Strange voices still are ringing in mine ears,
Something of shame, of anguish, and reproach;
My brain is dark, I have forgot it all.--S.M.
In the miserable attic over the kitchen in the public-house already
described, there was a sound of deep, half-suppressed, passionate
weeping--a young mother weeping for her first-born, who would not be
pacified. The deepest fountain of love in the human heart had been
stirred; its hallowed sources abused, and violently broken up; and the
shock had been too great for the injured possessor to bear patiently.
Her very reason had yielded to the blow, and she lamented her loss, as a
forward child laments the loss of some favorite plaything. Had she not
been a creature of passionate impulses, the death of this babe of shame
would have brought a stern joy to her bereaved mind. She would have
wept--for nature speaks from the heart in tears; but she would have
blessed God that He had removed the innocent cause of her distress from
being a partaker of her guilt, a sharer of her infamy, a lasting source
of regret and sorrow.
Mary Mathews had looked forward with intense desire for the birth of
this child. It would be something for her to love and cling
to--something for whose sake she would be content to live--for whom she
could work and toil; who would meet her with smiles, and feel its
dependence upon her exertions. She thought, too, that Godfrey would
love her once more, for his infant's sake. Rash girl! She had yet to
learn that the love of man never returns to the forsaken object of his
selfish gratification.
The night before this event took place, violent words had arisen between
Mary and her brother. The ruffian was partially intoxicated, and urged
on by the infuriated spirit of intemperance, regardless of the
entreaties of the woman Strawberry, or the helpless situation of the
unfortunate girl, he had struck her repeatedly; and the violent passion
into which his brutal unkindness had hurried his victim produced
premature confinement, followed by the death of her child, a fine little
boy.
Godfrey was absent when all this occurred; and though the day was pretty
far advanced, he had not as yet returned.
As to William Mathews, he wished that death had removed both mother and
child, as he found Mary too untractable to be of any use to him.
"My child! my child!" sobbed Mary. "What have you done with him? where
have you put him? Oh! for the love of Heaven, Mrs. Strawberry, let me
look at my child!"
"Hold your peace, you foolish young creature! What do you want with the
corpse? You had better lie still, and be quiet, or we may chance to bury
you both in the same grave."
"Oh!" sighed the girl, burying her face in the pillow, and giving way to
a fresh gush of tears, "that's too good to happen. The wretched never
die; the lost, like me, are never found. The wicked are denied the rest,
the deep rest of the grave. Oh, my child! my blessed child! Let me but
look upon my own flesh and blood, let me baptize the unbaptized with my
tears, and I shall feel this horrible load removed from my heart."
"It was a sad thing that it died, before it got the sign of the cross,"
said the godless old woman. "Sich babes, I've heard the priest say,
never see the light o' God's countenance; but the blackness of darkness
abides on them for ever. Howsomever, these kind o' childer never come to
no good, whether they live or die. Young giddy creatures should think o'
that before they run into sin, and bring upon themselves trouble and
confusion. I was exposed to great temptation in my day; but I never
disgraced myself by the like o' that."
"Oh, you were very good, I dare say," said Mary, coaxingly; "and I will
think you the best and kindest woman that ever lived, if you will but
let me see the poor babe."
"What good will it do you to see it? it will only make you fret. You
ought to thank God that it is gone. It was a mercy you had no right to
expect. You are now just as good as ever you were. You can go into a
gentleman's service, and hold up your head with the best of them. I
would not stay here, if I were you, to be kicked and ordered about by
that wicked brother of yours, nor wait, like a slave, upon this Mr.
Godfrey. What is he now? not a bit better than one of us. Not a shilling
has he to bless himself with, and I am sure he does not care one
farthing for you, and will be glad that the child is off his hands."
"Oh, he loves me; indeed, indeed, he loves me and the child. Oh, he will
grieve for the child. Mrs. Strawberry, if ever you were a mother
yourself, have pity upon me, and show me the baby."
She caught the woman by the hand, and looked up in her face with such
an expression of longing intense desire, that, harsh as she was, it
melted her stony heart; and, going to a closet, she returned with the
babe in her arms. It was dressed in its little cap, and long white
night-gown--a cold image of purity and perfect peace.
"Oh, mine own! mine own!" wailed the young mother, pressing the cold
form against her breast, as she rocked to and fro on the pillow. "My
blessed innocent boy! You have left me for ever, and ever, and ever. My
child! my infant love! I have wept for you--prayed for you--while yet
unborn, have blessed you. Your smiles would have healed up the deep
wounds of my broken heart. Together we would have wandered to some
distant land, where reproaches, and curses, and blows, would never have
found us; and we would have been happy in each's other's love--so happy!
Ah, my murdered child! I call upon you, but you cannot hear me! I weep
for you, but you are unconscious of my grief. Ah, woe is me! What shall
I do, a-wanting thee? My heart is empty; the world is empty. Its
promises are false--its love departed. My child is dead, and I am
alone--alone--alone."
"Come, give me the babe, Mary! I hear your brother's step upon the
stair."
"You shall not have it!" cried the girl, starting up in the bed, her
eyes flashing fire. "Hush! your loud voice will waken him. He is mine.
God gave him to me; and you shall not tear him from me. No other hand
shall feed and rock him to sleep but mine.
"Lullaby, baby! no danger shall come,
My breast is thy pillow, my heart is thy home;
That poor heart may break, but it ever shall be
True, true to thy father, dear baby, and thee!
"Weep, mother, weep, thy loved infant is sleeping
A sleep which no storms of the world can awaken;
Ah, what avails all thy passionate weeping,
The depths of that love which no sorrow has shaken?
"All useless and lost in my desolate sadness,
No sunbeam of hope scatters light through the gloom;
Instead of the voice of rejoicing and gladness,
I hear the wind wave the rank grass on thy tomb."
Partly moaning, and partly singing, the poor creature, exhausted by a
night of severe pain, and still greater mental anxiety, dropped off into
a broken slumber, with the dead infant closely pressed to her bosom.
"Well, there they lie together: the dead and the living," said Mrs.
Strawberry. "'Tis a piteous sight. I wish they were both bound to the
one place. We'll have no good of this love-sick girl; and I have some
fears myself of her brutal brother and the father of the brat. I hear
his voice: they are home. Well, they may just step up, and look at their
work. If this is not murder, I wonder what is?"
With a feeling of more humanity than Mrs. Strawberry was ever known to
display, she arranged the coarse pillow that supported Mary's head, and
softly closing the door, descended the step-ladder that led to the
kitchen; here she found Godfrey and Mathews in close conversation, the
latter laughing immoderately.
"And he took the bait so easily, Godfrey? Never suspected that it was
all a sham? Ha! ha! ha! Let me look at the money. I can scarcely believe
my own senses. Ha! ha! ha! Why, man, you have found out a more
expeditious method of making gold than your miserly uncle ever knew."
"Aye, but I have not his method of keeping it, Bill; but you may well
laugh. This proud boy is in our toils now. I have him as sure as fate. I
must say that I felt a slight pang of remorse when I saw him willing to
dare so much for me; and he looked so like my father, that I could
almost have fancied that the dead looked through his eyes into my soul.
I have gone too far to recede. What must be, must be; none of us shape
our own destinies, or some good angel would have warned Anthony of his
danger."
"What the devil has become of Mary?" said Mathews, glancing round the
kitchen. "She and I had some words last night; it was a foolish piece of
business, but she provoked me past endurance. I found her dressed up
very smart just at nightfall, and about to leave the house. I asked her
where she was going so late in the evening. She answered, 'To hear the
Ranters preach in the village; that she wanted to know what they had to
say to her soul.' So I cursed her soul, and bade her go back to her
chamber, and not expose her shame to the world; and she grew fierce, and
asked me tauntingly, who it was that had brought her to that shame, and
if I were not the greater sinner of the two; and I struck her in my
anger, and drove her up stairs."
"Struck her!" said Godfrey, starting back. "Struck a woman! That woman
your sister, and in her helpless situation! You dared not do such a
cowardly, unmanly act?"
"I was drunk," said Mathews, gloomily; "and she was so aggravating that
I am not sure that you would have kept your hands off her. She flew at
me like an enraged tiger-cat, with clenched fists and eyes flashing
fire, and returned me what I gave with interest; and I believe there
would have been murder between us, if Mrs. Strawberry had not dragged
her off. What has become of her, mother. How is she now?"
"You had better go up and see," said the woman, with a bitter laugh.
"She is not very likely to fight again to-day."
There was something mysterious in the woman's manner that startled the
ruffian. "Come up with me, Godfrey, and speak to her. One word from you
will make my peace with Mary. I did not mean to hurt the girl."
Mary had been sleeping. The sound of their steps broke in upon her
feverish slumber; but she still kept her eyes closed, as if unwilling to
rouse herself from the stupor of grief in which she had fallen.
"She is sleeping," said Mathews, approaching the bed. "By Jove! I
thought she was dead. How still she lies. How deadly pale she looks--and
what is that upon her breast?"
"A child! my child!" cried Godfrey, stepping eagerly forward. "Poor
Mary! she is safe through that trial. But the child--"
"Is dead," said Mathews. "Yes, dead. Godfrey you are in luck. What a
fortunate thing for us all."
"Dead!" said the young father, laying his hand upon the cold pale cheek
of his first born. "Aye, so it is. She was so healthy, I dared not hope
for this. Poor little pale cold thing, how happy I am to see you thus!
What a load of anxiety your death has removed from my heart! What a
blessing it would have been if it had pleased God to take them both!"
This from the man she loved--the father of her child--was too much. Mary
opened her large tear-swollen eyes, and fixed them mournfully upon his
face. He stooped down, and would have kissed her; but she drew back with
ill-disguised horror. The love she had so madly cherished for him was
gone--vanished for ever in those cruel words, and nought but the blank
darkness and horror of remorse remained. She turned upon her pillow, and
fixing her eyes upon the dead infant, mentally swore that she would live
for revenge. She no longer shed a tear, or uttered the least complaint,
but secretly blessed God that the babe was dead. She had lived to hear
the father of that child, for whose sake she had borne the contempt of
her neighbors, the reproaches of conscience, and the fears of eternal
punishment, rejoice in the death of his first-born; and without a tear
or sigh, wish that she might share the same grave. Could such things be?
Alas! they happen every day, and are the sure reward of guilt.
"My poor Mary," said the hypocrite. "You have suffered a good deal for
my sake; but do not cry. God knew best when he took the child from us.
It is painful for us to part with him, but depend upon it, he is much
better off where he is."
"I know it now," said the young mother. "Yes, Godfrey Hurdlestone, he is
better off where he is; and for some wise end, God has spared my
worthless life. Is that you, William? The murderer of my child has no
business here."
"Mary, it was the drink. I did not mean to hurt either you or the child;
so shake hands, and say that you forgive me."
He leant over the bed and held out his hand. Mary put it contemptuously
aside. "Never," she said firmly; "neither in this world, nor in the
world to come."
"Do you know what you say?" said Mathews, bending over the pillow and
doubling his fist in his sister's face, whilst his dark grey eyes
emitted a deadly light.
"I am in my senses," returned Mary, with a bitter laugh, "although you
have done your best to drive me mad. You need not stamp your foot, nor
frown, nor glare upon me like a beast of prey. I defy your malice. What
I said I will again repeat; and may my curse and the curse of an
offended God cleave to you for ever!"
"I will murder you for those words!" said the fiend, grinding his teeth.
"Death is no punishment. Threaten me, William, with something that I
fear. I am helpless, now, but I shall soon be strong and well, and my
arm may be a match for the feeble drunkard--the cowardly destroyer of
women and children."
"Unhand me, Godfrey Hurdlestone!" roared out the villain, struggling in
the powerful grasp of his colleague in guilt. "For by all the fiends of
hell! she shall answer for those words!"
"Hold, Mathews! You are mad! I will stab you to the heart if you attempt
to touch her."
He spoke to the winds, for throwing him back to the wall, Mathews seized
the knife from his hand, and sprang upon his intended victim. Rising
slowly up in the bed, with an air of calm solemn grandeur, she held up
the pure pale form of the dead child between herself and the murderer.
Not a word was spoken. With an awful curse the man reeled back as if he
had been stung by a serpent, and fell writhing upon the floor, and Mary
sunk back upon her pillow, and covered her face with her hands,
muttering as she did so,--"How strong is innocence! The wicked are like
the chaff which the wind scatters abroad. Oh, God, forgive the past,
which is no longer in my power; and let the future be spent in thy
service. I repent in dust and ashes. Oh, woe is me, for I have sinned!"
Rousing Mathews from the fit into which he had fallen, and in no very
enviable state of mind, Godfrey left the chamber, and joined a set of
notorious gamblers in the room below.
From this scene of riot and drunken debauchery, he was summoned by Mrs.
Strawberry to attend a gentleman who wished to speak to him in the outer
room. With unsteady steps, and a face flushed with the eager excitement
of gambling. Godfrey followed his conductress, and ruffian as he was,
his cheek paled, and his eyes sought the ground when he found himself in
the presence of his injured cousin.
Shocked at the situation in which he found him, Anthony briefly stated
the difficulty he had had in tracing Godfrey to this infamous resort,
and the awkward circumstances in which he was placed with young
Wildegrave; and he claimed the promise made to him by his cousin on the
preceding day, to relieve him from the impending danger.
"I told you that to-night, Anthony, the money should be repaid. The
clock has not yet struck for eight. If I have luck, it shall be returned
before twelve to-night."
"Luck!" reiterated Anthony, gasping for breath, as he staggered to the
wall for support. "Is it on such a precarious basis that my honor and
your honesty must rest? You talked yesterday of the sale of your
reversionary property."
"I did. But the Jew was too cunning for me. He became the purchaser, and
the money just satisfied his demand, and covered an old debt of honor,
that I had forgotten was due to him, and I am worse off than I was
before."
"But you can restore the money you got from me last night, as Haman was
satisfied by the sale of the legacy."
"I could if you had called two hours ago. I was tempted to try my luck
in the hope of gaining a few pounds for my self, and--"
"It is lost at the gaming table?"
Godfrey nodded his head.
"It is well," said Anthony, bitterly. "You have saved your own life by
transferring the doom to me."
He did not wait for further explanation, but walked rapidly from the
house; and after a thousand severe self-upbraidings, in a fit of
despair, took the road that led through Ashton Park to the miser's
dwelling.
After an hour's walk he came in sight of the wretched hovel. It was now
evening, and a faint light, shed from a rush candle, gleamed through the
broken apertures of the low casement. He paused upon the threshold of
this abode of want and misery, and for the first time in his life he
thought it had been well for him had he never left it. For some time he
continued knocking loudly at the door, without being able to gain
admittance; at, length, bolt after bolt was slowly withdrawn, and the
miser himself let him in.
"It is well, Grenard, that you are home at last," growled forth the
surly old man. "If you make a practice of staying out so late at night,
we shall both be murdered."
But when, on holding up the light, he discovered his mistake, and
recognised the features of his son, he demanded in an angry tone, "What
business he had with him?"
Anthony pushed past him, and entered the house.
"Father, I will tell you immediately--but I am tired and ill. I must sit
down."
Without regarding the old man's stern look of surprise and displeasure,
he advanced to the table, and sat down upon the empty bench which was
generally occupied by Grenard Pike, secretly rejoicing that that worthy
was not at home. The awkwardness and difficulty of his situation pressed
so painfully upon the young man, that for a few seconds he could not
utter a word. A cold perspiration bedewed his limbs, and his knees
trembled with agitation.
Stern and erect, the old man, still holding the light, stood before him,
and though he did not raise his head to meet the miser's glance, he felt
that the searching gaze from which he used to shrink when a boy was
riveted upon him.
Mark Hurdlestone was the first to break the awful silence.
"Well, sir! If you are ready to explain the cause of this extraordinary
visit, I am ready to listen to you. What do you want?"
"Your advice and aid," at length gasped forth the unhappy youth. "I have
acted very foolishly, and in an hour of great difficulty and danger, I
fling myself upon your mercy, and I beseech you not to turn a deaf ear
to my prayer."
Mark sat down in his high-backed chair, and placed the light upon the
table in such a manner as fully to reveal the pale agitated features of
his son. Had a stranger at that moment entered the cottage, he might for
the first time have perceived the strong family likeness that existed
between them. The same high features, the same compressed lips and
haughty stern expression of eye. The gloom which overspread the
countenance of the one, produced by the habitual absence of all joyous
feeling; the other by actual despair. Yes, in that hour they looked
alike, and the miser seemed tacitly to acknowledge the resemblance, for
a softening expression stole over his rigid features as he continued to
gaze upon his son.
"You have acted foolishly," he said; "no uncommon thing at your
age--and in danger and difficulty you seek me. I suppose I ought to
consider this act of condescension on your part a great compliment. Your
circumstances must be desperate indeed, when they lead you to make a
confidant of your father, considering how greatly I am indebted to you
for filial love. You have been in my neighborhood, Anthony Hurdlestone,
nearly a month, and this is the first visit with which you have honored
me."
"I should have been most happy to have paid my respects to you, sir,
could I have imagined that my visits would have been acceptable."
"It was worth your while to make the trial, young man. It was not for
you to think, but to act, and the result would have proved to you how
far you were right. But to dismiss all idle excuses, which but aggravate
your want of duty in my eyes, be pleased briefly to inform me, why I am
honored so late at night with a visit from Mr. Anthony Hurdlestone?"
Anthony bit his lips. It was too late to retract, and though he deeply
repented having placed himself in such a humiliating situation, he
faithfully related to his stern auditor the cause of his distress. The
old man listened to him attentively, a sarcastic smile at times writhing
his thin lips; and when Anthony implored him for the loan of four
hundred pounds, until the return of Mr. Wildegrave, who he was certain
would overlook his unintentional fraud--he burst into a taunting laugh,
and flatly refused to grant his request.
Anthony assailed him with a storm of eloquence, using every argument
which the agony of the moment suggested, in order to soften his hard
heart. He might as well have asked charity of the marble monuments of
his ancestors. Stung to madness by the old man's obstinate refusal, he
sprang from his seat.
"Father, relent I beseech you: revoke this cruel decision. My request is
too urgent to admit of a denial!"
He dashed his clenched fist upon the shattered remains of the old oak
table, upon which Mark was leaning, his head resting between his long
bony attenuated hands. The blow sent a hollow sound through the empty
desolate apartment. The grey-haired man raised his eyes, without lifting
his head, and surveyed his son with an expression of mocking triumph,
but answered not a word. His contemptuous silence was more galling to
the irritated applicant than the loudest torrent of abuse. He was
prepared for that, and he turned from the stony glance and harsh face of
his father with eyes full of tears, and his breast heaving under the
sense of intolerable wrongs.
At length his feelings found utterance. His dark eyes flashed fire, and
despair, with all her attendant furies, took possession of his heart.
"I will not reproach you, Mr. Hurdlestone, for giving me life," he
cried, in tones tremulous with passion, "for that would be to insult the
God who made me: but your unnatural conduct to me since the first moment
I inherited that melancholy boon has made me consider that my greatest
misfortune is being your son. It was in your power to have rendered it a
mutual blessing. From a child, I have been a stranger in your house, an
alien to your affections. While you possessed a yearly income of two
hundred thousand pounds, you suffered your only son to be educated on
the charity of your injured brother, your sordid love of gold rendering
you indifferent to the wants of your motherless child. Destitute of a
home without money, and driven to desperation by an act of imprudence,
which my compassion for the son of that generous uncle urged me in an
unguarded hour to commit, I seek you in my dire necessity to ask the
loan of a small sum, to save me from utter ruin. This you refuse. I now
call upon you by every feeling, both human and divine, to grant my
request.
"What, silent yet. Nay, then by Heaven! I will not leave the house until
you give me the money. Give me this paltry sum, and you may leave your
hoarded treasures to the owls and bats, or make glad with your useless
wealth some penurious wretch, as fond of gold as yourself!"
Mark Hurdlestone rocked to and fro in his chair, as if laboring with
some great internal emotion; at length he half rose from his seat, and
drew a key from beneath his vest. Anthony, who watched all his movements
with intense interest, felt something like the glow of hope animate his
breast; but these expectations were doomed to be annihilated, as the
miser again sunk down in his chair, and hastily concealed the key among
the tattered remains of his garments.
"Anthony, Anthony," he said, in a hollow voice, which issued from his
chest as from a sepulchre. "Cannot you wait patiently until my death? It
will all be your own, then."
"It will be too late," returned the agitated young man, whilst his
cheeks glowed with the crimson blush of shame, as a thousand agonising
recollections crowded upon his brain, and, covering his face with his
hands, he groaned aloud. A long and painful pause succeeded. At length a
desperate thought flashed through his mind.
He drew nearer, and fixed his dark expanded eyes upon his father's face,
until the old man cowered, beneath the awful scrutiny. Again he spoke,
but his voice was calm, dreadfully calm. "Father, will you grant my
request? Let your answer be briefly, yes--or no?"
"No!" thundered the miser. "I will part with my life first."
"Be not rash. We are alone," returned the son, with the same unnatural
composure. "You are weak, and I am strong. If you wantonly provoke the
indignation of a desperate man, what will your riches avail you?"
The miser instinctively grasped at the huge poker that graced the
fireplace, in whose rusty grate a cheerful fire had not been kindled for
many years. Anthony's quick eye detected the movement, and he took
possession of the dangerous weapon with the same cool but determined
air.
"Think not that I mean to take your life. God forbid that I should stain
my hand with so foul a crime, and destroy your soul by sending it so
unprepared into the presence of the Creator. It is not blood--but money
I want."
"Would not a less sum satisfy you?" and the miser eyed fearfully the
weapon of offence, on which his son continued to lean, and again drew
forth the key.
"Not one farthing less."
Mark glanced hurriedly round the apartment, and listened with intense
anxiety for the sound of expected footsteps. The sigh of the old trees
that bent over the hovel, swept occasionally by the fitful autumnal
blast alone broke the deep silence, and rendered it doubly painful.
"Where can the fellow stay?" he muttered to himself; then as if a
thought suddenly struck him, he turned to his eon, and addressed him in
a more courteous tone. "Anthony, I cannot give you this great, sum
to-night. But come to me at this hour to-morrow night, and it shall be
yours."
"On what surety?"
"My word."
"I dare not trust to that. You may deceive me."
"When was Mark Hurdlestone ever known to utter a lie?" and a dark red
flush of anger mounted to the miser's face.
"When he forged the news of his brother's death, to murder by slow
degrees my unhappy mother," said Anthony, scornfully. "The spirits of
the dead are near us in this hour; silently, but truly, they bear
witness against you."
The old man groaned, and sunk his face between his hands as his son
continued;
"I cannot wait until the morrow. This night alone is mine. If you cannot
readily lay your hands upon the money, write me an order upon your
banker for the sum."
"I have neither pen, ink, nor paper," said the miser, eagerly availing
himself of the most paltry subterfuge, in order to gain time until the
return of Grenard Pike, or to escape paying the money.
"I can supply you." And Anthony drew forth a small writing case, and
placed paper before him, and put a pen into his father's hand.
"Anthony, you had better trust to my word," said Mark, solemnly. "Gold
is a heavier surety than paper, and by the God who made us, I swear to
keep my promise."
"Aye, but you forget the old proverb, father. 'A bird in the hand is
worth two in the bush.'"
The old man eyed him with a glance of peculiar meaning as with a
trembling hand he proceeded to write the order. When he had finished,
he folded the paper carefully together, and presented it to his son.
"You will not trust to my honor. Be it so. Take this paper, Anthony
Hurdlestone, for a Hurdlestone you are, and for the first time in my
life I believe that you are my son. But it is the sole inheritance you
will ever receive from me. Go, and let me see your face no more."
"God bless you, sir," said the youth, in a faltering voice. "Forgive my
late intemperate conduct; it was influenced by despair. From this moment
I will love and respect you as my father."
The miser's thin lips quivered as his son turned to leave him. He called
faintly after him, "Anthony, Anthony! Don't leave me alone with the
spirits of the dead. To-morrow I will do you justice. At this hour
to-morrow."
His son stopped, but the entrance of old Pike stifled the rising gleam
of paternal regard, and dismissed the ghastly phantoms of the past from
the excited mind of the gold-worshipper. He grumbled a welcome to his
minion, and sternly waved to the unwelcome intruder to quit the house.
His wishes were instantly obeyed.