Chapter 13

Art thou a father? did the generous tide Of warm parental love e'er fill thy veins, And bid thee feel an interest in thy kind? Did the pulsation of that icy heart Quicken and vibrate to some gentle name, Breathed in secret at its sacred shrine?--S.M.

Short was the time allowed to Anthony Hurdlestone to brood over his wrongs. His uncle's affairs had reached a crisis, and ruin stared him in the face. Algernon Hurdlestone had ever been the most imprudent of men; and under the fallacious hope of redeeming his fortune, he had, unknown to his son and nephew, during his frequent trips to London, irretrievably involved himself by gambling to a large extent. This false step completed what his reckless profusion had already begun. He found himself always on the losing side, but the indulgence of this fatal propensity had become a passion, the excitement necessary to his existence. The management of his estates had always been entrusted entirely to a steward, who, as his master's fortunes declined, was rapidly rising in wealth and consequence. Algernon never troubled himself to enquire into the real state of his finances, whilst Johnstone continued to furnish him with money to gratify all the whims and wants of the passing moment.

The embarrassed state of the property was unknown to his young relatives, who deemed his treasures, like those of the celebrated Abulcasem, inexhaustible. Godfrey, it is true, had latterly received some hints from Johnstone how matters stood, but his mind was so wholly occupied with his pursuit of Juliet Whitmore, and the unpleasant predicament in which he was placed by his unfortunate connexion with Mary Mathews, that he had banished the disagreeable subject from his thoughts.

The storm which had been long gathering at length burst. Algernon was arrested, his property seized by the sheriff, himself removed to the jail of the county town of ----. Thither Anthony followed him, anxious to alleviate by his presence the deep dejection into which his Uncle had fallen, and to offer that heartfelt sympathy so precious to the wounded pride of the sufferer.

The gay and joyous disposition of Algernon Hurdlestone yielded to the pressure of misfortune. His mind bowed to the heavy stroke, and he gave himself up to misery. His numerous creditors assailed him on all sides with their harassing importunities; and in his dire distress he applied to his rich brother, and, humbly for him, entreated a temporary loan of two thousand pounds until his affairs could be adjusted, and the property sold. This application, as might have been expected, was insultingly rejected on the part of the miser.

Rendered desperate by his situation, Algernon made a second attempt, and pleaded the expense he had been at in bringing up and educating his son, and demanded a moderate remuneration for the same. To this ill-judged application, Mark Hurdlestone returned for answer, "That he had not forced his son upon his protection; that Algernon had pleased himself in adopting the boy; that he had warned him of the consequences when he took that extraordinary step; and that he must now abide by the result; that he, Algernon, had wasted his substance, like the prodigal of old, in riotous living, but that he, Mark, knew better the value of money, and how to take care of it."

"Your father, Tony, is a mean pitiful scoundrel!" cried the heart-broken Algernon, crushing the unfeeling letter in his hand, and flinging it with violence from him. "But I deserved to be treated with contempt, when I could so far forget myself as to make an application to him! Thirty years ago, I should have deemed begging my bread from door to door an act of less degradation. But, Tony, time changes us all. Misfortune makes the proudest neck bow beneath the yoke. My spirit is subdued, Tony, my heart crushed, my pride gone. I am not what I was, my dear boy. It is too late to recall the past. But I can see too late the errors of my conduct. I have acted cruelly and selfishly to poor Godfrey, and squandered in folly the property his mother brought me, and which should have made him rich. And you, my dear Anthony, this blow will deprive you of a father, aye, and of one that loved you too. I would rather share a kennel with my dogs, than become an inmate of the home which now awaits you."

"Home!" sighed the youth. "The wide world is my home, the suffering children of humanity my lawful kinsmen."

Seeing his uncle's lip quiver, he took his hand and affectionately pressed it between his own, while the tears he could not repress fell freely from his eyes. "Father of my heart! would that in this hour of your adversity I could repay to you all your past kindness. But cheer up, something may yet be done. My legitimate father has never seen me as a man. I will go to him. I will plead with him on your behalf, until nature asserts her rights, and the streams of hidden affection, so long pent up in his iron heart, overflow and burst asunder these bars of adamant. Uncle, I will go to him this very day, and may God grant me success!"

"It is in vain, Anthony. Avarice owns no heart, has no natural affections. You may go, but it is only to mortify your pride, agonize your feelings, and harden your kind nature against the whole world, without producing any ultimate benefit to me."

"It is a trial, uncle, but I will not spare myself. Duty demands the attempt, and successful or unsuccessful, it shall be made."

He strode towards the door. Algernon called him back. "Do not stay long, Tony. I feel ill and low spirited. Godfrey surely does not know that I am in this accursed place. Perhaps he is ashamed to visit me here. Poor lad, poor lad! I have ruined his prospects in life by my extravagance, but I never thought that it would come to this. If you see him on your way, Anthony, tell him (here his voice faltered), tell him, that his poor old father pines to see him, that his absence is worse than imprisonment--than death itself. I have many faults, but I love him only too well."

This was more than Anthony could bear, and he sprang out of the room.

With a heart overflowing with generous emotions, and deeply sympathising in his uncle's misfortunes, he mounted a horse which he had borrowed of a friend in the neighborhood, and took the road that led to his father's mansion; that father who had abandoned him, while yet a tender boy, to the care of another, and whom he had never met since the memorable hour in which they parted.

Oak Hall was situated about thirty miles from Norgood Park, and it was near sunset when Anthony caught the first glimpse of the picturesque church of Ashton among the trees. With mingled feelings of pride, shame, and bitterness he rode past the venerable mansion of his ancestors, and alighted at the door of the sordid hovel that its miserable possessor had chosen for a home.

The cottage in many places had fallen into decay, and admitted through countless crevices the wind and rain. A broken chair, a three-legged stool, and the shattered remains of an oak table, deficient of one of its supporters, but propped up with bricks, comprised the whole furniture of the wretched apartment.

The door was a-jar that led into an interior room that served for a dormitory. Two old soiled mattresses, in which the straw had not been changed for years, thrown carelessly upon the floor, were the sole garniture of this execrable chamber. Anthony glanced around with feelings of an uncontrollable disgust, and all his boyish antipathy to the place returned. The lapse of nearly twenty years had not improved the aspect of his old prison-house, and he was now more capable of appreciating its revolting features. The harsh words, and still harsher blows and curses, which he had been wont to receive from the miser and his sordid associate, Grenard Pike, came up in his heart, and, in spite of his better nature, steeled that heart against his ungracious parent.

The entrance of Mark Hurdlestone, whose high stern features, once seen, could never be forgotten, roused Anthony from his train of gloomy recollections, and called back his thoughts to the unpleasant business that brought him there.

Mark did not at the first glance recognise his son in the tall elegantly-dressed young man before him; and he growled out, "Who are you, sir, and what do you want?"

"Mr. Hurdlestone," said Anthony respectfully, "I am your son."

The old man sat down in the chair. A dark cloud came over his brow, as if he already suspected the nature of his son's mission, and he knitted his straight bushy eyebrows so closely together that his small fiery dark eyes gleamed like sparks from beneath the gloomy shade.

"My son; yes, yes. I've heard say that 'tis a wise son that knows his own father. It must be a very wise father who could instinctively know his own son. Certainly, I should never have recognised mine in the gay magpie before me. But sit down, young sir, and tell me what brought you here. Money, I suppose; money, the everlasting want that the extravagant sons of pleasure strive to extort from the provident, who lay up during the harvest of life a provision for the winter of age. If such be your errand, young man, your time is wasted here. Anthony Hurdlestone, I have nothing to give."

"Not even affection it would appear, to an only son."

"I owe you none."

"In what manner have I forfeited my natural claim upon your heart?"

"By transferring the duty and affection which you owed to me to another. Go to him who has pampered your appetites, clothed you with soft raiment, and brought you up daintily to lead the idle life of a gentleman. I disown all relationship with a useless butterfly."

Anthony's cheek reddened with indignation. "It was not upon my own account I sought you, sir. From my infancy I have been a neglected and forsaken child, for whom you never showed the least parental regard. Hard blows and harder words were the only marks of fatherly regard that Anthony Hurdlestone ever received at your hands. To hear you curse me, when, starving with cold and hunger, I have asked you for a morsel of bread--to hear you wish me dead, and to see you watch me with hungry eager eyes, as if in my wasted meagre countenance you wished to find a prophetic answer--were sights and sounds of every-day occurrence. Could such conduct as this beget love in your wretched child? Yet, God knows!" exclaimed the young man, clasping his hands forcibly together, while tears started to his eyes--"God knows how earnestly I have prayed to love you, to forget and forgive these unnatural injuries, which have cast the shadow of care over the bright morning of youth, and made the world and all that it contains a wilderness of woe to my blighted heart."

The old man regarded him with a sullen scowl; but whatever were his feelings (and that he did feel the whole truth of the young man's passionate appeal, the restless motion of his foot and hand sufficiently indicated) he returned no answer; and Anthony emboldened by despair, and finding a relief in giving utterance to the long pent-up feelings which for years had corroded his breast, continued,

"I rightly concluded that I should be considered by you, Mr. Hurdlestone, an unwelcome visitor. Hateful to the sight of the injurer is the person of the injured, and I stand before you a living reproach, an awful witness both here and hereafter at the throne of God of what you ought to have been, and what you have neglected to be--a father to your motherless child. But let that pass. I am in the hands of One who is the protector of the innocent, and in His righteous hands I leave my cause. Your brother, sir, who has been a father to me, is in prison. His heart, sorely pressed by his painful situation, droops to the grave. I came to see if you, out of your abundance, are willing to save him, Father, let your old grudge be forgotten. Let the child of your poor lost Elinor be the means of reconciling you to each other. Cease to remember him as a rival: behold him only in the light of a brother--of that twin brother who shared your cradle--of a friend whom you have deeply injured--a generous fellow-creature fallen, whom you have the power to raise up and restore. Let not the kind protector of your son end his days in a jail, when a small sum, which never could be missed from your immense wealth, would enable him to end his days in peace."

"A _small_ sum!" responded the miser, with a bitter laugh. "Let me hear what _you_, consider a _small_ sum. Your uncle has the impudence to demand of me the sum of _two thousand pounds_, which is _his idea_ of a _small sum_, which he considers a _trifling remuneration_ for bringing up and educating my son from the age of seven years to twenty. Anthony Hurdlestone, go back to your employer, and tell him that I never expended that sum in sixty years."

"You do not mean to dismiss me, sir, with this cruel and insulting message?"

"From me, young man, you will obtain no other."

"Is it possible that a creature, made in God's image, can possess such a hard heart? Alas! sir, I have considered your avarice in the light of a dire disease; as such I have pitied and excused it. The delusion is over. You are but too sane, and I _feel_ ashamed of my father!"

The old man started and clenched his fist, his teeth grated together, he glared upon his son with his fiery eyes, but remained obstinately silent.

Regardless of his anger, the young man continued--"It is a hard thing for a son to be compelled to plead with his father in a cause like this. Is there no world beyond the grave? Does no fear of the future compel you to act justly? or are your thoughts so wholly engrossed with the dust on which you have placed all your earthly affections, that you will not, for the love of God, bestow a small portion of that wealth which you want the heart to enjoy, to save a brother from destruction? Oh! listen to me, father--listen to me, that I may love and bless you." He flung himself passionately at the old man's feet. "Give now, that you may possess treasures hereafter, that you may meet a reconciled brother and wife in the realms of bliss!"

"Fool!" exclaimed the miser, spurning him from his feet. "In heaven they are neither married nor are given in marriage. Your mother and I will never meet, and God forbid we should!"

Anthony shuddered. He felt that such a meeting was impossible; and he started from the degrading posture he had assumed, and stood before the old man with a brow as stern and a glance as fierce as his own.

"And now, Anthony Hurdlestone, let me speak a few words to you, and mark them well. Is it for a boy like you to prescribe rules for his father's conduct? Away from my presence! I will not be insulted in my own house by a beardless boy, and assailed by such impertinent importunities. Reflect, young man, on your present undutiful conduct, and, if ever you provoke me by a repetition of it, I will strike your name out of my will, and leave my property to strangers more deserving of it. I hear that you have been studying for the Church, under the idea that I will provide for you in that profession; I could do it. I would have done it, and made good a promise I once gave you to that effect. But this meeting has determined me to pursue another plan, and leave you to provide for yourself."

"You are welcome so to do, Mr. Hurdlestone," said Anthony, proudly; "the education which I have received at your brother's expense will place me above want. Farewell! and may God judge between us!"

With a heavy heart, Anthony returned to ----. He saw a crowd collected round the jail, and forcing his way to the entrance, was met by Godfrey; his face was deadly pale, and his lips quivered as he addressed his cousin.

"You are too late, Anthony--'tis all over. My poor father--."

He turned away, for his heart, at that time, was not wholly dead to the feelings common to our nature. He could not conclude the sentence. Anthony instantly comprehended his meaning, and rushed past him into the room which had been appropriated to his uncle's use.

And there, stretched upon that mean bed, never to rise up, or whistle to hawk or hound, lay the generous, reckless Algernon Hurdlestone. His face wore a placid smile; his grey hair hung in solemn masses round his open, candid brow; and he looked as if he had bidden the cares and sorrows of time a long good-night, and had fallen into a deep, tranquil sleep.

A tall man stood beside the bed, gazing sadly and earnestly upon the face of the deceased. Anthony did not heed him--the arrow was in his heart. The sight of his dead uncle--his best, his dearest, his only friend--had blinded him to all else upon earth. With a cry of deep and heart-uttered sorrow, he flung himself upon the breast of the dead, and wept with all the passionate, uncontrollable anguish which a final separation from the beloved wrings from a devoted woman's heart.

"Poor lad! how dearly he loved him!" remarked a voice near him, addressing the person who had occupied the room when Anthony first entered. It was Mr. Grant, the rector of the parish, who spoke.

"I hope this sudden bereavement will serve him as a warning to amend his own evil ways," returned his companion, who happened to be no other than Captain Whitmore, as he left the apartment.

The voice roused Anthony from his trance of grief, and stung by the unmerited reproach, which he felt was misplaced, even if deserved, in an hour like that, he raised his dark eyes, flashing through the tears that blinded them, to demand of the Captain an explanation. But the self-elected monitor was gone; and the unhappy youth again bowed his head, and wept upon the bosom of the dead.

"Anthony, be comforted," said the kind clergyman, taking his young friend's hand. "Your poor uncle has been taken in mercy from the evil to come. You know his frank, generous nature--you know his extravagant habits and self-indulgence. How could such a man struggle with the sorrows and cares of poverty, or encounter the cold glances of those whom he was wont to entertain? Think, think a moment, and restrain this passionate grief. Would it be wise, or kind, or Christian-like, to wish him back?"

Anthony remembered his interview with his father--the wreck of the last hope to which his uncle had clung; and he felt that Mr. Grant was right.

"All is for the best. My loss is his gain--but such a loss--such a dreadful loss!--I know not how to bear it with becoming fortitude!"

"I will not attempt to insult your grief by offering common-place condolence. These are but words, of course. Nature says, weep--weep freely, my dear young friend; but do not regret his departure."

"How did he die?--dear kind uncle! Was he at all prepared for such a sudden unexpected event?"

"The agitating occurrences of the last week had induced a tendency of blood to the head, which ended in apoplexy. From the moment of seizure he was insensible to all outward objects; he did not even recognise his son, in whose arms he breathed his last. Of his mental state, it is impossible for us to determine. He had faults, but they were more the result of unhappy circumstances than of any peculiar tendency to evil in his nature. He was kind, benevolent, and merciful: a good neighbor, and a warm and faithful friend. Let us hope that he has found forgiveness through the merits of his Redeemer, and is at rest."

Anthony kissed his uncle's cold cheek, and said, "God bless him!" with great fervor.

"And now, my young friend, tell me candidly, in what way you have offended Captain Whitmore--a man both wealthy and powerful, and who has proved himself such a disinterested friend to your uncle and cousin; and who might, if he pleased, be of infinite service, to you? Can you explain to me the meaning of his parting words?"

"Not here--not here," said Anthony, greatly agitated. "By the dead body of the father, how can a creature so long dependent upon his bounty denounce his only son? Captain Whitmore labors under a strong delusion--he has believed a lie; and poor and friendless as I am, I am too proud to convince him of his error."

"You are wrong, Anthony. No one should suffer an undeserved stigma to rest upon his character. But I will say no more upon a painful subject. What are you going to do with yourself? Where will you find a home to-night?"

"Here with the dead. Whilst he remains upon earth I have no other home. I know Mr. Winthrop the jailer--he is a kind benevolent man; he will not deny me an asylum for a few days."

"My house is close at hand; remain with me until the funeral is over."

"There will be no delay, I hope. They will not attempt to seize the body."

"Captain Whitmore has generously provided for that. He paid the creditor on whose suit your uncle was detained, this morning; but the Colonel was too ill to be moved."

"That was noble--generous. God bless him for that! And Godfrey--what is to become of him?"

"The Captain has insisted on his living at the Lodge until his affairs are settled. Your cousin bore the death of his father with uncommon fortitude. It must have been a terrible shock!"

"That is a sad misapplication of the word. A want of natural affection and sensibility, the world calls fortitude. Godfrey had too little respect for his father while living, to mourn very deeply for his death."

"Alas! my young friend; what he is, in a great measure, his father made him. I have known Godfrey from the petted selfish child to the self-willed, extravagant, dissipated young man; and though I augur very little good from what I do know of his character, much that is prominently evil might have been restrained by proper management, and the amiable qualities which now lie dormant been cherished and cultivated until they became virtues. The loss of fortune, if it leads him to apply the talents which he does possess to useful purposes, may, in the end, prove a great gain."

Anthony shook his head. "Godfrey will never work."

"Then, my dear sir, he must starve."

"He will do neither."

And the conversation between the friends terminated.