenard dryly remarked, "It had cost him his life."
During Pike's evidence, the prisoner was greatly agitated, and was observed to lean heavily upon the dock forsupport. But when his cousin Godfrey and William Mathews appeared to add their testimony against him, his fortitude entirely forsook him, and he turned away, and covered his face for some minutes with his hands.
Godfrey's evidence was most conclusive. He stated that Anthony had borrowed from him, before his uncle's death, the sum of four hundred pounds, to settle some college debts which he had concealed from Colonel Hurdlestone's knowledge. Godfrey, willing to oblige him, had raised upon a note the greater part of the money. It became due and he (Godfrey) being unable, from his altered circumstances, to meet it, went to his cousin, to beg him to do so, if possible. He was surprised that the prisoner was able to give him the sum at once, though he afterwards learned that it was money left in his charge by Mr. Wildegrave that he had taken for that purpose. Anthony told him that Mr. Wildegrave had written to him for the money, and that he was greatly perplexed what to do. In this emergency, he (Godfrey) advised him to go to his father and state to him the difficulty in which he was placed, and, in all probability, the old man would rescue him from his unpleasant situation. He then related the result of the prisoner's interview with his father, the manner in which he had been repulsed, and the threatening language which the prisoner had used; his (Godfrey's) discovery of the trick which the hard old man had played off upon his son, and Anthony's determination to visit him again on the night of the tenth of October, and force him to terms. He concluded by saying, that he had every reason to believe that the intended visit had taken place at the very time that the murder was committed. He spoke of his cousin with much feeling, and tried to excuse his conduct, as beingthe result of his father's ill-treatment and neglect; and he commented upon Anthony's solitary habits, and sullen uncommunicative disposition, as having been fostered by these unfortunate circumstances.
His evidence was given in so frank and manly a way, and he seemed to sympathize so deeply in his cousin's unfortunate position, that he created quite a sensation among his listeners. No one imagined him to be in any way implicated in the crime.
The statement of William Mathews corroborated all that had been advanced by Godfrey Hurdlestone. He related his accidental meeting with Mr. Anthony Hurdlestone on his way to the miser's cottage, but he omitted the conversation that passed between them; only stating, that he observed the muzzle of a pistol protruding from the pocket of the prisoner—a circumstance which, knowing the peaceable habits of the prisoner, astonished him at the time.
Long before Mathews had concluded his deposition, there remained not a doubt on the minds of the jury that Anthony Hurdlestone was the murderer. Even Captain Whitmore, who had greatly interested himself on behalf of the young man, believed him guilty.
One witness still remained unheard, and Anthony still clung to hope; still anxiously anticipated that the evidence of Frederic Wildegrave would go far to save him. Alas! how great was his disappointment, when the circumstances related by his friend were more conclusive of his guilt than all the false statements that had been made by his enemies. His own letter, too, which was read in court, alone would have condemned him in the opinion of all unprejudiced men.
"October10th, 1790."My Dear Frederic,"I am certain that I have forfeited your good opinion, by omitting to send you the money you left in my keeping: I have forfeited my own. How shall I find words to tell you the dreadful truth, that the money is no longer in my possession; that, in a moment of excitement, I gave the deposit entrusted to my care to another?"Yet listen to me for a few painful moments, before you condemn me utterly. My cousin Godfrey came to me in great distress; he implored me to save him from ruin, by obtaining for him a temporary loan, for a few hours, of four hundred pounds, which he faithfully promised to replace the following day. Hurried away by my feelings, I imprudently granted his request, and gave him the money you left with me. Do not wholly despise me, Frederic; he looked so like my poor uncle, I knew not how to deny him."This morning brought your letter. You ask for the money to be sent to you immediately. I have it not to send; my sin has found me out. A thief and swindler! Can it be possible that I have incurred such dreadful guilt?"Night.—I have seen Godfrey—he has failed me. What shall I do? I must go to my father; perhaps he will relent, and pity my distress. My heart is torn with distracting doubts. Oh, that I could pour into some faithful bosom my torturing situation! Clary is ill—and left to myself, I am lost."Midnight.—I have seen my father. What a meeting. My brain aches while I try to recall it. At first he insulted my agony; taunted me with my misfortunes, and finally maddened me. I cannot describe to you what passed.Wound up to a pitch of fury, I threatened to obtain the money by violence, if he did not write an order upon his banker for the sum required. Cowering with fear, he complied; and I—I, in the fullness of my heart, implored his pardon for the language I had used, and blessed him. Yes, I blessed him, who only a few minutes before had spurned me from his feet—had mocked at my calamity—and cursed me in the savage malevolence of his heart. Some feeling of remorse appeared to touch his cruel breast; as I left the house he called after me, 'Anthony, Anthony, to-morrow night I will do you justice.' I will go to him no more. I feel that we have parted for ever."Thursday evening.—The old man has deceived me—has jested with my distress. I could curse him, but I have not done so. To-night we shall have a fearful reckoning; yes, to-night he will be forced to do me justice."Godfrey has been with me. He discovered the cruel trick which the unnatural wretch who calls himself my father had played me—and he laughed. How could he laugh at such a melancholy instance of depravity? Godfrey should have been this man's son. In some things they resemble each other. Yes, he laughed at the trick. Is the idea of goodness existing in the human heart a mere dream? Are men all devils, or have some more tact to conceal their origin than others? I begin to suspect myself and all mankind. I will go once more to that hard-hearted man; if he refuses to grant my request, I will die at his feet. Last night I attempted suicide, but my good angel prevailed. To-night is my hour, and the power of darkness. Will he feel no touch of remorse when he beholds his neglected son—lost—bleeding—dying at his feet?"Oh, that you were near to save me from myself! An unseen power seems hurrying, drawing me to perdition. The voice of a friend would dissolve the spell, and set the prisoner of passion free. The clock strikes eight—I must go. Farewell, my friend, my brother; forgive and pity the unfortunate"Anthony M. Hurdlestone."
"October10th, 1790.
"My Dear Frederic,
"I am certain that I have forfeited your good opinion, by omitting to send you the money you left in my keeping: I have forfeited my own. How shall I find words to tell you the dreadful truth, that the money is no longer in my possession; that, in a moment of excitement, I gave the deposit entrusted to my care to another?
"Yet listen to me for a few painful moments, before you condemn me utterly. My cousin Godfrey came to me in great distress; he implored me to save him from ruin, by obtaining for him a temporary loan, for a few hours, of four hundred pounds, which he faithfully promised to replace the following day. Hurried away by my feelings, I imprudently granted his request, and gave him the money you left with me. Do not wholly despise me, Frederic; he looked so like my poor uncle, I knew not how to deny him.
"This morning brought your letter. You ask for the money to be sent to you immediately. I have it not to send; my sin has found me out. A thief and swindler! Can it be possible that I have incurred such dreadful guilt?
"Night.—I have seen Godfrey—he has failed me. What shall I do? I must go to my father; perhaps he will relent, and pity my distress. My heart is torn with distracting doubts. Oh, that I could pour into some faithful bosom my torturing situation! Clary is ill—and left to myself, I am lost.
"Midnight.—I have seen my father. What a meeting. My brain aches while I try to recall it. At first he insulted my agony; taunted me with my misfortunes, and finally maddened me. I cannot describe to you what passed.Wound up to a pitch of fury, I threatened to obtain the money by violence, if he did not write an order upon his banker for the sum required. Cowering with fear, he complied; and I—I, in the fullness of my heart, implored his pardon for the language I had used, and blessed him. Yes, I blessed him, who only a few minutes before had spurned me from his feet—had mocked at my calamity—and cursed me in the savage malevolence of his heart. Some feeling of remorse appeared to touch his cruel breast; as I left the house he called after me, 'Anthony, Anthony, to-morrow night I will do you justice.' I will go to him no more. I feel that we have parted for ever.
"Thursday evening.—The old man has deceived me—has jested with my distress. I could curse him, but I have not done so. To-night we shall have a fearful reckoning; yes, to-night he will be forced to do me justice.
"Godfrey has been with me. He discovered the cruel trick which the unnatural wretch who calls himself my father had played me—and he laughed. How could he laugh at such a melancholy instance of depravity? Godfrey should have been this man's son. In some things they resemble each other. Yes, he laughed at the trick. Is the idea of goodness existing in the human heart a mere dream? Are men all devils, or have some more tact to conceal their origin than others? I begin to suspect myself and all mankind. I will go once more to that hard-hearted man; if he refuses to grant my request, I will die at his feet. Last night I attempted suicide, but my good angel prevailed. To-night is my hour, and the power of darkness. Will he feel no touch of remorse when he beholds his neglected son—lost—bleeding—dying at his feet?
"Oh, that you were near to save me from myself! An unseen power seems hurrying, drawing me to perdition. The voice of a friend would dissolve the spell, and set the prisoner of passion free. The clock strikes eight—I must go. Farewell, my friend, my brother; forgive and pity the unfortunate
"Anthony M. Hurdlestone."
He went—and the old man was found murdered. What more natural than such a consequence after penning such a letter? The spectators looked from one to the other: on every brow rested a cloud; every head was nodded in token of agreement; every one present, but Frederic Wildegrave, believed him guilty. He had retained no counsel, preferring to plead in his own defence.
He rose; every eye was fixed upon him, men held their breath, wondering what sort of defence could issue from the lips of the parricide.
He spoke; the clear, rich, mellow, unimpassioned tones of his voice rolled over that mass of human heads, penetrating every heart, and reaching every ear.
"My lord, and you gentlemen of the jury, I rise not with the idea of saving my life, by an avowal of my innocence, for the evidence which has been given against me is of too conclusive a nature for me to hope for that; I merely state the simple fact, that I am not guilty of the dreadful crime laid to my charge; and I leave it to God, in whose hands are the issues of life and death, to prove the truth of my words.
"The greater part of the evidence brought against me is true; the circumstances recorded against me really occurred; the letter just read was penned by my own hand; yet,in the face of these overwhelming facts, I declare myself innocent of the crime laid to my charge. I know not in what manner my father met his death. I am as ignorant as you can be of the hand that dealt the fatal blow. I confess that I sought his presence with the dreadful determination of committing murder; but the crime was against myself. For this I deserve punishment—for this I am content to die: to this charge, made by myself, I plead guilty. I look around me—in every face I see doubt and doom. I stand here a mark and scorn to the whole world; but, though all unite in my condemnation, I still fearlessly and distinctly declare my innocence. I am neither a parricide nor a murderer! and I now await my sentence with the calmness and fortitude which a clear conscience alone can give."
Murmurs of disapprobation ran though the court.
"What a hypocrite!" muttered some, as the jury left the court to consult together about the verdict.
"Do you observe the striking likeness between the prisoner at the bar and his cousin, the second witness against him?" whispered a gentleman in the crowd to a friend near him. "By Jove, 'tis a fearful resemblance. I would not be so like the murderer for worlds. 'Tis the same face."
"Perhaps," said his friend, "they are partners in guilt. I have my doubts. But 'tis unlawful to condemn any man."
"He's a bad fellow by his own account," said the other. "It was he who first led the prisoner to commit the theft. I think one of them deserves death as much as the other."
"Whist, man! Yon handsome rogue is the miser's heir."
"Humph!" said the first speaker. "If I were on the jury—"
"Here they come, there is death in their very looks, I thought as much, he is found guilty."
The judge rose; a death-like stillness pervaded the court during his long and impressive address to the prisoner. The sentence of death was then pronounced, and Anthony Marcus Hurdlestone was ordered for execution on the following Monday.
"This dreadful day is at length over," he said as he flung himself on his pallet of straw in the condemned cell, on the evening of that memorable day. "Thank God it is over, and I know the worst, and nothing now remains to hope or fear. A few brief hours and this weary world will be a dream of the past, and I shall awake from my bed of dust to a new and better existence, beyond the power of temptation—beyond the might of sin. My God, I thank Thee. Thou hast dealt justly with Thy servant. The soul that sinneth, it must die; and grievously have I sinned in seeking to mar Thy glorious image—to cast the life thou gavest me as a worthless boon at Thy feet. I bow my head in the dust and am silent before Thee. Shall not the Judge of all the earth do right?"
His meditations were interrupted by the entrance of the chaplain of the jail—a venerable Christian who felt a deep interest in the prisoner, and who now sought him to try and awaken him to a full sense of his awful situation.
"My son," he said, laying his hand upon Anthony's shoulder, "how is it with you this night? What is God saying to your soul?"
"All is well," replied Anthony. "He is speaking to me words of peace and comfort."
"Your fellow-men have condemned you—" he paused then added with a deep sigh, "—and I too, Anthony Hurdlestone, believe you guilty."
"God has not condemned me, good father, and by the light of His glorious countenance that now shines upon me, shedding joy and peace into my heart, I am innocent."
"Oh, that I could think you so!"
"Though it has seemed right in the eyes of the All-wise Sovereign of the universe that I should be pronounced guilty before an earthly bar, I feel assured that He, in His own good time, will declare my innocence."
"Will that profit you aught, my son, when you are dust?"
"It will rescue my name from infamy, and give me a mournful interest in the memory of my friends."
"Poor lad, this is but a melancholy consolation; I wish I could believe you."
"What a monster of depravity you must think me, if you can imagine me guilty after what I have just said! Is truth so like falsehood, that a man of your holy calling cannot discern the difference? Do I look like a guilty man? Do I speak like a guilty man who knows that he has but a few days to live? If I were the wretch you take me for, should I not be overwhelmed with grief and despair? Would not the thought of death be insupportable? Oh! believe one who seeks not to live—who is contented to die, when I again solemnly declare my innocence."
"I have seen men, Anthony Hurdlestone, who, up to the very hour of their execution, persisted in the same thing and yet, after all their solemn protestations, owned at the last moment that their sentence was just, and that they merited death."
"And I too have merited death," said Anthony mournfully. "God is just."
The chaplain started; though but a few minutes before he had considered the prisoner guilty, yet it produced a painful feeling in his mind to hear him declare it.
"Is self-destruction murder?" asked Anthony with an anxious earnest glance.
"Aye, of the worst kind: for deep ingratitude to God, and contempt of his laws, are fearfully involved in this unnatural outrage."
"Then my sentence is just," sighed Anthony; "I never raised my hand against my father's life, but I raised it against my own. God has punished me for this act of rebellion against His Divine Majesty, in rejecting, as a thing of no value, the life He gave. I yield myself into His hands, confident that His arm is stretched over His repentant creature for good; whether I die upon the scaffold or end my days peacefully in my bed, I can lay my hand upon my heart and say—'His will be done.'"
For about an hour the good clergyman continued reading and praying with the prisoner, and before he left him that evening, in spite of his pre-conceived notions of his guilt, he was fully convinced of innocence.
Sadly and solemnly the hours passed on that brought the morning of his execution, "with death-bed clearness, face to face." He had joined in the sacred duties of the Sabbath; it was to him a day of peaceful rest—a forestate of the quiet solemnity of the grave. In the evening he was visited by Frederic Wildegrave, who had been too ill after the trial to leave his bed before. He was pale, and wasted with sorrow and disease, and looked more like a man going to meet death than the criminal he came to cheer with his presence.
"My dear Anthony," said Frederic, taking his cousin's hand, "my heart bleeds to see you thus. I have been sick; my spirit is weighed down with sorrow, or we should have met sooner."
"You do indeed look ill," replied Anthony, examining, with painful surprise, the altered face of his friend; "I much fear that I have been the cause of this change. Tell me, Frederic, and tell me truly, do you believe me guilty?"
"I have never for one moment entertained a thought to that effect, Anthony; though the whole world should condemn you, I would stake my salvation on your integrity."
"Bless you, my friend; my true, faithful, noble-hearted friend," cried Anthony, clasping the hand he held to his breast, "you are right; I am not the murderer."
"Who is?"
Anthony shook his head.
"That infernal scoundrel, Mathews?"
"Hush! Not him alone."
"Godfrey?"
"Oh! Frederic; had you seen the triumphant smile that passed over his face at the moment that my sentence was pronounced, you could entertain no doubt upon the subject. I heard not the sentence—I saw not the multitude of eyes fixed upon me—I only saw him—I only saw his eyes looking into my soul and laughing at the ruin he had wrought. But he will not go unpunished. There is one who will yet betray him, and prove my innocence; I mean his hateful accomplice, William Mathews."
"And can nothing be done to convict them?"
"They have sworn falsely, and perverted facts. I have no proof of their guilt. Would the world believe my statements? Would it not appear like the wolf accusing the lamb? For my poor uncle's sake I am ready to suffer; and for this cause I employed no counsel to plead on my behalf; I would rather die myself than be the means of bringing to the scaffold the only son that he adored. Poor Algernon! I have paid a heavy debt for his generosity to me. Yes," he continued, more cheerfully, "I will leave Godfrey to enjoy his ill-gotten wealth, nor waste the few hours which now remain to me on earth in vain regrets. How is it with the dear Clary? How has she borne up against this dreadful blow?"
Frederic's sole answer was a mournful glance at the sables in which he was clad. Anthony comprehended in a moment the meaning of that sad, sad look. "She is gone," he said—"she, the beautiful—the innocent. Yes, yes—I knew it would kill her, the idea of my guilt. Alas! poor Clary!"
"She never thought you guilty," said Frederic, wiping his eyes. "She bade me give you this letter, written with her dying hand, to convince you that she believed you innocent. Her faith towards you was as strong as death; her love for you snapped asunder the fragile threads that held her to life. But she is happy. Dear child! She is better off than those who weep her loss. And you, Anthony, you—the idol of her fond young heart—will receive her welcome to that glorious country, of which, I trust, she is now the bright inhabitant."
"And she died of grief. Died—because others suspected of crime the man she loved. Oh, Clary! Clary! how unworthy was I of your love! You knew I loved another,yet it did not diminish aught of your friendship, your pure devotion to me! Oh, that I had your faith—your love!"
He covered his face with his hands, and both were silent for a long time.
"Frederic, we must part," said Anthony, at length raising his head. "Beloved friend, we must part for ever!"
"I shall see you again to-morrow."
"What! on the scaffold?"
"Aye, on the scaffold! Your place of martyrdom."
"This is friendship indeed. Time may one day prove to you that Anthony Hurdlestone was not unworthy of your love."
Frederic burst into tears afresh, and wringing Anthony's hand, hurried from the cell; and the prisoner was once more left alone to commune with his own thoughts, and prepare for the awful change that awaited him.
His spirit, weaned as it was from the things of earth, contemplated with melancholy pleasure the death of the young Clary, which he considered had placed his sweet young friend beyond the reach of human suffering.
"She is with the Eternal Present," he said. "No dark mysterious future can ever more cloud her soul with its heavy shadow. To-morrow—and the veil will be rent in twain, and our ransomed spirits will behold each other face to face. What is Death? The eclipse for a moment of the sun of human life. The shadow of earth passes from before it, and it again shines forth with renewed splendor."
His reverie was interrupted by the entrance of the jailor followed by another person muffled up in a large ridingcloak. "A stranger," he said, "wished to exchange a few words in private with the prisoner."
Anthony rose from his humble bed, and asked in subdued tones, "to whom he had the honor of speaking?"
"To a sincere friend, Anthony Hurdlestone—one who cannot believe you guilty of the dreadful crime of murder."
The sound of that voice, though months had passed away since its musical tones had vibrated on his ear, thrilled to the soul of the prisoner.
"Miss Whitmore!" he cried, in an extasy of joy; and sinking at her feet, he seized her hands, and pressing them to his lips and heart burst into an agony of tears.
"Anthony!" said Juliet, placing her hand upon his shoulder, as he sat at her feet with his face upturned and his eyes suffused in tears, gazing tenderly upon her; "I came here to-night to ask you one simple question. With many tears I gained my father's consent to this unusual step. Not without many severe mental struggles I overcame the feelings of maiden shame, and placed myself in this painful situation in order to receive from your own lips an answer which might satisfy the intense anxiety that presses upon my mind. As you value your own and my eternal peace, I charge you, Anthony, to answer me truly—as truly as if you stood before the bar of God, and the eye of the Great Searcher of hearts was upon you; Did you murder your unhappy father?"
"As I hope for salvation, I am as ignorant of the real perpetrators of the deed as you are."
"Both directly and indirectly?"
"The whole affair is involved in mystery. I have, of course, my doubts and surmises. These I must not name,lest I might accuse persons who like myself are innocent of the offence. Hear me, Juliet Whitmore! while I raise this fettered right hand to heaven, and swear by that awful Judge before whose dread tribunal I must in a few hours appear, that I am guiltless of the crime for which at the age of one-and-twenty, in the first bloom of youth and manhood, I am condemned to die!"
There was a slight convulsion of the features as he uttered the last words, and his lips quivered for a moment. Nature asserted her right over her sentient creature; and the thoughts of death awoke at that moment a strange conflict in his breast. So young—so highly gifted—so tenderly beloved; it was indeed hard to die—to die a death of infamy, amidst the curses and execrations of an insulting mob. Oh, how gladly would he have seen the bitter cup pass from his lips!
Juliet regarded her unhappy lover with a sad and searching glance. But innocence is strong; he shrunk not from the encounter. His eyes were raised to hers in confidence and love, and the glow of conscious worth irradiated his wan and wasted features. Alas! what years of sorrow had been compressed into one short week!
"I believe you, Anthony, to be an injured man. Thank God!" she continued, mournfully folding her hands together, "thank God! I have not loved a murderer!"
"Loved!" repeated the prisoner, whilst the deepest crimson for a moment flushed his face; "is it possible that Juliet Whitmore ever loved me! Loved me after witnessing that disgraceful scene in the park. Oh, Juliet! dear generous Juliet! these blessed words would make me too happy were it not for these bonds."
"I wronged you, Anthony; cruelly wronged you. Myunfortunate misconception of painful facts may have been the means of rivetting those irons upon your limbs. I cannot forgive myself for not questioning Mary Mathews alone upon the subject."
"Appearances were strongly against me, Juliet. I have been the victim of unfortunate circumstances." He bent his head down upon his fettered hands, and continued, in a low voice rendered almost inarticulate with emotion: "But you love me, and this assurance ought to atone for all the dreary past. Alas! at this moment it comes to rob me of my fortitude; to add a bitterness to death!"
"Oh, that it were in my power to save your life, beloved Anthony!" said Juliet, sinking on her knees beside him, and clasping his fettered hands within her own. "I have loved you long and tenderly. I shall see you no more on earth. If my life could ransom yours, I would give it without a sigh; but will is powerless; our hands are tied; we are indeed the creatures of circumstance. All that now remains for us is to submit—to bow with fortitude to the mysterious ways of Providence. To acknowledge, even in our hearts' deep agony, that whatever is, is right."
"Let us pray," said Anthony solemnly, holding up her hands in his; "pray that God may give us strength to undergo the trial that awaits us."
"With tears and sobs and struggling sighs, those unhappy young lovers poured out their full hearts to God. They appealed to his love, his justice, his mercy; they cried to him in their strong agony; and even in that moment of unutterable woe they found peace.
"Go, my beloved," whispered Anthony, "I can part with you now. We shall soon meet again."
"To part no more for ever!" sobbed Juliet, struggling withher tears. "I have a message for you from one who has already passed the dark valley—from one who loved you—poor Clary."
"I cannot bear it now," said Anthony. "I hope soon to hear a more joyful message from her gentle lips. Farewell, my Juliet—my soul's first and only earthly love! Live for my sake—live to defend my memory from infamy. Time will dissipate the clouds that now blacken my name; and the day will come when Juliet Whitmore will not have cause to blush for her unfortunate lover."
One long and last embrace—one gush of free and heartfelt tears—one sad impassioned kiss, and Anthony Hurdlestone was once more alone in the condemned cell, with silence and darkness—mute emblems of death—brooding around him.
He had all this time unconsciously held Clary's letter strained in his hand; and as his thoughts flowed back to her he longed intensely to read it. The visit of the good chaplain, who brought with him a light, afforded him the opportunity he so much desired.
A strange awe came over him as he unfolded the paper. The hand that had traced it was no longer of earth; the spirit that had dictated it was removed to another sphere. Yet he fancied, as he read the paper, that the soft blue eyes of Clary looked into his own; that her bright golden locks fanned his feverish cheek; that she was actually before him. Several times he started and looked up into the face of the chaplain before he could dispel the vision.