Oh life! vain life! how many thorny cares
Lie thickly strewn in all thy crooked paths!--S.M.
There is no sight on earth so revolting as the smile with which
hypocrisy covers guilt, without it be revenge laughing at its victim.
When Algernon returned at night to the Hall, his brother greeted him
with a composed and smiling aspect. He had communicated to his father
the scene he had witnessed at the cottage, and the old man's anger
exceeded his most sanguine expectations. With secret satisfaction he saw
Algernon enter the drawing-room, which the indignant Squire was pacing
with rapid steps; and when he caught the irritated glance of the old
man's eye, Mark felt that his work had been well and surely done; that
nothing could avert from his brother the storm that was gathering over
him.
"So, sir, you are come at last!" said Mr. Hurdlestone, suddenly stopping
and confronting the unsuspecting culprit.
"Was my presence required at home, sir?" asked Algernon, in a tone of
surprise, at the same time pulling out his watch. "It is not late. Just
ten o'clock."
"Late or not late, that is not now the question. I have to ask you--I
insist upon your telling me--at what house in this neighborhood you
spend your time?"
There was an ominous pause. Mark smiled sarcastically, but seemed to
watch intently for his brother's reply; while the old man's fierce eye
glared with tiger-like ferocity upon his younger son.
Algernon at last spoke, and as he did so, he raised his head proudly,
and firmly encountered his father's keen gaze.
"I see how it is, sir; my actions have been watched and my motives
misapprehended. But I shall not attempt to deny the truth. My visits
have been to the house of Mrs. Wildegrave. She has a beautiful and
virtuous daughter, whom I mean to make my wife."
"The traitor Wildegrave!--his child?"
"The same."
"And you dare tell me this to my face?"
"I never do that behind your back, that I would be ashamed to own to
your face."
"Impudent scoundrel! Do you know in what manner the father of this
_beautiful_ and virtuous young lady met his death?"
"As many brave and unfortunate gentlemen did; who, had their cause been
successful, would have been praised for their gallantry by the very
persons who now condemn them."
"And you expect me to give my consent to this accursed marriage?"
"I neither expect, nor ask it from you."
"By heaven, you shall never have it! nor one farthing of mine, without
you promise to relinquish all idea of this disgraceful connection."
"I must leave that to your own sense of justice. I have pledged my
solemn word to Miss Wildegrave to make her my wife. I cannot break my
word without forfeiting my own self-respect."
"Then it appears to me that my approbation to a measure, which so
deeply concerns the honor and respectability of my family, was a matter
of no consequence to my son."
"Indeed, my dear father, I would cheerfully have consulted you upon the
subject had I not been aware of the strong prejudice with which you
regard all those who were in any way connected with that unfortunate
rebellion. In Miss Wildegrave's case, I knew my application would be
worse than fruitless."
"And you knew this, and yet dared to persist in your folly?"
"I did. Because I loved the young lady; and felt that I never could be
happy without her."
"And with her I am determined that you never shall be happy. It was my
intention, at my decease, to have bequeathed to you the manor of Worden,
with its fine old hall, and the noble woods by which it is surrounded;
but as you mean to please yourself in the choice of a wife, I shall take
the same privilege in the choice of my heirs. Here you have no longer a
home. You may leave the Hall to-morrow, and earn a fortune for yourself
and your bride. You have ceased to be my son. I never wish to see your
face again."
Mark Hurdlestone, who had listened most attentively to the conversation,
now advanced from the recess of the window, and, pretending to take his
brother's part, began to expostulate with his father on the violence of
his proceedings; begging him to check his indignation, and allow his
brother time to perceive his error. "He could not," he said, "excuse his
brother's conduct. His want of duty and respect to such an excellent
parent he considered perfectly inexcusable, and most ungrateful, after
the many bills he had paid for him, and the great expense he had been
to the family during his continental tour. But then he hoped that his
father would have compassion upon his youth, and take into account the
natural weakness of his intellect, which latter defect made him an easy
dupe to artful people."
Algernon's mind was too much overwhelmed with his misfortune to notice
the implied insult. He did not even hear it, while his artful brother,
under the pretext of striving to effect a reconciliation, was heaping
fresh fuel on the fire, and doing all in his power to widen the breach.
The old man's wrath was at length exhausted; and Algernon, fearing to
lose all command over his temper, and exasperated by unmerited abuse,
abruptly left the room, and retired with a heavy heart to his own
chamber.
His determination to make Elinor his wife was not in the least shaken by
his father's threats; although he knew that years must now intervene
before such an union could take place. After he had a little calmed his
agitated feelings, he sat down and wrote a long letter to Elinor,
briefly stating what had taken place, and the necessity he was under of
leaving the Hall. He again repeated his vows of unshaken constancy;
assuring her that he was ready to make any sacrifice for her sake. He
begged her not to take the present trouble too deeply to heart, as he
felt certain that from the violence of the storm the danger would soon
be over.
The next morning he took a tender leave of his mother, and accepting the
invitation of a friend to spend some time with him in a distant county,
he bade, as he thought, a long farewell to the Hall.
From this visit he was recalled in a few weeks to attend the funeral of
his father, who died suddenly of gout in the stomach. After the remains
of the old Squire had been consigned to the family vault, Algernon
accompanied his mother and brother to the library to hear the reading of
the will. No suspicion that his father would realize his threat had ever
crossed his mind; and he was literally stunned when he found that his
unnatural parent had left all to his elder brother, and cut him off with
a shilling.
In a moment he comprehended the full extent of his misfortune. He had
been brought up a gentleman; he was now penniless--without money or
interest to secure a respectable situation, in which he might hope by
industry and perseverance to obtain a competency. Homeless and
friendless, whither could he go? How could he learn to forget what he
had been, what he might still be, and all that he had lost? He took up
his hat from the table on which his father's unjust testament lay, tore
from it the crape that surrounded it--that outward semblance of woe,
which in his case was a bitter mockery--and trampled it beneath his
feet. His mother raised her weeping eyes silently and imploringly to his
face. He returned to her side, pressed her hand affectionately between
his own, and casting a contemptuous glance upon his brother, quitted the
apartment, and, a few minutes after, the Hall.
When at a distance from the base wretch who had robbed him of his
patrimony, by poisoning his father's mind against him, Algernon gave
free vent to the anguish that oppressed him. Instead of seeking the
widow's cottage, and pouring into the bosom of Elinor the history of his
wrongs, he hurried to that very dell in the park which had witnessed his
brother's jealous agonies, and throwing himself at his full length upon
the grass, he buried his face in his hands and wept.
Could he have guessed his brother's passion for Elinor Wildegrave, or
had he witnessed his despair on that memorable night that had made him
the happiest of men, he would frankly have forgiven him the ruin he had
wrought.
A strong mind, when it comprehends the worst, rouses up all its latent
energies to combat with, and triumph over, its misfortunes. Algernon was
an amiable man, a man of warm passions and generous impulses, but he was
a weak man. His indignation found vent in sighs and tears, when he
should have been up and doing.
A light step rustled among the underwood--ashamed of his weakness he
sprang to his feet, and saw before him, not the slight form of Elinor
Wildegrave, into which belief busy fancy had cheated him, but the
drooping figure and mild face of his mother, shrouded in the gloomy
garments of her recent widowhood. With pale cheeks and eyelids swollen
with tears, she had followed her injured son to his lonely hiding-place.
"Mother!" he cried, holding out his arms to receive the poor weeper,
"dear mother! what have I done to be thus treated?"
A convulsive spasm choked his utterance; and as she seated herself
beside him on the grass, his head sunk upon her lap, as in other years,
and the proud man's spirit was humbled and subdued like that of a little
child.
"Your father, Algernon, has died, committing an act of injustice, but
for your mother's sake you must forgive him."
Algernon tore up several tufts of grass, and flung them with violence
from him--but he remained silent.
"Your brother, too, my Algernon, though harsh and unkind in his general
deportment, feels for your present situation. He is anxious to make some
amends to you for the injustice of his father. He sent me to tell you
that any sum you may think fit to name, and which you consider
sufficient to settle you in life, shall be yours."
"He sent you--he--the hypocrite! Was it not he who robbed me of my
father's love--he, who has robbed me of my natural claims to a portion
of my father's property? What! does the incendiary think that I am blind
to his treachery--that I am ignorant of the hand that struck me this
blow--that I will stoop to receive as a liberal donation, an act of
special favor, a modicum of that which ought to be my own? Mother, I
will starve before I can receive one farthing from him!"
"Do not be rash, my son"--
"Mother, I cannot be mean. It grieves me, dearest mother, that you
should undertake to be the bearer of this message to me."
"Are you not both my children?--though, God knows, not equally dear; and
ought not the welfare of both to be precious to the heart of a mother?
It is not so: Mark never had an equal share of my affections, and God
has punished me for my undue partiality, by making him the heir of all."
"But, mother, this was no fault of mine."
"True; but he has regarded it as a crime. You have robbed him of my
love, and he in revenge has robbed you of your fortune. Had I been a
kinder mother to him, he might have prized the gold less, and my
affection more. My conscience reproaches me as the author of your
present sufferings. Do not make my self-upbraidings more acute, by
refusing the assistance which your brother offers you."
"Esau sold his birthright for a mess of pottage, mother. I will not sell
my honor for a sum of money, however acceptable that sum might be. It
would never prosper with me, if it came from him."
"Well, Algernon, if you will not be persuaded, you must have it your own
way. Your father, though he received from me a noble fortune, has left
me dependent upon your brother. I cannot, if I would, aid you with
money; but this case of jewels is valuable; I am old, I have no further
occasion for such baubles; I have no daughters to wear them after me.
Take them, you can raise upon them several thousand pounds--and may the
proceeds arising from their sale be blessed to your use."
"Dearest mother, I accept your generous present;" and Algernon's
countenance brightened as hope once more dawned in his breast. "If I
should be fortunate, I will return to you in hard gold the value of
these gems."
He took the casket from his mother's hand, and caught her to his heart
in a long and last embrace. "Should Heaven bless my honest endeavors to
obtain a respectable independence, my heart and my home, beloved one,
shall ever be open to you."
And so they parted--the good mother and the disinherited son, to meet no
more on this side the grave.
"Poor mother!" sighed Algernon, as he turned his steps to the widow's
cottage, "how I pity you, having to live upon the charity of that churl!
It would seem that my father was determined to punish you for your
devoted love to me."
Before Algernon reached the humble abode that contained his earthly
treasure, his buoyant mind had decided upon the best course to pursue.
The sale of his mother's jewels would purchase a commission in the East
India Company's service. To India, therefore, he determined to go; and
he flattered himself that, before the expiration of ten years, he would
return with an independent fortune to claim his bride. It was a long
period in perspective, but Elinor was in the early bloom of youth, and
her charms would scarcely have reached maturity when he hoped again to
revisit his native land. The bitterest pang was yet to come. He must
inform her of his father's unjust bequeathment of all his property to
his brother, and of his own determination to seek his fortune in the
East. He must bid the idol of his soul adieu, for a period which, to the
imagination of a lover, almost involved eternity. Alas for the fond
hearts and the warm hopes of youth! How could they bear the annihilation
of all the delightful anticipations which they had formed of future
enjoyment?
Elinor had not seen Algernon since his return to the Hall. She ran down
the little path which led to the road to meet him, and the next moment
was in his arms. Algernon could not restrain his feelings as he clasped
her to his heart; he burst into tears.
"You have had a great loss, my Algernon; I will not chide these tears.
The death of a kind parent leaves an awful blank in our existence, a
wound which time alone can heal."
"His death, Elinor, has not cost me a single tear."
"Then why this grief?"
"We must part."
"Algernon!" Elinor stepped back, and looked at her lover with death-pale
cheeks and expanded eyes. "Part!"
"Yes, but not for ever, I hope. But for a long, long period of time; so
long, that hope dies in my heart while naming it."
"But why is this, Algernon? Your father's death, you always told me,
would remove the only obstacle to--to--" Her voice failed her. She
buried her face in her apron, and wept.
"Yes, dearest; that was, provided he left me the means to support a
wife. He has not done so. He has left all to my brother--and I am
destitute."
"Good Heaven! And this is my doing. Oh, Algernon. What have you not lost
on my account!"
"We will not think of that now, love," said Algernon, growing calmer now
the worst had been told; "I came to pour into your faithful heart all my
sorrows, and to tell you my plans for the future."
"Algernon," said Elinor, gravely, after remaining for some time in deep
thought, "your attachment to me has overwhelmed you with misfortunes.
Comply with your father's wishes--resign your engagement to me, and your
brother will, in all probability, restore to you the property you have
lost."
"And would you wish me to be under obligations to him? Is not this his
work? Elinor, I would rather enlist as a common soldier, than live in
affluence, and he my benefactor. But I am poor now, and my love may have
become valueless in your eyes," and he turned his fine eyes, moist with
tears, reproachfully on his beautiful mistress.
"I spoke not for myself," said Elinor, gently. "Is not the love that has
sacrificed a fortune for my sake beyond all price? But the thought of
ruining the man I love overwhelms me with despair."
"Patience, my dear girl--time will remedy the evil. I am going to work
hard to win a fortune. In a few years I shall return from India, a rich
man."
"India!"
"It is the only spot on the earth where fortunes can be made in a few
years."
"But the dreadful climate--the many chances against you--"
"I will brave all for your dear sake. Only promise to be true to me,
Elinor; never whilst I live, to wed another."
The promise was given, and sealed upon her lips, and the lovers parted
with many sighs and tears; promising, by everything most holy and dear
to them, to remain constant to each other. Such vows are too often
traced in sand, to be washed out by the returning tide of passion or
interest: sometimes by an unfortunate combination of untoward
circumstances, over which the poor lover cannot exercise the least
control. We shall see how Algernon and his Elinor kept their vows of
eternal fidelity.
Mark Hurdlestone heard of his brother's departure and safe arrival in
India with unspeakable satisfaction. With cautious steps he pursued the
path suggested to him by the implacable spirit of revenge. Before many
months had elapsed, the death of Mrs. Hurdlestone afforded him an
opportunity of obtaining a fresh introduction to Miss Wildegrave. At his
mother's particular request, Mrs. Wildegrave and her daughter had
visited her frequently during her dying illness; and as it exactly
suited his own purpose, Mark offered no objection, but did all in his
power to meet his mother's wishes. The dying woman felt an intense
desire to see the person for whom her favorite son had sacrificed so
much, and she was so pleased with his choice, that she forgave her all
the trouble she had occasioned, kept her constantly near her person
during her last illness, and finally expired in her arms.
To Elinor she owed much of the attention she received at that time from
her stern unloving son. He treated her with a degree of tenderness quite
unusual to him, anticipated all her comforts, and seldom left her
apartment. "They may call the Squire a harsh cruel man," said Elinor to
her mother, "but I must say, that I never saw a kinder or a better son."
After the funeral, Mark called upon Mrs. Wildegrave, to deliver into her
hands a few memorials of his mother's regard, to which he added some
handsome ornaments for Elinor out of his own purse, and he expressed in
the warmest terms his grateful thanks for their attention and kindness
to the deceased. He displayed so much feeling on this melancholy
occasion, and spoke with such affection and respect of his departed
parent, that it made a deep impression upon Mrs. Wildegrave and her
daughter.
Encouraged by this favorable reception, the Squire soon repeated his
visit, and by adroitly flattering the elder lady, he continued to
ingratiate himself into her favor. Mrs. Wildegrave was a kind
well-meaning woman, but she had struggled so long with poverty, that
wealth had acquired, as a natural consequence, too great an ascendancy
over her mind. The possession of these coveted riches gave to Mark
Hurdlestone an importance in her eyes, which made her blind to the
defects of his character, and she secretly wished that her daughter had
not entered into a rash engagement with his brother, which must
unavoidably extend over an indefinite number of years, but could
transfer her affections to the handsome owner of Oak Hall. Alas! how
often are mothers, and fond mothers too, induced to sacrifice the
earthly and eternal peace of a beloved child to the demon of this world,
the selfish soul-destroying power of wealth, that daily slays its
thousands and tens of thousands, yet never finds one worshipper the
less.
About this period, Mr. Hurdlestone purchased the cottage rented by the
widow, and appeared in a new character, that of a landlord. The old lady
was fond of planning improvements, which gave him an opportunity of
gratifying her taste; and he took no small pains in accommodating
himself to her wishes. "He was a fine generous man," she said, "one whom
the world has greatly misrepresented. All his father's faults have been
heaped upon his innocent head. She had had sore reason to hate the
illiberal narrow-minded father, but she admired and esteemed the son."
"I do not think that Algernon did his brother justice," said Elinor;
"but members of the same family are often blind to each other's merits.
Certainly the Squire is not the bad selfish man I took him for."
"He has behaved like an angel to us," returned the mother; "and I for my
part, prefer him to Algernon."
Elinor rejected this preference with disdain; but the old lady persisted
in maintaining her own opinion. Her daughter at last relinquished the
argument, by saying, "That the Squire, with his grave serious face, and
stiff polite manners, might suit the taste of a middle-aged woman; but
he never would win the regard of a young girl."
At first, Elinor had shunned the company of Mr. Hurdlestone, for his
presence recalled painful thoughts, and she was prejudiced against him
on his brother's account; but his attentions were so kind and
considerate, that, stern as he was, she began to entertain a better
opinion of him, and to think that perhaps Algernon, who was very
passionate, might have given him some provocation for the unjust
distribution of his father's property. His manners were austere, and
somewhat misanthropic, but his book-knowledge was extensive, and, though
naturally taciturn, he could, when he pleased, converse well upon any
subject. Free from the influence of malignant passions, he was a
sensible and interesting companion.
Elinor knew that the brothers had not parted friends, nor was she
ignorant of the cause of the quarrel; but she was willing to believe,
from what she heard and saw of Mark Hurdlestone, that he was less in
fault than he had been represented to her by Algernon; and the hope of
bringing about a reconciliation, and by so doing, shorten her lover's
period of exile, took a lively hold of her imagination.
The Squire was so plausible, that he found it an easy task to deceive a
girl as unsophisticated as Elinor Wildegrave, who was a perfect novice
in the ways of the world. She could not believe it possible that Mr.
Hurdlestone could stoop from his dignity to act a despicable part; that
deception could lurk beneath such a grave demeanor. Elinor was not the
first human being whose faith has been built on reeds.
When alone with Miss Wildegrave, Mark never failed to make his brother
the theme of conversation. He lamented, most feelingly, the unfortunate
difference which existed between them, which appeared the more
unnatural, considering that they were twins. He laid the fault of their
disunion entirely to their parents--his father adopting him as a pet,
and his mother lavishing all her affections upon Algernon.
This partiality, he said, had destroyed all confidence between them, and
produced a rivalry and misunderstanding of each other's character from
their earliest years, substituting envy for generous emulation, and
hatred for love. In all their quarrels, whether right or wrong, his
mother defended Algernon, and his father sided with him so that
well-doing was never rewarded, and ill-doing never met with an adequate
punishment. Was it to be wondered at that they had grown up perfectly
indifferent to each other?
There was much truth in this statement; but Mark Hurdlestone made the
best of it, in order to justify himself.
As they became more intimate, Elinor ventured to inquire why his father
had been induced to act so unjustly to Algernon on his death-bed; that
she could hardly believe that Algernon's attachment to her could have
drawn down upon him such a heavy punishment.
"My father was a man of headstrong prejudices," said the Squire. "If he
once took a notion into his head, it was impossible to knock it out of
him. To dislike a person, and to hate them, were with him the same
thing. Such were the feelings he entertained towards your father, whom
he regarded as having been his bitterest enemy. The idea of a son of his
uniting himself to a daughter of Captain Wildegrave seemed to impugn his
own loyalty. It was with him a personal insult, an unforgivable offence.
Algernon has accused me of fomenting my father's displeasure, for the
base purpose of robbing him of his share of the property. You have been
told this?"
"I have."
"And you believe it?"
"I did believe it; but it was before I knew you."
"Dismiss such an unworthy idea of me from your breast for ever. I did
all in my power to restore Algernon to my father's favor. I earnestly
entreated him, when upon his death-bed, to make a more equitable will.
On this point the old man was inflexible. He died muttering curses on
his head."
Elinor shuddered.
"It was my determination to have rendered Algernon justice, and shared
the property equally between us; but in this Algernon prevented me. He
left the Hall in a tempest of rage; and when I made the proposal
through my mother, my offer was rejected with scorn. I wrote to him
before he left for India on the same subject, and my letters were
returned unopened. You see, my dear Miss Wildegrave, I have done all in
my power to conciliate my brother; but, like my poor father, his enmity
is stronger than his love, and will not be entreated."
This statement of Mr. Hurdlestone's was not only very plausible, but it
was partly true. He had indeed begged the dying man to forgive Algernon,
and consent to his marriage with Miss Wildegrave; but then, he well knew
that his father would neither do the one nor the other; while his own
hypocritical interference only aggravated the old man's anger in a
tenfold degree, and would be the sure way of producing the result which
he so ardently desired. He had offered to settle a handsome sum upon his
injured brother, but he well knew that it would be rejected with scorn
by the high-spirited young man. Elinor could not contradict these
statements. She knew the impetuous disposition of her lover, and she
more readily admitted their probability. Mark had been represented to
her by him as a sullen, morose, avaricious young man, selfish,
unfeeling, and cruel, suspicious of his friends, and implacable to his
enemies. She had found him the reverse of all this; and she began to
entertain doubts of Algernon's veracity, and to conclude that it was for
some more cogent reason than for any with which she was yet acquainted
that his father had struck him out of his will, so anxious was she to
acquit herself of being the cause of her lover's exile, and the
unfortunate circumstances in which he was placed. This, too, was
selfish; but Elinor had been an only child, and very much indulged by
her mother. She was a good, gentle, beautiful girl; but not exactly the
stuff of which angels are made.
After this explanation had taken place, Mr. Hurdlestone became a daily
visitor at the cottage; and his society and friendship contributed
greatly to the comfort and amusement of its inhabitants. He never, to
Elinor, made the least allusion to his passion. The passion, indeed, had
long ceased to exist; he sought her not for love, but for revenge.
Time glided on. Algernon had been three years away; but his letters
still continued to breathe the same ardent attachment, and Elinor was
happy in the consciousness of being the sole possessor of his heart.
Her mother, who had more ambitious views for her daughter, often
lamented her long engagement, which might never be completed. "She would
rather," she said, "have the rich Squire for her son-in-law; and she
would not be at all surprised if Elinor herself was to change her mind
before the ten years expired."
Six years of the allotted period had expired. Algernon had been promoted
to the rank of major; and his letters were full of happy anticipations.
Elinor herself began to look forward to their union as a thing likely to
take place; and she spoke of her lover's perseverance and constancy with
proud delight.
"He has done better than I expected of him," said the Squire. "There is
nothing like adversity for trying what a man's made of. But who can
wonder at his exerting himself to obtain such a reward?" And he bowed to
the blushing Elinor, as she sat with Algernon's letter in her hand,
radiant with joy.
"He talks of returning in less than two years: I wish it were now. I am
already three-and-twenty; by that time I shall begin to look old."
Mark thought that she never looked younger, or more beautiful, than at
that moment, and he told her so.
"Ah, but you are my friend--are partial. Will not Algernon see a
change?"
"Yes--for the better."
"I wish I could believe you. But I feel older. My heart is not so fresh
as it was; I no longer live in a dream; I see things as they really
are."
"And do you expect to find no change in your lover? The burning climate
of India is not a great beautifier."
"I can only see him as he was. If his heart remains unchanged, no
alteration in his personal appearance could shake my regard,
particularly when those changes have been incurred for my sake."
"Oh, woman, great is your faith!" said Mark, with a sigh. "Gladly would
I give my fortune to be Algernon."
Elinor started, and looked anxiously at her companion. It was the first
time he had ever alluded to his secret passion. Did he love her? The
question made Elinor tremble. She folded her letter, and turned the
conversation into another channel. But the words haunted her, "I would
give my fortune to be Algernon." Could he be in earnest? Perhaps it was
only a passing compliment--men were fond of paying such. But the Squire
was no flatterer; he seldom said what he did not mean. She re-read
Algernon's letter, and thought no more about the words that his brother
had let fall.
That letter was the last she ever received from her lover. After
enduring the most torturing suspense for eighteen months, and writing
frequently to demand the cause of his unnatural silence, Elinor gave
herself up to the most gloomy forebodings. Mr. Hurdlestone endeavored to
soothe her fears, and win her to the belief that his brother's letters
must have miscarried, through the negligence of private hands, to whom
they might have been entrusted. But when these suggestions failed in
arousing her from the stupor of grief into which she had fallen, he
offered the most tender consolations which could be administered to a
wounded mind--an appearance of heartfelt sympathy in its sufferings.
While musing one morning over the cause of Algernon's silence, the
Squire's groom approached the open window at which she was seated, and
placed a letter in her hands; it was edged and sealed with black; and
Elinor hastily broke the seal, and opened it. Her eye glanced, hurriedly
over the first few words. She uttered a loud cry; and sank down,
weeping, at her mother's feet.
Mrs. Wildegrave lifted her to the sofa, and taking the letter from her
cold and nerveless grasp, read its contents. They were written by Mark
Hurdlestone.
Oak Hall, June 16, ----
"My Dear Miss Wildegrave:
"It is with the utmost reluctance that I take up my pen to
communicate tidings which, I well know, will occasion you great
distress. This morning's post brought me the mournful intelligence
of my brother Algernon's death, which melancholy event took place
on the morning of the 4th of August last, at the house of a friend
in Calcutta. Mr. Richardson's letter I will transmit to you as soon
as you are able to bear its contents. My poor brother was on his
way to England; and his death was so sudden, that he made no
arrangement of his affairs previous to his dissolution. That Heaven
may comfort and sustain you under this severe trial, is the earnest
prayer of your sincere friend,
"Marcus Hurdlestone."
"Oh, mother! mother! My heart--my poor heart! How shall I learn to bear
this great sorrow?" was all that the forlorn girl could utter, as she
pressed her hands tightly over the agitated bosom that concealed her
convulsed and bursting heart. No sound was heard within that peaceful
home for many days and nights but the sobs and groans of the unhappy
Elinor. She mourned for the love of her youth, as one without hope. She
resisted every attempt at consolation, and refused to be comforted. When
the first frantic outbreak of sorrow had stagnated into a hopeless and
tearless gloom, which threatened the reason of the sufferer, the Squire
visited the cottage, and brought with him the merchant's letter, that
fully corroborated his former statement, and the wretched heart-broken
girl could no longer cherish the most remote probability to which hope
could cling.
Twelve months passed away. The name of Algernon was never mentioned in
her presence; and she still continued to wear the deepest mourning. A
strange apathy had succeeded her once gay flow of spirits, and she
seemed alike indifferent to herself and all the world. To the lover-like
attentions of Mark Hurdlestone she paid no regard, and appeared wholly
unconscious of his admiration. Mortified by her coldness, even his
patience was nearly exhausted; when the death of her mother, who had
been a long time in declining health, cast Elinor, friendless and
unprotected, on the world. This circumstance, hailed with unspeakable
joy by Mr. Hurdlestone, plunged the poor girl, doubly an orphan, into
despair.
A lady in the neighborhood, pitying her distress, received her into her
family, until she could adopt some plan for her future maintenance; but
all her attempts to console Elinor for her loss proved abortive. Her
tears flowed unceasingly, her health and spirits were impaired; and she
felt, with bitterness, that she no longer possessed strength or
fortitude to combat with poverty and the many ills of life.
At this critical juncture, Mark Hurdlestone, generously, as all the
world thought, came forward, and offered her his hand; inviting her, in
the most delicate manner, to share his splendid home and fortune.
His disinterested offer, at such a time, filled Elinor with respect and
gratitude, but she did not love him; and, trembling and irresolute, she
knew not how to act. She had but one relative--an uncle, in India--who
had never written to her mother since her father died upon the scaffold.
Whether this uncle was still living, was married, or single, she could
not ascertain. To him, therefore, it was useless to apply. She had no
home--she was at present dependent upon the bounty of a stranger, who
could ill afford to be burdened with an additional member to her already
large family. What could she do? She consulted that friend; and the
worthy woman strongly advised her to accept the Squire's offer,
wondering, all the while, how she could, for one moment, think of a
refusal. So it was all settled; and Elinor reluctantly consented to
become Mark Hurdlestone's wife.
Thousands in her situation would have done the same. But we must blame
her, or any other woman, whatever her circumstances may be, who consents
to become the bosom-partner of a man she cannot love. Miserable are such
unions; from them flow, as from a polluted stream, all the bitterest
sorrows and ills of life.
Young maiden, whosoever you may be, whose eyes glance at this moment on
my page, take the advice of one who has been both a happy wife and
mother: never sacrifice the best and holiest affections of your heart on
the sordid shrine of wealth or worldly ambition. Without reciprocal
love, the heart becomes a moral desert How can you reasonably expect to
receive that from another, of which you are destitute yourself? Will the
field that never was sown yield to the possessor a plentiful harvest? I
do most firmly believe, that to this want of affection in parents to
each other may be traced the want of the same feeling in children
towards their parents. If a woman hates her husband, her offspring are
not very likely to feel a strong attachment to their father; for
children inherit, in a strong degree, not only the disposition of their
parents, but their mental and physical peculiarities.
A virtuous woman will rarely place her affections upon an unworthy
object if she be true to herself and the education she has received; and
if she cannot consent to encounter a few trials and privations for the
sake of the man she loves, she is not worthy to be his wife.
The loving and beloved partner of a good man may be called upon to
endure many temporal sorrows, but her respect and admiration for his
character will enable her to surmount them all, and she will exclaim
with pious exultation,--"Thank God! I have been happy in my choice. His
love is better to me than gold, yea, than much fine gold!"