"My sweet child," said Anthony, winding his arm around her slender waist, and leaning his head on her shoulder, "you could render me no assistance; the knowledge of my sorrow would only make you miserable."

"If it is anything about Juliet, tell me freely. Perhaps, you think, dear Anthony, that I am jealous of you and Juliet; oh, no, I love you too well for that. I know that I can never be as dear to you as Juliet; that she is more worthy of your love—Good Heavens! you are weeping. What have I said to cause these tears? Anthony, dear Anthony, speak to me. You distract me. Oh, tell me that I have not offended you."

Anthony's lips moved, but no word issued from them. His eyes were firmly closed, his brow pale as marble, and large tears slid in quick succession from beneath the jet-black lashes that lay like a shadow upon his ashen cheeks. And other tears were mingling with those drops of heart-felt agony—tears of the tenderest sympathy, the most devoted love, as, leaning that fair face upon the cold brow of the unhappy youth, Clary unconsciously kissed away those waters of the heart, and pressed that wan cheek against her gentle bosom. She felt his arm tighten round her, as she stood in the embrace of the beloved, scarcely daring to breathe, for fear of breaking the sad spell that had linked them together. At length Anthony unclosed his eyes, and looked long and earnestly up in his young companion's face—

"Oh, Clary! how shall I repay this love, my poor innocent lamb? Would to God we had never met!"

"Do not say that, Anthony. I never knew what it was to be happy until I knew you."

"Then you love life better than you did, Clary?"

"I love you," sighed Clary, hiding her fair face among his ebon curls, "and the new life with which you have inspired me is very dear."

"Oh, that I could bid you cherish it for my sake, dear artless girl! But we must part. In a few hours the faulty being whom you have rashly dared to love, may be no longer a denizen of earth."

"What do you mean?" cried Clary, starting from his arms, and gazing upon him with a distracted air. "While I have been idling in my bed something dreadful has happened. I read it in your averted eyes—on your sad, sad brow. Do not leave me in this state of torturing doubt. I beseech you to tell me the cause of your distress?"

"Clary, I cannot; I wish to tell you, but the circumstances are so degrading, I cannot find words to give them utterance; I feel that you would despise me—that all good men would upbraid me as a weak unprincipled fool; yet I call Heaven to witness, that at the moment I committed the rash act I thought not that it was a crime."

"It is impossible, Anthony, that you could do anything unworthy of yourself, or that could occasion this bitter grief. You are laboring under some strong delusion, and are torturing yourself to no purpose. Frederic will be home to-morrow; he will counsel you what to do, and all will be right."

"Frederic home to-morrow!" and Anthony gasped for breath.

"Oh, I am so glad. It seems an age since he left us. By the bye, I have a letter for you, which I quite forgot. It came this morning by the post. I am sure it is from my brother, for I know his hand." Going to the mantel-shelf, Clary handed him the letter. Anthony trembled violently as he broke the seal; it ran thus:

"My Dear Anthony,

"I know not in what manner to interpret your unkind silence. Your failing to forward the money I left in your hands has caused me great mortification and inconvenience, and will oblige me to leave—to-morrow, without transacting the business that took me from home.

"Though I am certain that you will give me very satisfactory reasons for your non-compliance with my very urgent request, I feel so vexed and annoyed by it, that it makes me half inclined to quarrel with you. You would forgive this if you only knew what an irritable mortal I am. I advise you and Clary to frame some notable excuse for your negligence, or you may dread the wrath of your affectionate friend,

"Frederic."

This letter, though written half in joke, confirmed Anthony's worst fears. He imagined that Frederic suspected him of dishonorable conduct, although he forbore to say so in direct terms; and his repugnance to confess what he had done, to either Clary or her brother, was greatly strengthened by the perusal.

It was this want of confidence in friends who really loved him, which involved him in ruin. Had he frankly declared his folly and thrown himself upon Wildegrave's generosity, he would as frankly have been forgiven; but pride and false shame kept his lips sealed.

He was a very young man—a novice in the ways of the world; and even in some degree ignorant of the nature of the crime, the commission of which had made him so unhappy. Instead of a breach of trust, he looked upon it as a felonious offence, which rendered him amenable to the utmost severity of the law. The jail and the gallows were ever in his thoughts; and worse than either, the infamy which would for ever attach itself to his name.

He determined to see his father for the last time, and if he failed in moving his compassion, he had formed the desperate resolution of putting an end to his own life in his presence; a far greater crime than that for which he dreaded receiving a capital punishment.

"Clary," he said, hastily thrusting the letter into his pocket, "business of importance calls me away to-night. Do not be alarmed if I should be detained until the morning."

"You cannot go to-night, Anthony. It has rained all the afternoon; the ground is wet. The air is raw and damp. You are not well. If you leave the house you will take cold!"

"Do not attempt to detain me, Clary, I must go. I shall leave a letter for your brother on the table, which you must give him if I do not return."

"Something is wrong. Tell me, oh, tell me what it is!"

"You will know all to-morrow," said Anthony, greatly agitated. "I cannot speak of it to-night." He took her hand and pressed it sadly to his heart. "Should we never meet again, dear Clary, will you promise to think kindly of me; and in spite of the contempt of the world, to cherish your cousin's memory?"

"Though all the world should forsake you, yet will I never desert you," sobbed Clary, as, sinking into his extended arms, she fainted on his breast.

"This will kill you, poor innocent. May God bless and keep you from a knowledge of my guilt." He placed her gently upon the sofa, and kissed her pale lips and brow, and calling Ruth to her assistance, sought with a heavy heart his own chamber.

He sat down and wrote a long letter to Frederic, explaining the unfortunate transaction which had occurred during his absence. This letter he left upon the study table, and putting a brace of loaded pistols into his pocket he sallied out upon his hopeless expedition.

It had been a very wet afternoon. The clouds had parted towards nightfall, and the moon rose with unusual splendor, rendering every object in his path as distinctly visible as at noonday. The beauty of the night only seemed to increase the gloom of Anthony Hurdlestone's spirit. He strode on at a rapid pace, as if to outspeed the quick succession of melancholy thoughts, that were hurrying him on to commit a deed of desperation. He entered the great avenue that led up to the back of the Hall, and past the miser's miserable domicile, and had traversed about half the extent of the darkly shaded path, when his attention was aroused by a tall figure leaning against the trunk of a large elm tree. A blasted oak, bare of foliage, on the opposite side the road, let in a flood of light through its leafless branches, which shone full upon the face of the stranger, and Anthony, with a shudder, recognised William Mathews.

"A fine evening for your expedition, Mr. Hurdlestone. It might well be termed the forlorn hope; however I wish with all my heart that you may be successful." As he spoke he lowered a fowling-piece from his shoulder to the ground. "Do you hear that raven that sits croaking upon the rotten branch of the old oak opposite? Does not his confounded noise make you nervous? It always does me. It sounds like a bad omen. I was just going to pull down at him as you came along. I fancy, however, that he's too far above us for a good shot."

"I am in no humor for trifling to-night," said Anthony, stopping and glancing up at the bird, who sat motionless on a decayed branch a few yards above his head. "If you are afraid of such sounds, you can soon silence that for ever."

"It would require a good eye, and an excellent fowling-piece, to bring down the black gentleman from his lofty perch. I have heard that you, Mr. Hurdlestone, are accounted a capital shot, far before your cousin Godfrey. I wish you would just give me a trial of your skill."

"Nonsense!" muttered Anthony. "The bird's only a few yards above us. A pistol would bring him down."

"I should like to see it done," said Mathews, with a grin. "Here, sir, take my gun."

Impatient of interruption, and anxious to get rid of the company of a man whose presence he loathed, Anthony drew one of the pistols from his breast pocket, and, taking a deliberate aim at the bird, he fired, and the raven fell dead at his feet. Picking it up, and tossing it over to Mathews, he said—"Do you believe me now? Pshaw! it was not worth staining my hands and clothes with blood for such a paltry prize."

Mathews laughed heartily at this speech; but there was something so revolting in the tones of his mirth, that Anthony quickened his pace to avoid its painful repetition. A few minutes more brought him in sight of the miser's cottage. No light gleamed from the broken casement, and both the door and the window of the hovel were wide open, and flapping in the night wind. Surprised at a circumstance so unusual, Anthony hastily entered the house. The first object that met his sight rivetted him to the threshold.

The moon threw a broad line of silver light into the dusty worm-eaten apartment, and danced and gleamed in horrid mockery upon a stream of dark liquid which was slowly spreading itself over the floor. And there, extended upon the brick pavement, his features shockingly distorted, his hands still clenched, and his white locks dabbled in blood, lay the cold, mutilated form of his father.

Overpowered with horror, unable to advance or retreat, Anthony continued to gaze upon the horrid spectacle, until the hair stiffened upon his head, and a cold perspiration bedewed all his limbs.

Still as he gazed he fancied that the clenched hands moved, that a bitter smile writhed the thin parted lips of the dead; and influenced by a strange fascination, against which he struggled in vain, he continued to watch the ghastly countenance, until horror and astonishment involved every other object in misty obscurity.

He heard the sound of approaching footsteps, but his limbs had lost the power of motion, his tongue of speech, and he suffered the constables, who entered with Grenard Pike, to lead him away without offering the least resistance. They placed him in a post-chaise, between two of the officers of justice, and put the irons upon his wrists, but he remained in the same state of stupefaction, making no remark upon his unusual situation, or taking the least notice of his strange companions. When the vehicle stopped at the entrance of the county jail, then, and not until then, did the awfulness of his situation appear to strike him. Starting from his frightful mental abstraction, he eagerly demanded of the officers why his hands were manacled, and for what crime they had brought him there?

When told for the murder of his father, he regarded the men with a look of surprised incredulity. "My poor father! what interest could I have to murder my father? You cannot think I committed this horrid crime?"

"We do not know what to think, Mr. Hurdlestone," said one of the men. "I am very sorry to see you in this plight, but appearances are very much against you. Your father was an old man and a bad man, and it is little you owed to his parental care. But he could not have lived many years, and all the entailed property must have been yours; it was an act of insanity on your part to kill him. A fearful crime to send him so unprepared into the presence of his God."

"You cannot believe me guilty," said Anthony.

The men shook their heads. "I condemn no man until the law condemns, him," returned the former spokesman. "But there is evidence enough in your case to hang a hundred men."

"I have one witness in my favor. He knows my innocence, and to Him I appeal," said Anthony, solemnly.

"Aye, but will he prove it my lad?"

"I trust He will."

"Well, time will show. The assizes will be held next week, so you have not long to remain in doubt. I would be inclined to think you innocent, if you could prove to me what business you had with loaded pistols in your possession—why one was loaded, and the other unloaded, and how your hands and clothes came stained with blood—why you quarrelled with the old man last night, and went to him again to-night with offensive weapons on your person, and at such an unseasonable hour? These are stubborn facts."

"They, are indeed," sighed the prisoner. A natural gush of feeling succeeded, and from that hour Anthony resigned himself to his fate.



CHAPTER XX.

O dread uncertainty: Life-wasting agony! How dost thou pain the heart, Causing such tears to start As sorrow never shed O'er hopes for ever fled!—S.M.

What a night of intense anxiety was that to the young Clary! Hour after hour, she paced the veranda in front of the cottage; now listening for approaching footsteps, now straining her eyes to catch through the gloom of the fir-trees the figure of him for whom she watched and wept in vain. The cold night wind sighed through her fair locks, scattering them upon the midnight air. The rising dews chilled the fragile form, but stilled not the wild throbbing of the aching heart.

"Oh, to know the worst—the very worst—were better than this sore agony." Years of care were compressed into that one night of weary watching. "He will never come. I shall never, never see him again. I feel now, as I felt when my sisters were taken from me, that I should see them no more on earth. But I cannot weep for him as I wept for them. I knew that they were happy, that they were gone to rest, and I felt as if an angel's hand dried my tears. But I weep for him as one without hope, as for one whom a terrible destiny has torn from me. I love him, but my love is a crime, for he loves another. Oh, woe is me! Why did we ever meet, if thus we are doomed to part?"

She looked up at the cold clear moon—up to the glorious stars of night, and her thoughts, so lately chained to earth, soared upwards to the Father of her spirit, and once more she bowed in silent adoration to her Saviour and her God.

"Forgive me, holy Father!" she murmured. "I have strayed from thy fold, and my steps have stumbled upon the rough places of the earth. I have reared up an idol in thy sacred temple, and worshipped the creature more than the Creator. The love of the world is an unholy thing. It cannot satisfy the cravings of an immortal spirit. It cannot fill up the emptiness of the human heart. Return to thy rest, O my soul! I dedicate thee and all thy affections to thy God!"

She bowed her head upon her hands and wept; such tears purify the source from whence they flow, and Clary felt a solemn calm steal over her agitated spirit, as, kneeling beneath the wide canopy of heaven, she prayed long and earnestly for strength to subdue her passion for Anthony, and to become obedient in word, thought, and deed, to the will of God; and she prayed for him, with a fervor and devotion which love alone can give—prayed that he might be shielded from all temptation, from the wickedness and vanity of the world, from the deceitfulness of his own heart.

She was still in the act of devotion, when the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps caused her to start suddenly from her knees. A man ran past at full speed, then another, and another: then a group of women without hats and shawls, running and calling to one another. What could all this mean, at that still hour of night, and in that lonely place?

Clary's heart beat tumultuously. She rushed to the garden gate, that opened from the lawn into the main road. She called aloud to one of the retreating figures to stop and inform her what was the matter. Why they were abroad at that late hour, and whither they were going? No one slackened their speed, or stayed one moment to answer her enquires. At length an old man, tired and out of breath, came panting along; one whom Clary knew, and springing into the road she intercepted his path.

"Ralph Hilton, what is the matter? Is there a fire in the neighborhood? Where are you all going?"

"Up to the Hall, Miss Clary. Dear, dear, have you not heard the news? The old man has been murdered. Murdered by his son. Alack, alack, 'tis a desperate piece of wickedness! The coroner is up at the old cottage, sitting upon the body, and I want to get a sight of the murdered man, like the rest of 'un."

"Who is it you mean? Who has been murdered?" gasped out the terrified girl.

"Why old Squire Hurdlestone. He has been shot dead by his own son—that young chap who has been staying here so long. They have got him safe, though. And by this time he must be in jail. Oh, I hope they will hang 'un. But hanging is too good. He should be burnt alive."

And here the old man hobbled on, eager to get a sight of the frightful spectacle, and to hear all the news from the fountain head.

The first blush of the red dawn was glowing in the east; but Clary still remained in the same attitude, with her hand resting upon the half-open gate, her eyes fixed on vacancy, her lips apart, a breathing image of despair. The stage coach from —— drove briskly up. A gentleman sprang from the top of the vehicle. A portmanteau was flung down to him by the guard.—"All right," and the horses were again at full gallop.

"Clary, dear Clary, who would have thought of your being up so early to meet me?"

That voice seemed to recall the wandering spirit of the pale girl back to its earthly tabernacle. With a long wild cry, she flung herself into her brother's arms. "Hide me in your heart, Frederic, hide me from myself. I am sick and weary of the world!"

Unable to comprehend the cause of this violent agitation, Frederic Wildegrave carried his now insensible sister into the house, and calling Ruth, who was busy kindling the fires, he bade her awake Mr. Anthony. The woman shook her head mysteriously.

"He's gone, sir. He left us suddenly last night, and Miss Clary has been up ever since."

"I fear it is as I suspected. He must have robbed me. Yet, if he has deceived me, I never will trust to physiognomy again."

He opened his desk, and found two hundred pounds in notes, and turning to the window to examine them, he recognised the letter addressed to him by Anthony that was lying on the table.

With feelings of compassion and astonishment, he hastily glanced over the affecting account it contained of the thrilling events of the past week. Several times the tears sprang to his eyes, and he reproached himself for having suspected Anthony of having eloped with the money left in his charge. He knew what agony of mind his cousin must have endured before he could prevail upon himself to petition his relentless father for the loan of the sum he had imprudently lent to Godfrey. He only blamed him for the want of confidence which had hindered him from communicating his situation to his friend. Fearing that he had been induced to commit some desperate act, he did not wait to change his dress, or partake of the breakfast old Ruth had provided, but mounting a horse, rode full speed to Ashton.

Long before he reached the village he learned the dreadful tale of the murder, and though he did not like to believe Anthony guilty, he knew not how to get satisfactorily over the great mass of circumstantial evidence, which even his own letter contained against him. Every person with whom he talked upon the subject held the same opinion, and many who before had execrated the old man, and spoke with abhorrence of his conduct to his son, now mentioned him with pity and respect, and decried the young man as a monster, for whom hanging was too good, who deserved to die a thousand deaths.

Deeply grieved for his unfortunate relative, Wildegrave at first defended him with some warmth, and urged as an excuse for his conduct the unnatural treatment he had from infancy received from his father.

"Sir," said an old farmer, who had formed one of the jury during the inquest, "with all his faults, old Mark was an honest man, and doubtless he had good reasons for his conduct, and knew the lad better than we did, as the result has proved."

"It has not been proved yet," said Frederic, "and I believe, however strongly appearances are against him, that Anthony Hurdlestone never committed the murder."

"Mr. Wildegrave, I am sorry to contradict a gentleman like you, but did not Grenard Pike see him with his own eyes fire at the old man through the window? And has he not known the lad from a baby?"

"He will be hung," said another farmer, riding up; "and that's not half punishment enough for such a villain!"

"He should be torn to pieces," cried a third.

"He was a queer little boy," said a fourth; "I never thought that he would come to any good."

"His uncle was the ruin of him," said a fifth. "If he had never taken him from his father, the old man would have been alive this day."

"Oh hang him!" cried another. "I don't pity the old miser. He deserved his death—but 'twas terrible from the hand of his own son."

"Old Mark is to have a grand funeral," said the first speaker. "He is to be buried on Monday. All the gentlemen in the county will attend."

"It would break his heart, if he were alive," said another, "could he but see the fine coffin that Jones is making for him. It is to be covered all over with silk velvet and gold."

"How old was he?" asked some voice in the group.

"Just in his sixty-fifth, and a fine hale man for his years; he might have lived to have been a hundred."

"Did they find any money in the house?" whispered a long-nosed, sharp-visaged man; "I heard that he had lots hidden away under the thatch. Old Grenard knows that a box containing several thousand gold guineas was taken away."

"Then the devil, or old Grenard, must have flown away with it," said the sexton of the parish, "for I was there when they seized the poor lad, and he had not a penny in his possession."

"Will they bury him with his wife?" asked the old farmer.

"He'll never rest beside her," said a man near him. "He treated her about as well as he did her poor boy."

"How can the like o' him rest in the grave?" chimed in a female voice. "I've no manner of doubt but he'll haunt the old Hall, as his father did afore him. Mercy on us, sirs! what an awful like ghost he will make!"

"Was old Squire Anthony ever seen?" said another woman, in a mysterious whisper.

"Ay, scores of times. I've heard that the old miser met him one night himself upon the staircase, and that was the reason why he shut up the Hall."

"Who'll heir the property?" asked the old farmer.

"Algernon's son Godfrey; a fine handsome fellow. He'll make ducks and drakes of the miser's gold. We shall have fine times when he comes to the Hall."

"He'll lower the rents and the tithes upon us. Come, my lads, let's go to the public-house and drink his health."

The male portion of the group instantly acceded to the proposal; and Frederic Wildegrave set spurs to his horse and rode off, disgusted with the scene he had witnessed, and returned to his home with a sorrowful heart.



CHAPTER XXI.

All the fond visions faithful mem'ry kept, Rush'd o'er his soul; he bow'd his head and wept, Such tears as contrite sinners pour alone, When mercy pleads before the eternal throne, When naked, helpless, prostrate in the dust, The spirit owns its condemnation just, And seeks for pardon and redeeming grace, Through Him who died to save a fallen race.—S.M.

By the light of a solitary candle, and seated at a small table in the attic of a public-house, and close to the miserable bed in which Mary Mathews was tossing to and fro in the restless delirium of fever, two men were busily engaged in dividing a large heap of gold, which had been emptied from a strong brass-bound box, that lay on the floor.

"Well, the old fellow died game," said Mathews. "Did you see how desperately he clenched his teeth, and how tightly he held the key of his treasures. I had to cut through his fingers before I wrenched it from his grasp. See, it is all stained with blood. Faugh! it smells of carrion."

"He took me for Anthony," said Godfrey, shuddering; "and he cursed me—oh, how awfully! He told me that we should meet in hell; that the gold for which he had bartered his soul, and to obtain which I had committed murder, had bought us an estate there. And then he laughed—that horrid, dry, satirical laugh. Oh, I hear it yet. It would almost lead me to repentance, the idea of having to pass an eternity with him."

"Don't feel squeamish now, man. This brave sight," pointing to the gold, "should lay all such nervous fancies to rest. The thing was admirably managed; and between ourselves, I think that, if we had not pinked him, that same virtuous son of his would. What did he want with pistols? It looks queer."

"It will condemn him."

"Let us drink to his rising in the world," said the ruffian, handing the brandy bottle to his companion in guilt. "How much money is there?"

"Two thousand five hundred pounds in gold."

"A pretty little fortune. How do you mean to divide the odd hundreds?"

"I want them for a particular purpose. There is a thousand; I think you ought to be satisfied. It was my bullet that unlocked the box, when I brought the old man down."

"You don't mean to say, that you intend to appropriate five hundred pounds for the mere act of shooting the old dog, when I ran as much risk as you?"

"Sit down, Bill;" for the smuggler had sprung to his feet, and stood before his colleague in a menacing attitude; "and don't look so fierce. It won't do for you and I to quarrel. I meant it for a marriage portion for Mary; surely you don't wish to rob her?"

"It's just the same as appropriating it to yourself," growled the villain; "you know that she can't keep anything from you."

"Mary, my pet," said Godfrey, now half intoxicated with the brandy he had drank, taking up a handful of the money and going up to the bed, "I heard you say a few days ago that you wanted a new frock; look, here is plenty of money to buy you a score of smart dresses. Will you not give me a kiss for all this gold?"

The girl turned her wide wandering eyes upon him, glanced at his hands, and uttered a wild scream.

"Why, Mary! what the deuce ails you?"

"What's that upon your hands, Godfrey? What's that upon your hands? It's blood—blood! Oh, take it away! don't bring to me the price of blood!"

"Nonsense; you are dreaming, girl—gold can gild every stain."

"I have been dreaming," said Mary, rising up in the bed, and putting back the long hair which had escaped from under her cap, and now fell in rich neglected masses round her pallid face. "Yes. I have been dreaming—such an awful dream! I see it before me yet."

"What was it, Mary?" asked her brother, with quivering lips.

"It was a lonesome place," continued the girl, "a dark lonesome place; but God's moon was shining there, and there was no need of the sun, or of any other light, for all seemed plain to me as the noon day.

"I saw an old man with grey hairs, and another man old and grey was beside him. The countenances of both were dark and unlovely. And one old man was on his knees—but it was not to God he knelt; he had set up an idol to worship, and that idol was gold; and God, as a punishment, had turned his heart to stone, so that nothing but the gold could awaken the least sympathy there. And whilst he knelt to the idol, I heard a cry—a loud, horrid, despairing cry—and the old man fell to the earth weltering in his blood; but he had still strength to lock up his idol, and he held the key as tightly as if it had been the key of heaven. And I saw two young men enter the house and attack the old man, while his companion, whom they did not see, stole out of a back door and fled. And they dashed the wounded old man against the stones, and they marred his visage with savage blows; and they trod him underfoot, and tore from him his idol, and fled.

"And I saw another youth with a face full of sorrow, and while he wept over the dead man, he was surrounded by strange figures, who, regardless of his grief, forced him from the room. And while I pondered over these things in my heart, an angel came to my bed-side, and whispered a message from God in my ears. And I awoke from my sleep; and lo, the old man's idol was before me, and his blood was upon your hands, Godfrey Hurdlestone."

"Is this a dream?" cried Godfrey, glancing instinctively at his hands, on whose white well-formed fingers no trace of the recently enacted tragedy remained, "did you really witness the scene you have just described; tell me the truth. Mary, or by ——"

"Could these feeble limbs carry me to Ashton," said the girl, interrupting the dreadful oath ere it found utterance, "or could this rocking brain steady them, were I, indeed, able to rise from my bed—"

"Mathews," cried Godfrey, "what do you think of this?"

"That we should be off, or put such dreamers to silence."

"Be off! That's impossible. It would give rise to the suspicion that we were the murderers. Besides, are we not both subpoenaed as witnesses against him."

"I don't like it," said Mathews, gloomily. "The devil has revealed every circumstance to the girl. What if she were to witness against us?"

"Nonsense! Who would take the evidence of a dream?" said Godfrey.

"I'm not so sure that it was a dream. You know her of old. She's very cunning."

"But the girl's too ill to move from her bed. Besides, she never would betray me."

"I'm not so sure of that. She's turned mighty religious of late. It was only last night that I heard her pray to God to forgive her sinful soul; and then she promised to lead a new life. Now I should not wonder if she were to begin by hanging us."

"If I thought so," said Godfrey, grasping a knife he held in his hand, and glancing towards the bed. "But no. We both do her injustice. She would die for me. She would never betray me. Mary," he continued, going to the bed-side, "what was the message that the angel told you?"

"It was in the unknown tongue," said Mary. "I understood it in my sleep, but since I awoke it has all passed from my memory." Then laughing in her delirium, she burst out singing:

His voice was like the midnight wind That ushers in the storm, When the thunder mutters far behind On the dark clouds onward borne; When the trees are bending to its breath, The waters plashing high, And nature crouches pale as death Beneath the lurid sky. 'Twas in such tones he spake to me, So awful and so dread; If thou would'st read the mystery, Those tones will wake the dead.

* * * * *

"She is mad!" muttered Godfrey, resuming his seat at the table. "Are you afraid, Bill, of the ravings of a maniac? Come, gather up courage and pass the bottle this way; and tell me how we are to divide the rest of the spoil."

"Let us throw the dice for it."

"Agreed. Who shall have the first chance?"

"We will throw for that. The lowest gains. I have it," cried Mathews, clutching the box.

"Stop!" said Mary. "Fair play's a jewel. There are three of you at the table. Will you not let the old man have one chance to win back his gold?"

"The Devil!" cried Mathews, dropping the box, and staggering to his seat, a universal tremor perceptible in his huge limbs. "Where—where is he?"

"At your elbow," said Mary. "Don't you see him frown and shake his head at you? How fast the blood pours down from the wound in his head! It is staining all your clothes. Get up, William, and give the poor old man the chair."

"Don't mind her, Mathews, she is raving," said Godfrey. "Do you see anything?"

"I thought I saw a long, bony, mutilated hand, flitting to and fro, over the gold. Ah! there it is again," said Mathews, starting from his chair. "You may keep the money, for may I be hanged if I will touch it. Leave this accursed place and yon croaking fiend. Let us join the boys down stairs, and drink and sing, and drive away care."

And so the murderers departed, leaving the poor girl alone with the gold, but they took good care to lock the door after them. When they were gone, Mary threw an old cloak about her, which formed part of the covering to the bed, and stepped upon the floor.

"They are gone," she said; "I have acted my part well. But, alas, this is no place for me. I am called upon by God himself to save the innocent, and the mission shall be performed, even at the expense of my worthless life.

"They think not that I followed them to the spot—that, weak as I am, God has given me strength to witness against them. I feel ill, very ill," she continued, putting her hand to her head. "But if I could only reach the Lodge, and inform Captain Whitmore, or Miss Juliet, it might be the means of saving his life. At all events, I will try."

As she passed the gold that glittered in the moonbeams, she paused. "I want money for my journey. Shall I take aught of the accursed thing? No. I will trust in Providence to supply my wants. I have read somewhere that misery travels free."

Then slowly putting on her clothes, and securing a slice of coarse bread, that Mrs. Strawberry had brought for her supper, in her handkerchief, Mary approached the window. The distance was not great to the roof of the lean-to, and she had been used to climb tall forest trees when a child, and fearlessly to drop from any height. She unclosed the casement and listened. She heard from below loud shouts and boisterous peals of laughter, mingled with licentious songs and profane oaths.

When the repentant soul is convinced of sin, how dreadful does the language once so familiar appear! The oath and the profane jest smite upon it with a force which makes it recoil within itself; and it flies for protection to the injured Majesty it so often wantonly defied. "Alas, for the wicked!" said Mary. "'Destruction and misery are in their paths, and the way of peace they have not known.' How long have I, in word, thought and deed, blasphemed the majesty of the Most High, and rebelled against his holy laws! Ought I then to condemn my fellows in iniquity? Am I in reality any better than they? I will go to the grave of my child—that sight will make me humble—that little mound of dark earth holds all that the world now contains for me."

She dropped from the window to the ground. The watch-dog knew her and forbore to bark. He thrust his cold nose into her wasted hand, and wagging his tail looked up inquiringly into her face. There was something of human sympathy in the expression of the generous brute. It went to the heart of the poor wanderer. She leant down and kissed the black head of the noble animal. A big bright tear glittered among his shaggy hair, and the moonbeams welcomed it with an approving smile.

Like a ghost Mary glided down the garden path, overgrown with rank weeds, and she thought that the neglected garden greatly resembled the state of her soul. A few necessary wants had alone been attended to. The flower-beds were overgrown and choked with weeds—the fruit-trees barren from neglect and covered with moss. "But He can make the desolate place into a fruitful field," said Mary. "The wilderness, under his fostering care, can blossom like the rose."

She crossed the lane, and traversing several lonely fields she came to the park near the old Hall, within whose precincts the gothic church, erected by one of the ancestors of the Hurdlestones, reared aloft its venerable spire. How august the sacred building looked in the moonlight! how white the moonbeams lay upon the graves! Mary sighed deeply, but hers was not a mind to yield easily to superstitious fears. She had learned to fear God, and there was nothing in his beautiful creation which could make her tremble, save the all-seeing eye which she now felt was upon her.

Passing the front of the church, where all the baptized children of the village for ages had found their place of final rest, she stepped behind a dark screen of yews at the back of the church, and knelt hastily upon the ground beside a little mound of freshly turned sods. Stretching herself out upon that lowly bed, and embracing it with passionate tenderness, the child of sin and sorrow found a place to weep, and poured out her full heart to the silent ear of night.

The day was breaking, when she slowly rose and wiped away her tears. Regaining the high road, she was overtaken by a man in a wagon, who had been one of the crowd that had been to look at the murdered man. He invited Mary to take a seat in the wagon, and finding that he was going within a few miles of Norgood, she joyfully accepted the offer—and before Godfrey and her brother recovered from their drunken debauch, or found that she was missing, she was near the end of her journey.



CHAPTER XXII.

The lyre is hush'd, for ever hush'd the hand, That woke to ecstacy its thrilling chords; And that sweet voice, with music eloquent, Sleeps with the silent lyre and broken heart.—S.M.

"Why do you look so sad, Juliet," said Captain Whitmore to his daughter, as they stood together at the open window, the morning after her perilous meeting with Mary Mathews in the park. "Have I said anything to wound your feelings?"

"I thought that you would have been so glad to find him innocent, papa," said Juliet, the tears again stealing down her cheeks, "and I am disappointed—bitterly disappointed."

"Well, my girl. I am glad that the lad is not guilty of so heinous an offence. But I can't help feeling a strong prejudice against the whole breed. These Hurdlestones are a bad set—a bad set. I have seen enough of them. And, for your own happiness, I advise you, my dear Juliet, to banish this young man for ever from your thoughts. With my consent you never shall be his wife."

"Without it I certainly never shall." And Juliet folded her hands together, and turned away to hide the fresh gush of tears that blinded her eyes. "At the same time, papa, I must think that the ill-will you bear to an innocent person is both cruel and unjust."

"Juliet," said the Captain, very gravely, "from the earnestness of your manner, I fear that you feel a deeper interest in this young Hurdlestone than I am willing to believe. Answer me truly—do you love the lad?"

"Father, I do love him. I feel that my happiness is inseparably connected with his." This was said with that charming candor which was the most attractive feature in Juliet Whitmore's character. It had its effect upon the old man's generous nature. He could no longer chide, however repugnant to his feelings the confession she had just made. He drew her gently to his manly breast, and kissed away the tears that still lingered on her cheeks.

"My poor girl, I am sorry for you—very sorry. But I see no chance of your ever becoming his wife."

"I am contented to remain single, papa; I never can love another as I love him."

"Stuff and nonsense! What should hinder you? Why, child, you will get over this romantic passion. Few people are able to marry the first person with whom they fall in love; and, in nine cases out of ten, they would be grievously disappointed if they did. This Anthony Hurdlestone may be a good young man, but his father is a very bad man. His children may inherit some of the family propensities, which you know, my little daughter are everything but agreeable. I should not like to be grandpapa to a second edition of Mark Hurdlestone, or even of his hopeful nephew, Master Godfrey."

"Ah, my dear father," said Juliet, with great simplicity, "this may be all very true; but how do you know that we should have any children?"

This unexpected confession threw the old Captain, in spite of his grave lecture, into convulsions of laughter, whilst it covered his daughter's face with crimson blushes.

"Miss Juliet!" cried her aunt, who entered just in time to hear her niece speak her thoughts aloud, "I am perfectly astonished at you. Have you no sense of decorum?"

"Pshaw, Dolly!" said the Captain, still laughing. "It was quite accidental. Your over delicate ladies are the most indelicate people in the world. I am sure what the child said was perfectly natural."

"Nature, Captain Whitmore, is not the best book for young ladies to study," said Miss Dorothy, drawing herself up to her full height. "If we were to act entirely from her suggestions, we should reduce ourselves to a level with the brutes. Young ladies should never venture a remark until they have duly considered what they have to say. They should know how to keep the organ of speech in due subjection."

"And pray, Dolly, will you inform me at what age a lady should commence this laudable act of self-denial? for I am pretty certain that your first lesson is still to learn."

Oh, how poor Aunt Dorothy flounced and flew, at this speech! how she let her tongue run on, without bit or bridle, while vindicating her injured honor from this foul aspersion, quite forgetting her own theory in the redundancy of her practice! There never was, by her own account, such a discreet, amiable, well-spoken, benevolent, and virtuous gentlewoman! And how the cruel Captain continued to laugh at, and quiz, and draw her out: until Juliet, in order to cause a diversion in her aunt's favor, pinched her favorite black cat's ear. But this stratagem only turned the whole torrent of the old maid's wrath upon herself.

"How cruel you are, Miss Juliet!" she cried, snatching the ill-used darling to her bosom. "You never think that these poor animals can feel ill-treatment as severely as yourself. I despise young ladies who write poetry, and weep and whine over a novel, yet are destitute of the common feelings of humanity."

"Puss will forgive me," said Juliet, holding out her small white hand to the cat, which immediately left off rubbing herself against Aunt Dorothy's velvet stomacher, to fawn upon the proffered peace-offering.

The old Captain, who had remained for some minutes in deep thought, now suddenly turned from the window, and said:

"Juliet, would you like to visit London?"

"What, at this beautiful season of the year!" And Juliet left off caressing the cat, and regarded her father with surprise, not unmixed with curiosity.

"The flowers of the gay world, Julee, always blossom at the same time with those in the country; only the latter have always this advantage, that they are never out of season, and blossom for the day, instead of for the night. But, my dear child, I think it necessary for you to go. The change of scene and air will be very beneficial to your health, and tend to invigorate both your mind and body. Now, don't pout and shake your head, Juliet; I do most earnestly wish you to go. The very best antidote to love is a visit to London. You will see other men, you will learn to know your own power; and all these idle fancies will be forgotten. Aunt Dorothy, what say you to the trip?"

"Oh, sir, I am always ready at the post of duty. Juliet wants a little polishing—she is horribly countryfied. When shall we prepare for the journey?"

"Directly. I will write to her Aunt Seaford by tonight's post. She will be delighted to have Juliet with her. The little sly puss is the old lady's heir; but she is quite indifferent to her good fortune."

"I never covet the possession of great wealth," said Juliet. "Mark Hurdlestone is an awful example to those who grasp after riches. I do not anticipate much pleasure in this London visit, but I will go, dear papa, as you wish it."

"There's a dear good girl!" and the old man fondly kissed her. "I wish I could see the rose's blush once more upon this pale face. You look so like your mother, Julee, it makes my heart ache. Ah! just so thin and pale she looked, before I lost her. You must not leave your poor old father in this cold-hearted world alone."

Juliet flung her arms round his neck. "Do not make my heart ache, dear papa, as I know not how soon we may part. You once loved poor Anthony," she whispered: "for Julee's sake, love him still."

"She will forget him," said the Captain looking fondly after her, as she left the room, "she will forget him in London."

And to London they went. Juliet was received by her rich aunt with the most lively demonstrations of regard. She felt proud of introducing to the notice of the gay world a creature so beautiful. Admired for her great personal attractions, and courted for her wealth, Juliet soon found herself the centre of attraction to a large circle of friends. But ah! how vapid and tasteless to the young lover of nature were the artificial manners and the unmeaning flatteries of the world. Professions of attachment, breathed into her ears by interested admirers, shocked and disgusted her simple taste, and made her thoughts turn continually to the one adored object, whose candid and honest bearing had won her heart. His soul had been poured forth at the same shrine, had drunk inspiration from the same sacred fount, and his sympathies and feelings were in perfect unison with her own.

How could she forget Anthony whilst mingling in scenes so uncongenial to her own pursuits? Was he not brought every hour nearer to her thoughts? Was she not constantly drawing contrasts between him and the worldly beings by whom she was surrounded! Did not his touching voice thrill more musically in her mental ear, when the affected ostentatious tones of the votary of fashion and pleasure tried to attract her attention by a display of his accomplishments and breeding? There was a want of reality in all she heard and saw that struck painfully upon her heart; and after the first novelty of the scene had worn off, she began to pine for the country. Her step became less elastic, her cheek yet paler, and the anxious father began to watch more closely these hectic changes, and to tremble for the health of his child.

"I am sick of this crowded place, of these sophisticated people, papa. I shall die here. Let me return to the country."

Frightened at the daily alteration in her appearance, the Captain promised to grant her request. Her aunt gave a large party the night before they were to leave town; and Juliet, to please her kind relative, exerted herself to the utmost to appear in good spirits.

"There has been a shocking murder committed in your neighborhood, Miss Whitmore," said the officer, with whom she had been dancing, as he led her to a seat. "Have you seen the papers?"

"No," said Juliet, carelessly. "I seldom read these accounts. They are so shocking; and we read them too much as matters of mere amusement and idle curiosity, without reflecting sufficiently upon the awful guilt which they involve."

"This is a very dreadful business indeed. I thought you might know something of the parties."

"Not very likely. We lead such a secluded life at the Lodge, that we are strangers to most of the people in the neighborhood."

"You have heard of the eccentric miser, Mark Hurdlestone?"

"Who has not?" and Juliet started, and turned pale. "Surely he has not been murdered?"

"Yes; and by his own son."

"His son? Oh, not by his son! His nephew, you mean?"

"His son. Anthony Hurdlestone. The heir of his immense wealth."

He spoke to a cold ear. Juliet had fainted.

How did that dreadful night pass over the hapless maiden? It did pass, however, and on the morrow she was far on her journey home.

"I never thought he could be guilty of a crime like this," said the Captain to his sister as she sat opposite to him in his travelling carriage. His arm encircled the slender waist of his daughter, and her pale cheek rested on his shoulder. But no tear hung in the long, dark, drooping eyelashes of his child. Juliet was stunned; but she had not wept.

"He is not guilty," she cried, in a passionate voice. "I know and feel that he is not guilty. Remember Mary Mathews—how strong the circumstantial evidence against him in that case. Yet he was innocent—innocent, poor Anthony!"

The Captain, who felt the most tender sympathy for the state of mind into which this afflicting news had thrown his child, was willing to soothe, if possible, her grief.

"If he is innocent it will be proved on the trial, Julee darling. We will hope for the best."

"It will be proved," said Juliet, sitting upright, and looking her father earnestly, if not sternly in the face. "I am so confident of his innocence that, on that score, I have not shed a single tear. Ah! we are drawing near home," she continued with a sigh. "Dear home! why did I leave it? There is something pure and holy in the very air of home. See, papa! there is the church spire rising above the trees. The dear old elm trees! We shall have time to think here, to hope, to pray; but who is that woman lying along the bank. She is ill, or dead."

"Perhaps she is intoxicated," said Miss Dorothy.

"It is—yes—it is Mary Mathews!" cried Juliet, without noticing her aunt's remark. "What can bring her here?"

"No good, you may be sure," remarked the Captain.

"Oh! stop the carriage, dear papa, and let us speak to her. She may know something about the murder."

"You are right, Juliet; let us ask her a few questions."

They both left the carriage, and hurried to the spot where Mary, overcome with fatigue and fever, lay insensible and unconscious of her danger by the roadside.

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 portray On memory's tablets each delicate hue; And recall to my bosom the long happy day When 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 tear That 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 by pillows. 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 wasted hands 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. 'Your face 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 seraphim Hails 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.



CHAPTER XXIII.

And hast thou sought me in this dreary cell, This dark abode of guilt and misery; To win my sadden'd spirit back to earth With 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 were seated 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 for support. 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 being the 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.

"October 10th, 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!"