Oh, human hearts are strangely cast,
Time softens grief and pain;
Like reeds that shiver in the blast,
They bend to rise again.--S.M.
"Come, Miss Whitmore, you must rouse yourself from this unwomanly grief.
It is quite improper for a young lady of your rank and fortune to be
shedding tears for the immoral conduct of a worthless young profligate."
"Peace, Dorothy; don't scold the poor child. You see her heart is nearly
broken. It will do her good to cry. Come, my own darling, come to your
old father's arms, and never mind what your aunt says to you."
"Really, Captain Whitmore, if you mean to encourage your daughter's
disrespectful conduct to me, the sooner we part the better."
"Dolly, Dolly, have you no feeling for the poor child? Do hold that
cruel tongue of yours. It never sounded so harsh and disagreeable to me
before. Look up, my Julee, and kiss your old father."
And Juliet made an effort to raise her head from her father's bosom, and
look in his face. The big tears weighed down her eyelids, and she sank
back upon his shoulder, faintly murmuring, "And I thought him so good."
"Yes," said Miss Dorothy, whose temper was not at all softened by her
brother's reproof; "you never would believe me. You would follow your
own headstrong fancy; and now you see the result of your folly. I often
wondered to see you reading and flirting with that silent, down looking
young man, while his frank, good-natured cousin was treated with
contempt. I hope you will trust to my judgment another time."
"Aunt, spare me these reproaches. If I have acted imprudently I am
severely punished."
"I am sure the poor child was not worse deceived than I have been," said
the Captain; "but the lad's to be pitied; he comes of a bad breed. But
rouse up, my Julee--show yourself a girl of spirit. Go to your own room;
a little sleep will do you a world of good. To-morrow you will forget it
all."
"That poor girl!" said Juliet, and a shudder ran through her frame. "How
can I forget her? Her pale face--her sunken eyes--her look of
unutterable woe. Oh, she haunts me continually; and I--I--may have been
the cause of all this misery. My head aches sadly. I will go to bed. I
long to be alone."
She embraced her father, and bade him good night, and curtseying to aunt
Dorothy, for her heart was too sore to speak to her, she sought the
silence and solitude of her own chamber.
Oh, what luxury it was to be alone--to know that no prying eyes looked
upon her grief; no harsh voice, with unfeeling common-place, tore open
the deep wounds of her aching heart, and made them bleed afresh!
"Oh, that I could think him innocent!" she said. "Yet I cannot wholly
consider him guilty. He looked--oh, how sad and touching was that look!
It spoke of sorrow, but it revealed no trait of remorse; but then, would
Mary, by her strange conduct, have condemned a man whom she knew to be
innocent? Alas! it must be so, and 'tis a crime to love him."
She sank upon her knees, and buried her face in the coverlid of the
bed, but no prayer rose to her lips--an utter prostration of soul was
there, but the shrine of her God was dark and voiceless; the waves of
human passion had flowed over it, and marred the purity of the
accustomed offering. Hour after hour still found her on her knees, yet
she could not form a single petition to the Divine Father. As Southey
has beautifully expressed the same feelings in the finest of all his
poems:
"An agony of tears was all her soul could offer."
Midnight came; the moon had climbed high in the heavens. The family had
retired for the night, and deep silence reigned through the house, when
Juliet rose from her knees, and approaching the open casement, looked
long and sadly into the serene, tranquil depths of the cloudless night.
Who ever gazed upon the face of the divine mother in vain? The spirit of
peace brooded over the slumbering world--that holy calm which no passion
of man can disturb--which falls with the same profound stillness round
the turmoil of the battle-field, and the bed of death--which enfolds in
its silent embrace the eternity of the past--the wide ocean of the
present. How many streaming eyes had been raised to that cloudless
moon!--how many hands had been lifted up in heart-felt prayer to those
solemn star-gemmed heavens! What tales of bitter grief had been poured
out to the majesty of night! The eyes were quenched in the darkness of
the grave; the hands were dust; and the impassioned hearts that once
breathed those plaintive notes of woe, where, oh where were they? The
spirit that listened to the sorrows of their day had no revelation to
make of their fate!
"And I, what am I, that I should repine and murmur against the decrees
of Providence?" sighed Juliet. "The sorrows that I now endure have been
felt by thousands who now feel no more. God, give me patience under
every trial. In humble faith teach me resignation to Thy divine will."
With a sorrowful tranquillity of mind she turned from the window, struck
a light, and prepared to undress, when her attention was arrested by a
letter lying upon her dressing table. She instantly recognised the hand,
and hastily breaking the seal, read with no small emotion the following
lines
Say, dost thou think that I could be
False to myself and false to thee?
This broken heart and fever'd brain
May never wake to joy again.
Yet conscious innocence has given
A hope that triumphs o'er despair;
I trust my righteous cause to heaven,
And brace my tortured soul to bear
The worst that can on earth befall,
In losing thee--my life, my all!
The dove of promise to my ark,
The pole-star to my wandering bark,
The beautiful by love enshrined,
And worshipp'd with such fond excess;
Whose being with my being twined
In one bright dream of happiness,
Not death itself can rend apart
The link that binds thee to my heart.
Spurn not the crush'd and wither'd flower;
There yet shall dawn a brighter hour,
When ev'ry tear you shed o'er this
Shall be repaid with tenfold bliss;
And hope's bright arch shall span the cloud
That wraps us in its envious shroud.
Then banish from thy breast for ever
The cold, ungenerous thought of ill,
Falsehood awhile our hearts may sever,
But injured worth must triumph still.
Juliet did not for a moment doubt that Anthony Hurdlestone was the
author of these lines, and involuntarily she pressed the paper to her
lips. Realities are stern things, but Juliet could not now believe him
guilty: and with all the romance of her nature, she was willing to hope
against hope; and she retired to bed, comforted for her past sufferings,
and as much in love with Anthony as ever.
While Juliet enjoyed a profound and tranquil sleep, her unfortunate
lover was a prey to the most agonising doubts and fears. "Surely,
surely, she cannot think me guilty," thought the devoted Anthony, as he
tossed from side to side upon his restless bed. "She is too generous to
condemn me without further evidence. Yet, why do I cling to a forlorn
hope? Stronger minds than hers would believe appearances which speak so
loudly against me. But why should I bear this brand of infamy? I will go
to her in the morning and expose the real criminal."
This idea, entertained for a moment, was quickly abandoned. What, if he
did expose his cousin's guilt, might not Godfrey deny the facts, and
Mary, in order to shield her unprincipled lover, bear him out in his
denial; and then his ingratitude to the father would be more
conspicuously displayed in thus denouncing his son. No: for Algernon's
sake he would bear the deep wrong, and leave to Heaven the vindication
of his honor. He had made an appeal to her feelings; and youth, ever
sanguine, fondly hoped that it had not been made in vain.
Another plan suggested itself to his disturbed mind. He would inform
Godfrey of the miserable situation in which he was placed, and trust to
his generosity to exonerate him from the false charge, which Mary, in
her waywardness or madness, had fixed upon him. Judging his cousin's
mind by his own, he felt that he was secure--that, however painful to
Godfrey's self-love, he would never suffer him to bear the reproach of a
crime committed by himself.
Confident of success, he rose by the dawn of day, and sought his
cousin's apartment. After rapping several times at the door, his summons
was answered by Godfrey in a grumbling tone, between sleeping and
waking.
"I must see you, Godfrey," cried Anthony, impatiently shaking the door.
"My errand brooks no delay."
"What the deuce do you want at this early hour?" said Godfrey with a
heavy yawn. "Now do be quiet, Tony, and give a man time to pull his eyes
open."
Again the door was violently shaken. Godfrey had fallen back into a deep
sleep, and Anthony, in his eagerness to gain an audience, made noise
enough to have roused the Seven Sleepers from their memorable nap. With
a desperate effort Godfrey at length sprang from his bed, and unlocked
the door, but, as the morning was chilly, he as quickly retreated to his
warm nest, and buried his head in the blankets.
"Godfrey, do rouse yourself, and attend to me; I have something of great
consequence to communicate, the recital of which cannot fail to grieve
you, if you retain the least affection for me."
"Could you not wait until after breakfast?" and Godfrey forced himself
into a sitting posture. "I was out late last night, and drank too much
wine. I feel confoundedly stupid, and the uproar that you have been
making for the last hour at the door has given me an awful headache.
But what is the matter with you, Tony? You look like a spectre. Are you
ill? or have you, like me, been too long over your cups?"
"You know I never drink, Godfrey, nor have I any bodily ailment; but in
truth my mind is ill at ease. I am sick at heart, and you, you, cousin,
are the cause of my present sufferings."
"Ah! the old love story. You repent of giving up Juliet, and want me to
release you from your promise. I am not such a romantic fool! I never
give up an advantage once gained, and am as miserly of opportunities as
your father is of his cash. But speak out Anthony," he continued, seeing
his cousin turn pale, "I should like to hear what dreadful charge you
have to bring against me."
"You shall hear, Godfrey, if I have strength and courage to tell you."
Anthony sat down on an easy chair by the side of the bed, and after a
long pause, in which he tried to compose his agitated feelings, he
informed his cousin of the conversation that he had overheard between
Mary and her brother, and what had subsequently happened. Godfrey
listened with intense interest until he came to that part of the
narrative where Mary, in her wandering mood, had confounded him with
Anthony; and there, at the very circumstance which had occasioned his
cousin such acute anguish, and when he expected from him the deepest
sympathy, how were his feelings shocked as, throwing himself back upon
his pillow, Godfrey burst into a loud fit of laughter, exclaiming in a
jocular and triumphant tone, "By Jove, Anthony, but you are an unlucky
dog!"
This was too much for the excited state of mind under which Anthony had
been laboring for some hours, and with a stifled groan he fell across
the bed in a fit. Godfrey alarmed in his turn, checked his indecent
mirth, and dressing himself as quickly as he could, roused up his valet
to run for the surgeon. The fresh air and the loss of a little blood
soon restored the unfortunate young man to his senses and to a deep
consciousness of his cousin's ungentlemanly and base conduct.
Instead of being sorry for this unfortunate mistake, Godfrey secretly
congratulated himself upon his singular good fortune, and laughed at the
strange accident that had miraculously transferred the shame of his own
guilt to his cousin.
"This will destroy for ever what little influence he possessed with
Juliet, and will close the Captain's doors against him. If I do not
improve my present advantage, may I die a poor dependent upon the bounty
of a Hurdlestone!"
Again he laughed, and strode onward to the Lodge, humming a gay tune,
and talking and whistling alternately to his dog.
He found Miss Dorothy and her niece at work; the latter as pale as
marble, the tears still lingering in the long dark lashes that veiled
her sad and downcast eyes. The Captain was rocking to and fro in an easy
chair, smoking his pipe and glancing first towards his daughter, and
then at her starch prim-looking aunt, with no very complaisant
expression.
"By Jove, Dorothy! if you continue to torment that poor child with your
eternal sermons, you will compel me to send you from the house."
"A very fitting return for all my services," whimpered Miss Dorothy;
"for all the love and care I have bestowed upon you and your ungrateful
daughter! Send _me_ from the house--turn _me_ out of doors! _Me_, at my
time of life;" using that for argument's sake which, if addressed to her
by another, would have been refuted with indignation; "to send _me_
forth into the world, homeless and friendless, to seek my living among
strangers! Brother, brother, have you the heart to address this to me?"
"Well, perhaps I was wrong, Dolly," replied the kind-hearted sailor,
repenting of his sudden burst of passion; "but you do so provoke me by
your ill-humor, your eternal contradiction, and your old-maidish ways,
that it is impossible for a man always to keep his temper. It's a hard
thing for a fellow's wife to have the command of the ship, but it seems
deucedly unnatural for him to be ruled by a sister."
"Is it not enough, brother, to make a virtuous woman angry, when she
hears the girl, whose morals she has fostered with such care, defending
a wicked profligate wretch like Anthony Hurdlestone?"
"Excuse me, aunt, I did not defend his conduct, supposing him guilty,"
said Juliet, with quiet dignity; "for if that be really the case such
conduct is indefensible. I only hoped that we had been mistaken."
"Pshaw, girl! You are too credulous," said her father. "I have no doubt
of his guilt. But here is Mr. Godfrey; we may learn the truth from him."
With an air of the deepest concern, Godfrey listened to the Captain's
indignant recital of the scene he had witnessed in the park, and with
his uncle Mark's duplicity (only Godfrey was a laughing villain, always
the most dangerous sinner of the two) he affected to commiserate the
folly and weakness of his cousin, in suffering himself to be entangled
by an artful girl.
"He is a strange lad, a very strange lad, Captain Whitmore. I have known
him from a child, but I don't know what to make of him. His father is a
bad man, and it would be strange if he did not inherit some of his
propensities."
"Weaknesses of this nature were not among his father's faults," said the
Captain. "I must confess that I liked the young man, and he had, I am
told, a very amiable and beautiful mother."
"I have heard my father say so--but she was his first love, and love is
always blind. I should think very little of the moral worth of a woman
who would jilt such a man as my father, to marry a selfish miserly
wretch like Mark Hurdlestone for his money."
"You are right, Mr. Hurdlestone," said Juliet. "Such a woman was
unworthy of your father. Poor Anthony, he has been very unfortunate in
his parents; yet I hoped of him better things."
"You think, Mr. Godfrey, that there is no doubt of his guilt?" asked
Miss Dorothy.
"The girl must know best," returned Godfrey, evading, whilst at the same
moment he confirmed the question. "He always admired her from a boy. We
have had many disputes, nay downright quarrels, about her beauty. She
was never a great favorite of mine. I admire gentle, not man-like
women."
"He is a scoundrel!" cried the Captain, throwing down his pipe with a
sound that made his daughter start. "He shall never darken my doors
again, and so you may tell him, Mr. Godfrey, from me!"
"This is a severe sentence, but he deserves it!" said Godfrey. "I fear
my father will one day repent that he ever fostered this viper in his
bosom. Yet, strange to say, he always preferred him to me. Report says
that there is a stronger tie between them, but this is a base slander
upon the generous nature of my father. He loved Anthony's mother better
than he did mine; and he loves her son better than he does me."
"Poor lad," said the Captain, warmly grasping his hand, "You have been
unkindly treated among them; and you shall always find a friend and a
father in me."
Godfrey was a little ashamed of his duplicity, and would gladly, if
possible, have recalled that disgraceful scene; but having so far
committed himself, he no longer regarded the consequences; but he
determined to bear it out with the most hardened effrontery.
Whilst the victim of his diabolical art was writhing upon a sick bed
under the most acute mental and bodily pain, the author of his suffering
was enjoying the most flattering demonstrations of regard, which were
lavishly bestowed upon him by the inhabitants of the Lodge. But the
vengeance of Heaven never sleeps, and though the stratagems of wicked
men may for a time prove successful, the end generally proves the truth
of the apostle's awful denunciation: "_The wages of sin is death_."