She hath forsaken God and trusted man,
And the dark curse by man inherited
Hath fallen upon her.--S.M.
We must now return to Godfrey Hurdlestone, and we find him comfortably
settled in the hospitable mansion of Captain Whitmore, a great favorite
with aunt Dorothy, and an object of increasing interest and sympathy to
the fair Juliet.
Had she forgotten Anthony? Oh, no. She still loved him, but dared not
whisper to her own heart the forbidden fact. Did she believe him guilty?
Not exactly. But the whole affair was involved in mystery, and she had
not confidence enough in her own judgment to overrule the prejudices of
others. She could not pronounce him innocent, and she strove to banish
his image as a matter of necessity--a sacrifice that duty demanded of
her--from her mind.
Could she receive with pleasure the attentions of such a man as Godfrey
Hurdlestone? She did, for he was so like Anthony, that there were times
when she could almost have fancied them one and the same. He wanted the
deep feeling--the tenderness--the delicacy of her absent lover, but he
had wit, beauty, and vivacity, an imposing manner, and that easy
assurance which to most women is more attractive than modest merit.
Juliet did not love Godfrey, but his conversation amused her, and
helped to divert her mind from brooding over unpleasant thoughts. She
received him with kindness, for his situation claimed her sympathy, and
she did all in her power to reconcile him to the change which had taken
place in his circumstances. Godfrey was not insensible to the difference
in her manner, when addressing him, to what it had been formerly, and he
attributed that to a growing attachment which was but the result of
pity. Without giving him the least encouragement to entertain hopes she
never meant to realize, Juliet, with all the romance of her nature, had
formed the happy scheme of being able to convert the young infidel from
the paths of doubt and error, and animating him with an earnest zeal to
obtain a better heritage than the one he had lost.
Young enthusiasts are fond of making proselytes, and Juliet was not
aware that she was treading upon dangerous ground, with a very subtle
companion. Untouched by the sacred truths she sought to impress upon his
mind, and which indeed were very distasteful to him, Godfrey, in order
to insinuate himself into the good graces of his fair instructress,
seemingly lent a willing ear to her admonitions, and pretended to be
deeply sensible of their importance.
Since he had arrived at an age to think for himself, he had rejected the
Bible, and never troubled himself to peruse its pages. Juliet proposed
that they should read it together, and an hour every afternoon was
chosen for that purpose. Godfrey, in order to lengthen these interviews,
started objections at every line, in his apparent anxiety to arrive at a
knowledge of the truth.
With all the zeal of a youthful and self-elected teacher, Juliet found a
peculiar pleasure in trying to clear up the disputed points; in removing
his doubts and strengthening his faith; and, when at length he artfully
seemed to yield to her arguments, the glow that brightened her cheeks,
and proclaimed the innocent joy of her heart, gave to her lovely
countenance a thousand additional charms.
One evening their lecture had been protracted to an unusual length; and
Juliet concluded from the silence of her pupil, that he was at last
convinced of the truth of her arguments. She closed the sacred volume,
and awaited her companion's answer, but he remained buried in profound
thought.
"Mr. Godfrey, do you still believe in the non-existence of a Deity?"
"Forgive me, Juliet, if my thoughts had strayed from heaven to earth. I
will, however, tell you the purport of them. If all men are equal in the
sight of the Creator, why does not the same feeling pervade the breast
of his creatures?"
"Because men are not endowed with the wisdom of God, neither can they
judge righteously, as he judges. That all men are equal in his sight,
the text we have just read sufficiently proves: 'The rich and the poor
meet together. The Lord is the maker of them all.'"
"Then why is wealth an object of adoration to the crowd, whilst poverty,
even in those who once possessed great riches, is regarded with contempt
and pity?"
"The world gives a value to things which in themselves are of no
importance," said Juliet. "I think, however, that I should scorn myself,
could I regard with indifference the friends I once loved, because they
had been deprived of their worldly advantages."
"You make me proud of my poverty, Miss Whitmore. It has rendered me rich
in your sympathy."
"Obtain your wealth from a higher source, Mr. Hurdlestone," said Juliet,
not, perhaps, displeased with the compliment, "and you will learn to
regard with indifference the riches of the world."
"But supposing, my dear friend, for argument's sake, that you had a
lover to whom you were fondly attached, and he was suddenly deprived of
the fortune which had placed you on an equality, would this circumstance
alter your regard for him?"
"Certainly not."
"And, in spite of these disadvantages, you would become his wife?"
"That would depend on circumstances. I might be under the guidance of
parents, who, from prudential motives, might forbid so rash a step; and
it would be no act of friendship to the man I loved, to increase his
difficulties by attempting to share them."
"And in such a case would you not act upon the decision of your own
heart?"
"I dare not. The heart, blinded by its affections for the object of its
love, might err in its decision, and involve both parties in ruin."
"But you could not call this love?"
"Yes, Mr. Hurdlestone, and far more deserving of the name than the
sickly sentiment that so often wears the guise of real affection."
"This girl is too much of a philosopher. I shall never be able to win
her to my purpose," said Godfrey, as Juliet quitted the room.
A few days after this conversation, Godfrey proposed taking a ride on
horseback with Miss Whitmore.
Juliet was fond of this exercise, in which she greatly excelled. This
evening she did not wish to go, but was overruled by her father and Aunt
Dorothy. The evening was warm and cloudy, and Juliet often looked
upwards and prophesied a storm.
"It will not come on before night," said her companion. "I remember
Anthony and I, when boys, were overtaken on this very spot by a
tremendous tempest." It was the first time he had suffered the name of
his cousin to pass his lips in the presence of Juliet. It brought the
color into her cheeks, and in a timid voice she inquired if he knew what
had become of Anthony?
"He had a second cousin, it seems, a Mr. Wildegrave, who is residing in
his father's parish; Anthony has found a temporary home with him."
Why did Juliet turn so pale? Did the recollection of the fair amiable
girl she had met and loved at ---- trouble her? She spoke no more during
their long ride. On their way home, they entered a dark avenue, that led
to the Lodge, and passed through Norgood Park.
"I hate this road," said Godfrey. "I have never travelled it since the
old place passed into the hands of strangers."
"It was thoughtless in me to propose this path, Mr. Godfrey; let us
return by the road."
She checked her horse as she spoke, when her attention was aroused by a
female figure, seated in a dejected attitude beneath an old oak tree.
Her hair hung wildly about her shoulders; and her head was buried
between her knees.
Godfrey instantly recognised the person; and looking up at the heavy
dark clouds, which had for some time been encroaching upon the rich
saffron hues in the west, he said hastily turning his horse, "You are
right, Miss Whitmore we are going to have a storm, and you have chosen a
dangerous path. Let us get from under these trees as fast as we can."
"Stay a few minutes. I want to speak to this poor woman."
"It is only some gipsy girl who has been sleeping under the tree. See,
it begins to rain. Do you not hear the large drops pattering upon the
leaves? If you do not put your horse on, you will get very wet."
"I am not afraid of a few drops of rain. The person seems in distress--I
must speak to her."
At this moment the girl slowly rose from her seat, and revealed the
faded, attenuated features of Mary Mathews.
"Mary!" exclaimed Juliet, shocked and astonished at the recognition;
"what are you doing here? The rain is falling fast. Had you not better
go home?"
"Home!" said the girl gloomily. "I have no home. The wide world is my
home, and 'tis a bad place for the motherless and moneyless to live in.
My father is dead; Mr. ---- seized our things yesterday for the rent,
and turned us out into the streets; my brother is gone to Ashton to look
for employment, and I thought this place was as good as another; I can
sit here and brood over my wrongs."
Juliet was inexpressibly shocked. She turned to address a remark to her
companion, but to her increasing surprise, he was no longer in sight. A
vague suspicion flashed upon her mind. She was determined to satisfy her
doubts. Turning again to the girl, she addressed her in a kind soothing
tone.
"Have you no friends, Mary, who can receive you until your brother is
able to provide for you?"
"I never had many friends, Miss Juliet, and I have lost those I once
had. You see how it is with me," she cried, rising and wringing her
hands. "No respectable person would now receive me into their house.
There is the work-house, to be sure. But I will die here, beneath the
broad ceiling of heaven, before its accursed walls shall shut me in."
Juliet's heart prompted her to offer the wretched girl an asylum; but
she dreaded the indignation of her fastidious aunt. Whilst she paused,
irresolute how to act, the girl, emboldened by despair, suddenly caught
hold of her bridle, and fixing her dim eyes upon her face, continued:--
"It is to you, Miss Juliet, that I owe all this grief and misery--yes,
to you. Had you been a poor girl, like myself, I need not have cared for
you. My face is as pretty as yours, my figure as good. I am as capable
of love, and of being loved; but I lack the gold, the fine clothing, and
the learning, that makes you my superior. People say that you are going
to marry Mr. Hurdlestone; and it is useless for a poor girl like me to
oppose the wishes of a grand lady like you. But I warn you not to do it.
He is my husband in the sight of God; and the thought of his marrying
you has broken my heart. Despair is strong; and when I saw you together
just now, I felt that I should like to murder you both!"
"Mary," said Juliet, gravely, "you should not give ear to such
reports--they are utterly false. Do you imagine that any young woman of
principle would marry such a man as Mr. Hurdlestone?"
"Then why are you constantly together?" returned Mary, with flashing
eyes. "Did he not ride away the moment he saw me?"
"You have mistaken one Mr. Hurdlestone for the other. The gentleman that
just left me was Mr. Godfrey."
"And is it not Mr. Godfrey I mean? Good kind Mr. Anthony would not harm
a lamb, much less a poor motherless girl like me!"
Again wringing her hands, she burst into a fit of passionate weeping.
Juliet was dreadfully agitated; and springing from her horse, she sat
down upon the bank beside the unfortunate young woman, regardless of the
loud roaring of the thunder, and the heavy pouring of the rain, and
elicited from her the story of her wrongs.
Indignant at the base manner in which she had been deceived by Godfrey
Hurdlestone, Juliet bade Mary follow her to the Lodge, and inform her
aunt of the particulars that she had just related to her.
"I will never betray the man I love!" cried Mary, passionately. "When I
told you my secret, Miss Whitmore, it was under the idea that you loved
him--that you meant to tear him from me. Tell no one, I beseech you, the
sad story, which you wrung from me in my despair!"
She would have flung herself at Juliet's feet; but the latter drew back,
and said, with a sternness quite foreign to her nature:
"Would you have me guilty of a base fraud, and suffer the innocent to
bear the brand of infamy, which another had incurred? Affection cannot
justify crime. The feelings with which you regard a villain like Godfrey
Hurdlestone are not deserving of the name of love."
"Ah, you young ladies are so hard-hearted," said Mary, bitterly. "Pride
hinders you from falling into temptation, like other folk. If you dared,
you would be no better than one of us."
"Mary, do not change my pity for your unhappy situation into contempt.
Religion and propriety of conduct can protect the poorest girl from the
commission of crime. I am sorry for you, and will do all in my power to
save you from your present misery. But you must promise me to give up
your evil course of life."
"You may spare yourself the trouble," said the girl, regarding her
companion's beautiful countenance, and its expression of purity and
moral excellence, with a glance of envious disdain. "I ask no aid; I
need no sympathy; and, least of all, from you, who have robbed me of my
lover, and then reproach me with the evil which your selfish love of
admiration has brought upon me."
A glow of anger passed over Miss Whitmore's face, as the girl turned to
leave her. She struggled a few minutes with her feelings, until her
better nature prevailed; and following Mary, she caught her by the arm:
"Stay with me, Mary! I forgive the rash words you uttered. I am sure you
cannot mean what you say."
"You had better leave me," said the girl, gloomily. "Evil thoughts are
rising in my heart against you, and I cannot resist them."
"You surely would not do me any harm?" and Juliet involuntarily glanced
towards her horse, which was quietly grazing a few paces off,
"particularly when I feel most anxious to serve you."
The girl's countenance betrayed the most violent agitation. She turned
upon Juliet her fine eyes, in which the light of incipient madness
gleamed, and said in a low, horrid voice,
"I hate you. I should like to kill you!"
Juliet felt that to run from her, or to offer the least resistance,
would be the means of drawing upon herself the doom which her companion
threatened. Seating herself upon a fallen tree, and calmly folding her
hands together, she merely uttered, "Mary, may God forgive you for your
sinful thought!" and then awaited in silence the issue of this
extraordinary and painful scene.
The girl stood before her, regarding her with a fixed and sullen tone.
Sometimes she raised her hand in a menacing attitude; and then, again,
the sweet mild glance of her intended victim appeared to awe her into
submission.
"Shall I kill her?" she muttered aloud. "Shall I spoil that baby face,
which he prefers to mine?" Then as if that thought aroused all the worst
feelings in her breast, she continued in a louder, harsher tone, "Yes--I
will tread her beneath my feet--I will trample her into the dust; for he
loves her. Oh, misery, misery! he loves her better than me--than me who
love him so well--who could die for him! Oh, agony of agonies! for her
sake I am forgotten and despised!"
The heart of the woman was touched by the vehemence of her own passions.
Her former ferocity gave way, and she sank down upon the ground, and
buried her face in the long grass, and wept.
Her agonising sobs and groans were more than Juliet could listen to,
without offering a word of comfort to the mourner. Forgetful of her
former fears, she sat down by the prostrate weeper, and lifting her head
upon her knees put back from her swollen face the long-neglected
tresses, which, drenched by the heavy rain, fell in thick masses over
her convulsed features. Mary no longer offered any resistance. Her eyes
were closed, her lips apart. She lay quite motionless, but ever and anon
the pale lips quivered; and streams of tears gushed from beneath the
long lashes that shrouded her eyes, and fell like rain over her
garments.
Oh, love and guilt, how dreadful is your struggle in the human heart!
Like Satan after his first transgression, the divine principle, still
retains somewhat of its sovereign power and dignity, and appears little
less
"Than archangel ruined."
"Poor Mary!" sighed Juliet, "your sin has indeed found you out! Thank
heaven, the man I love is not guilty of this moral murder. Oh, Anthony,
how I have injured you! I ought to have known that you were utterly
incapable of a crime like this!"
"Leave me, Miss Juliet," said Mary, regaining her self-possession;
"leave me to my own sorrow. Oh, I wish I could die and forget it all!
But I dare not die. Hateful as life has become, I dare not look upon
death. Do not weep for me--your tears will drive me mad! Do not look at
me so--it makes me hate you. Do not ask me to go to the Lodge, for I
will not go!" she cried, springing to her feet, and clenching her hands.
"I am my own mistress! You cannot make me obey you. If I choose to bid
defiance to the world, and live as I please, it is no business of yours.
You shall not--you dare not attempt to control me!" And brushing past
Miss Whitmore, she was soon lost among the trees. Juliet drew a freer
breath when she was gone, and turning round beheld her father.
"What are you doing here in the rain, Juliet? your habit is soaked with
water. And where is Godfrey?"
"Take me home, papa!" said Juliet, flinging herself into his arms, and
sobbing upon his shoulder. "Godfrey is gone for ever. I have been
dreadfully frightened; but I will tell you all when we get home. I
cannot tell you here!"