The world has done its worst, you need not heed
Its praise or censure now.--Your name is held
In deep abhorrence by the good: the bad
Make it a sad example for fresh guilt.--S.M.
We will leave Anthony Hurdlestone to weep and watch beside the newly
dead, and conduct our readers into the cottage occupied by Farmer
Mathews and his family.
Returning the night before from market, very much the worse from liquor,
the farmer had fallen from his horse, and received a very severe
concussion of the brain. William, surprised at his long absence, left
the house at daybreak in search of his father, and found him lying,
apparently dead, within sight of his own door.
With Mary's assistance, he carried him into the house. Medical aid was
called in, and all had been done that man could do to alleviate the
sufferings of the injured farmer, but with little effect. The man had
received a mortal blow, and the doctor, when he left that evening, had
pronounced the fatal sentence that his case was hopeless; that, in all
probability, he would expire before the morning.
As the night drew on, the elder Mathews became quite unconscious of
surrounding objects, and but for the quick hard breathing, you would
have imagined him already dead.
The door of the cottage was open, to admit the fresh air; and in the
door way, revealed by the solitary candle which burnt upon the little
table by the bed-side, stood the tall athletic figure of William
Mathews. His sister was sitting in a low chair by the bed's head, her
eyes fixed with a vacant stare upon the heavy features of the dying man.
"William," she said, in a quick deep voice, "where are you? Do come and
watch with me. I do not like to be alone."
"You are not alone," returned the ruffian sullenly; "I am here; and some
one else is here whom you cannot see."
"Whom do you mean?"
"The devil, to be sure," responded her brother. "He is always near us;
but never more near than in the hour of death and the day of judgment."
"Good Lord, deliver us!" said the girl, repeating unconsciously aloud
part of the liturgy of the Church to which nominally she belonged.
"All in good time," responded the human fiend. "Has father shown any
sign of returning sense since the morning?"
"No, he has remained just in the same state. William, will he die?"
"You may be sure of that, Mary. Living men never look as he does now."
"It is a terrible sight," said his sister. "I always did hope that I
should die before father; but since I got into this trouble I have
wished that he might never live to know it. That was sin, William. See
how my wicked thoughts have become prophecy. Yet I am so glad that he
never found out my crime, that it makes the tears dry in my eyes to see
him thus."
"You make too much fuss about your condition, girl! What is done cannot
be undone. All you can now do is to turn it to the best possible
account."
"What do you mean, William?"
"Make money by it."
"Alas," said the girl, "what was given away freely cannot be redeemed
with gold. Had I the wealth of the whole world, I would gladly give it
to regain my lost peace of mind. Oh, for one night of calm fresh sleep,
such as I used to enjoy after a hard day's work in the field. What would
I not give for such a night's rest? Rest! I never rest now. I work and
toil all day; I go to bed--heart-weary and head-weary--but sleep never
comes as it used to come. After long hours of tossing from side to side,
just about the dawn of day, a heavy stupor comes over me, full of
frightful sights and sounds, so frightful that I start and awake, and
pray not to sleep again."
"And what has made such a change--that one act?" said the ruffian.
"Pshaw! girl. God will never damn your soul for the like of that. It was
foolish and imprudent; but I don't call _that_ sin."
"Then what is sin?" said the girl solemnly.
"Why, murder, and theft, and--"
"And what?"
"Hang me! if I wish to go deeper into the matter. But if that is sin,
which you make such a to-do about, then the whole world are sinners."
"Do you think that you are not a sinner, William?"
"I never thought a word about it," said the man. "I am not a whit worse
than others; but I am poorer, and that makes my faults more conspicuous.
There is Godfrey Hurdlestone, every whit as bad as I am, yet were we to
be tried by the same jury, the men that would hang me would acquit him.
But his day is over," he continued, talking to himself. "He is now as
poor as me; and if the rich heiress does not marry him, will be much
worse off."
"Marry!" cried Mary, springing from her seat, and grasping her brother's
arm. "Who talks of Godfrey Hurdlestone marrying?"
"I talk of it--every one talks of it--he boasts of it himself. I was
told last night by Captain Whitmore's serving-man, that his master had
given his consent to the match, and that the young lady was coming
round, and that Mr. Godfrey was every day at the house. Perhaps the
Colonel being cooped up in jail may spoil the young man's wooing."
"In jail! Colonel Hurdlestone in jail! Can that be true?"
"Fact."
"And Mr. Godfrey? What will become of Mr. Godfrey?"
"He will become one of us, and have to take care of himself. And if he
does marry Miss Whitmore, he will have enough to take care of you."
"Do you think that I would share his affections with another woman?"
cried the girl, her pale cheeks flushing to crimson. "Brother, I am not
sunk so low as that--not quite so low."
"You are sunk quite low enough for anything, Mary. You may be as bad as
you like now, the world will think no worse of you than it does at
present. You have made a bad bargain, and you must stand by it. If you
cannot be the man's wife, you must rest content with being his mistress;
married or single you will always be Godfrey Hurdlestone's better half.
Miss Whitmore is not to compare to you, in spite of her pretty waxen
face, and she is not the woman to please such a wild fellow as him. He
will grow tired of her before the honeymoon is over, and you will have
it all your own way."
"Juliet Whitmore shall never be his wife, nor any other woman, while I
live. But, William, if he is as poor as you say he is, what use will it
be to you my continuing to live with him in sin? He cannot give me money
if he has none for himself."
"Hush," said the ruffian, drawing nearer, and glancing quickly round, to
be certain that they were alone. "Did you never hear of the rich miser,
Mark Hurdlestone?"
"Mr. Anthony's father?"
"The same. And do you not know that, were Anthony out of the way,
removed by death or any other cause, Godfrey Hurdlestone would be his
heir?"
"Well, what of that? Anthony is alive and well, and may outlive us all."
"Strong men often die very suddenly. There is an ill-luck hangs about
this same Mr. Anthony. I prophesy that his life will be a short one.
Hark! Was that a groan? Father is coming to himself."
He took the candle and went up to the bed. The sick man still breathed,
but remained in the same stupor as before. "This cannot last long," said
his son, stooping over the corpse-like figure. "Father was a strong man
for his age, but 'tis all up with him now. I wish he could speak to us,
and tell us where he is going; but I'm thinking that we shall never hear
the sound of his voice again. The bell will toll for him before sunrise
to-morrow."
He had scarcely finished speaking when the slow, deep boom of the
death-bell awoke the sluggish stillness of the heavy night. The brother
and sister started, and Mary gave a loud scream.
"Who's dead?" said Mathews, stepping to the open door "some of the
quality, or that bell would not speak out at this late hour of night.
Ha! Mr. Godfrey Hurdlestone. Is that you?"
"What's wrong here?" cried Godfrey, glancing rapidly round the cottage.
"Mathews, have you heard the news? My poor father's dead."
"Dead!" exclaimed both his companions in a breath. "Colonel Hurdlestone
dead! When did he die?"
"This evening, at sunset. 'Tis a bad piece of business, Mathews. He died
insolvent, and I am left without a penny."
"Alas, what will become of us all!" shrieked Mary, flinging herself
frantically upon the bed. "William, he has ceased to breathe. Our father
too is dead!"
The grief of the lower orders is generally loud and violent.
Unaccustomed to restrain their feelings, Nature lifts up her voice, and
tells, in tones which cannot be misunderstood, the blow which has left
her desolate. And so Mary Mathews poured forth the anguish of her soul
over the parent that, but a few days before, she had wished dead, to
conceal from him her guilt. Yet now that he was gone--that the strong
tie was broken, and her conscience reproached her for having cherished
for a moment the unnatural thought--she wept as if her heart had never
known a deeper sorrow. Her brother and lover strove in vain to comfort
her. She neither saw nor heeded them, but in a stern voice bade them
depart and leave her alone.
"The wilful creature! Let her have her own way, Mr. Godfrey. Grief like
that, like the down-pouring of a thunder-shower, soon storms itself to
rest. She will be better soon. Leave her to take care of the dead, while
you and I step into the kitchen and consult together about the living."
Godfrey, who had suffered much that day from mental excitement, felt
doubly depressed by the scene he had just witnessed, and gladly obeyed.
Mathews lighted a fresh candle, and led the way into the kitchen. The
fire that had been used to prepare the evening meal was nearly out;
Mathews raked the ashes together and threw a fresh billet into the
grate; then reaching from a small cupboard a bottle and a glass, he drew
a small table between them, and stretching his legs towards the cheering
blaze he handed a glass of brandy to his companion.
"Hang it, man! don't look so down in the mouth. This is the best friend
in time of need. This is my way of driving out the blue devils that
pinch and freeze my heart."
Godfrey eagerly seized the proffered glass and drained it at a draught.
"Well, that's what I call hearty!" continued the ruffian, following his
example. "There's nothing like that for killing care. I don't wonder at
your being low. I feel queer myself--devilish queer. It is a strange
thing to lose a father. A something is gone--a string is loosened from
the heart, which we feel can never be tied again. I wonder whether the
souls gone from among us to-night are lost or saved--or if there be a
heaven or hell?"
"Pshaw!" said Godfrey, lighting his pipe, "do you believe such idle
fables?"
"Why, do you see, Master Godfrey, I would fain think them false for my
own sake--mere old women's tales. But terrible thoughts will come into
my mind; and though I seldom think of heaven, I often hear a voice from
the shut up depths of my heart--a voice that I cannot stifle. Do not
smile," said the man gloomily, "I am in no mood to be laughed at. Bad
as I am, confound me if you are not ten times worse."
"If you are so afraid of going to hell," said Godfrey, sarcastically,
"why do you not amend your life? I, for my part, am troubled with no
such qualms of conscience."
"If you had seen blood as often upon your hand as I have upon mine, you
would tell a different story. Kill a man, and then see if what we hear
of ghosts and spirits are mere fables. I tell thee, Godfrey Hurdlestone,
they never die, but live and walk abroad, and haunt you continually. The
voice they speak with will be heard. In solitary places--in the midst of
crowds--at fairs and merry-makings--in the noon of day, and at the dead
of night, I have heard their mocking tones." He leaned his elbows upon
his knees, and supported his chin between the palms of his hands, and
continued to stare upon Godfrey with vacant bloodshot eyes.
"Don't take me for a ghost," said Godfrey, the same sarcastic smile
passing over his handsome face. "What does it matter to us where our
fathers are gone? If there is a place of future rewards or punishments,
depend upon it we shall only have to answer for our own sins; and as you
and I have, at present, but a small chance of getting to heaven, we may
as well make the most of our time on earth."
"Confound that death-bell," said the smuggler, "it has a living voice
to-night. I never hear it but it reminds me of Newgate, and I fancy that
I shall hear it toll for my own death before I die."
"A very probable consummation, though certainly not a very pleasant
one," said Godfrey ironically. "But away with such melancholy presages.
Take another sup of the brandy, Mathews, and tell me what you are going
to do for a living. The lease of your farm expires in a few days. Mr.
---- has taken possession of the estates, and means, Johnstone tells me,
to put in another tenant. What will become of you and Mary in the
meanwhile?"
"I have not thought about it yet. At any rate, I can always live by the
old trade, and fall upon my feet. At all events, we must leave this
place. It is little that father has saved. The neighbors think him rich,
but a drunkard never dies rich; and you know, Mr. Godfrey, that the
weight of a pig is never known until after it is dead. There will not be
much more than will bury him. There are the crops in the ground, to be
sure, and the cattle, and a few sticks of furniture; but debts of honor
must be paid, and I have been very unlucky of late. By the by, Master
Godfrey, what does your cousin mean to do with himself?"
"He must go home to his miserly dad, I suppose."
"Humph! I think that I will go to Ashton and settle in that neighborhood
myself; I like to be near old friends."
"What can induce _you_, Mathews, to go there?"
"I have my reasons. Strong reasons too, in which I am sure _you_ will
heartily concur." He looked into his companion's eyes, with an
expression so peculiar, that Godfrey started as if some new light had
suddenly flashed upon his soul, while Mathews continued in a lower
voice, "Suppose, now that we could get up a regular quarrel between old
Ironsides and his son; who would then be the miser's heir?"
Godfrey took the hand of the smuggler and pressed it hard.
"Can you form no better scheme than that?"
"I understand you, Mr. Godfrey. You are a perfect genius in wickedness.
The devil never found a fitter agent for doing his business on a grand
scale. Yes, yes, I understand you."
"Would it be possible?"
"All things are possible to those who have the courage to perform. If I
could remove this obstacle out of your way, what would be my reward?"
"A thousand pounds!"
"Your conscience! Do you think that I would risk my neck for such a
paltry bribe?"
"You have done it often for the hundredth part."
"That's neither here nor there. If I have played the fool a dozen times,
that's no reason that I am to do so again. Go shares, and promise to
make an honest woman of Mary, and you shall not be long out of
possession."
"The sacrifice is too great," said Godfrey, musing. "Let us say no more
about it at present."
"You will think about it?"
"Thoughts are free."
"Not exactly. Evil thoughts lead to evil deeds, as surely as fruit
follows flowers upon the tree. Try to lay that babe of the brain to
rest, and see if it will not waken to plague you yet."
"It was one of your own begetting--you should know best how to quiet the
imp."
"Leave me alone for that. The day is breaking; we must part. We have
both melancholy duties to perform."
"I wish the funeral was over," said Godfrey, "I hate being forced to act
a conspicuous part in so grave a farce."
"Your cousin will help you out. He is the real mourner; you, the actor.
Remember what I hinted to you, and let me know your opinion in a few
days."
"The risk is too great," said Godfrey, shrugging his shoulders. "When I
am reduced to my last shift, it will be time enough to talk of that."
The grey misty dawn was just struggling into day, when Godfrey left the
cottage. Mathews looked after him, as, opening a side gate that led to a
foot-path that intersected the park, he vanished from his sight.
"Well, there goes the greatest scoundrel that ever was unhung," he
muttered to himself. "He has never shed blood, nor done what I have
done, but hang me if I would exchange characters with him, bad as I may
be. He thinks to make a fool of me; but if I do not make him repay a
thousand fold the injuries he has heaped on me and mine, may we swing on
the same gallows."
In no very enviable mood, Godfrey pursued his way though the lonely
park. The birds had not yet sung their matin hymn to awaken the earth.
Deep silence rested upon the august face of nature. Not a breath of air
stirred the branches, heavy with dew-drops. The hour was full of beauty
and mystery. An awe fell insensibly upon the heart, as if it saw the eye
of God visibly watching over the sleeping world. Its holy influence was
felt even by the selfish heartless Godfrey.
The deep silence--the strange stillness--the uncertain light--the scenes
he had lately witnessed--his altered fortunes--his degrading
pursuits--the fallen and depraved state of his mind, crowded into his
thoughts, and filled his bosom with keen remorse and painful regrets.
"Oh, that I could repent!" he cried, stopping, and clasping his hands
together, and fixing his eyes mournfully upon the earth,--"that I could
believe that there was a God--a heaven--a hell! Yet if there be no
hereafter, why this stifling sense of guilt--this ever-haunting
miserable consciousness of unworthiness? Am I worse than other men, or
are all men alike--the circumstances in which they are placed producing
that which we denominate good or evil in their characters? What if I
determine to renounce the evil, and cling to the good; would it yet be
well with me? Would Juliet, like a good angel, consent to be my guide,
and lead me gently back to the forsaken paths of rectitude and peace?"
While the voice in his heart yet spake to him for good, another voice
sounded in his ears, and all his virtuous resolutions melted into air.
"Godfrey," said the voice of Mary Mathews, "dear Mr. Godfrey, have I
become so indifferent to you, that you will neither look at me nor speak
to me?"
She was the last person in the world who at that moment he wished to
see. The sight of her recalled him to a sense of his degradation, and
all that he had lost by his unhappy connexion with her, and he secretly
wished that she had died instead of her father.
"Mary," he said, coldly, "what do you want with me? The morning is damp
and raw; you had better go home."
"What do I want with you?" reiterated the girl. "And is it come to that?
Can you, who have so often sworn to me that you loved me better than
anything in heaven or on earth, now ask me, in my misery, what I want
with you?"
"Hot-headed rash young men will swear, and foolish girls will believe
them," said Godfrey, putting his arm carelessly round her waist, and
drawing her towards him. "So it has been since the world began, and so
it will be until the end of time."
"Was all you told me, then, false?" said Mary, leaning her head back
upon his shoulder, and fixing her large beautiful tearful eyes upon his
face.
That look of unutterable fondness banished all Godfrey's good
resolutions. He kissed the tears from her eyes, as he replied,
"Not exactly, Mary. But you expect too much."
"I only ask you not to cease to love me--not to leave me, Godfrey, for
another."
"Who put such nonsense into your head?"
"William told me that you were going to marry Miss Whitmore."
"If such were the case, do you think I should be such a fool as to tell
William?"
"Alas! I am afraid that it is only too true." And Mary burst into tears
afresh. "You do not love me as you did, Godfrey, when we first met and
loved. You used to sit by my side for hours, looking into my face, and
holding my hand in yours; and we were happy--too happy to speak. We
lived but in each other's eyes; and I hoped--fondly hoped--that that
blessed dream would last for ever. I did not care for the anger of
father or brother--woe is me! I never had a mother. One kiss from those
dear lips--one kind word breathed from that dear mouth--sunk from my ear
into my heart, and I gloried in what I ought to have considered my
shame. Oh, why are you changed, Godfrey? Why should my love remain like
a covered fire, consuming my heart to ashes, and making me a prey to
tormenting doubts and fears, while you are unmoved by my anguish, and
contented in my absence?"
"You attribute that to indifference, which is but the effect of
circumstances," returned Godfrey, somewhat embarrassed by her
importunities. "Perhaps, Mary, you are not aware that the death of my
father has left me a poor and ruined man?"
"What difference can that possibly make in our love for each other?" And
Mary's eyes brightened through a cloud of tears. "I rejoice in your loss
of fortune, for it has made us equals."
"Not quite!" cried the young man, throwing her from him, as if stung by
an adder. "Birth, education, the prejudices of society, have placed an
eternal barrier between us. Impoverished though I be, I never can so far
forget myself as to mate with a vulgar peasant!"
"Say that word again--that word of misery!" cried the unhappy girl,
clinging to his arm. "Recall your many promises--the awful oath you
swore on that fatal night, when I first yielded to temptation, when you
solemnly declared, in the name of Almighty God, that the moment you were
your own master, you would make me your wife."
"Mary," said Godfrey, sternly, "do not deceive yourself--I never will
make you my wife!"
"Then God forgive you, and grant me patience to bear my wrongs!"
murmured the poor girl, as she sunk down upon the ground, and buried her
face in the dewy grass; while her heartless seducer continued his
solitary walk to the Lodge.