"She never thought you guilty," said Frederic, wiping his eyes. "She bade me give you this letter, written with her dying hand, to convince you that she believed you innocent. Her faith towards you was as strong as death; her love for you snapped asunder the fragile threads that held her to life. But she is happy. Dear child! She is better off than those who weep her loss. And you, Anthony, you—the idol of her fond young heart—will receive her welcome to that glorious country, of which, I trust, she is now the bright inhabitant."

"And she died of grief. Died—because others suspected of crime the man she loved. Oh, Clary! Clary! how unworthy was I of your love! You knew I loved another, yet it did not diminish aught of your friendship, your pure devotion to me! Oh, that I had your faith—your love!"

He covered his face with his hands, and both were silent for a long time.

"Frederic, we must part," said Anthony, at length raising his head. "Beloved friend, we must part for ever!"

"I shall see you again to-morrow."

"What! on the scaffold?"

"Aye, on the scaffold! Your place of martyrdom."

"This is friendship indeed. Time may one day prove to you that Anthony Hurdlestone was not unworthy of your love."

Frederic burst into tears afresh, and wringing Anthony's hand, hurried from the cell; and the prisoner was once more left alone to commune with his own thoughts, and prepare for the awful change that awaited him.

His spirit, weaned as it was from the things of earth, contemplated with melancholy pleasure the death of the young Clary, which he considered had placed his sweet young friend beyond the reach of human suffering.

"She is with the Eternal Present," he said. "No dark mysterious future can ever more cloud her soul with its heavy shadow. To-morrow—and the veil will be rent in twain, and our ransomed spirits will behold each other face to face. What is Death? The eclipse for a moment of the sun of human life. The shadow of earth passes from before it, and it again shines forth with renewed splendor."

His reverie was interrupted by the entrance of the jailor followed by another person muffled up in a large riding cloak. "A stranger," he said, "wished to exchange a few words in private with the prisoner."

Anthony rose from his humble bed, and asked in subdued tones, "to whom he had the honor of speaking?"

"To a sincere friend, Anthony Hurdlestone—one who cannot believe you guilty of the dreadful crime of murder."

The sound of that voice, though months had passed away since its musical tones had vibrated on his ear, thrilled to the soul of the prisoner.

"Miss Whitmore!" he cried, in an extasy of joy; and sinking at her feet, he seized her hands, and pressing them to his lips and heart burst into an agony of tears.

"Anthony!" said Juliet, placing her hand upon his shoulder, as he sat at her feet with his face upturned and his eyes suffused in tears, gazing tenderly upon her; "I came here to-night to ask you one simple question. With many tears I gained my father's consent to this unusual step. Not without many severe mental struggles I overcame the feelings of maiden shame, and placed myself in this painful situation in order to receive from your own lips an answer which might satisfy the intense anxiety that presses upon my mind. As you value your own and my eternal peace, I charge you, Anthony, to answer me truly—as truly as if you stood before the bar of God, and the eye of the Great Searcher of hearts was upon you; Did you murder your unhappy father?"

"As I hope for salvation, I am as ignorant of the real perpetrators of the deed as you are."

"Both directly and indirectly?"

"The whole affair is involved in mystery. I have, of course, my doubts and surmises. These I must not name, lest I might accuse persons who like myself are innocent of the offence. Hear me, Juliet Whitmore! while I raise this fettered right hand to heaven, and swear by that awful Judge before whose dread tribunal I must in a few hours appear, that I am guiltless of the crime for which at the age of one-and-twenty, in the first bloom of youth and manhood, I am condemned to die!"

There was a slight convulsion of the features as he uttered the last words, and his lips quivered for a moment. Nature asserted her right over her sentient creature; and the thoughts of death awoke at that moment a strange conflict in his breast. So young—so highly gifted—so tenderly beloved; it was indeed hard to die—to die a death of infamy, amidst the curses and execrations of an insulting mob. Oh, how gladly would he have seen the bitter cup pass from his lips!

Juliet regarded her unhappy lover with a sad and searching glance. But innocence is strong; he shrunk not from the encounter. His eyes were raised to hers in confidence and love, and the glow of conscious worth irradiated his wan and wasted features. Alas! what years of sorrow had been compressed into one short week!

"I believe you, Anthony, to be an injured man. Thank God!" she continued, mournfully folding her hands together, "thank God! I have not loved a murderer!"

"Loved!" repeated the prisoner, whilst the deepest crimson for a moment flushed his face; "is it possible that Juliet Whitmore ever loved me! Loved me after witnessing that disgraceful scene in the park. Oh, Juliet! dear generous Juliet! these blessed words would make me too happy were it not for these bonds."

"I wronged you, Anthony; cruelly wronged you. My unfortunate misconception of painful facts may have been the means of rivetting those irons upon your limbs. I cannot forgive myself for not questioning Mary Mathews alone upon the subject."

"Appearances were strongly against me, Juliet. I have been the victim of unfortunate circumstances." He bent his head down upon his fettered hands, and continued, in a low voice rendered almost inarticulate with emotion: "But you love me, and this assurance ought to atone for all the dreary past. Alas! at this moment it comes to rob me of my fortitude; to add a bitterness to death!"

"Oh, that it were in my power to save your life, beloved Anthony!" said Juliet, sinking on her knees beside him, and clasping his fettered hands within her own. "I have loved you long and tenderly. I shall see you no more on earth. If my life could ransom yours, I would give it without a sigh; but will is powerless; our hands are tied; we are indeed the creatures of circumstance. All that now remains for us is to submit—to bow with fortitude to the mysterious ways of Providence. To acknowledge, even in our hearts' deep agony, that whatever is, is right."

"Let us pray," said Anthony solemnly, holding up her hands in his; "pray that God may give us strength to undergo the trial that awaits us."

"With tears and sobs and struggling sighs, those unhappy young lovers poured out their full hearts to God. They appealed to his love, his justice, his mercy; they cried to him in their strong agony; and even in that moment of unutterable woe they found peace.

"Go, my beloved," whispered Anthony, "I can part with you now. We shall soon meet again."

"To part no more for ever!" sobbed Juliet, struggling with her tears. "I have a message for you from one who has already passed the dark valley—from one who loved you—poor Clary."

"I cannot bear it now," said Anthony. "I hope soon to hear a more joyful message from her gentle lips. Farewell, my Juliet—my soul's first and only earthly love! Live for my sake—live to defend my memory from infamy. Time will dissipate the clouds that now blacken my name; and the day will come when Juliet Whitmore will not have cause to blush for her unfortunate lover."

One long and last embrace—one gush of free and heartfelt tears—one sad impassioned kiss, and Anthony Hurdlestone was once more alone in the condemned cell, with silence and darkness—mute emblems of death—brooding around him.

He had all this time unconsciously held Clary's letter strained in his hand; and as his thoughts flowed back to her he longed intensely to read it. The visit of the good chaplain, who brought with him a light, afforded him the opportunity he so much desired.

A strange awe came over him as he unfolded the paper. The hand that had traced it was no longer of earth; the spirit that had dictated it was removed to another sphere. Yet he fancied, as he read the paper, that the soft blue eyes of Clary looked into his own; that her bright golden locks fanned his feverish cheek; that she was actually before him. Several times he started and looked up into the face of the chaplain before he could dispel the vision.

"Anthony, Dear Anthony, (she wrote.)

"This will meet you at a time when sorrow for my death will be lost in joy, that we shall so soon meet in heaven. Fear not, Anthony; that hour may be far distant. God is just. You are innocent; trust in him. Trust firmly, nothing wavering, and he will save you. I have wept for you, prayed for you; would that I could die for you! My soul has been poured forth in tears; but never for one moment have I abused our holy friendship by imagining you guilty. Weep not for me, dear Anthony; I am happy. God is taking me from the evil to come, from the anguish of seeing you the husband of another. Death has no sting; I welcome him as a friend.

"Why should I dread thee, Death? Stern friend in solemn guise; One pause of this frail breath, And then the skies!

"When restored to peace, to happiness, and to Juliet, think kindly of me. Remember how I loved you—how I delighted in all that delights and interests you. But not in crowded halls would I have you recall my image;—my heart was solitary amidst the dust and rubbish of the gay world. But in spring, when the earth is bright with flowers, when the sun looks down in love upon creation, when the full streams are flowing on with a voice of joy, when the song of birds makes glad the forest-bowers, when every blade of grass is dressed in beauty, and every leaf and flower glows with the light of life, and the unsophisticated untried heart of youth breathes forth its ardent aspiration to the throne of God—then, Anthony, think of me. My spirit will hover about your path; my voice will murmur in the breeze; and the recollection of what I was, of all my faith and love, will be dear to your heart.

"When these eyes, long dimm'd with weeping, In the silent dust are sleeping; When above my lowly bed The breeze shall wave the thistle's head, Thou wilt think of me, love!

"When the queen of beams and showers Comes to dress the earth with flowers; When the days are long and bright, And the moon shines all the night, Thou wilt think of me, love!

"When the tender corn is springing, And the merry thrush is singing; When the swallows come and go, On light wings flitting to and fro, Thou wilt think of me, love!

"When 'neath April's rainbow skies Violets ope their azure eyes; When mossy bank and verdant mound Sweet knots of primroses have crown'd, Thou wilt think of me, love!

"When the meadows glitter white, Like a sheet of silver light; When bluebells gay and cowslips bloom, Sweet-scented briar and golden broom, Thou wilt think of me, love!

"Each bud shall be to thee a token Of a fond heart reft and broken; And the month of joy and gladness Shall fill thy soul with holy sadness, And thou wilt sigh for me, love.

"When thou rov'st the woodland bowers, Thou shalt cull spring's sweetest flowers, To strew with tender, silent weeping The lonely bed where I am sleeping, And sadly mourn for me, love!"

And thus ended poor Clary's letter. Anthony folded it up carefully, and laid it next his heart. The hope she had endeavored to inspire did not desert him at that moment. He was resigned to his fate; he even wished to die. Her simple child-like letter had done more to reconcile him to his doom than the pious lectures of the good priest, and his own deep reflections on the subject. The madness of all human pursuits—the vanity and frivolity of life—now awoke in his breast sensations of pity and disgust. But love and friendship—those drops of honey in the cup of gall—did not their sweetness in this hour of desolation atone for the bitter dregs, and hold him to earth? The mighty struggle was to rend asunder these new-formed and holy ties. For him there existed no hope of a reprieve. Wise and good men had tried and found him guilty of a crime which, in all ages, had been held in execration by mankind. He was not a common criminal; for him there existed no sympathy, no pity. The voice of humanity was against him; the whole world united in his condemnation.

It was his last night upon earth; yet amidst its silent dreary watches, when these thoughts flitted through his mind, he wished it past. A thousand times he caught himself repeating from Dr. Young that memorable line, as if to fortify himself against the coming event,

"Man receives, not suffers, death's tremendous blow."

But it was not the mere death-pang—the separation of matter and spirit—that he shrank from. It was the loathed gibbet; that disgusting relic of a barbarous age, the revolting exhibition, the public and disgraceful manner of his death, that made it so terrible. And he sighed, and prayed to God to grant him patience, and fell into a deep tranquil sleep, from which he did not awake until the hour of his departure was at hand.



CHAPTER XXIV.

On life's wide sea, when tempests gathering dark Pour the fierce billow on the shatter'd bark, The surge may break, the warring winds may rave, 'Tis God controls the vengeance of the wave; And those who trust in his Almighty arm No storm shall vex, nor hurricane alarm; He is their stay when earthly hope is lost, The light and anchor of the tempest-tost!—S.M.

At an early hour next morning every avenue and street leading to the place of execution was thronged with human beings, all anxious to behold an erring fellow-creature suffer the punishment due to the enormous crime of which he had been found guilty. The rush of the gathering multitude was like the roaring of a troubled sea, when the waters foam and chafe, and find no rest for their tumultuous heavings. Intense curiosity was depicted on every countenance, and each man strained his neck eagerly forward to catch a glance of the monster who had murdered his own father.

And there was one among that mass of living heads the most anxious, the most eager of all. This was Godfrey Hurdlestone, who could not believe his victim sure until he saw him die.

"Why, Squire," whispered a voice near him, "I did not expect to see you here. Are you not satisfied that he is condemned?"

"No, Bill," responded the murderer. "I must see him die. Then, and not till then, shall I believe myself secure."

"What has become of Mary?" again whispered his companion in guilt.

Godfrey's hardened face became livid. "She was lying speechless, given over by the physicians, at Captain Whitmore's, three days ago. Curse her! I have no doubt that she meant to betray us."

"I wish I had throttled her the night she described the scene of the murder! But mum; here comes the prisoner. By Jove! how well he looks! how bravely he bears up against his fate! Does not the sight of that proud pale face make you feel rather queerish?"

"Away with your scruples; his death makes rich men of us."

The prisoner ascended the platform, supported by Frederic Wildegrave and the good chaplain. A breathless pause succeeded, and he became the central point to which all eyes were directed. His hat was off, and the expression of his face was calm and resigned; the dignity of conscious innocence was there. He turned his fine dark eyes with a pitying glance on the upturned faces of the gazing crowd; the hisses and groans with which they had greeted his first appearance were hushed; a death-like stillness fell upon that vast assemblage, and many a rugged cheek was moistened with tears of genuine compassion.

"Hark, he is about to speak! Is it to confess his crime?"

In deep clear tones he addressed the multitude. "Fellow-men, you are assembled here this day to see me die. You believe me guilty of a dreadful crime; the most dreadful crime that a human creature can commit—the murder of a parent. Here, before you all, and in the presence of Almighty God, I declare my innocence. I neither committed the murder nor am I acquainted with the perpetrators of the deed. God will one day prove the truth of my words. To Him I leave the vindication of my cause; He will clear from my memory this infamous stain. Farewell!"

"He cannot be guilty!" exclaimed some.

"The hardened wretch!" cried others. "To take God's name in vain, and die with a lie upon his lips."

The prisoner now resigned himself to the hangman's grasp; but whilst the fatal noose was adjusting, a cry—a wild, loud, startling cry—broke upon the crowd, rising high into the air and heard above all other sounds. Again and again it burst forth, until it seemed to embody itself into intelligible words; "Stop! stop!" it cried, "stop the execution! He is innocent! he is innocent!"

The crowd caught up the cry; and "He is innocent! he is innocent!" passed from man to man. A young female was now seen forcing a passage through the dense mass. The interest became intense; every one drew closer to his neighbor, to make way for the bearer of unexpected tidings, who, arriving within a few yards of the scaffold, again called out in shrill tones, which found an echo in every benevolent heart—"Godfrey Hurdlestone and William Mathews are the real murderers. I heard them form the plot. I saw the deed done!"

"Damnation!—we are betrayed!" whispered Godfrey to his colleague in crime, as they fled from the scene.

All was now uproar and confusion. The sheriff and his officers at length succeeded in quieting the excited populace, and removed the prisoner once more to his cell.

"I trust, my son, that the bitterness of death is past," said the chaplain, who accompanied him hither. "The God in whom you trusted has been strong to save."

"And where, where is my preserver?" asked Anthony, rising from his knees, after returning humble and heartfelt thanks to God for his preservation.

"She is here," said Mary, kneeling at his feet. "Here to bless and thank you for all your unremitted kindness to a wretch like me. Oh! I feared that I should be too late; that all would be over before my feeble limbs would bring me to the spot. I have been ill, Mr. Anthony, dreadfully ill; I couldn't speak to tell them that you were innocent; but it lay upon my heart day by day, and it burnt into my brain like fire. But they did not comprehend me; they could not understand my ravings. At last I stole from my bed, when they were all absent, and put on my clothes, and hurried out into the blessed air. The winds of heaven blew upon me and my reason returned; and God gave me strength, and brought me here in time to save your life. Yes, you are saved. Blessed be God's name for ever. You are saved, and by me!"

The poor girl, overcome by her feelings, burst into a fit of hysterical weeping, and suffered the chaplain to lead her from the cell and place her under the protection of the jailor's wife.



CONCLUSION.

Little now remains of my sad tale to be told. Godfrey and his infamous accomplice Mathews were apprehended, convicted and condemned, and suffered for their crimes on the very spot which had witnessed the rescue of Anthony Hurdlestone from a death of unmerited infamy.

The sole survivor of a rich and powerful family, Anthony left the condemned cell in the county jail to take possession of his paternal estates. But it was not on a spot haunted by such melancholy recollections that the last of the Hurdlestones thought fit to dwell. The Hall was sold, and passed into the hands of strangers; and after remaining two years abroad, Anthony once more returned to his native shores, and led to the altar his betrothed bride—the beautiful and talented Juliet Whitmore.

The young Squire's character had been fully vindicated to the world, and his wealthy neighbors took every opportunity of courting his acquaintance; but a change had come over Mr. Hurdlestone, which the caresses of the great and the smiles of fortune could not remove. He never forgot the sad lesson he had learned in —— jail, or the melancholy fate of his nearest relatives. He had proved the instability of all earthly pursuits and enjoyments; and he renounced the gay world, and devoted his time and talents, and the immense riches which heaven had entrusted to his stewardship, in alleviating the wants and woes of suffering humanity. In the wise and virtuous Juliet he found a partner worthy of his love. One in heart and purpose, their unaffected piety and benevolence rendered them a great blessing to the poor in their neighborhood, who never spoke of the rich Squire and his wife without coupling their names with a blessing.

Amongst his peers, Anthony Hurdlestone was regarded as a singular wayward being, whose eccentricities were to be excused and accounted for by the strange circumstances in which he had been placed. It was a matter of surprise to all, that the son of the miser, Mark Hurdlestone, should know how to use, without abusing, his wealth; that, avoiding the selfish idolatry of the Gold Worshipper and the folly and extravagance of the spendthrift, he dedicated to the service of God and his fellow-creatures the riches that, in his father's case, had illustrated the truth of the heaven-taught proverb:—

"How hardly shall a rich man enter the kingdom of God!"

THE END.