Godfrey instantly recognised the person; and looking up at the heavy dark clouds, which had for some time been encroaching upon the rich saffron hues in the west, he said hastily turning his horse, "You are right, Miss Whitmore we are going to have a storm, and you have chosen a dangerous path. Let us get from under these trees as fast as we can."

"Stay a few minutes. I want to speak to this poor woman."

"It is only some gipsy girl who has been sleeping under the tree. See, it begins to rain. Do you not hear the large drops pattering upon the leaves? If you do not put your horse on, you will get very wet."

"I am not afraid of a few drops of rain. The person seems in distress—I must speak to her."

At this moment the girl slowly rose from her seat, and revealed the faded, attenuated features of Mary Mathews.

"Mary!" exclaimed Juliet, shocked and astonished at the recognition; "what are you doing here? The rain is falling fast. Had you not better go home?"

"Home!" said the girl gloomily. "I have no home. The wide world is my home, and 'tis a bad place for the motherless and moneyless to live in. My father is dead; Mr. —— seized our things yesterday for the rent, and turned us out into the streets; my brother is gone to Ashton to look for employment, and I thought this place was as good as another; I can sit here and brood over my wrongs."

Juliet was inexpressibly shocked. She turned to address a remark to her companion, but to her increasing surprise, he was no longer in sight. A vague suspicion flashed upon her mind. She was determined to satisfy her doubts. Turning again to the girl, she addressed her in a kind soothing tone.

"Have you no friends, Mary, who can receive you until your brother is able to provide for you?"

"I never had many friends, Miss Juliet, and I have lost those I once had. You see how it is with me," she cried, rising and wringing her hands. "No respectable person would now receive me into their house. There is the work-house, to be sure. But I will die here, beneath the broad ceiling of heaven, before its accursed walls shall shut me in."

Juliet's heart prompted her to offer the wretched girl an asylum; but she dreaded the indignation of her fastidious aunt. Whilst she paused, irresolute how to act, the girl, emboldened by despair, suddenly caught hold of her bridle, and fixing her dim eyes upon her face, continued:—

"It is to you, Miss Juliet, that I owe all this grief and misery—yes, to you. Had you been a poor girl, like myself, I need not have cared for you. My face is as pretty as yours, my figure as good. I am as capable of love, and of being loved; but I lack the gold, the fine clothing, and the learning, that makes you my superior. People say that you are going to marry Mr. Hurdlestone; and it is useless for a poor girl like me to oppose the wishes of a grand lady like you. But I warn you not to do it. He is my husband in the sight of God; and the thought of his marrying you has broken my heart. Despair is strong; and when I saw you together just now, I felt that I should like to murder you both!"

"Mary," said Juliet, gravely, "you should not give ear to such reports—they are utterly false. Do you imagine that any young woman of principle would marry such a man as Mr. Hurdlestone?"

"Then why are you constantly together?" returned Mary, with flashing eyes. "Did he not ride away the moment he saw me?"

"You have mistaken one Mr. Hurdlestone for the other. The gentleman that just left me was Mr. Godfrey."

"And is it not Mr. Godfrey I mean? Good kind Mr. Anthony would not harm a lamb, much less a poor motherless girl like me!"

Again wringing her hands, she burst into a fit of passionate weeping. Juliet was dreadfully agitated; and springing from her horse, she sat down upon the bank beside the unfortunate young woman, regardless of the loud roaring of the thunder, and the heavy pouring of the rain, and elicited from her the story of her wrongs.

Indignant at the base manner in which she had been deceived by Godfrey Hurdlestone, Juliet bade Mary follow her to the Lodge, and inform her aunt of the particulars that she had just related to her.

"I will never betray the man I love!" cried Mary, passionately. "When I told you my secret, Miss Whitmore, it was under the idea that you loved him—that you meant to tear him from me. Tell no one, I beseech you, the sad story, which you wrung from me in my despair!"

She would have flung herself at Juliet's feet; but the latter drew back, and said, with a sternness quite foreign to her nature:

"Would you have me guilty of a base fraud, and suffer the innocent to bear the brand of infamy, which another had incurred? Affection cannot justify crime. The feelings with which you regard a villain like Godfrey Hurdlestone are not deserving of the name of love."

"Ah, you young ladies are so hard-hearted," said Mary, bitterly. "Pride hinders you from falling into temptation, like other folk. If you dared, you would be no better than one of us."

"Mary, do not change my pity for your unhappy situation into contempt. Religion and propriety of conduct can protect the poorest girl from the commission of crime. I am sorry for you, and will do all in my power to save you from your present misery. But you must promise me to give up your evil course of life."

"You may spare yourself the trouble," said the girl, regarding her companion's beautiful countenance, and its expression of purity and moral excellence, with a glance of envious disdain. "I ask no aid; I need no sympathy; and, least of all, from you, who have robbed me of my lover, and then reproach me with the evil which your selfish love of admiration has brought upon me."

A glow of anger passed over Miss Whitmore's face, as the girl turned to leave her. She struggled a few minutes with her feelings, until her better nature prevailed; and following Mary, she caught her by the arm:

"Stay with me, Mary! I forgive the rash words you uttered. I am sure you cannot mean what you say."

"You had better leave me," said the girl, gloomily. "Evil thoughts are rising in my heart against you, and I cannot resist them."

"You surely would not do me any harm?" and Juliet involuntarily glanced towards her horse, which was quietly grazing a few paces off, "particularly when I feel most anxious to serve you."

The girl's countenance betrayed the most violent agitation. She turned upon Juliet her fine eyes, in which the light of incipient madness gleamed, and said in a low, horrid voice,

"I hate you. I should like to kill you!"

Juliet felt that to run from her, or to offer the least resistance, would be the means of drawing upon herself the doom which her companion threatened. Seating herself upon a fallen tree, and calmly folding her hands together, she merely uttered, "Mary, may God forgive you for your sinful thought!" and then awaited in silence the issue of this extraordinary and painful scene.

The girl stood before her, regarding her with a fixed and sullen tone. Sometimes she raised her hand in a menacing attitude; and then, again, the sweet mild glance of her intended victim appeared to awe her into submission.

"Shall I kill her?" she muttered aloud. "Shall I spoil that baby face, which he prefers to mine?" Then as if that thought aroused all the worst feelings in her breast, she continued in a louder, harsher tone, "Yes—I will tread her beneath my feet—I will trample her into the dust; for he loves her. Oh, misery, misery! he loves her better than me—than me who love him so well—who could die for him! Oh, agony of agonies! for her sake I am forgotten and despised!"

The heart of the woman was touched by the vehemence of her own passions. Her former ferocity gave way, and she sank down upon the ground, and buried her face in the long grass, and wept.

Her agonising sobs and groans were more than Juliet could listen to, without offering a word of comfort to the mourner. Forgetful of her former fears, she sat down by the prostrate weeper, and lifting her head upon her knees put back from her swollen face the long-neglected tresses, which, drenched by the heavy rain, fell in thick masses over her convulsed features. Mary no longer offered any resistance. Her eyes were closed, her lips apart. She lay quite motionless, but ever and anon the pale lips quivered; and streams of tears gushed from beneath the long lashes that shrouded her eyes, and fell like rain over her garments.

Oh, love and guilt, how dreadful is your struggle in the human heart! Like Satan after his first transgression, the divine principle, still retains somewhat of its sovereign power and dignity, and appears little less

"Than archangel ruined."

"Poor Mary!" sighed Juliet, "your sin has indeed found you out! Thank heaven, the man I love is not guilty of this moral murder. Oh, Anthony, how I have injured you! I ought to have known that you were utterly incapable of a crime like this!"

"Leave me, Miss Juliet," said Mary, regaining her self-possession; "leave me to my own sorrow. Oh, I wish I could die and forget it all! But I dare not die. Hateful as life has become, I dare not look upon death. Do not weep for me—your tears will drive me mad! Do not look at me so—it makes me hate you. Do not ask me to go to the Lodge, for I will not go!" she cried, springing to her feet, and clenching her hands. "I am my own mistress! You cannot make me obey you. If I choose to bid defiance to the world, and live as I please, it is no business of yours. You shall not—you dare not attempt to control me!" And brushing past Miss Whitmore, she was soon lost among the trees. Juliet drew a freer breath when she was gone, and turning round beheld her father.

"What are you doing here in the rain, Juliet? your habit is soaked with water. And where is Godfrey?"

"Take me home, papa!" said Juliet, flinging herself into his arms, and sobbing upon his shoulder. "Godfrey is gone for ever. I have been dreadfully frightened; but I will tell you all when we get home. I cannot tell you here!"



CHAPTER XVI.

Whate'er thou hast to say, speak boldly out; Confront me like a man—I shall not start. Nor shiver, nor turn pale. My hand is firm, My heart is firmer still; and both are braced To meet the hour of danger—S.M.

About a mile and a half from the village of Ashton, at the head of an obscure cross road, seldom traversed but by wagoners and their teams, or the day laborer going to and fro from the neighboring farms to his work, there stood, a little back in a pathway field, a low public house, whose signboard merely contained the following blunt announcement to mark the owner's calling,

"Table Beer Sold Here."

The master of this obscure house of entertainment (which from its lonely situation might have been termed anything but public,) was a notorious poacher, familiarly known as Old Strawberry; and his cottage, for it deserved no better name, was the nightly resort of all the idle young fellows in the parish.

The in-door accommodations of the house consisted of two rooms below, and two attics above, and a long lean-to, which ran the whole length of the back of the building, forming an easy mode of egress, should need be, from the chamber windows above. The front rooms were divided into a sort of bar, which was separated from the kitchen by a high, old-fashioned stamped-leather screen, behind which a stout red faced middle aged woman held despotic sway, dispensing as many oaths to her customers as she did pots of beer. The other room was of a more private nature. It was fitted up with tables, cards and dice, to which none but the initiated were ever admitted.

The outside of the place had a worn and dilapidated appearance; but the inside was not at all deficient in comfort. The public room contained a good substantial oak dining-table, a dozen well polished elm chairs, an old fashioned varnished clock, and a huge painted cupboard in a corner, the doors of which were left purposely open, in order to display dame Strawberry's store of "real chany" cups and saucers, four long-necked cut-glass decanters, and a dozen long-legged ale-glasses. Then there was a side-table decorated with a monstrous tea-board, in which was portrayed, in all the colors of the rainbow, the queen of Sheba's memorable visit to the immortal wisdomship of Solomon.

Various pictures made gay the white-washed walls, amidst which shone conspicuously the history of the prodigal son, representing in six different stages a panoramic view of his life, in which the hero figured in the character of a fop in the reign of the first George, dressed in a sky blue coat, scarlet waistcoat, knee breeches, silk stockings, and high-heeled shoes, and to crown all, a full bottomed wig. Then there were the four Seasons, quaintly represented by four damsels, who all stared upon you with round eyes, and flushed red faces, dame Winter forming the only exception, whose grey locks and outstretched hands seemed to reproach her jolly companions for their want of sympathy in her sufferings.

Over the mantel-shelf hung a looking-glass in a carved frame, darkened and polished by the rubbing of years, quite a relic of the past, the top of which was ornamented by a large fan of peacock's feathers, and bunches of the pretty scentless flowers called "Love everlasting." A couple of guns slung to the beams that crossed the ceiling; an old cutlass in its iron scabbard, and a very suspicious-looking pair of horse pistols, completed the equipment of the room. The lean-to contained a pantry and wash-house, and places for stowing away game and liquor.

The private room was infinitely better furnished than the one just described. It boasted the luxury of a carpeted floor, and a dozen of painted cane-bottomed chairs, several mahogany card-tables, and a good mirror.

In this room a tall drooping girl was busily employed in wiping the dust from the furniture, and placing the cards and dice upon the tables. Sometimes she stopped and sighed heavily, or looked upwards and pressed her hand upon her head, with a sad and hopeless glance; ever and anon wiping away the tears that trickled down her pale cheeks with the corner of her checked apron.

The door was suddenly flung open with a sound that made the girl start, and the broad person of Mrs. Strawberry filled up the opening.

"Mary Mathews!" she shouted at the top of her voice, "what are you dawdling about? Do you think that I can afford to pay gals a shilling a week to do nothing? Just tramp to the kitchen and wash them potatoes for the men's supper. I don't want no fine ladies here, not I, I'se can tell you! If your brother warn't a good customer it is not another hour that I'd keep you, you useless lazy slut!"

"I was busy putting the room to rights, ma'am," said Mary, her indignation only suffered to escape her in the wild proud flash of her eye. "I can't be in two places at once!"

"You must learn to be in three or four, if I please," again bawled the domestic Hecate. "Your time is mine; I have bought it, and I'll take good care not to be cheated out of what's my due. Light up them candles. Quick! I hear the men whistling to their dogs. They'll be here directly."

Away waddled the human biped, and Mary, with another heavy sigh, lighted the candles, and retreated into the bar-room.

The night was cold and damp, although it was but the first week in October. The men were gathered about the fire, to dry their clothes and warm themselves. The foremost of these was Godfrey Hurdlestone. "Polly!" he shouted. "Polly Mathews, bring me a glass of brandy, and mind you don't take toll by the way."

The men laughed. "A little would do the girl good, and raise her spirits," said old Strawberry. "Never mind him, my dear. He's a stingy one. Take a good sup. Brandy's good for every thing. It's good for the head-ache, and the tooth-ache, and the heart-ache. That's right, take it kindly. It has put a little blood into your pale face already."

"I wish it would put a little into her heart," said Godfrey: "she's grown confoundedly dull of late."

"Why, Master Godfrey, who's fault is that, I should like to know?" said the old poacher. "You drink all the wine out of the cask, and then kick and abuse it, because 'tis empty. Now, before that girl came across you, she was as high-spirited a tom-boy as ever I seed. She'd come here at the dead o' night to fetch home her old dad, when she thought he'd been here long enough, and she'd a song and a jest for us all. She could take her own part then, and not one of my fellows dared to say a crooked word to her. I thought that she was the last girl in the world to be brought to sich a pass."

"Hush," said Godfrey; "what's the use of ripping up old grievances? Here comes Mathews with the game!"

"A poor night's work," said that ruffian, flinging down a sack upon the floor. "Five hares, three brace of pheasants, and one partridge. It was not worth venturing a trip across the herring pond for such a paltry prize. Here, Poll! stow them away in the old place. In two hours they'll be upon their journey to Lunnon without the aid of wings. Mind, girl, and keep a good look-out for the mail."

"Tim will take them to the four cross ways," said Mrs. Strawberry. "I want Mary at home. Why, boys, you have hardly earned your supper."

"If it's ready, let us have it upon trust, mother," said Godfrey: "this cold work in the plantations makes a fellow hungry."

In a moment all was bustle and confusion: the clatter of plates, and the clashing of knives and forks, mingled with blasphemous oaths and horrid jests, as the worthy crew sat down to partake of their evening meal. Over all might be heard the shrill harsh voice of Mistress Strawberry, scolding, screaming, and ordering about in all directions.

The noisy banquet was soon ended; and some of the principals, like Godfrey and his associate Mathews, retired to the inner room, to spend the rest of the night in gambling and drinking. Mary was, as usual, in attendance to supply their empty glasses, and to procure fresh cards, if required.

"I don't think I shall play to-night, Mathews," said Godfrey, drawing his companion aside. "I lost all I was worth yesterday; and Skinner is not here. He's the only one worth plucking; the rest are all minus of cash just now."

"By the way, Godfrey," said Mathews, "what do you mean to do about that three hundred pounds you owe to Drew? You would buy the cattle. They were not worth half the money you paid for them; but you were drunk, and would have your own way. You must return the horses at a great loss."

"That's out of my power. They are gone—lost in a bet last night to that lucky fool, Skinner."

"Whew! you are a precious fellow. I am glad that I was not born under the same star. Why, Drew insists upon being paid, and threatens to take legal steps against you."

"I have provided for that," said Godfrey. "Look here." They stepped to the table at the far end of the room, and young Hurdlestone drew from his pocket-book a paper which he gave to Mathews. "Will that pass?"

"What is this? An order for three hundred pounds upon the bank of ——, drawn by the Jew, Haman Levi. What eloquence did you employ to obtain such a prize?"

"It's forged," said Godfrey, drawing close up to him, and whispering the words in his ear. "Did ever counterfeit come so close to reality?"

"Why, 'tis his own hand."

"Do you think it will escape detection?"

"Old Stratch himself could hardly find it out. You may get the blunt as soon as you like; and, if this succeeds, my boy, you will soon be able to replenish our empty purses." And Mathews rubbed his hands together, and chuckled with delight.

"Have you heard anything of Anthony?" said Godfrey. "Is he still with young Wildegrave?"

"I saw him this morning in the lane, by the old yew grove, near the park. He was walking very lovingly with a pretty little girl. I wonder what there is in him to make the girls so fond of him. I raised my hat as he passed, and gave him the time of day, and hang me, if he did not start, as if he had seen his father."

"Are they reconciled?"

"Not a bit of it. Wildegrave's man told me that he never goes near the Hall. Between ourselves, Mr. Godfrey, this proves your cousin to be a shrewd clever fellow. The only way to get those stingy old chaps to leave their money to their lawful heirs is by taking no notice of them."

"Oh that this Anthony were out of my path!" said Godfrey, lowering his voice to a whisper. "We could soon settle the old man's business."

"The lad's a good lad," said the other. "I don't much relish the idea of having his blood to answer for. If we could but get the father and son into an open quarrel, which would place him in suspicious circumstances—do you understand me?—and then do the old man's business—the blame might fall upon him instead of upon you."

"I would certainly rather transfer the hemp collar to his neck, if it could be safely accomplished. But how can it be brought about?"

"The devil will help us at a pinch. I have scarcely turned it over in my mind. But I'm sure your heart would fail you, Godfrey, if it came to murder."

"Do you take me for a coward?"

"Not exactly. I was making some allowance for natural affection."

"Pshaw!" muttered his companion. "Only give me the chance. Affection! What affection do I owe to father or son? Anthony robbed me of my father's heart, and now stands between me and my uncle's fortune."

"I owe Anthony something on my own account, if it were only for the contempt with which he treated me in the presence of Miss Whitmore. By-the-by, Mr. Godfrey, are all your hopes in that quarter at an end?"

"Oh, hang her! Don't name her, Mathews. I would rather have Mary without a farthing than be domineered over by that pretty prude, and her hideous old aunt. I believe I might have the old maid for the asking—ha! ha! ha!"

"Mr. Godfrey," said Mathews, taking no notice of his mistimed mirth, "I would advise you, as a friend, not to mention our designs on the old miser to Mary."

"She won't peach."

"I'd not trust her. Women are strange creatures. They will often do the most wicked things when their own interests and passions are concerned; and, at other times, will sacrifice their best friends, from a foolish qualm of conscience, or out of a mistaken feeling of benevolence. If you wish our scheme to be successful, don't let Mary into the secret."

A wild laugh sounded in his ears: both started; and, on turning round, beheld Mary standing quietly beside them. Mathews surveyed his sister with a stern searching glance. She smiled contemptuously; but drew back, as if she feared him.

"Did you overhear our conversation, Mary?"

"I can keep my own secrets," said the girl, sullenly. "I don't want to be burthened with yours. They are not worth the trouble of keeping. My sleep is bad enough already. A knowledge of your deeds, William, would not make it sounder."

"It would make you sleep so soundly that evil thoughts would not be likely to keep you awake," said her brother, clenching his fist in her face. "Betray but one syllable of what you have overheard, and your bed is prepared for you."

"I do not care how soon," said Mary; "if you hold out such a temptation, I don't know what I might be tempted to do. They say that the sins of the murdered are all visited upon the murderer. What a comfort it would be to transfer mine to you." This was said in a tone of bitter irony; and, however unwilling to betray himself, it seemed to produce a strange effect upon the mind of the ruffian.

"Who talks of murder?" he said. "You are dreaming. Go to your bed, Mary. It is late; and don't forget to say your prayers."

"Prayers!" said the girl with a mocking laugh. "The prayers of the wicked never come up before the throne of God. My prayers would sound in my own ears like blasphemy. How would they sound in the ears of God?"

"Don't talk in that way, Mary; you make my flesh creep," said Mathews. "I have never said a prayer since I was a boy at my mother's knee, and that was before Mary was born. Had mother lived I should not have been what I now am; and poor Mary—." He paused; there was a touch of tenderness in the ruffian's tone and manner. The remembrance of that mother's love seemed the only holy thing that had ever been impressed upon his mind; and sunk even as he was in guilt, and hardened in crime, had he followed its suggestions it would have led him back to God, and made him the protector, instead of the base vendor of his sister's honor.

"What is the use of dwelling upon the past?" said Godfrey, pettishly. "We were all very good little boys once. At least my father always told me so; and by the strange contradictions which abound in human nature, I suppose that that was the very reason which made me grow up a bad man. And bad men we both are, Mathews, in the world's acceptation, and we may as well make the most we can of our acquired reputation."

"Now I would like to know," said Mathews, gloomily, "if you have ever felt a qualm of conscience in your life?"

"I do not believe in a future state. Let that answer you."

"Do you never fear the dark?" returned Mathews, glancing stealthily around. "Never feel that eyes are looking upon you—cold, glassy eyes, that peer into your very soul—eyes which are not of this world, and which no other eyes can see? Snuff the candles, Mary. The room looks as dismal as a vault."

Godfrey burst into a loud laugh. "If I were troubled with such ocular demonstrations I would wear spectacles. By Jove! Bill Mathews, waking or sleeping, I never was haunted by an evil spirit worse than yourself. But here's Skinner at last! Fetch a bottle of brandy and some glasses to yon empty table, Mary. I must try to win back from him what I lost last night."



CHAPTER XVII.

Oh! speak to me of her I love, And I shall think I hear The voice whose melting tones, above All music, charms mine ear.—S.M.

Whilst Godfrey Hurdlestone was rapidly traversing the broad road that leads down to the gates of death, Anthony was regaining his peace of mind in the quiet abode of domestic love. Day after day the young cousins whiled away the charmed hours in delightful converse. They wandered hand in hand through green quiet lanes, and along sunny paths, talking of the beloved. Clary felt no jealous envy mar the harmony of her dove-like soul, as she listened to Anthony's rapturous details of the hours he had spent with Juliet, his poetical descriptions of her lovely countenance and easy figure. Nay, she often pointed out graces which he had omitted, and repeated, with her musical voice, sweet strains of song by her young friend, to him unknown.

Was there no danger in this intercourse? Clarissa Wildegrave felt none. In her young heart's simplicity, she dreamed not of the subtle essence which unites kindred spirits. She never asked herself why she loved to find the calm noble-looking youth for ever at her side; why she prized the flowers he gathered, and loved the songs he loved; why the sound of his approaching steps sent the quick blood glowing to her pallid cheek, and lighted up those thoughtful dreamy eyes with a brilliancy which fell with the serene lustre of moon or star-light upon the heart of her cousin—to him as holy and as pure.

She loved to talk of Juliet, for it brought Anthony nearer. She loved to praise her, for it called up a smile upon his melancholy face; the expression of his brow became less stern, and his glance met hers, full of grateful tenderness. She loved to see her own girlish face reflected in the dark depths of those beautiful eyes, nor knew that the mysterious fire they kindled in her breast was destined to consume her young heart, and make it the sepulchre of her new-born affections.

"It must be a blessed thing to be loved as you love Juliet, Anthony," she said, as they were sitting together beneath the shadow of the great oak which graced the centre of the lawn in front of the house. "Could you not share your heart with another?"

"Why, my little Clary, what would you do with half a heart?" said Anthony, smiling; for he always looked upon his fragile companion as a child. "Love is a selfish fellow, he claims the whole, concentrates all in himself, or scatters abroad."

"You are right, Anthony. I am sure if I had the half, I should soon covet the whole. It would be a dangerous possession, and stand between me and heaven. No, no, it would not be right to ask that which belongs to another; only it seems so natural to wish those to love us whom we love."

"I do love you, sweet Clary, and you must continue to love me; though it is an affection quite different from that which I feel for Juliet. You are the sister whom nature denied me—the dear friend whom I sought in vain amidst the world and its heartless scenes; my good angel, whose pure and holy influence subdues the evil passions of my nature, and renders virtue more attractive. I love you, Clary. I feel a better and humbler creature in your presence; and when you are absent, your gentle admonitions stimulate me to further exertions."

"I am satisfied, dear Anthony," said Clary, lifting her inspired countenance, and gazing steadily upon him. "As yon heavens exceed in height and glory the earth beneath, so far, in my estimation, does the love you bear to me exceed that which you feel for Juliet. One is of the earth, and like the earth must perish; the other is light from heaven. Evermore let me dwell in this light."

With an involuntary movement, Anthony pressed the small white hand he held in his own to his lips. Was there the leaven of earth in that kiss, that it brought the rosy glow into the cheek of Clary, and then paled it to death-like whiteness? "Clary," he said, "have you forgotten the promise you made me a few days ago?"

Clary looked up inquiringly.

"To show me Juliet's portfolio."

"Oh, yes, and there are some lines about love, that I will sing and play to you," said Clary, rising.

"Have you got the music?"

"It is all here," said the fair girl, placing her hand upon her breast. "The heart is the fountain from which all my inspiration flows." And she bounded off to fetch her harp and the portfolio.

Anthony looked after her, but no regretful sigh rose to his lips. His heart was true to the first impression to which love had set his seal; its affections had been consecrated at another shrine, and he felt that his dear little cousin could never stand in a tenderer relation to him.

Clary returned quite in a flutter with the exertion she had used. Anthony sprang forward to relieve her of the harp, and to place it in a convenient situation.

"Juliet had a great fear of being married for her money," said Clary. "I used to laugh at her, and tell her that no one who knew her would ever remember her money; the treasures of her mind so far surpassed the dross of the world. Yet, for all that, she wrote and gave me this ballad the next morning. I felt very much inclined to scold her for her want of faith."

"Do let me hear it."

"Patience, Mr. Anthony. You must give me time to tune my harp. Such a theme as love requires all the strings to sound in perfect unison. There now—let me think a few minutes. The air must be neither very sad, nor yet gay. Something touching and tender. I have it now—"

THE MAIDEN'S DREAM.

In all the guise that beauty wears, Well known by many a fabled token, Last night I saw young Love in tears, With stringless bow and arrows broken. Oh, waving light in wanton flow, Fair, sunny locks his brows adorn, And on his cheeks the roseate glow With which Aurora decks the morn.

The living light in those blind eyes No mortal tongue could ere disclose; Their hue was stol'n from brighter skies, Their tears were dew-drops on the rose. Around his limbs of heavenly mould A rainbow-tinted vest was flung, Revealing through each lucid fold The faultless form by poets sung.

He sighed; the air with fragrance breath'd; He moved; the earth confess'd the god; Her brightest chaplets nature wreath'd, Where'er his dimpled feet had press'd the sod. "Why weeps Love's young divinity alone, While men have hearts, and woman charms beneath Tell me, fair worshipp'd boy of ages flown, Is ev'ry flowret faded in Love's wreath?"

With that he raised his dewy, azure eyes, And from his lips words of soft music broke; But still the truant tears would crowding rise, And snowy bosom heave before he spoke. "Oh, come and weep with me," he cried, "fair maid Weep that the gentle reign of Love is o'er; Come, venture nearer—cease to be afraid, For I have hearts and worshippers no more.

"In vain I give to woman's lovely form All that can rapture on the heart bestow; The fairest form no dastard heart can warm While gold has greater power than Love below. In vain I breathe a freshness on her cheek; In vain the Graces round her footsteps move, And eyes of melting beauty softly speak The soul-born, silent eloquence of Love.

"It was not thus," the urchin, sighing, said, "When hope and gladness crowned the new-born earth. In Eden's bowers, beneath a myrtle's shade, Before man was, Love sprang to birth. While Heaven around me balmy fragrance shed, With rosy chains the infant year I bound; And as my bride young Nature blushing led In vestal beauty o'er the verdant ground.

"The first fond sigh that young Love stole Was wafted o'er those fields of air, To kindle light in man's stern soul, And render Heaven's best work more fair. Creation felt that tender sigh, And earth received Love's rapturous tears, Their beauty beamed in woman's eye, And music broke on human ears.

"Whether I moved upon the rolling seas, Or sank on Nature's flowery lap to rest, Or raised my light wings on the sportive breeze, The conscious earth with joy her god confess'd. While Mirth and Gladness round my footsteps play'd, And bright-haired Hope led on the laughing Hours. As man and beast in holy union stray'd To share the lucid streams and virgin flowers.

"Ah, useless then yon shafts and broken bow Till man abused the balm in mercy given; Whilst gold has greater charms than Love below, I flee from earth to find a home in heaven!" A sudden glory round his figure spread, It rose upon the sun's departing beam; With the sad vision sleep together fled: Starting, I woke—and found it all a dream!

"When I try to compose music for love songs," said Clary, suddenly turning to Anthony, whom she found buried in profound thought, "I never succeed. If you understood this glorious science of music, and could make the harp echo the inborn melodies that float through the mind, you would not fail to give them the proper effect."

"Why do you think that I should be more fortunate than your sweet self, Clary?"

"Because you 'love one bright, particular star,' with your whole heart, Anthony. The heart has a language of its own. It speaks in music. There are few that can comprehend its exquisite tones; but those who are so gifted are the best qualified to call them forth. Love must have existed before Music. The first sigh he breathed gave birth to melodious sounds. The first words he spake were song; so Juliet tells us, in this little poem, and surely she is inspired."

"What else have we here?" said Anthony, peeping into the portfolio and drawing out a sheet of paper. "Is this bold energetic-looking hand my beautiful Juliet's autograph?"

"You are disappointed, cousin Anthony. You expected to find an elegant flowing hand, as fair and graceful as the white fingers that held the pen. Now, be it known unto you, my wise cousin, that persons of genius, especially those who deal in rhymes, rarely write fine hands; their thoughts flow too rapidly to allow them the necessary time and care required to form perfect characters. Most boarding-school misses write neat and graceful hands, but few of such persons are able to compose a truly elegant sentence. The author thinks his ideas of more consequence than his autograph, which is but the mechanical process he employs to represent them on paper."

"What sort of a hand do you write, Clary?"

"Why, cousin Anthony, it just hangs between the two extremes. Not good enough to deserve much praise, nor bad enough to call forth much censure. In this respect it corresponds more with my character than Juliet's does."

"You are no judge of your mental qualifications, Clary, and I am not going to make you vain by enumeration. Can you compose music for this little ballad?" and he placed one before her.

"That? Oh, no, I can do nothing with that. But hark! I hear my brother calling me from the house. Let us go to him." She ran forward, and Anthony was about to follow her, when he was addressed in a rude familiar manner, and turning round, he beheld the burly form of William Mathews, leaning over the slight green paling that separated the lawn from the road.

"Good day to you, Mr. Anthony. You have been hiding from us of late. A pleasant place this."

"Have you any business with me, Mr. Mathews?" said Anthony, in a voice, and with a look, which rendered his meaning unmistakeable.

"Ahem! Not exactly. But 'tis natural for one to inquire after the health of an old neighbor. Are you living here, or with the old 'un?"

"Good morning, Mr. Mathews," said Anthony, turning coldly upon his heel. "I make a point of never answering impertinent questions."

"Curse you for a proud fool," muttered the ruffian, as Anthony entered the house. "If Bill Mathews does not soon pull you down from your high horse, may his limbs rot in a jail." And calling to an ugly black cur, that was prowling round the garden, and whose physiognomy greatly resembled his own, the poacher slunk off.

"Anthony," said Frederic Wildegrave, as his cousin, in no very gentle mood, entered the house, "unexpected business calls me away for some weeks to a distant county. You must make yourself as comfortable as you can during my absence. Clary will do the honors of the house. By-the-by, I have just received four hundred pounds for the sale of the big marsh. I have not time to deposit the money in the bank; but will you see to it some time during the week. There is the key of my desk. You will find the money and the banker's book in the second drawer. And now, Clary, don't look so grave, but give me a kiss, and wish me back."

"I don't think that you will have any," said Clary flinging her arms round his neck. "My heart fills with gloom at the thought of your going away—and so suddenly."

"I shall come back as soon as I possibly can. What in tears. Silly child!"

"Don't go, dear Fred."

"Nonsense! Business must not be neglected."

"Something tells me that this journey is not for good."

"Dear Clary, I could quarrel with you for these superstitious fears. Farewell, my own darling—and joy be with you."

Kissing again and again the tears from Clarissa's cheek, and shaking Anthony warmly by the hand, the young master of the mansion sprang to his saddle and was gone, leaving Anthony and Clary to amuse themselves in the best manner they could.

"You must not forget, Anthony, that Fred has left you his banker. He is so generous that the money will be safer in your hands than in his own."

Anthony laughed, and put the key of the desk into his pocket. What to him was the money? had it been four thousand, or forty thousand, he would not, in all probability have given it a second thought.

The next morning Clary was seriously indisposed, and her cousin took his breakfast alone. After making many anxious inquiries about her, and being assured by old Ruth that she only required rest to be quite well again, he retired to Frederic's study; and taking up a volume of a new work that was just out, he was soon buried in its contents.

A loud altercation in the passage, between some person who insisted upon seeing Mr. Hurdlestone and old Ruth, broke in upon his studies.

"Will you please to send up your name, sir?" said Ruth, in no very gentle tones; "Mr. Hurdlestone is busy."

"No. I told you before that I would announce myself."

Anthony instantly recognised the voice, and before he could lay aside the book, Godfrey Hurdlestone stood before him.

How changed—how dreadfully changed he was, since they last met. The wicked career of a few months had stamped and furrowed his brow with the lines of years. His dress was mean and faded. He looked dirty and slovenly, and little of his former manly beauty and elegance of person remained. So utterly degraded was his appearance, that a cry of surprise broke from Anthony's lips, so inexpressibly shocked was he at an alteration so startling.

"I suppose you know me, Anthony," said Godfrey, with a sarcastic smile; "I can't be so changed as all that?"

"You are greatly changed."

"For the worse, of course. Yes, poverty soon brings a man down who has never been used to work. It has brought me down—down to the very dust."

"I am sorry to hear you say so. I thought that you were comfortably settled with the Whitmores until you could procure a tutorship. With your education and abilities, Godfrey, you should not appear thus."

"I left the Whitmores a long time ago. I thought you had heard that piece of ill news, for such stories travel apace. You must know that, as ill-luck would have it, Juliet learned from Mary all the particulars of that unfortunate business, and I, of course, had to decamp. Since then the world has gone all wrong with me, and one misfortune has followed upon another, until I stand before you a lost and ruined man; and if you, Anthony, refuse to assist me, I must go headlong to destruction."

In spite of all his affected boldness, it was evident that the speaker was dreadfully agitated. His eyes were wild and bloodshot, his fine features swollen and distorted, and his face as pale as ashes.

Anthony continued to gaze upon him with eyes full of pity and astonishment, and cheeks yet paler than his own. Could it be Algernon Hurdlestone's son that stood before him—that cousin whom he had sworn to love and cherish as a brother, and to help to the uttermost in time of need? The solemn vow he had taken when a boy was the uppermost thought that moment in his mind; and his eyes slowly filled with tears as turning to Godfrey he said, "If I can help you I will do so to the utmost of my power. Like you, however, I am a poor man, and my power is limited."

Godfrey remained silent.

"What can have happened to agitate you thus? What have you done that can warrant such dreadful words? Sit down, cousin. You look faint. Good Heavens! how you tremble. What can occasion this terrible distress of mind?"

"I shall be better presently. Give me a glass of brandy, Tony, to make me speak steadily. I never felt nervous before."

His teeth chattered audibly and prevented him from speaking further. Anthony gave him the stimulant he desired. It seemed to possess some miraculous power. Godfrey rose from his chair, and coming quite close up to his cousin, he said with apparent calmness:

"Anthony, I have committed forgery."

Anthony recoiled backward. He caught the table convulsively to keep himself from falling, as he gasped out:

"This is too dreadful! Oh, my poor uncle! Thank Heaven, you are spared the agony of this. Godfrey, Godfrey, what could induce you to perpetrate such a crime?"

"Necessity. But don't torture me with questions. I am punished enough already. The deed is done and the forfeit must be paid. Haman Levi, the Jew, in whose name the check was drawn, has detected the fraud. Fortunately for me he is a rascal, a man without any principle, in whom avarice is a more powerful feeling than justice. He knows that he will gain nothing by hanging me; but something considerable by a compromise that will save my life. The sum drawn by me was for three hundred pounds. Haman came to me this morning, and told me that if I paid him four hundred down within twelve hours he would acknowledge the order, and stop the prosecution; but if I refused to comply with his terms, the law should take its course. I have no money, Anthony. I know not where or how to obtain such a large sum in the given time, and if I suffer this day to expire, the season for mercy is past. Rescue me, Anthony, from this frightful situation—save me from a death of shame—and the rest of my life shall be devoted to your service!"

"Alas, Godfrey, I have already borne your shame, and though your victim has pronounced me innocent, the world considers me guilty. What can I do in this dreadful business? I have no money. And my cousin who might, perhaps, for my sake have helped you in this emergency, left us last night, and will be some weeks absent."

"You have a father—a rich father, Anthony!" said Godfrey, writhing in despair. "Will you not go to him and make one effort—one last effort—to save my life. Think of our early years. Think of my generous father—of his love and friendship—of all he sacrificed for your sake—and will you let his son be hung like a dog, when a few words of persuasion might save him."

The criminal bowed his head upon his hands, and wept long and passionately. Anthony was deeply affected by his misery. Had Frederic been at home, he thought, they might have done something to rescue him. They might have gone to the miser, and together represented the necessity of the case, and by offering large interest for the loan of the money, have obtained it. What was to be done? Confounded and bewildered, he could think of no plan at all likely to succeed.

Alas for Anthony! The money which had been left in his hands by Frederic Wildegrave, at that unlucky moment flashed across his mind. It was exactly the sum. He was sure that Frederic would lend it to him at his earnest request. Anthony was young and inexperienced, he had yet to learn that we are not called upon, in such matters, to think for others, or to do evil that good may come of it. He looked doubtfully in the haggard face of the wretched suppliant.

"Have you no means of raising the money, Godfrey?"

"Yes—in a few days, perhaps. But it will be too late then."

"Cannot you persuade the Jew to wait?"

"He is inexorable. But, Anthony, if you can borrow the money for me to-day, I will repay it to-morrow night."

"Can you promise me this?"

"I swear it. I will sell the reversion of the legacy left me by my aunt Maitland, which falls due at her husband's death. It is eight hundred pounds; I will sell it for half its value to meet the demand. But to accomplish this, more time is required than I can just now command. Will this satisfy you?"

"It will. But woe to us both if you deceive me!"

"Can you imagine me such an ungrateful scoundrel?"

"You have betrayed me once before. If you fail this time, Godfrey, you will not die alone."

Anthony went to the desk, and unlocked it with a trembling hand. As he opened the drawer which contained the money, a sudden chill crept through his veins, and he paused, irresolute how to act. "It is not theft," he argued to himself; "it is but a loan, which will soon be repaid. A few hours cannot make much difference. Long before Frederic requires the money, it will be replaced."

He had gone too far to recede. Godfrey was already at his side and eagerly seized the golden prize. With tears of real or feigned gratitude he left the house, and Anthony had leisure to reflect upon what he had done.

The more he pondered over the rash act, the more imprudent and criminal it appeared; and when, by the next post, he received a letter from Frederic, informing him that he had made a very advantageous purchase of land, and requested him to transmit the money he had left in his keeping, his misery was complete.

"Unfortunate Anthony!" he cried. "Into what new dangers will your unhappy destiny hurry you!"

Snatching up his hat, he rushed forth in quest of his unprincipled relative.



CHAPTER XVIII.

Strange voices still are ringing in mine ears, Something of shame, of anguish, and reproach; My brain is dark, I have forgot it all.—S.M.

In the miserable attic over the kitchen in the public-house already described, there was a sound of deep, half-suppressed, passionate weeping—a young mother weeping for her first-born, who would not be pacified. The deepest fountain of love in the human heart had been stirred; its hallowed sources abused, and violently broken up; and the shock had been too great for the injured possessor to bear patiently. Her very reason had yielded to the blow, and she lamented her loss, as a forward child laments the loss of some favorite plaything. Had she not been a creature of passionate impulses, the death of this babe of shame would have brought a stern joy to her bereaved mind. She would have wept—for nature speaks from the heart in tears; but she would have blessed God that He had removed the innocent cause of her distress from being a partaker of her guilt, a sharer of her infamy, a lasting source of regret and sorrow.

Mary Mathews had looked forward with intense desire for the birth of this child. It would be something for her to love and cling to—something for whose sake she would be content to live—for whom she could work and toil; who would meet her with smiles, and feel its dependence upon her exertions. She thought, too, that Godfrey would love her once more, for his infant's sake. Rash girl! She had yet to learn that the love of man never returns to the forsaken object of his selfish gratification.

The night before this event took place, violent words had arisen between Mary and her brother. The ruffian was partially intoxicated, and urged on by the infuriated spirit of intemperance, regardless of the entreaties of the woman Strawberry, or the helpless situation of the unfortunate girl, he had struck her repeatedly; and the violent passion into which his brutal unkindness had hurried his victim produced premature confinement, followed by the death of her child, a fine little boy.

Godfrey was absent when all this occurred; and though the day was pretty far advanced, he had not as yet returned.

As to William Mathews, he wished that death had removed both mother and child, as he found Mary too untractable to be of any use to him.

"My child! my child!" sobbed Mary. "What have you done with him? where have you put him? Oh! for the love of Heaven, Mrs. Strawberry, let me look at my child!"

"Hold your peace, you foolish young creature! What do you want with the corpse? You had better lie still, and be quiet, or we may chance to bury you both in the same grave."

"Oh!" sighed the girl, burying her face in the pillow, and giving way to a fresh gush of tears, "that's too good to happen. The wretched never die; the lost, like me, are never found. The wicked are denied the rest, the deep rest of the grave. Oh, my child! my blessed child! Let me but look upon my own flesh and blood, let me baptize the unbaptized with my tears, and I shall feel this horrible load removed from my heart."

"It was a sad thing that it died, before it got the sign of the cross," said the godless old woman. "Sich babes, I've heard the priest say, never see the light o' God's countenance; but the blackness of darkness abides on them for ever. Howsomever, these kind o' childer never come to no good, whether they live or die. Young giddy creatures should think o' that before they run into sin, and bring upon themselves trouble and confusion. I was exposed to great temptation in my day; but I never disgraced myself by the like o' that."

"Oh, you were very good, I dare say," said Mary, coaxingly; "and I will think you the best and kindest woman that ever lived, if you will but let me see the poor babe."

"What good will it do you to see it? it will only make you fret. You ought to thank God that it is gone. It was a mercy you had no right to expect. You are now just as good as ever you were. You can go into a gentleman's service, and hold up your head with the best of them. I would not stay here, if I were you, to be kicked and ordered about by that wicked brother of yours, nor wait, like a slave, upon this Mr. Godfrey. What is he now? not a bit better than one of us. Not a shilling has he to bless himself with, and I am sure he does not care one farthing for you, and will be glad that the child is off his hands."

"Oh, he loves me; indeed, indeed, he loves me and the child. Oh, he will grieve for the child. Mrs. Strawberry, if ever you were a mother yourself, have pity upon me, and show me the baby."

She caught the woman by the hand, and looked up in her face with such an expression of longing intense desire, that, harsh as she was, it melted her stony heart; and, going to a closet, she returned with the babe in her arms. It was dressed in its little cap, and long white night-gown—a cold image of purity and perfect peace.

"Oh, mine own! mine own!" wailed the young mother, pressing the cold form against her breast, as she rocked to and fro on the pillow. "My blessed innocent boy! You have left me for ever, and ever, and ever. My child! my infant love! I have wept for you—prayed for you—while yet unborn, have blessed you. Your smiles would have healed up the deep wounds of my broken heart. Together we would have wandered to some distant land, where reproaches, and curses, and blows, would never have found us; and we would have been happy in each's other's love—so happy! Ah, my murdered child! I call upon you, but you cannot hear me! I weep for you, but you are unconscious of my grief. Ah, woe is me! What shall I do, a-wanting thee? My heart is empty; the world is empty. Its promises are false—its love departed. My child is dead, and I am alone—alone—alone."

"Come, give me the babe, Mary! I hear your brother's step upon the stair."

"You shall not have it!" cried the girl, starting up in the bed, her eyes flashing fire. "Hush! your loud voice will waken him. He is mine. God gave him to me; and you shall not tear him from me. No other hand shall feed and rock him to sleep but mine.

"Lullaby, baby! no danger shall come, My breast is thy pillow, my heart is thy home; That poor heart may break, but it ever shall be True, true to thy father, dear baby, and thee!

"Weep, mother, weep, thy loved infant is sleeping A sleep which no storms of the world can awaken; Ah, what avails all thy passionate weeping, The depths of that love which no sorrow has shaken?

"All useless and lost in my desolate sadness, No sunbeam of hope scatters light through the gloom; Instead of the voice of rejoicing and gladness, I hear the wind wave the rank grass on thy tomb."

Partly moaning, and partly singing, the poor creature, exhausted by a night of severe pain, and still greater mental anxiety, dropped off into a broken slumber, with the dead infant closely pressed to her bosom.

"Well, there they lie together: the dead and the living," said Mrs. Strawberry. "'Tis a piteous sight. I wish they were both bound to the one place. We'll have no good of this love-sick girl; and I have some fears myself of her brutal brother and the father of the brat. I hear his voice: they are home. Well, they may just step up, and look at their work. If this is not murder, I wonder what is?"

With a feeling of more humanity than Mrs. Strawberry was ever known to display, she arranged the coarse pillow that supported Mary's head, and softly closing the door, descended the step-ladder that led to the kitchen; here she found Godfrey and Mathews in close conversation, the latter laughing immoderately.

"And he took the bait so easily, Godfrey? Never suspected that it was all a sham? Ha! ha! ha! Let me look at the money. I can scarcely believe my own senses. Ha! ha! ha! Why, man, you have found out a more expeditious method of making gold than your miserly uncle ever knew."

"Aye, but I have not his method of keeping it, Bill; but you may well laugh. This proud boy is in our toils now. I have him as sure as fate. I must say that I felt a slight pang of remorse when I saw him willing to dare so much for me; and he looked so like my father, that I could almost have fancied that the dead looked through his eyes into my soul. I have gone too far to recede. What must be, must be; none of us shape our own destinies, or some good angel would have warned Anthony of his danger."

"What the devil has become of Mary?" said Mathews, glancing round the kitchen. "She and I had some words last night; it was a foolish piece of business, but she provoked me past endurance. I found her dressed up very smart just at nightfall, and about to leave the house. I asked her where she was going so late in the evening. She answered, 'To hear the Ranters preach in the village; that she wanted to know what they had to say to her soul.' So I cursed her soul, and bade her go back to her chamber, and not expose her shame to the world; and she grew fierce, and asked me tauntingly, who it was that had brought her to that shame, and if I were not the greater sinner of the two; and I struck her in my anger, and drove her up stairs."

"Struck her!" said Godfrey, starting back. "Struck a woman! That woman your sister, and in her helpless situation! You dared not do such a cowardly, unmanly act?"

"I was drunk," said Mathews, gloomily; "and she was so aggravating that I am not sure that you would have kept your hands off her. She flew at me like an enraged tiger-cat, with clenched fists and eyes flashing fire, and returned me what I gave with interest; and I believe there would have been murder between us, if Mrs. Strawberry had not dragged her off. What has become of her, mother. How is she now?"

"You had better go up and see," said the woman, with a bitter laugh. "She is not very likely to fight again to-day."

There was something mysterious in the woman's manner that startled the ruffian. "Come up with me, Godfrey, and speak to her. One word from you will make my peace with Mary. I did not mean to hurt the girl."

Mary had been sleeping. The sound of their steps broke in upon her feverish slumber; but she still kept her eyes closed, as if unwilling to rouse herself from the stupor of grief in which she had fallen.

"She is sleeping," said Mathews, approaching the bed. "By Jove! I thought she was dead. How still she lies. How deadly pale she looks—and what is that upon her breast?"

"A child! my child!" cried Godfrey, stepping eagerly forward. "Poor Mary! she is safe through that trial. But the child—"

"Is dead," said Mathews. "Yes, dead. Godfrey you are in luck. What a fortunate thing for us all."

"Dead!" said the young father, laying his hand upon the cold pale cheek of his first born. "Aye, so it is. She was so healthy, I dared not hope for this. Poor little pale cold thing, how happy I am to see you thus! What a load of anxiety your death has removed from my heart! What a blessing it would have been if it had pleased God to take them both!"

This from the man she loved—the father of her child—was too much. Mary opened her large tear-swollen eyes, and fixed them mournfully upon his face. He stooped down, and would have kissed her; but she drew back with ill-disguised horror. The love she had so madly cherished for him was gone—vanished for ever in those cruel words, and nought but the blank darkness and horror of remorse remained. She turned upon her pillow, and fixing her eyes upon the dead infant, mentally swore that she would live for revenge. She no longer shed a tear, or uttered the least complaint, but secretly blessed God that the babe was dead. She had lived to hear the father of that child, for whose sake she had borne the contempt of her neighbors, the reproaches of conscience, and the fears of eternal punishment, rejoice in the death of his first-born; and without a tear or sigh, wish that she might share the same grave. Could such things be? Alas! they happen every day, and are the sure reward of guilt.

"My poor Mary," said the hypocrite. "You have suffered a good deal for my sake; but do not cry. God knew best when he took the child from us. It is painful for us to part with him, but depend upon it, he is much better off where he is."

"I know it now," said the young mother. "Yes, Godfrey Hurdlestone, he is better off where he is; and for some wise end, God has spared my worthless life. Is that you, William? The murderer of my child has no business here."

"Mary, it was the drink. I did not mean to hurt either you or the child; so shake hands, and say that you forgive me."

He leant over the bed and held out his hand. Mary put it contemptuously aside. "Never," she said firmly; "neither in this world, nor in the world to come."

"Do you know what you say?" said Mathews, bending over the pillow and doubling his fist in his sister's face, whilst his dark grey eyes emitted a deadly light.

"I am in my senses," returned Mary, with a bitter laugh, "although you have done your best to drive me mad. You need not stamp your foot, nor frown, nor glare upon me like a beast of prey. I defy your malice. What I said I will again repeat; and may my curse and the curse of an offended God cleave to you for ever!"

"I will murder you for those words!" said the fiend, grinding his teeth.

"Death is no punishment. Threaten me, William, with something that I fear. I am helpless, now, but I shall soon be strong and well, and my arm may be a match for the feeble drunkard—the cowardly destroyer of women and children."

"Unhand me, Godfrey Hurdlestone!" roared out the villain, struggling in the powerful grasp of his colleague in guilt. "For by all the fiends of hell! she shall answer for those words!"

"Hold, Mathews! You are mad! I will stab you to the heart if you attempt to touch her."

He spoke to the winds, for throwing him back to the wall, Mathews seized the knife from his hand, and sprang upon his intended victim. Rising slowly up in the bed, with an air of calm solemn grandeur, she held up the pure pale form of the dead child between herself and the murderer.

Not a word was spoken. With an awful curse the man reeled back as if he had been stung by a serpent, and fell writhing upon the floor, and Mary sunk back upon her pillow, and covered her face with her hands, muttering as she did so,—"How strong is innocence! The wicked are like the chaff which the wind scatters abroad. Oh, God, forgive the past, which is no longer in my power; and let the future be spent in thy service. I repent in dust and ashes. Oh, woe is me, for I have sinned!"

Rousing Mathews from the fit into which he had fallen, and in no very enviable state of mind, Godfrey left the chamber, and joined a set of notorious gamblers in the room below.

From this scene of riot and drunken debauchery, he was summoned by Mrs. Strawberry to attend a gentleman who wished to speak to him in the outer room. With unsteady steps, and a face flushed with the eager excitement of gambling. Godfrey followed his conductress, and ruffian as he was, his cheek paled, and his eyes sought the ground when he found himself in the presence of his injured cousin.

Shocked at the situation in which he found him, Anthony briefly stated the difficulty he had had in tracing Godfrey to this infamous resort, and the awkward circumstances in which he was placed with young Wildegrave; and he claimed the promise made to him by his cousin on the preceding day, to relieve him from the impending danger.

"I told you that to-night, Anthony, the money should be repaid. The clock has not yet struck for eight. If I have luck, it shall be returned before twelve to-night."

"Luck!" reiterated Anthony, gasping for breath, as he staggered to the wall for support. "Is it on such a precarious basis that my honor and your honesty must rest? You talked yesterday of the sale of your reversionary property."

"I did. But the Jew was too cunning for me. He became the purchaser, and the money just satisfied his demand, and covered an old debt of honor, that I had forgotten was due to him, and I am worse off than I was before."

"But you can restore the money you got from me last night, as Haman was satisfied by the sale of the legacy."

"I could if you had called two hours ago. I was tempted to try my luck in the hope of gaining a few pounds for my self, and—"

"It is lost at the gaming table?"

Godfrey nodded his head.

"It is well," said Anthony, bitterly. "You have saved your own life by transferring the doom to me."

He did not wait for further explanation, but walked rapidly from the house; and after a thousand severe self-upbraidings, in a fit of despair, took the road that led through Ashton Park to the miser's dwelling.

After an hour's walk he came in sight of the wretched hovel. It was now evening, and a faint light, shed from a rush candle, gleamed through the broken apertures of the low casement. He paused upon the threshold of this abode of want and misery, and for the first time in his life he thought it had been well for him had he never left it. For some time he continued knocking loudly at the door, without being able to gain admittance; at, length, bolt after bolt was slowly withdrawn, and the miser himself let him in.

"It is well, Grenard, that you are home at last," growled forth the surly old man. "If you make a practice of staying out so late at night, we shall both be murdered."

But when, on holding up the light, he discovered his mistake, and recognised the features of his son, he demanded in an angry tone, "What business he had with him?"

Anthony pushed past him, and entered the house.

"Father, I will tell you immediately—but I am tired and ill. I must sit down."

Without regarding the old man's stern look of surprise and displeasure, he advanced to the table, and sat down upon the empty bench which was generally occupied by Grenard Pike, secretly rejoicing that that worthy was not at home. The awkwardness and difficulty of his situation pressed so painfully upon the young man, that for a few seconds he could not utter a word. A cold perspiration bedewed his limbs, and his knees trembled with agitation.

Stern and erect, the old man, still holding the light, stood before him, and though he did not raise his head to meet the miser's glance, he felt that the searching gaze from which he used to shrink when a boy was riveted upon him.

Mark Hurdlestone was the first to break the awful silence.

"Well, sir! If you are ready to explain the cause of this extraordinary visit, I am ready to listen to you. What do you want?"

"Your advice and aid," at length gasped forth the unhappy youth. "I have acted very foolishly, and in an hour of great difficulty and danger, I fling myself upon your mercy, and I beseech you not to turn a deaf ear to my prayer."

Mark sat down in his high-backed chair, and placed the light upon the table in such a manner as fully to reveal the pale agitated features of his son. Had a stranger at that moment entered the cottage, he might for the first time have perceived the strong family likeness that existed between them. The same high features, the same compressed lips and haughty stern expression of eye. The gloom which overspread the countenance of the one, produced by the habitual absence of all joyous feeling; the other by actual despair. Yes, in that hour they looked alike, and the miser seemed tacitly to acknowledge the resemblance, for a softening expression stole over his rigid features as he continued to gaze upon his son.

"You have acted foolishly," he said; "no uncommon thing at your age—and in danger and difficulty you seek me. I suppose I ought to consider this act of condescension on your part a great compliment. Your circumstances must be desperate indeed, when they lead you to make a confidant of your father, considering how greatly I am indebted to you for filial love. You have been in my neighborhood, Anthony Hurdlestone, nearly a month, and this is the first visit with which you have honored me."

"I should have been most happy to have paid my respects to you, sir, could I have imagined that my visits would have been acceptable."

"It was worth your while to make the trial, young man. It was not for you to think, but to act, and the result would have proved to you how far you were right. But to dismiss all idle excuses, which but aggravate your want of duty in my eyes, be pleased briefly to inform me, why I am honored so late at night with a visit from Mr. Anthony Hurdlestone?"

Anthony bit his lips. It was too late to retract, and though he deeply repented having placed himself in such a humiliating situation, he faithfully related to his stern auditor the cause of his distress. The old man listened to him attentively, a sarcastic smile at times writhing his thin lips; and when Anthony implored him for the loan of four hundred pounds, until the return of Mr. Wildegrave, who he was certain would overlook his unintentional fraud—he burst into a taunting laugh, and flatly refused to grant his request.

Anthony assailed him with a storm of eloquence, using every argument which the agony of the moment suggested, in order to soften his hard heart. He might as well have asked charity of the marble monuments of his ancestors. Stung to madness by the old man's obstinate refusal, he sprang from his seat.

"Father, relent I beseech you: revoke this cruel decision. My request is too urgent to admit of a denial!"

He dashed his clenched fist upon the shattered remains of the old oak table, upon which Mark was leaning, his head resting between his long bony attenuated hands. The blow sent a hollow sound through the empty desolate apartment. The grey-haired man raised his eyes, without lifting his head, and surveyed his son with an expression of mocking triumph, but answered not a word. His contemptuous silence was more galling to the irritated applicant than the loudest torrent of abuse. He was prepared for that, and he turned from the stony glance and harsh face of his father with eyes full of tears, and his breast heaving under the sense of intolerable wrongs.

At length his feelings found utterance. His dark eyes flashed fire, and despair, with all her attendant furies, took possession of his heart.

"I will not reproach you, Mr. Hurdlestone, for giving me life," he cried, in tones tremulous with passion, "for that would be to insult the God who made me: but your unnatural conduct to me since the first moment I inherited that melancholy boon has made me consider that my greatest misfortune is being your son. It was in your power to have rendered it a mutual blessing. From a child, I have been a stranger in your house, an alien to your affections. While you possessed a yearly income of two hundred thousand pounds, you suffered your only son to be educated on the charity of your injured brother, your sordid love of gold rendering you indifferent to the wants of your motherless child. Destitute of a home without money, and driven to desperation by an act of imprudence, which my compassion for the son of that generous uncle urged me in an unguarded hour to commit, I seek you in my dire necessity to ask the loan of a small sum, to save me from utter ruin. This you refuse. I now call upon you by every feeling, both human and divine, to grant my request.

"What, silent yet. Nay, then by Heaven! I will not leave the house until you give me the money. Give me this paltry sum, and you may leave your hoarded treasures to the owls and bats, or make glad with your useless wealth some penurious wretch, as fond of gold as yourself!"

Mark Hurdlestone rocked to and fro in his chair, as if laboring with some great internal emotion; at length he half rose from his seat, and drew a key from beneath his vest. Anthony, who watched all his movements with intense interest, felt something like the glow of hope animate his breast; but these expectations were doomed to be annihilated, as the miser again sunk down in his chair, and hastily concealed the key among the tattered remains of his garments.

"Anthony, Anthony," he said, in a hollow voice, which issued from his chest as from a sepulchre. "Cannot you wait patiently until my death? It will all be your own, then."

"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 the awful 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. But come 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.



CHAPTER XIX.

Murder most foul hath been committed here, By thee committed—for thy hand is red, And on thy pallid brow I see impress'd The 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 went to 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 pay the 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 what had 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 some anathema 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 have eaten 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?"