Oh Lord, thou hast enlarged the grief
Of this poor stricken heart,
That only finds in tears relief,
Which all unbidden start:
Long have I borne the cruel scorn
Of one I could not love nor hate;
My soul, with secret anguish torn,
Yields unresisting to its fate--S.M.
Mark Hurdlestone's triumph was complete; his revenge fully gratified,
when he led his beautiful bride from the altar to the carriage, which
was in readiness to convey her to her future home. She was his, and
Algernon might return as soon as he pleased. Elinor Wildegrave was
beyond his reach. She could never be his wife.
Tranquil, but not happy, Elinor viewed the change in her circumstances
as an intervention of Providence to save her from a life of poverty and
suffering; and she fancied that, if she did not love her benefactor,
feelings of gratitude and a sense of duty would always prevent him from
becoming to her an object of dislike or indifference.
How little had she studied human nature; how ignorant was she of the
mysterious movements of the human heart; and when, after much painful
experience, she acquired the fatal knowledge, how bitter were the
effects it produced upon her own.
When once his victim was in his toils, Mr. Hurdlestone did not attempt
to conceal from her his real disposition.
He laughed at her credulity in believing that love alone had actuated
him in making her his wife. He related to her, with terrible fidelity,
the scene he had witnessed between her and Algernon in the garden, and
the agonies of jealousy that he endured when he discovered that she
loved another; and he repulsed with cold and sarcastic neglect every
attempt made by Elinor to render their union more tolerable, and his
home more comfortable.
To Elinor his conduct was perfectly unaccountable. She could not believe
that he did not love her, and she was not a little mortified at what she
considered his unnatural coldness and neglect.
"Marcus," she said to him one evening, as she sat on a cushion at his
feet, after making many vain attempts to attract his notice, or win from
him one kind look or word, "you did not always treat me with
indifference; there was a time when I thought you loved me."
"There was a time, madam, when I adored you!--when I would have given
all I possessed in the world to obtain from you one smile."
"Then why this coldness? What have I done to merit your dislike?"
"You loved Algernon. You love him still. Aye, that blush! Your face
tells no falsehood. You cannot conceal it from me."
"I do not deny my love. But he is dead. Why should you be jealous of the
dead?"
Mark smiled a grim bitter smile. "But if he were alive?"
"Ah!" and she pressed her small white hand tightly on her heart. "But
then, Marcus, I should not be your wife. It would no longer be my duty
to love another."
"You think it, then, your duty to love me?"
"Yes. You are my husband. My heart is lonely and sad. It must be filled
by some object. Dear Marcus, suffer me to love you."
She laid her fair cheek meekly upon his knee, but he did not answer her
touching appeal to his sympathy with a single caress.
"I cannot make you happy, Elinor. Algernon alone can do that."
"Algernon! Why Algernon?" said Elinor, bursting into tears. "Is it to
make me more miserable that you constantly remind me of my loss?"
"How do you know that he is dead?"
"I have your word for it; the evidence of your friend's letter; his long
silence. What frightful images you conjure up! You seem determined to
make me wretched to-night."
She sprang from her lowly seat, and left the room in an agony of tears.
Mark looked after her for a moment:--"Aye, he still keeps your heart.
But I have had my revenge."
The agony which he had endured in the garden on that memorable night,
when he first discovered that Elinor loved his brother, was light in
comparison to the pangs which shook the inmost soul of his unhappy wife,
when time at last revealed the full extent of her misery, and of her
husband's deep-laid treachery--and Algernon returned from India with an
independent fortune to claim his bride, and found her the wife of his
brother.
The monster who had supplanted him in his father's affections had now
robbed him of his wife. Algernon did not seek an explanation from Mrs.
Hurdlestone, either personally or by letter. He supposed that her
present position was one of her own choosing, and he was too proud to
utter a complaint. The hey-day of youth was past, and he had seen too
much of the world to be surprised at the inconstancy of a poor girl, who
had been offered, during her lover's absence, a splendid alliance. He
considered that Elinor was sufficiently punished for her broken vows in
being forced to spend her life in the society of such a sordid wretch as
Mark Hurdlestone.
"God forgive her," he said; "she has nearly broken my heart, but I pity
her from my very soul."
When the dreadful truth flashed upon the mind of Mrs. Hurdlestone, she
bitterly accused her husband of the deception he had practised. Mr.
Hurdlestone, instead of denying or palliating the charge, even boasted
of his guilt, and entered into a minute detail of each revolting
circumstance--the diabolical means that he had employed to destroy her
peace.
This fiend, to whom in an evil hour she had united her destiny, had
carefully intercepted the correspondence between herself and Algernon,
and employed a friend in India to forge the plausible account he had
received of her lover's death--and finally, as the finishing stroke to
all this deep-laid villany, he had overcome his avaricious propensities,
and made Elinor his wife, not to gratify a sensual passion, but the
terrible spirit of revenge.
Poor Elinor! For a long time her reason bowed before the knowledge of
these horrible facts, and when she did at last recover her senses, her
beauty had faded beneath the blight of sorrow like the brilliant but
evanescent glow of the evening cloud, which vanishes at the approach of
night. Weary of life, she did not regret the loss of those fatal charms
which had been to her a source of such misery.
The last time the rose tint ever visited her once blooming cheeks was
when suddenly informed by Mr. Hurdlestone of his brother's marriage with
a young lady of large fortune. "May he be happy," she exclaimed,
clasping her hands together, whilst the deepest crimson suffused her
face. "I was not worthy to be his wife!" Ere the sentence was concluded
the color had faded from her cheek, which no after emotion recalled.
His brother's marriage produced a strange effect upon the mind of Mark
Hurdlestone. It cheated him of a part of his revenge. He had expected
that the loss of Elinor would have stung Algernon to madness; that his
existence would have become insupportable without the woman he loved.
How great was his mortification when, neither by word nor letter, nor in
conversation with his friends, did his injured brother ever revert to
the subject! That Algernon did not feel the blow, could scarcely be
inferred from his silence. The grief he felt was too acute for words,
and Algernon was still too faithful to the object of his first ardent
attachment to upbraid her conduct to others. Mark, who could not
understand this delicacy of sentiment, concluded that Elinor was no
longer regarded with affection by her lover. Elinor comprehended his
silence better, and she loved him more intensely for his forbearance.
Algernon the world reputed rich and happy, and the Squire despised
Elinor when her person was no longer coveted by his rival. His temper,
constitutionally bad, became intolerable, and he treated his
uncomplaining wife with such unkindness, that it would have broken her
heart, if the remembrance of a deeper sorrow had not rendered her
indifferent to his praise or censure. She considered his kindest mercy
was neglect.
Having now no other passion to gratify but avarice, Mark Hurdlestone's
hoarding propensities returned with double force. He gradually
retrenched his domestic expenses; laid down his carriage; sold his
horses; discharged his liveried servants; and, to the astonishment of
his wondering neighbors, let the noble park to a rich farmer in the
parish, with permission to break it up with the plough. He no longer
suffered the produce of his extensive gardens to be consumed in the
house, or given to the poor; but sold the fruit and vegetables to any
petty greengrocer in the village, who thought it worth his while to walk
up to the Hall, and drive a bargain with the stingy Squire. He not only
assisted in gathering the fruit, for fear he should be robbed, but often
acted as scarecrow to the birds, whom he reviled as noisy, useless
nuisances, vexatiously sent to destroy the fruits of the earth.
Elinor gently remonstrated with him on the meanness and absurdity of
such conduct; but he silenced what he termed her impertinent
interference in matters which did not concern her. He bade her to
remember that she brought him no fortune, and he was forced to make
these retrenchments in order to support her. After this confession,
there was no end to his savings. He discharged his remaining domestics;
sold most of the splendid furniture by public auction; and, finally,
shut up the Hall to avoid paying the window-tax, only allowing the
kitchen, one parlor, and two bed-rooms to be visited by the light of
day. The only person whom he allowed to approach the house was the
gardener, Grenard Pike, who rented a small cottage at the end of the
avenue that led to the back premises of the once noble mansion.
This favored individual was the Squire in low life; and the gossip
dealers in the village did not scruple to affirm that the likeness was
not _merely_ accidental; that Grenard Pike was brother to the Squire in
a natural way; but whether this report were true or false, he and his
master, if unrelated by blood, possessed kindred spirits, and perfectly
understood and appreciated each other. This man had neither wife nor
child, and the whole business of his life was how to get money, and,
when got, how to turn it to the best advantage. If the Squire was
attached to anything in the world, it was to this faithful satellite,
this humble transcript of himself.
The wretched Elinor, shut out from all society, and denied every
domestic comfort, was limited by her stingy partner to the awkward
attendance of a parish girl, who, together with her mistress, he
contrived to half starve; as he insisted on keeping the key of the
pantry, and only allowed them a scanty meal twice during the twenty-four
hours, which he said, was sufficient to keep them in health; more was
hurtful both to the mind and body.
Elinor had dragged on this miserable existence for twelve years, when,
to her unspeakable grief, she found that she was likely to become a
mother, for the prospect of this event served rather to increase, than
diminish her sorrows. It was some time before she dared to communicate
this unwelcome intelligence to her sordid lord. Still, she hoped, in
spite of his parsimony, that he might wish for a son to heir his immense
wealth. Not he! He only thought of a spendthrift, who would recklessly
squander all that he toiled and starved himself to save; and he received
the promise of his paternal honors with a very bad grace.
"All the world!" he exclaimed, "are conspiring together to ruin me. I
shall be ate out of house and home by doctors and nurses, and my rest
will be constantly disturbed by squalling brats; for I suppose, madam,
that like my worthy mother, you will entail upon me two at a time. But
my mother was a strong healthy woman, not delicate and puling like you.
It is more than probable that the child may die."
"And the mother," sighed Elinor.
"Well if He who sends is pleased to take away, He will find me perfectly
resigned to His will. You need not weep, madam. If my conduct appears
unnatural, let me tell you that I consider those human beings alone
fortunate who perish in their infancy. They are in no fear of coming to
the gallows. They are saved from the threatened torments of hell!"
Elinor shrank from the wild flash of his keen dark eyes, and drew back
with an involuntary shudder. "Happy had it been for me if I had died an
infant on my mother's breast."
"Aye, if you had never seen the light. You were born to be the bane of
my house. But since you have confided to me this precious secret, let me
ask you what you think will be the probable expense of your
confinement?"
"I really cannot tell. I must have a doctor--a nurse--and some few
necessaries for the poor babe. I think, with great economy, ten pounds
would be enough."
"Ten pounds!"
"It may cost more, certainly not less."
"You will never get that sum from me."
"But, Marcus, what am I to do?"
"The best way you can."
"You would not have your wife solicit charity?"
"An excellent thought. Ha! ha! you would make a first-rate beggar, with
that pale sad face of yours. But, no, madam, you shall not beg. Poor as
I am, I will find means to support both you and the child. But, mark
me--it must not resemble Algernon."
"How is that possible? I have not seen Algernon for eighteen years."
"But he is ever in your thoughts. Let me not trace this adultery of the
heart in the features of my child."
"But you are like Algernon. Not a striking likeness, but still you might
be known for brothers."
"So, you are trying to find excuses in case of the worst. But, I again
repeat to you, that I will not own the boy if he is like Algernon."
This whim of the miser's was a new cause of terror to Elinor; from that
moment an indescribable dread lest the child should be like Algernon
took possession of her breast. She perceived that her husband already
calculated with selfish horror the expense of the unborn infant's food
and raiment; and she began to entertain some not unreasonable fears lest
the young child, if it should survive its birth, would be starved to
death, as Mark barely supplied his household with the common necessaries
of life; and, though Elinor bore the system of starvation with the
indifference which springs from a long and hopeless continuation of
suffering, the parish girl was loud in her complaints, and she was
constantly annoyed with her discontented murmurings, without having it
in her power to silence them in the only effective way.
The Squire told Ruth, that she consumed more food at one meal than would
support him and her mistress for a week; and he thought that what was
enough for them might satisfy a cormorant like her. But the poor girl
could not measure the cravings of her healthy appetite by the scanty
wants of a heart-broken invalid and a miser. Her hunger remained
unappeased, and she continued to complain.
At this period Mark Hurdlestone was attacked, for the first time in his
life, with a dangerous illness. Elinor nursed him with the greatest
care, and prescribed for him as well as she could; for he would not
suffer a doctor to enter the house. But finding that the disorder did
not yield to her remedies, but rather that he grew daily worse, she
privately sent for the doctor. When he arrived, Mr. Hurdlestone ordered
him out of his room, and nearly exhausted what little strength he still
possessed, in accusing Elinor of entering into a conspiracy with Mr.
Moore to kill him, and, as the doctor happened to be a widower, to marry
him after his death, and share the spoils between them.
"Your husband, madam, is mad--as mad as a March hare," said Mr. Moore,
as he descended the stairs. "He is, however, in a very dangerous state,
it is doubtful if he ever recovers."
"And what can be done for him?"
"Nothing in his present humor without you have him treated as a maniac,
which, if I were in your case and in your situation, I most certainly
would do."
"Oh, no, no! there is something dreadful in such a charge coming from a
wife, though he often appears to me scarcely accountable for his
actions; but what can I give him to allay this dreadful fever?"
"I will write you a prescription." This the doctor did on the back of a
letter with his pencil, for Elinor could not furnish him with a scrap of
paper.
"You must send this to the apothecary. He will make it up."
"What will it cost?"
The doctor smiled. "A mere trifle; perhaps three shillings."
"I have not had such a sum in my possession for the last three years. He
will die before he will give it to me."
"Mad, mad, mad," said the doctor, shaking his head. "Well, my dear
lady, if he will not give it to save his worthless life, you must steal
it from him. If you fail, why let Nature take her course. His death
would certainly be your gain."
Returning to the sick room, she found the patient in a better temper,
evidently highly gratified at having expelled the doctor. Elinor thought
this a good opportunity to urge her request for a small sum of money to
procure medicines and other necessaries; but on this subject she found
him inexorable.
"Give you money to buy poison!" he exclaimed. "Do you take me for a
fool, or mad?"
"You are very ill, Marcus; you will die, without you follow Dr. Moore's
advice."
"Don't flatter yourselves. I don't mean to die to please you. There is a
great deal of vitality in me yet. Don't say another word. I will take
nothing but cold water; I feel better already."
"Pray God that you may be right," said Elinor. But after this fit of
rage, he fell into a stupor, and before night he was considerably worse.
His unfortunate wife, worn down with watching and want of food and rest,
now determined to have a regular search for the key of his strongbox,
that she might procure him the medicines prescribed by the doctor, and
purchase oatmeal and bread for the use of the parish girl and herself.
She carefully examined his pockets, his writing-desk, and bureau, but to
no purpose--looking carefully into every drawer and chest that had not
been sold by public auction or private contract. Not a corner of the
chamber was left unexplored--not a closet or shelf escaped her strict
examination, until, giving up the search as perfectly hopeless, she
resumed her station at his bed-side, to watch through the long winter
night--without a fire, and by the wan gleam that a miserable rush-light
shed through the spacious and lofty room--the restless slumbers of the
miser. She was ill, out of spirits, fatigued with her fruitless
exertion, and deeply disappointed at her want of success.
The solitary light threw a ghastly livid hue on the strongly-marked
features of the sleeper, rendered sharp and haggard by disease and his
penurious habits; she could just distinguish through the gloom the
spectre-like form of the invalid, and the long bony attenuated hands
which grasped, from time to time, the curtains and bedclothes, as he
tossed from side to side in his feverish unrest. Elinor continued to
watch the dark and perturbed countenance of the sleeper, until he became
an object of fear, and she fancied that it was some demon who had for a
time usurped the human shape, and not the brother of Algernon--the man
whom she had voluntarily attended to the altar, and in the presence of
Almighty God had sworn to love, honor, and obey, and to cherish in
sickness and in health.
A crushing sense of all the deception that had been practiced upon her,
of her past wrongs and present misery, made her heart die within her,
and her whole soul overflow with bitterness. She wrung her hands, and
smote her breast in an agony of despair; but in that dark hour no tear
relieved her burning brain, or moistened her eyes. She had once been
under the dominion of insanity; she felt that her reason in that moment
hung upon a thread; that, if she pursued much longer her present
thoughts, they would drive her mad; that, if she continued to gaze much
longer on the face of her husband, she would be tempted to plunge a
knife, which lay on the table near her, into his breast. With a
desperate effort she drew her eyes from the sleeper, and turned from the
bed. Her gaze fell upon a large full-length picture in oils, which hung
opposite. It was the portrait of one of Mark's ancestors, a young man
who had fallen in his first battle, on the memorable field of Flodden.
It bore a strong resemblance to Algernon, and Elinor prized it on that
account, and would sit for hours with her head resting upon her hand,
and her eyes riveted on this picture. This night it seemed to regard her
with a sad and mournful aspect; and the large blue eyes appeared to
return her fixed gaze with the sorrowful earnestness of life.
"My head is strangely confused," she murmured, half aloud. "Into what
new extravagance will my treacherous fancy hurry me to-night? Ah me!
physical wants and mental suffering, added to this long watching, will
turn my brain."
She buried her face in her hands, and endeavored to shut out the
grotesque and phantom-like forms that seemed to dance before her. A
deathlike stillness reigned through the house, the silence alone broken
by the ticking of the great dial at the head of the staircase. There is
something inexpressibly awful in the ticking of a clock, when heard at
midnight by the lonely and anxious watcher beside the bed of death. It
is the voice of time marking its slow but certain progress towards
eternity, and warning us in solemn tones that it will soon cease to
number the hours for the sufferer for ever. Elinor trembled as she
listened to the low monotonous measured sounds; and she felt at that
moment a presentiment that her own weary pilgrimage on earth was drawing
to a close.
"Oh, Algernon!" she thought; "it may be a crime, but I sometimes think
that if I could see you once more--only once more--I could forget all
my wrongs and sufferings, and die in peace."
The unuttered thought was scarcely formed, when a slight rustling noise
shook the curtains of the bed, and the next moment a tall figure in
white glided across the room. It drew nearer, and Elinor, in spite of
the wish she had just dared to whisper to herself, struggled with the
vision, as a sleeper does with the night-mare, when the suffocating
grasp of the fiend is upon his throat. Her presence of mind forsook her,
and, with a shriek of uncontrollable terror, she flung herself across
the bed, and endeavored to awaken her husband. The place he had occupied
a few minutes before was vacant; and, raising her fear-stricken head,
she perceived, with feelings scarcely less allied to fear, that the
figure she had mistaken for the ghost of Algernon was the corporeal form
of the miser.
He was asleep, but his mind appeared to be actively employed. He drew
near the table with a cautious step, and took from beneath a broad
leathern belt, which he always wore next his skin, a small key. Elinor
sat up on the bed, and watched his movements with intense interest. He
next took up the candle, and glided out of the room. Slipping off her
shoes she followed him with noiseless steps. He descended the great
staircase, and suddenly stopped in the centre of the entrance hall. Here
he put down the light on the last step of the broad oak stairs, and
proceeded to remove one of the stone flags that formed the pavement of
the hall. With some difficulty he accomplished his task; then kneeling
down, and holding the light over the chasm, he said in hollow and
unearthly tones that echoed mournfully through the empty building:
"Look! here is money; my father's savings and my own. Will this save my
soul?"
Elinor leaned over the sordid wretch, and discovered with no small
astonishment that the aperture contained a great quantity of gold and
silver coins; and the most valuable articles of the family plate and
jewels.
"Unhappy man!" she mentally cried; "dost thou imagine that these
glittering heaps of metal will purchase the redemption of a soul like
thine, or avert the certainty of future punishment?--for never was the
parable of the servant who buried his talent in the dust more fully
exemplified than in thee."
"What, not enough?" growled forth the miser. "By heavens! thou hast a
human conscience. But wait patiently, and I will show you more--aye,
more--my brother's portion, and my own. Ha, ha! I tricked him there. The
old man's heart failed him at the last. He was afraid of you. Yes, yes,
he was afraid of the devil! It was I formed the plan. It was I guided
the dead hand. Shall I burn for that?"
Then, as if suddenly struck with a violent pain, he shrieked out, "Ah,
ah! my brain is cloven with a bolt of fire. I cannot bear this! Algernon
mocks my agonies--laughs at my cries--and tells me that he has a fair
wife and plenty of gold, in spite of my malice. How did he get it? Did
he rob me?"
Elinor shrunk back aghast from this wild burst of delirium; and the
miser, rising from his knees, began re-ascending the stairs. This task
he performed with difficulty, and often reeled forward with extreme pain
and weakness. After traversing several empty chambers, he entered what
had once been the state apartment, and stooping down, he drew from
beneath the faded furniture of the bed a strong mahogany brass-bound
chest, which he cautiously opened, and displayed to his wondering
companion a richer store of wealth than that on which she had so lately
gazed.
"How! not satisfied yet!" he cried in the same harsh tones, "then may I
perish to all eternity if I give you one fraction more."
As he was about to close the chest, Elinor, who knew that without a
necessary supply of money both her unborn infant and its avaricious
father would perish for want, slid her hand into the box, and dextrously
abstracted some of the broad gold pieces it contained. The coins, in
coming in contact with each other, emitted a slight ringing sound, which
arrested, trifling as it was, the ear of the sleeper.
"What! fingering the gold already?" he exclaimed, hastily slapping down
the lid of the strong box. "Could you not wait till I am dead?"
Then staggering back to his apartment, he was soon awake, and raving
under a fresh paroxysm of the fever. In his delirium he fancied himself
confined to the dreary gulf of eternal woe, and from this place of
torment he imagined that his brother could alone release him, and he
proffered to him, while under the influence of that strong agony, all
his hidden treasures if he would but intercede with Christ to save his
soul.
These visions of his diseased brain were so frequent and appalling, and
the near approach of death so dreadful to the guilty and despairing
wretch, that they produced at last a strong desire to see his brother,
that he might ask his forgiveness, and make some restitution of his
property to him before he died.
"Elinor," he said, "I must see Algernon. I cannot die until I have seen
him. But mark me, Elinor, you must not be present at our conference. You
must not see him."
With quivering lips, and a face paler than usual, his wife promised
obedience, and Grenard Pike was despatched to Norgood Hall to make known
to Algernon Hurdlestone his dying brother's request, and to call in,
once more, the aid of the village doctor.
As Elinor watched the grim messenger depart, she pressed her hands
tightly over her breast to hide from the quick eye of the miser the
violent agitation that convulsed her frame, as the recollection of
former days flashed upon her too retentive memory.
"Surely, surely," she thought, "he will never come. He has been too
deeply injured to attend to a verbal summons from his unnatural
brother."
Although strongly impressed that this would be the case, the desire of
once more beholding the love of her youth, though forbidden to speak to
him, or even to hear the sound of his voice, produced a state of
feverish excitement in her mind which kept alive her fears, without
totally annihilating hope.
The misty, grey dawn was slowly breaking along the distant hills, when
Grenard Pike, mounted upon a cart-horse which he had borrowed for the
occasion, leisurely paced down the broad avenue of oaks that led through
the park to the high road. Methodical in all his movements, though life
and death depended upon his journey, for no earthly inducement but a
handsome donation in money would Grenard Pike have condescended to
quicken his pace. This Elinor had it not in her power to bestow; and she
calculated with impatience the many hours which must elapse before such
a tardy messenger could reach Norgood Hall. Noon was the earliest period
within the range of possibility; yet the sound of the horse's hoofs,
striking against the frosty ground, still vibrated upon her ear when she
took her station at the chamber window, to watch for the arrival of the
man whose image a separation of nearly twenty years had not been able to
obliterate from her heart. Such is the weakness of human nature, that
we suffer imagination to outspeed time, and compress into one little
moment the hopes, the fears, the anticipations, and the events of years;
but when the spoiler again overtakes us, we look back, and, forgetful of
our former impatience to accelerate his pace, we are astonished at the
rapidity of his flight.
Elinor thought that the long day would never come to a close; yet it was
as dark and as short as a bleak, gloomy day in November could be.
Evening at length came, but brought no Algernon. Mr. Moore had paid his
visit, and was gone. He expected nothing less than the death of his
patient, after giving his consent to such an extraordinary event; and he
had even condescended to take a draught and some pills from the doctor's
hands. It is true that the sight of him, and the effects of the nauseous
medicines he had administered, had put the miser into a fever of
ill-temper; and he sullenly watched his wife, as she lingered hour after
hour at the window, till, in no very gentle accents, he called her to
his bed-side.
At that moment Elinor fancied that she heard the sound of approaching
wheels, and she strained her eyes to discern, through the deepening
gloom, some object that might realize her hopes. "No," she sighed, "it
was but the wind raving through the leafless oaks--the ticking of the
old dial--the throbbing of my own heart. He will not--he cannot come!"
"Woman! what ails you?" cried the invalid. "Reach me the drink."
Elinor mechanically obeyed; but her head was turned the other way, and
her eyes still fixed upon the window. A light flashed along the dark
avenue, now lost, and now again revealed through the trees. The cup fell
from her nerveless grasp, and faintly articulating, "Yes--'tis he!" she
sank senseless across the foot of the bed, as a carriage and four drove
rapidly into the court-yard.
The miser, with difficulty, reached the bell-rope that was suspended
from the bed's head, and, after ringing violently for some minutes, the
unusual summons was answered by the appearance of Ruth, who, thrusting
her brown; curly head in at the door, said, in breathless haste:
"The company's come, ma'arm! Such a grand coach! Four beautiful hosses,
and two real gemmen in black a' standing behind--and two on hossback a'
riding afore. What are we to do for supper? Doubtless they maun be
mortal hungry arter their long ride this cold night, and will 'spect
summat to eat, and we have not a morsel of food in the house fit to set
afore a cat."
"Pshaw!" muttered the sick man. "Silence your senseless prate! They will
neither eat nor drink here. Tell the coachman that there are excellent
accommodations at the Hurdlestone Arms for himself and his horses. But
first see to your mistress--she is in a swoon. Carry her into the next
room. And, mark me, Ruth--lock the door, and bring me the key."
The girl obeyed the first part of the miser's orders, but was too eager
to catch another sight of the grand carriage, and the real gentlemen
behind it, to remember the latter part of his injunction.