Chapter 14

The world has done its worst, you need not heed Its praise or censure now.--Your name is held In deep abhorrence by the good: the bad Make it a sad example for fresh guilt.--S.M.

We will leave Anthony Hurdlestone to weep and watch beside the newly dead, and conduct our readers into the cottage occupied by Farmer Mathews and his family.

Returning the night before from market, very much the worse from liquor, the farmer had fallen from his horse, and received a very severe concussion of the brain. William, surprised at his long absence, left the house at daybreak in search of his father, and found him lying, apparently dead, within sight of his own door.

With Mary's assistance, he carried him into the house. Medical aid was called in, and all had been done that man could do to alleviate the sufferings of the injured farmer, but with little effect. The man had received a mortal blow, and the doctor, when he left that evening, had pronounced the fatal sentence that his case was hopeless; that, in all probability, he would expire before the morning.

As the night drew on, the elder Mathews became quite unconscious of surrounding objects, and but for the quick hard breathing, you would have imagined him already dead.

The door of the cottage was open, to admit the fresh air; and in the door way, revealed by the solitary candle which burnt upon the little table by the bed-side, stood the tall athletic figure of William Mathews. His sister was sitting in a low chair by the bed's head, her eyes fixed with a vacant stare upon the heavy features of the dying man.

"William," she said, in a quick deep voice, "where are you? Do come and watch with me. I do not like to be alone."

"You are not alone," returned the ruffian sullenly; "I am here; and some one else is here whom you cannot see."

"Whom do you mean?"

"The devil, to be sure," responded her brother. "He is always near us; but never more near than in the hour of death and the day of judgment."

"Good Lord, deliver us!" said the girl, repeating unconsciously aloud part of the liturgy of the Church to which nominally she belonged.

"All in good time," responded the human fiend. "Has father shown any sign of returning sense since the morning?"

"No, he has remained just in the same state. William, will he die?"

"You may be sure of that, Mary. Living men never look as he does now."

"It is a terrible sight," said his sister. "I always did hope that I should die before father; but since I got into this trouble I have wished that he might never live to know it. That was sin, William. See how my wicked thoughts have become prophecy. Yet I am so glad that he never found out my crime, that it makes the tears dry in my eyes to see him thus."

"You make too much fuss about your condition, girl! What is done cannot be undone. All you can now do is to turn it to the best possible account."

"What do you mean, William?"

"Make money by it."

"Alas," said the girl, "what was given away freely cannot be redeemed with gold. Had I the wealth of the whole world, I would gladly give it to regain my lost peace of mind. Oh, for one night of calm fresh sleep, such as I used to enjoy after a hard day's work in the field. What would I not give for such a night's rest? Rest! I never rest now. I work and toil all day; I go to bed--heart-weary and head-weary--but sleep never comes as it used to come. After long hours of tossing from side to side, just about the dawn of day, a heavy stupor comes over me, full of frightful sights and sounds, so frightful that I start and awake, and pray not to sleep again."

"And what has made such a change--that one act?" said the ruffian. "Pshaw! girl. God will never damn your soul for the like of that. It was foolish and imprudent; but I don't call _that_ sin."

"Then what is sin?" said the girl solemnly.

"Why, murder, and theft, and--"

"And what?"

"Hang me! if I wish to go deeper into the matter. But if that is sin, which you make such a to-do about, then the whole world are sinners."

"Do you think that you are not a sinner, William?"

"I never thought a word about it," said the man. "I am not a whit worse than others; but I am poorer, and that makes my faults more conspicuous. There is Godfrey Hurdlestone, every whit as bad as I am, yet were we to be tried by the same jury, the men that would hang me would acquit him. But his day is over," he continued, talking to himself. "He is now as poor as me; and if the rich heiress does not marry him, will be much worse off."

"Marry!" cried Mary, springing from her seat, and grasping her brother's arm. "Who talks of Godfrey Hurdlestone marrying?"

"I talk of it--every one talks of it--he boasts of it himself. I was told last night by Captain Whitmore's serving-man, that his master had given his consent to the match, and that the young lady was coming round, and that Mr. Godfrey was every day at the house. Perhaps the Colonel being cooped up in jail may spoil the young man's wooing."

"In jail! Colonel Hurdlestone in jail! Can that be true?"

"Fact."

"And Mr. Godfrey? What will become of Mr. Godfrey?"

"He will become one of us, and have to take care of himself. And if he does marry Miss Whitmore, he will have enough to take care of you."

"Do you think that I would share his affections with another woman?" cried the girl, her pale cheeks flushing to crimson. "Brother, I am not sunk so low as that--not quite so low."

"You are sunk quite low enough for anything, Mary. You may be as bad as you like now, the world will think no worse of you than it does at present. You have made a bad bargain, and you must stand by it. If you cannot be the man's wife, you must rest content with being his mistress; married or single you will always be Godfrey Hurdlestone's better half. Miss Whitmore is not to compare to you, in spite of her pretty waxen face, and she is not the woman to please such a wild fellow as him. He will grow tired of her before the honeymoon is over, and you will have it all your own way."

"Juliet Whitmore shall never be his wife, nor any other woman, while I live. But, William, if he is as poor as you say he is, what use will it be to you my continuing to live with him in sin? He cannot give me money if he has none for himself."

"Hush," said the ruffian, drawing nearer, and glancing quickly round, to be certain that they were alone. "Did you never hear of the rich miser, Mark Hurdlestone?"

"Mr. Anthony's father?"

"The same. And do you not know that, were Anthony out of the way, removed by death or any other cause, Godfrey Hurdlestone would be his heir?"

"Well, what of that? Anthony is alive and well, and may outlive us all."

"Strong men often die very suddenly. There is an ill-luck hangs about this same Mr. Anthony. I prophesy that his life will be a short one. Hark! Was that a groan? Father is coming to himself."

He took the candle and went up to the bed. The sick man still breathed, but remained in the same stupor as before. "This cannot last long," said his son, stooping over the corpse-like figure. "Father was a strong man for his age, but 'tis all up with him now. I wish he could speak to us, and tell us where he is going; but I'm thinking that we shall never hear the sound of his voice again. The bell will toll for him before sunrise to-morrow."

He had scarcely finished speaking when the slow, deep boom of the death-bell awoke the sluggish stillness of the heavy night. The brother and sister started, and Mary gave a loud scream.

"Who's dead?" said Mathews, stepping to the open door "some of the quality, or that bell would not speak out at this late hour of night. Ha! Mr. Godfrey Hurdlestone. Is that you?"

"What's wrong here?" cried Godfrey, glancing rapidly round the cottage. "Mathews, have you heard the news? My poor father's dead."

"Dead!" exclaimed both his companions in a breath. "Colonel Hurdlestone dead! When did he die?"

"This evening, at sunset. 'Tis a bad piece of business, Mathews. He died insolvent, and I am left without a penny."

"Alas, what will become of us all!" shrieked Mary, flinging herself frantically upon the bed. "William, he has ceased to breathe. Our father too is dead!"

The grief of the lower orders is generally loud and violent. Unaccustomed to restrain their feelings, Nature lifts up her voice, and tells, in tones which cannot be misunderstood, the blow which has left her desolate. And so Mary Mathews poured forth the anguish of her soul over the parent that, but a few days before, she had wished dead, to conceal from him her guilt. Yet now that he was gone--that the strong tie was broken, and her conscience reproached her for having cherished for a moment the unnatural thought--she wept as if her heart had never known a deeper sorrow. Her brother and lover strove in vain to comfort her. She neither saw nor heeded them, but in a stern voice bade them depart and leave her alone.

"The wilful creature! Let her have her own way, Mr. Godfrey. Grief like that, like the down-pouring of a thunder-shower, soon storms itself to rest. She will be better soon. Leave her to take care of the dead, while you and I step into the kitchen and consult together about the living."

Godfrey, who had suffered much that day from mental excitement, felt doubly depressed by the scene he had just witnessed, and gladly obeyed.

Mathews lighted a fresh candle, and led the way into the kitchen. The fire that had been used to prepare the evening meal was nearly out; Mathews raked the ashes together and threw a fresh billet into the grate; then reaching from a small cupboard a bottle and a glass, he drew a small table between them, and stretching his legs towards the cheering blaze he handed a glass of brandy to his companion.

"Hang it, man! don't look so down in the mouth. This is the best friend in time of need. This is my way of driving out the blue devils that pinch and freeze my heart."

Godfrey eagerly seized the proffered glass and drained it at a draught.

"Well, that's what I call hearty!" continued the ruffian, following his example. "There's nothing like that for killing care. I don't wonder at your being low. I feel queer myself--devilish queer. It is a strange thing to lose a father. A something is gone--a string is loosened from the heart, which we feel can never be tied again. I wonder whether the souls gone from among us to-night are lost or saved--or if there be a heaven or hell?"

"Pshaw!" said Godfrey, lighting his pipe, "do you believe such idle fables?"

"Why, do you see, Master Godfrey, I would fain think them false for my own sake--mere old women's tales. But terrible thoughts will come into my mind; and though I seldom think of heaven, I often hear a voice from the shut up depths of my heart--a voice that I cannot stifle. Do not smile," said the man gloomily, "I am in no mood to be laughed at. Bad as I am, confound me if you are not ten times worse."

"If you are so afraid of going to hell," said Godfrey, sarcastically, "why do you not amend your life? I, for my part, am troubled with no such qualms of conscience."

"If you had seen blood as often upon your hand as I have upon mine, you would tell a different story. Kill a man, and then see if what we hear of ghosts and spirits are mere fables. I tell thee, Godfrey Hurdlestone, they never die, but live and walk abroad, and haunt you continually. The voice they speak with will be heard. In solitary places--in the midst of crowds--at fairs and merry-makings--in the noon of day, and at the dead of night, I have heard their mocking tones." He leaned his elbows upon his knees, and supported his chin between the palms of his hands, and continued to stare upon Godfrey with vacant bloodshot eyes.

"Don't take me for a ghost," said Godfrey, the same sarcastic smile passing over his handsome face. "What does it matter to us where our fathers are gone? If there is a place of future rewards or punishments, depend upon it we shall only have to answer for our own sins; and as you and I have, at present, but a small chance of getting to heaven, we may as well make the most of our time on earth."

"Confound that death-bell," said the smuggler, "it has a living voice to-night. I never hear it but it reminds me of Newgate, and I fancy that I shall hear it toll for my own death before I die."

"A very probable consummation, though certainly not a very pleasant one," said Godfrey ironically. "But away with such melancholy presages. Take another sup of the brandy, Mathews, and tell me what you are going to do for a living. The lease of your farm expires in a few days. Mr. ---- has taken possession of the estates, and means, Johnstone tells me, to put in another tenant. What will become of you and Mary in the meanwhile?"

"I have not thought about it yet. At any rate, I can always live by the old trade, and fall upon my feet. At all events, we must leave this place. It is little that father has saved. The neighbors think him rich, but a drunkard never dies rich; and you know, Mr. Godfrey, that the weight of a pig is never known until after it is dead. There will not be much more than will bury him. There are the crops in the ground, to be sure, and the cattle, and a few sticks of furniture; but debts of honor must be paid, and I have been very unlucky of late. By the by, Master Godfrey, what does your cousin mean to do with himself?"

"He must go home to his miserly dad, I suppose."

"Humph! I think that I will go to Ashton and settle in that neighborhood myself; I like to be near old friends."

"What can induce _you_, Mathews, to go there?"

"I have my reasons. Strong reasons too, in which I am sure _you_ will heartily concur." He looked into his companion's eyes, with an expression so peculiar, that Godfrey started as if some new light had suddenly flashed upon his soul, while Mathews continued in a lower voice, "Suppose, now that we could get up a regular quarrel between old Ironsides and his son; who would then be the miser's heir?"

Godfrey took the hand of the smuggler and pressed it hard.

"Can you form no better scheme than that?"

"I understand you, Mr. Godfrey. You are a perfect genius in wickedness. The devil never found a fitter agent for doing his business on a grand scale. Yes, yes, I understand you."

"Would it be possible?"

"All things are possible to those who have the courage to perform. If I could remove this obstacle out of your way, what would be my reward?"

"A thousand pounds!"

"Your conscience! Do you think that I would risk my neck for such a paltry bribe?"

"You have done it often for the hundredth part."

"That's neither here nor there. If I have played the fool a dozen times, that's no reason that I am to do so again. Go shares, and promise to make an honest woman of Mary, and you shall not be long out of possession."

"The sacrifice is too great," said Godfrey, musing. "Let us say no more about it at present."

"You will think about it?"

"Thoughts are free."

"Not exactly. Evil thoughts lead to evil deeds, as surely as fruit follows flowers upon the tree. Try to lay that babe of the brain to rest, and see if it will not waken to plague you yet."

"It was one of your own begetting--you should know best how to quiet the imp."

"Leave me alone for that. The day is breaking; we must part. We have both melancholy duties to perform."

"I wish the funeral was over," said Godfrey, "I hate being forced to act a conspicuous part in so grave a farce."

"Your cousin will help you out. He is the real mourner; you, the actor. Remember what I hinted to you, and let me know your opinion in a few days."

"The risk is too great," said Godfrey, shrugging his shoulders. "When I am reduced to my last shift, it will be time enough to talk of that."

The grey misty dawn was just struggling into day, when Godfrey left the cottage. Mathews looked after him, as, opening a side gate that led to a foot-path that intersected the park, he vanished from his sight.

"Well, there goes the greatest scoundrel that ever was unhung," he muttered to himself. "He has never shed blood, nor done what I have done, but hang me if I would exchange characters with him, bad as I may be. He thinks to make a fool of me; but if I do not make him repay a thousand fold the injuries he has heaped on me and mine, may we swing on the same gallows."

In no very enviable mood, Godfrey pursued his way though the lonely park. The birds had not yet sung their matin hymn to awaken the earth. Deep silence rested upon the august face of nature. Not a breath of air stirred the branches, heavy with dew-drops. The hour was full of beauty and mystery. An awe fell insensibly upon the heart, as if it saw the eye of God visibly watching over the sleeping world. Its holy influence was felt even by the selfish heartless Godfrey.

The deep silence--the strange stillness--the uncertain light--the scenes he had lately witnessed--his altered fortunes--his degrading pursuits--the fallen and depraved state of his mind, crowded into his thoughts, and filled his bosom with keen remorse and painful regrets.

"Oh, that I could repent!" he cried, stopping, and clasping his hands together, and fixing his eyes mournfully upon the earth,--"that I could believe that there was a God--a heaven--a hell! Yet if there be no hereafter, why this stifling sense of guilt--this ever-haunting miserable consciousness of unworthiness? Am I worse than other men, or are all men alike--the circumstances in which they are placed producing that which we denominate good or evil in their characters? What if I determine to renounce the evil, and cling to the good; would it yet be well with me? Would Juliet, like a good angel, consent to be my guide, and lead me gently back to the forsaken paths of rectitude and peace?"

While the voice in his heart yet spake to him for good, another voice sounded in his ears, and all his virtuous resolutions melted into air.

"Godfrey," said the voice of Mary Mathews, "dear Mr. Godfrey, have I become so indifferent to you, that you will neither look at me nor speak to me?"

She was the last person in the world who at that moment he wished to see. The sight of her recalled him to a sense of his degradation, and all that he had lost by his unhappy connexion with her, and he secretly wished that she had died instead of her father.

"Mary," he said, coldly, "what do you want with me? The morning is damp and raw; you had better go home."

"What do I want with you?" reiterated the girl. "And is it come to that? Can you, who have so often sworn to me that you loved me better than anything in heaven or on earth, now ask me, in my misery, what I want with you?"

"Hot-headed rash young men will swear, and foolish girls will believe them," said Godfrey, putting his arm carelessly round her waist, and drawing her towards him. "So it has been since the world began, and so it will be until the end of time."

"Was all you told me, then, false?" said Mary, leaning her head back upon his shoulder, and fixing her large beautiful tearful eyes upon his face.

That look of unutterable fondness banished all Godfrey's good resolutions. He kissed the tears from her eyes, as he replied,

"Not exactly, Mary. But you expect too much."

"I only ask you not to cease to love me--not to leave me, Godfrey, for another."

"Who put such nonsense into your head?"

"William told me that you were going to marry Miss Whitmore."

"If such were the case, do you think I should be such a fool as to tell William?"

"Alas! I am afraid that it is only too true." And Mary burst into tears afresh. "You do not love me as you did, Godfrey, when we first met and loved. You used to sit by my side for hours, looking into my face, and holding my hand in yours; and we were happy--too happy to speak. We lived but in each other's eyes; and I hoped--fondly hoped--that that blessed dream would last for ever. I did not care for the anger of father or brother--woe is me! I never had a mother. One kiss from those dear lips--one kind word breathed from that dear mouth--sunk from my ear into my heart, and I gloried in what I ought to have considered my shame. Oh, why are you changed, Godfrey? Why should my love remain like a covered fire, consuming my heart to ashes, and making me a prey to tormenting doubts and fears, while you are unmoved by my anguish, and contented in my absence?"

"You attribute that to indifference, which is but the effect of circumstances," returned Godfrey, somewhat embarrassed by her importunities. "Perhaps, Mary, you are not aware that the death of my father has left me a poor and ruined man?"

"What difference can that possibly make in our love for each other?" And Mary's eyes brightened through a cloud of tears. "I rejoice in your loss of fortune, for it has made us equals."

"Not quite!" cried the young man, throwing her from him, as if stung by an adder. "Birth, education, the prejudices of society, have placed an eternal barrier between us. Impoverished though I be, I never can so far forget myself as to mate with a vulgar peasant!"

"Say that word again--that word of misery!" cried the unhappy girl, clinging to his arm. "Recall your many promises--the awful oath you swore on that fatal night, when I first yielded to temptation, when you solemnly declared, in the name of Almighty God, that the moment you were your own master, you would make me your wife."

"Mary," said Godfrey, sternly, "do not deceive yourself--I never will make you my wife!"

"Then God forgive you, and grant me patience to bear my wrongs!" murmured the poor girl, as she sunk down upon the ground, and buried her face in the dewy grass; while her heartless seducer continued his solitary walk to the Lodge.