Is this the man I loved, to whom I gave
The deep devotion of my early youth?--S.M.
Algernon Hurdlestone in his forty-second, and Algernon Hurdlestone in
his twenty-fourth year, were very different men. In mind, person, and
manners, the greatest dissimilarity existed between them. The tall
graceful figure for which he had once been so much admired, a life of
indolence, and the pleasures of the table, had rendered far too
corpulent for manly beauty. His features were still good, and there was
an air of fashion about him which bespoke the man of the world and the
gentleman; but he was no longer handsome or interesting. An expression
of careless good-humor, in spite of the deep mourning he wore for the
recent death of his wife, pervaded his countenance; and he seemed
determined to repay Fortune for the many ill turns he had received from
her in his youth, by enjoying, to their full extent, the good things
that she had latterly showered upon him.
He had been a kind manageable husband to a woman whom he had married
more for convenience than affection; and was a fatally indulgent father
to the only son, the sole survivor of a large family that he had
consigned to the tomb during the engaging period of infancy. Godfrey, a
beautiful little boy of two years old, was his youngest and his best
beloved, on whom he lavished the concentrated affections of his warm and
generous heart.
Since his marriage with the rich and beautiful Miss Maitland, he had
scarcely given Elinor Wildegrave a second thought. He had loved her
passionately, as the portionless orphan of the unfortunate Captain
Wildegrave; but he could not regard with affection or esteem the wife of
the rich Mark Hurdlestone--the man from whom he had received so many
injuries. How she could have condescended to share his splendid misery,
was a question which filled his mind with too many painful and
disgusting images to answer. When he received his brother's hasty
message, entreating him to come and make up their old quarrel before he
died, he obeyed the extraordinary summons with his usual kindness of
heart, without reflecting on the pain that such a meeting might
occasion, when he beheld again the object of his early affections as the
wife of his unnatural brother.
When he crossed the well-known threshold, and his shadow once more
darkened his father's hall, those feelings which had been deadened by
his long intercourse with the world resumed their old sway, and he
paused, and looked around the dilipidated mansion with eyes dimmed with
regretful tears.
"And it was to become the mistress of such a home as this, that Elinor
Wildegrave--my beautiful Elinor--sold herself to such a man as Mark
Hurdlestone, and forgot her love--her plighted troth to me!"
So thought Algernon Hurdlestone, as he followed the parish girl up the
broad uncarpeted oak stairs to his brother's apartment, shocked and
astonished at the indications of misery and decay which on every side
met his gaze. He had heard much of Mark's penurious habits, but he had
deemed the reports exaggerated or incorrect; he was now fully convinced
that they were but too true. Surprised that Mrs. Hurdlestone did not
appear to receive him, he inquired of Ruth, "if her mistress were at
home?"
"At home!--why, yes, sir; it's more than her life's worth to leave home.
She durst not go to church without master's leave."
"And is she well?"
"She be'ant never well; and the sooner she goes the better it will be
for her, depend upon that. She do lead a wretched life, the more's the
pity; for she is a dear kind lady, a thousand times too good for the
like o' him."
Algernon sighed deeply, while the girl delighted to get an opportunity
of abusing her tyrannical master, continued:
"My poor mistress has been looking out for you all day, sir; but when
your coach drove into the court-yard she died right away. The Squire got
into a terrible passion, and told me to carry her up into her own room,
and lock her in until company be gone. Howsumever I was too much
flurried to do that; for I am sure my dear missus is too ill to be seen
by strangers. He do keep her so shabby, that she have not a gownd fit to
wear; and she do look as pale as a ghost; and I am sure she is nearer to
her end than the stingy old Squire is to his."
Algernon possessed too much delicacy to ask the girl if Mark treated
Mrs. Hurdlestone ill; but whilst groping his way in the dark to his
brother's room, he was strongly tempted to question her more closely on
the subject. The account she had already given him of the unfortunate
lady filled his mind with indignation and regret. At the end of a long
gallery the girl suddenly stopped, and pointing to a half-open door,
told him that "that was the Squire's room," and suddenly disappeared.
The next moment, Algernon was by the sick-bed of his brother.
Not without a slight degree of perturbation he put aside the curtain;
Mark had sunk into a kind of stupor; he was not asleep, although his
eyes were closed, and his features so rigid and immovable, that at the
first glance Algernon drew back, under the impression that he was
already dead.
The sound of his brother's footsteps not only roused the miser to
animation, but to an acute sense of suffering. For some minutes he
writhed in dreadful pain, and Algernon had time to examine his ghastly
face, and thin attenuated figure.
They had parted in the prime of youthful manhood--they met in the autumn
of life; and the snows of winter had prematurely descended upon the head
of the miser. The wear and tear of evil passions had made such fearful
ravages in his once handsome and stern exterior, that his twin brother
would have passed him in the streets without recognition.
The spasms at length subsided, and after several ineffectual efforts,
Algernon at length spoke.
"Mark, I am here, in compliance with your request; I am very sorry to
find you in this sad state; I hope that you may yet recover."
The sick man rose slowly up in his bed, and shading his eyes with his
hand, surveyed his brother with a long and careful gaze, as though he
scarcely recognised in the portly figure before him the elegant
fashionable young man of former days. "Algernon! can that be you?"
"Am I so much altered that you do not know me?"
"Humph! The voice is the voice of Algernon--but as for the rest, time
has paid as little respect to your fine exterior as it has done to mine;
but if it has diminished your graces, it has added greatly to your bulk.
One thing, however, it has not taught you, with all its hard
teachings."
"What is that?" said Algernon, with some curiosity.
"To speak the truth!" muttered the miser, falling back upon his pillow.
"You wish for my recovery!--ha! ha! that is rich--is good. Do you think,
Algernon, I am such a fool as to believe that?"
"Indeed, I was sincere."
"You deceive yourself--the thing is impossible. Human nature is not so
far removed from its original guilt. _You_ wish my life to be prolonged,
when you hope to be a _gainer_ by my death. The thought is really
amusing--so originally philanthropic, but I forgive you, I should do
just the same in your place. Now, sit down if you can find a chair, I
have a few words to say to you--a few painful words."
Algernon took his seat on the bed without speaking. He perceived that
time had only increased the bitterness of his brother's caustic temper.
"Algernon," said the miser, "I will not enter into a detail of the past.
I robbed you of your share of my father's property to gratify my love of
money; and I married your mistress out of revenge. Both of these deeds
have proved a curse to me--I cannot enjoy the one, and I loathe the
other. I am dying; I cannot close my eyes in peace with these crimes
upon my conscience. Give me your hand, brother, and say that you forgive
me; and I will make a just restitution of the money, and leave you in
the undisturbed possession of the wife."
He laughed, that horrid fiendish laugh. Algernon shrunk back with strong
disgust, and relinquished the hand which no longer sought his grasp.
"Well, I see how it is. There are some natures that cannot amalgamate.
You cannot overcome the old hate; but say that you forgive me; it is all
I ask."
"If you can forgive yourself, Mark, I forgive you; and I pray that God
may do the same."
"That leaves the case doubtful; however, it is of no use forcing nature.
We never loved each other. The soil of the heart has been too much
corrupted by the leaven of the world, to nourish a new growth of
affection. We have lived enemies--we cannot part friends; but take this
in payment of the debt I owe you."
He drew from beneath his pillow a paper, which he placed in his
brother's hand. It was a draft upon his banker for ten thousand pounds,
payable at sight. "Will that satisfy you for all you lost by me?"
"Money cannot do that."
"You allude to my wife. I saved you from a curse by entailing it upon
myself; for which service I at least deserve your thanks."
"What has proved a curse to you would have been to me the greatest
earthly blessing. I freely forgive you for wronging me out of my share
of the inheritance, but for robbing me of Elinor, I cannot."
He turned from the bed with the tears in his eyes, and was about to quit
the room. The miser called him back. "Do not be such a fool as to refuse
the money, Algernon; the lady I will bequeath to you as a legacy when I
am gone."
"He is mad!" muttered Algernon, "no sane man could act this diabolical
part. It is useless to resent his words. He must soon answer for them at
a higher tribunal. Yes--I will forgive him--I will not add to his future
misery."
He came back to the bed, and taking the burning hand of the miser, said
in a broken voice, "Brother, I wronged you when I believed that you
were an accountable being; I no longer consider you answerable for your
actions, and may God view your unnatural conduct to me in the same
light; by the mercy which He ever shows to His erring creatures. I
forgive you for the past." The stony heart of the miser seemed touched,
but his pride was wounded. "Mad--mad," he said; "so you look upon me as
mad. The world is full of maniacs; I do not differ from my kind. But
take the paper, and let there be peace between you and me."
Twenty years ago, and the high-spirited Algernon Hurdlestone would have
rejected the miser's offer with contempt, but his long intercourse with
the world had taught him the value of money, and his extravagant habits
generally exceeded his fine income. Besides, what Mark offered him was,
after all, but a small portion of what ought to have been his own. With
an air of cheerful good-nature he thanked his brother, and carefully
deposited the draft in his pocket-book.
After having absolved his conscience by what he considered not only a
good action, but one of sufficient magnitude to save his soul, Mark
intimated to his brother that he might now leave him--he had nothing
further to say; a permission which Algernon was not slow to accept.
As he groped his way through the dark gallery that led from the miser's
chamber, a door was opened cautiously at the far end of the passage, and
a female figure, holding a dim light in her hand, beckoned to him to
approach.
Not without reluctance Algernon obeyed the summons, and found himself in
the centre of a large empty apartment which had once been the saloon,
and face to face with Mrs. Hurdlestone.
Elinor carefully locked the door, and placing the light on the
mantel-shelf, stood before the astonished Algernon, like some
memory-haunting phantom of the past.
Yes. It was Elinor--his Elinor; but not a vestige remained of the grace
and beauty that had won his youthful heart. So great was the change
produced by years of hopeless misery, that Algernon, in the haggard and
careworn being before him, did not at first recognise the object of his
early love. Painfully conscious of this humiliating fact, Elinor at
length said--"I do not wonder that Mr. Algernon Hurdlestone has
forgotten me; I once was Elinor Wildegrave."
A gush of tears--of bitter, heart-felt, agonizing tears--followed this
avowal, and her whole frame trembled with the overpowering emotions
which filled her mind.
Too much overcome by surprise to speak, Algernon took her hand, and for
a few minutes looked earnestly in her altered face. What a mournful
history of mental and physical suffering was written there! That look of
tender regard recalled the blighted hopes and wasted affections of other
years; and the wretched Elinor, unable to control her grief, bowed her
head upon her hands, and groaned aloud.
"Oh, Elinor!--and is it thus we meet? You might have been happy with me.
How could you, for the paltry love of gain, become the wife of Mark
Hurdlestone?"
"Alas, Algernon! necessity left me no alternative in my unhappy choice.
I was deceived--cruelly deceived. Yet would to God that I had begged my
bread, and dared every hardship--been spurned from the presence of the
rich, and endured the contempt of the poor, before I consented to become
his wife."
"But what strange infatuation induced you to throw away your own
happiness, and ruin mine? Did not my letters constantly breathe the
most ardent affection? Were not the sums of money constantly remitted in
them more than sufficient to supply all your wants?"
"Algernon, I never received the sums you name, not even a letter from
you after the third year of our separation."
"Can this be true?" exclaimed Algernon, grasping her arm. "Is it
possible that this statement can be true?"
"As true as that I now stand before you a betrayed, forsaken,
heart-broken woman."
"Poor Elinor; how can I look into that sad face, and believe you false?"
"God bless you, my once dear friend, for these kind words. You know not
the peace they convey to my aching heart. Oh, Algernon, my sufferings
have been dreadful; and there were times when I ceased to know those
sufferings. They called me mad, but I was happy then. My dreams were of
you. I thought myself your wife, and my misery as Mark's helpmate was
forgotten. When sanity returned, the horrible consciousness that you
believed me a heartless, ungrateful, avaricious woman, was the worst
pang of all. Oh, how I longed to throw myself at your feet, and tell you
the whole dreadful truth. I would not have insulted you to-night with my
presence, or wounded your peace with a recapitulation of my wrongs, but
I could no longer live and bear the imputation of such guilt. When you
have heard my sad story, you will, I am sure, not only pity, but forgive
me."
With feelings of unalloyed indignation, Algernon listened to the
iniquitous manner in which Elinor had been deceived and betrayed, and
when she concluded her sad relation, he fiercely declared that he would
return to the sick man's chamber--reproach him with his crimes, and
revoke his forgiveness.
"Leave the sinner to his God!" exclaimed the terrified Elinor, placing
herself before the door. "For my sake--for your own sake, pity and
forgive him. Remember that, monster though he be, he is my husband and
your brother, the father of the unfortunate child whose birth I
anticipate with such sad forebodings."
"Before that period arrives," said Algernon, with deep commiseration.
"Mark will have paid the forfeit of his crimes, and your child will be
the heir of immense wealth."
"You believe him to be a dying man," said Elinor. "He will live. A
change has come over him for the better; the surgeon, this morning, gave
strong hopes of his recovery. Sinner that I am, if he could but have
looked into my heart he would have been shocked at the pain that this
communication conveyed. Algernon, I wished his death. God has reversed
the awful sentence; it is the mother, not the father of the unhappy
infant, that will be called hence. Heaven knows that I am weary of
life--that I would willingly die, could I but take the poor babe with
me; should it, however, survive its unfortunate mother, promise me,
Algernon, by the love of our early years, to be a guardian and protector
to my child."
She endeavored to sink at his feet, but Algernon prevented her.
"Your request is granted, Elinor, and for the dear mother's sake, I
promise to cherish the infant as my own."
"It is enough. I thank my God for this great mercy; and now that I have
been permitted to clear my character, leave me, Algernon, and take my
blessing with you. Only remember in your prayers that such a miserable
wretch as Elinor Wildegrave still lives."
The violent ringing of the miser's bell hurried her away. Algernon
remained for some minutes rooted to the spot, his heart still heaving
with the sense of intolerable wrong. Elinor did not again appear; and
descending to what was once the Servants' Hall, he bade Ruth summon his
attendants, and slipping a guinea into that delighted damsel's hand, he
bade a long adieu to the home of his ancestors.