EARTH.
CALM and beautiful was the aspect of nature in the stillness of that
summer night. The silence was scarcely broken by the softly-warbled
song of the nightingale, which poured its lay from neighbouring grove.
The rising moon shone in the deep blue sky, tinging with silvery
brilliance the fleecy clouds amidst which she moved, and throwing a
whiteness over the dewy sward, which had almost the effect of frost,
save where the dark shadows of the trees lay sleeping upon the grass.
The breeze ever and anon lightly stirred the branches, sounding like a
low, soft sigh.
Wilfred gazed up at the Hall, with its numerous mullioned windows
gleaming in the silver moonlight, and its gable ends, with their
orb-crowned pinnacles, cutting the clear deep blue. All was so serene,
so calm, that a softening influence fell on the soul of Wilfred.
Nature seemed to lie in such holy beauty under the eye of God, that
the unhappy boy felt as if his presence were the only thing to mar the
peaceful repose of the scene. On what errand was he abroad, when every
inmate of the Hall, save himself, was buried in quiet slumber? Was it
not on an errand of evil as that which draws the robber forth under
the cover of darkness? Was it not to defraud a cousin of his right, to
defeat the ends of justice, to silence the voice of truth? Was it not
to commit an act which he dared not confess even to his nearest and
dearest friend?
Again the resolution of Wilfred wavered: better to return and dare the
worst. Did not every tremulous orb in that sky tell, as with an angel's
voice, how fleeting and insignificant are all the concerns of this
brief life compared with those eternal interests which shall survive
the stars! But Wilfred caught sight, between the trees, of the tower of
the ancient church. It was there where Mina would so soon be united to
the husband of her choice; it was there where Edward would faithfully
preach the gospel to the poor. The guilt of concealment would not be
theirs. Wilfred might load his own conscience with a weight of sin,
but theirs would be clear from reproach. Well knows the tempter how
to use the ties of earthly affection as well as the links of pride,
when he would draw a soul to evil. Wilfred tried to stifle, and almost
succeeded in stifling conviction, by keeping the thought before his
mind that he was acting no selfish part—that he was sacrificing his
peace for the sake of others. He turned from the simple view of the
question—that he had a plain duty to perform, and must ask for strength
to perform it. He did not dare to pray; he feared to think upon God;
he would fain, like the first sinners, have hidden himself from that
Presence which rebukes the bare deformity of guilt.
Wilfred, even at the midnight hour, was afraid of being watched from
the Hall. Those glimmering windows were so many eyes, and he must avoid
their ken. Wilfred turned to the left; his footsteps sounded too loud
on the gravel path; he trod noiselessly on the green verge. Scarcely
noticing the emerald spark, where the glow-worm, on his mossy bed, had
kindled his fairy lamp, Wilfred made his way to a secluded part of the
garden. The gloomy foliage of a cypress there completely screened him
from view, even if some watcher in the Hall should be gazing forth on
the stars. Wilfred took the roll from his breast, and was about to
commence his work of burying, when a sudden sound made him start. It
was but the rustle caused by a frightened bird that flew forth from the
tree at his unexpected approach; but it made his pulse throb fast with
terror.
Wilfred looked around and upwards ere he began to dig: he saw nothing
but the wheeling bat, darting between him and the moon, in search of
her nightly prey. No human being was near; no sound of human voice
was borne on the whispering breeze. Wilfred knelt down and began to
displace the sod. Unfurnished as he was with any kind of appropriate
tool, he found the unaccustomed labour far harder than he had expected.
The season was hot, the ground was dry; the boy proceeded but slowly
with the work of scooping out the earth. Anxious and impatient as he
felt to complete his painful task, and bury the parchment in the sod
so deeply that none should find it, the minutes seemed lengthened
to hours. With hands torn, bruised, and blistered, Wilfred at last
finished digging a narrow trench, just long enough and wide enough to
hold the hated roll. He pressed it in, hastily covered it over with
mould, then rose and stamped it down, sprinkling the surface with light
earth to hide the marks of his feet.
It was done—the deed was done, and Wilfred's first sensation was that
of relief. He had now leisure to remember that he was weary and needed
rest, as from the church tower solemnly pealed forth the stroke of one.
Should he return to the house? Wilfred was about to do so, when he
recollected the impossibility of getting in without rousing the inmates
by ringing the great door-bell. The house had long since been carefully
shut up, bolted and barred for the night. Wilfred could not climb up to
the casement from which he had so lately descended at no small personal
risk.
"I must wait till the servants open the doors in the morning," was
Wilfred's reflection, "and creep up unnoticed to my room. Where in the
meantime shall I spend the rest of this miserable night? In the arbour
at the end of the shrubbery: there at least I shall find a bench on
which to stretch my weary limbs."
To the arbour Wilfred proceeded; the air was beginning to feel chilly,
and he was glad of the slight protection which the place afforded.
Lying down on the wooden bench, it was not long before the exhausted
boy fell into a feverish sleep—a sleep haunted by terrible dreams.
Whatever form his slumbering fancies might take, they had ever some
reference to the parchment: now it was torn into a thousand fragments,
and reunited as if by magic; then in the vestry-room of the church,
Mina, a smiling bride, came to sign, according to custom, her maiden
name for the last time. With horror Wilfred beheld in his dream that,
instead of the page of the parish register, her hand rested upon the
deed; it was not her signature that met his gaze, but the crabbed
"Josiah Marsden."
Then the scene changed to the forest. Wilfred seemed again, amidst
briars and thorns, with stinging hosts of hornets around him,
struggling in vain to make his way through with the fatal roll in his
hand! His feet were-entangled, he could not press on, though sounds of
pursuit were behind him. In the agonized struggle to break from his
bonds, the unhappy dreamer awoke.