Murder most foul hath been committed here,
By thee committed--for thy hand is red,
And on thy pallid brow I see impress'd
The mark of Cain.--S.M.
A thrilling feeling of joy at having gained the object of his visit to
Oak Hall, and obtained the means of wiping off the stain he so much
dreaded from his character, was throbbing in the breast of Anthony
Hurdlestone, as he reached, about nine o'clock in the evening, his
nominal home.
He had sold his birthright for a mere trifle, but the loss of wealth
weighed lightly in his estimation against the loss of honor. On entering
Frederic's study, he found his cousin Godfrey and the ruffian Mathews
awaiting his return.
Godfrey had dogged his steps to Ashton, had seen him enter the miser's
hovel, and from the length of his visit guessed rightly the cause. His
anxiety to know the result of this meeting induced him to return a part
of the money he had the day before received from his cousin, which he
had neither lost at play, as he had affirmed to Anthony, nor paid to the
Jew the fictitious debt which he had declared was due to him. These
falsehoods had been planned by him and his base companion, in order to
draw the unsuspecting young man into their toils, and bring about the
rupture they desired with his father.
"My dear Anthony," he said, shaking him heartily by the hand, as he
rose to meet him. "I have not enjoyed a moment's peace since we parted
this evening. Here is half the sum you so kindly advanced, and if you
can wait for a few days, I hope to have the rest ready for you."
With a heavy sigh, Anthony received the notes from his cousin, and
counting them over he locked them up in the desk, doubly rejoiced that
he had the means of replacing the whole sum.
"You have been to Oak Hall," said Godfrey, carelessly. "How did the old
place look?"
"I did not notice it. My mind was too much agitated. When I left you
ruin stared me in the face; as a last desperate chance to free myself, I
determined to visit my father, and request the loan of the money."
"A daring move that," said Godfrey, with a smile to his companion;
"particularly after the rebuff you got from him, when you visited him on
behalf of my poor father. May I ask if you were successful?"
"Here is the order for the money;" and with a feeling of natural
triumph, Anthony took the order from his pocket-book.
"Is it possible! The philosopher's stone is no fable, if words of yours
could extract gold from a heart of flint. Brave Anthony! you have
wrought a miracle. But let me look at the order. Seeing's believing; and
I cannot believe such an improbable thing without I witness it with my
own eyes."
"Nay, convince yourself of the truth, Godfrey. What object can I have in
attempting to deceive you? It would be against my own interest so to do,
as you are still my debtor for two hundred pounds."
Godfrey took the paper from his cousin's hand, and went to the table to
examine it by the light. As he glanced over the contents he gave a
sudden exclamation of surprise, and a smile curled his lip.
"Do you believe me now?" said Anthony, who knew not exactly how to
interpret the dubious expression of Godfrey's face.
"Read for yourself," returned Godfrey, giving back the paper. "When you
deal with such an accomplished scoundrel as Mark Hurdlestone, you should
give the devil a retaining fee."
"What do you mean, Godfrey?" and his cousin eagerly snatched the paper
from his grasp. "He has not dared to deceive me!"
Still, as he read, his countenance fell, a deadly paleness suddenly
pervaded his features, and uttering a faint moan, in which all the
bitter disappointment he experienced was visibly concentrated, he sank
down in a swoon at Godfrey's feet.
"What on earth's the matter with the lad?" said Mathews, as he assisted
Godfrey in lifting him to the sofa. "What's in the wind?"
"A capital joke," whispered Godfrey. "I could almost love the old sinner
for his caustic humor. The order for the money is drawn up in the usual
manner, but instead of the words '_To pay_,' the crafty old fox has
written, '_Not to pay_ the bearer the sum of four hundred pounds.'"
"Excellent! But let old skinflint look to himself; with that malignant
joke he has signed his own death-warrant."
Anthony by this time had recovered from his swoon. But he sat like one
stupefied; his throbbing temples resting upon his hands, and his eyes
fixed on vacancy. Godfrey's voice at length roused him to a recollection
of what had happened, and in faint tones, he requested his two
companions to leave him.
"Not in this state of mind. Come, Anthony, clear up that cloudy brow. I
am sorry, sorry that I have been the means of drawing you into this ugly
scrape, but for my poor father's sake you must forgive me. If you were
to make a second application to your ungracious dad, he might, in the
hope of ridding himself of such an importunate beggar, give down the two
hundred pounds yet wanting. Such a decrease in your demand might work
wonders. What think you? Matters cannot be worse between you than they
are at present."
Anthony recalled his father's parting look--his parting words.
"To-morrow, I will do you justice if you come to me, at this hour,
to-morrow;" and hope again shed a faint glimmer in his breast. He
repeated these words to Godfrey. Had he noticed the glance which his
cousin threw towards his partner in guilt, he would have been puzzled to
read its meaning. Mathews understood it well.
"Go, by all means, Anthony. I have no doubt that his heart will relent;
that he already feels ashamed of his barbarous conduct. At all events,
it can do no harm--it may do good. Take that infamous piece of writing
in your hand, and reproach him with his treachery. My father's injured
spirit will be near you, to plead your cause, and you must be
successful."
"Yes, I will go," said Anthony. "Either he or I must yield. My mind is
made up upon the subject. Godfrey, good night."
"He is ours, Mathews," whispered Godfrey, as they left the house. "The
old man's days are numbered. Remember this hour to-morrow night!"
Glad to find himself once more alone, Anthony continued to pace the
room, revolving over in his mind his interview with his father. He felt
convinced that the old man had repented of the cruel trick he had played
him; that but for the entrance of Grenard Pike, he would have recalled
the paper and given him the sum he desired. At all events, he was
determined to see him at the hour the miser had named, and tell him,
without disguise, his thoughts upon the subject.
In the midst of all this tumult of passion, the image of Juliet glided
into his mind, and seemed to whisper peace to his perturbed spirit. "Oh,
that I had a friend to advise me in this gloomy hour, into whose
faithful bosom I could pour out my whole soul! Shall I tell Clary? Shall
I confide to the dear child my guilt and folly?" He rang the bell. Old
Ruth, half asleep, made her appearance.
"How is your mistress, Ruth?"
"Better the night, sir."
"Will you tell her that I wish very much to see her."
"You won't disturb the poor lamb, sure. Why, Mr. Anthony, she has been
in her bed these two hours. She asked after you several times during the
day, and was very uneasy at your absence. Poor child! I believe she is
mortal fond of you."
"Of me, Ruth?"
"Of you, sir. I am sure Miss Clary is over head and ears in love with
you. Arn't it natural? Two handsome young creatures living in the same
house together, walking, and talking, and singing and playing, all the
time with each other. Why, Master Anthony, if you don't love the dear
child, you must be very deceitful, after making so much of her."
The old woman left him, still muttering to herself some anathema
against the deceitfulness of men; while Anthony, shocked beyond measure
at the disclosure of a secret which he had never suspected, threw
himself upon the sofa, and yielding to the overpowering sense of misery
which oppressed him, wept--even as a woman weeps--long and bitterly.
"Why," he thought, "why am I thus continually the sport of a cruel
destiny? Are the sins of my parents indeed visited upon me? Is every one
that I love, or that loves me, to be involved in one common ruin?"
And then he wished for death, with a longing, intense, sinful desire,
which placed him upon the very verge of self-destruction. He went to
Frederic's bureau, and took out his pistols, and loaded them, then
placed himself opposite to the glass, and deliberately took aim at his
head. But his hand trembled, and the ghastly expression of his face
startled him--so wan, so wild, so desperate. It looked not of earth,
still less like a future denizen of heaven.
"No, not to-night," he said. "He the stern father may relent, or fill up
the full measure of his iniquities. The morrow; God knoweth what it may
bring for me. If all should fail me, then this shall be my friend. Yes,
even in his presence will I fling at his feet the loathed life he gave!"
He threw himself upon the sofa, but not to sleep. Hour after hour passed
onward towards eternity. One, two, three, spoke out the loud voice of
Time, and it sounded in the ears of the watcher like his knell.
And she, the fair child--she who had, at sixteen, outlived the fear of
death. Had he won her young spirit back to earth, to mar its purity with
the stains of human passion? There was not a feeling in his heart at
that moment so sad as this. How deeply he regretted that he ever had
been admitted to that peaceful home.
But was she not a Wildegrave, and was not misery hers by right of
inheritance? And then he thought of his mother--thought of his own
desolate childhood--of his poor uncle--of his selfish but still dear
cousin Godfrey, and overcome by these sad reflections, as the glad sun
broke over the hills, bringing life and joy to the earth, he sunk into a
deep, dreamless sleep, from which he did not awaken until the broad
shadows of evening were deepening into night.
When old Ruth dusted out the parlor, she was surprised to find him
asleep upon the sofa. He looked so pale and ill, that she flung Miss
Clary's large cloak over him, and went up stairs to inform her mistress
of such an unusual occurrence.
All day Clary had sat beside him, holding, almost unconsciously, his
burning hand in hers. Often she bathed his temples with sal-volatile and
water, but so deep were his slumbers, so blessed was the perfect
cessation from mental misery, that he continued to sleep until the sun
disappeared behind the oak hills, and then, with a deep sigh, he once
more awoke to a painful consciousness of his situation.
Clary dropped the hand she held, and started from the sofa, over which
she had been leaning, the vivid flush burning upon her cheek, and sprang
away to order up tea. Anthony rose, marvelling at his long sleep, and
went to his chamber to make his toilet; when he returned to the parlor,
he found Clary waiting for him.
"My kind little cousin," he said, taking her hand, "you have been
ill--are you better?"
"I am quite well, and should be quite happy, dear Anthony, if I could
see you looking so. But you are ill and low-spirited; I read it all in
your dim eye and dejected looks. Come, sit down, and take a cup of tea.
You have eaten nothing all day. Here is a nice fowl, delicately cooked,
which Ruth prepared for your especial benefit. Do let me see you take
something."
"I cannot eat," said Anthony, pushing the plate from him, and eagerly
swallowing the cup of refreshing tea that Clary presented. "I am ill,
Clary, but mine is a disease of the mind. I am, indeed, far from happy;
I wish I could tell you all the deep sorrow that lies so death-like at
my heart."
"And why do you make it worse by concealment?" said Clary, rising and
going round to the side of the table on which he was leaning; "you need
not fear to trust me, Anthony; there is no one I love on earth so well,
except dear Frederic. Will you not let your little cousin share your
grief?"
"My sweet child," said Anthony, winding his arm around her slender
waist, and leaning his head on her shoulder, "you could render me no
assistance; the knowledge of my sorrow would only make you miserable."
"If it is anything about Juliet, tell me freely. Perhaps, you think,
dear Anthony, that I am jealous of you and Juliet; oh, no, I love you
too well for that. I know that I can never be as dear to you as Juliet;
that she is more worthy of your love--Good Heavens! you are weeping.
What have I said to cause these tears? Anthony, dear Anthony, speak to
me. You distract me. Oh, tell me that I have not offended you."
Anthony's lips moved, but no word issued from them. His eyes were firmly
closed, his brow pale as marble, and large tears slid in quick
succession from beneath the jet-black lashes that lay like a shadow upon
his ashen cheeks. And other tears were mingling with those drops of
heart-felt agony--tears of the tenderest sympathy, the most devoted
love, as, leaning that fair face upon the cold brow of the unhappy
youth, Clary unconsciously kissed away those waters of the heart, and
pressed that wan cheek against her gentle bosom. She felt his arm
tighten round her, as she stood in the embrace of the beloved, scarcely
daring to breathe, for fear of breaking the sad spell that had linked
them together. At length Anthony unclosed his eyes, and looked long and
earnestly up in his young companion's face--
"Oh, Clary! how shall I repay this love, my poor innocent lamb? Would to
God we had never met!"
"Do not say that, Anthony. I never knew what it was to be happy until I
knew you."
"Then you love life better than you did, Clary?"
"I love you," sighed Clary, hiding her fair face among his ebon curls,
"and the new life with which you have inspired me is very dear."
"Oh, that I could bid you cherish it for my sake, dear artless girl! But
we must part. In a few hours the faulty being whom you have rashly dared
to love, may be no longer a denizen of earth."
"What do you mean?" cried Clary, starting from his arms, and gazing upon
him with a distracted air. "While I have been idling in my bed something
dreadful has happened. I read it in your averted eyes--on your sad, sad
brow. Do not leave me in this state of torturing doubt. I beseech you to
tell me the cause of your distress?"
"Clary, I cannot; I wish to tell you, but the circumstances are so
degrading, I cannot find words to give them utterance; I feel that you
would despise me--that all good men would upbraid me as a weak
unprincipled fool; yet I call Heaven to witness, that at the moment I
committed the rash act I thought not that it was a crime."
"It is impossible, Anthony, that you could do anything unworthy of
yourself, or that could occasion this bitter grief. You are laboring
under some strong delusion, and are torturing yourself to no purpose.
Frederic will be home to-morrow; he will counsel you what to do, and all
will be right."
"Frederic home to-morrow!" and Anthony gasped for breath.
"Oh, I am so glad. It seems an age since he left us. By the bye, I have
a letter for you, which I quite forgot. It came this morning by the
post. I am sure it is from my brother, for I know his hand." Going to
the mantel-shelf, Clary handed him the letter. Anthony trembled
violently as he broke the seal; it ran thus:
"My Dear Anthony,
"I know not in what manner to interpret your unkind silence. Your
failing to forward the money I left in your hands has caused me
great mortification and inconvenience, and will oblige me to
leave--to-morrow, without transacting the business that took me
from home.
"Though I am certain that you will give me very satisfactory reasons
for your non-compliance with my very urgent request, I feel so
vexed and annoyed by it, that it makes me half inclined to quarrel
with you. You would forgive this if you only knew what an irritable
mortal I am. I advise you and Clary to frame some notable excuse
for your negligence, or you may dread the wrath of your
affectionate friend,
"Frederic."
This letter, though written half in joke, confirmed Anthony's worst
fears. He imagined that Frederic suspected him of dishonorable conduct,
although he forbore to say so in direct terms; and his repugnance to
confess what he had done, to either Clary or her brother, was greatly
strengthened by the perusal.
It was this want of confidence in friends who really loved him, which
involved him in ruin. Had he frankly declared his folly and thrown
himself upon Wildegrave's generosity, he would as frankly have been
forgiven; but pride and false shame kept his lips sealed.
He was a very young man--a novice in the ways of the world; and even in
some degree ignorant of the nature of the crime, the commission of which
had made him so unhappy. Instead of a breach of trust, he looked upon it
as a felonious offence, which rendered him amenable to the utmost
severity of the law. The jail and the gallows were ever in his thoughts;
and worse than either, the infamy which would for ever attach itself to
his name.
He determined to see his father for the last time, and if he failed in
moving his compassion, he had formed the desperate resolution of putting
an end to his own life in his presence; a far greater crime than that
for which he dreaded receiving a capital punishment.
"Clary," he said, hastily thrusting the letter into his pocket,
"business of importance calls me away to-night. Do not be alarmed if I
should be detained until the morning."
"You cannot go to-night, Anthony. It has rained all the afternoon; the
ground is wet. The air is raw and damp. You are not well. If you leave
the house you will take cold!"
"Do not attempt to detain me, Clary, I must go. I shall leave a letter
for your brother on the table, which you must give him if I do not
return."
"Something is wrong. Tell me, oh, tell me what it is!"
"You will know all to-morrow," said Anthony, greatly agitated. "I cannot
speak of it to-night." He took her hand and pressed it sadly to his
heart. "Should we never meet again, dear Clary, will you promise to
think kindly of me; and in spite of the contempt of the world, to
cherish your cousin's memory?"
"Though all the world should forsake you, yet will I never desert you,"
sobbed Clary, as, sinking into his extended arms, she fainted on his
breast.
"This will kill you, poor innocent. May God bless and keep you from a
knowledge of my guilt." He placed her gently upon the sofa, and kissed
her pale lips and brow, and calling Ruth to her assistance, sought with
a heavy heart his own chamber.
He sat down and wrote a long letter to Frederic, explaining the
unfortunate transaction which had occurred during his absence. This
letter he left upon the study table, and putting a brace of loaded
pistols into his pocket he sallied out upon his hopeless expedition.
It had been a very wet afternoon. The clouds had parted towards
nightfall, and the moon rose with unusual splendor, rendering every
object in his path as distinctly visible as at noonday. The beauty of
the night only seemed to increase the gloom of Anthony Hurdlestone's
spirit. He strode on at a rapid pace, as if to outspeed the quick
succession of melancholy thoughts, that were hurrying him on to commit a
deed of desperation. He entered the great avenue that led up to the back
of the Hall, and past the miser's miserable domicile, and had traversed
about half the extent of the darkly shaded path, when his attention was
aroused by a tall figure leaning against the trunk of a large elm tree.
A blasted oak, bare of foliage, on the opposite side the road, let in a
flood of light through its leafless branches, which shone full upon the
face of the stranger, and Anthony, with a shudder, recognised William
Mathews.
"A fine evening for your expedition, Mr. Hurdlestone. It might well be
termed the forlorn hope; however I wish with all my heart that you may
be successful." As he spoke he lowered a fowling-piece from his shoulder
to the ground. "Do you hear that raven that sits croaking upon the
rotten branch of the old oak opposite? Does not his confounded noise
make you nervous? It always does me. It sounds like a bad omen. I was
just going to pull down at him as you came along. I fancy, however, that
he's too far above us for a good shot."
"I am in no humor for trifling to-night," said Anthony, stopping and
glancing up at the bird, who sat motionless on a decayed branch a few
yards above his head. "If you are afraid of such sounds, you can soon
silence that for ever."
"It would require a good eye, and an excellent fowling-piece, to bring
down the black gentleman from his lofty perch. I have heard that you,
Mr. Hurdlestone, are accounted a capital shot, far before your cousin
Godfrey. I wish you would just give me a trial of your skill."
"Nonsense!" muttered Anthony. "The bird's only a few yards above us. A
pistol would bring him down."
"I should like to see it done," said Mathews, with a grin. "Here, sir,
take my gun."
Impatient of interruption, and anxious to get rid of the company of a
man whose presence he loathed, Anthony drew one of the pistols from his
breast pocket, and, taking a deliberate aim at the bird, he fired, and
the raven fell dead at his feet. Picking it up, and tossing it over to
Mathews, he said--"Do you believe me now? Pshaw! it was not worth
staining my hands and clothes with blood for such a paltry prize."
Mathews laughed heartily at this speech; but there was something so
revolting in the tones of his mirth, that Anthony quickened his pace to
avoid its painful repetition. A few minutes more brought him in sight of
the miser's cottage. No light gleamed from the broken casement, and both
the door and the window of the hovel were wide open, and flapping in the
night wind. Surprised at a circumstance so unusual, Anthony hastily
entered the house. The first object that met his sight rivetted him to
the threshold.
The moon threw a broad line of silver light into the dusty worm-eaten
apartment, and danced and gleamed in horrid mockery upon a stream of
dark liquid which was slowly spreading itself over the floor. And there,
extended upon the brick pavement, his features shockingly distorted, his
hands still clenched, and his white locks dabbled in blood, lay the
cold, mutilated form of his father.
Overpowered with horror, unable to advance or retreat, Anthony continued
to gaze upon the horrid spectacle, until the hair stiffened upon his
head, and a cold perspiration bedewed all his limbs.
Still as he gazed he fancied that the clenched hands moved, that a
bitter smile writhed the thin parted lips of the dead; and influenced by
a strange fascination, against which he struggled in vain, he continued
to watch the ghastly countenance, until horror and astonishment involved
every other object in misty obscurity.
He heard the sound of approaching footsteps, but his limbs had lost the
power of motion, his tongue of speech, and he suffered the constables,
who entered with Grenard Pike, to lead him away without offering the
least resistance. They placed him in a post-chaise, between two of the
officers of justice, and put the irons upon his wrists, but he remained
in the same state of stupefaction, making no remark upon his unusual
situation, or taking the least notice of his strange companions. When
the vehicle stopped at the entrance of the county jail, then, and not
until then, did the awfulness of his situation appear to strike him.
Starting from his frightful mental abstraction, he eagerly demanded of
the officers why his hands were manacled, and for what crime they had
brought him there?
When told for the murder of his father, he regarded the men with a look
of surprised incredulity. "My poor father! what interest could I have to
murder my father? You cannot think I committed this horrid crime?"
"We do not know what to think, Mr. Hurdlestone," said one of the men. "I
am very sorry to see you in this plight, but appearances are very much
against you. Your father was an old man and a bad man, and it is little
you owed to his parental care. But he could not have lived many years,
and all the entailed property must have been yours; it was an act of
insanity on your part to kill him. A fearful crime to send him so
unprepared into the presence of his God."
"You cannot believe me guilty," said Anthony.
The men shook their heads. "I condemn no man until the law condemns,
him," returned the former spokesman. "But there is evidence enough in
your case to hang a hundred men."
"I have one witness in my favor. He knows my innocence, and to Him I
appeal," said Anthony, solemnly.
"Aye, but will he prove it my lad?"
"I trust He will."
"Well, time will show. The assizes will be held next week, so you have
not long to remain in doubt. I would be inclined to think you innocent,
if you could prove to me what business you had with loaded pistols in
your possession--why one was loaded, and the other unloaded, and how
your hands and clothes came stained with blood--why you quarrelled with
the old man last night, and went to him again to-night with offensive
weapons on your person, and at such an unseasonable hour? These are
stubborn facts."
"They, are indeed," sighed the prisoner. A natural gush of feeling
succeeded, and from that hour Anthony resigned himself to his fate.