Chapter 18

Oh! speak to me of her I love, And I shall think I hear The voice whose melting tones, above All music, charms mine ear.--S.M.

Whilst Godfrey Hurdlestone was rapidly traversing the broad road that leads down to the gates of death, Anthony was regaining his peace of mind in the quiet abode of domestic love. Day after day the young cousins whiled away the charmed hours in delightful converse. They wandered hand in hand through green quiet lanes, and along sunny paths, talking of the beloved. Clary felt no jealous envy mar the harmony of her dove-like soul, as she listened to Anthony's rapturous details of the hours he had spent with Juliet, his poetical descriptions of her lovely countenance and easy figure. Nay, she often pointed out graces which he had omitted, and repeated, with her musical voice, sweet strains of song by her young friend, to him unknown.

Was there no danger in this intercourse? Clarissa Wildegrave felt none. In her young heart's simplicity, she dreamed not of the subtle essence which unites kindred spirits. She never asked herself why she loved to find the calm noble-looking youth for ever at her side; why she prized the flowers he gathered, and loved the songs he loved; why the sound of his approaching steps sent the quick blood glowing to her pallid cheek, and lighted up those thoughtful dreamy eyes with a brilliancy which fell with the serene lustre of moon or star-light upon the heart of her cousin--to him as holy and as pure.

She loved to talk of Juliet, for it brought Anthony nearer. She loved to praise her, for it called up a smile upon his melancholy face; the expression of his brow became less stern, and his glance met hers, full of grateful tenderness. She loved to see her own girlish face reflected in the dark depths of those beautiful eyes, nor knew that the mysterious fire they kindled in her breast was destined to consume her young heart, and make it the sepulchre of her new-born affections.

"It must be a blessed thing to be loved as you love Juliet, Anthony," she said, as they were sitting together beneath the shadow of the great oak which graced the centre of the lawn in front of the house. "Could you not share your heart with another?"

"Why, my little Clary, what would you do with half a heart?" said Anthony, smiling; for he always looked upon his fragile companion as a child. "Love is a selfish fellow, he claims the whole, concentrates all in himself, or scatters abroad."

"You are right, Anthony. I am sure if I had the half, I should soon covet the whole. It would be a dangerous possession, and stand between me and heaven. No, no, it would not be right to ask that which belongs to another; only it seems so natural to wish those to love us whom we love."

"I do love you, sweet Clary, and you must continue to love me; though it is an affection quite different from that which I feel for Juliet. You are the sister whom nature denied me--the dear friend whom I sought in vain amidst the world and its heartless scenes; my good angel, whose pure and holy influence subdues the evil passions of my nature, and renders virtue more attractive. I love you, Clary. I feel a better and humbler creature in your presence; and when you are absent, your gentle admonitions stimulate me to further exertions."

"I am satisfied, dear Anthony," said Clary, lifting her inspired countenance, and gazing steadily upon him. "As yon heavens exceed in height and glory the earth beneath, so far, in my estimation, does the love you bear to me exceed that which you feel for Juliet. One is of the earth, and like the earth must perish; the other is light from heaven. Evermore let me dwell in this light."

With an involuntary movement, Anthony pressed the small white hand he held in his own to his lips. Was there the leaven of earth in that kiss, that it brought the rosy glow into the cheek of Clary, and then paled it to death-like whiteness? "Clary," he said, "have you forgotten the promise you made me a few days ago?"

Clary looked up inquiringly.

"To show me Juliet's portfolio."

"Oh, yes, and there are some lines about love, that I will sing and play to you," said Clary, rising.

"Have you got the music?"

"It is all here," said the fair girl, placing her hand upon her breast. "The heart is the fountain from which all my inspiration flows." And she bounded off to fetch her harp and the portfolio.

Anthony looked after her, but no regretful sigh rose to his lips. His heart was true to the first impression to which love had set his seal; its affections had been consecrated at another shrine, and he felt that his dear little cousin could never stand in a tenderer relation to him.

Clary returned quite in a flutter with the exertion she had used. Anthony sprang forward to relieve her of the harp, and to place it in a convenient situation.

"Juliet had a great fear of being married for her money," said Clary. "I used to laugh at her, and tell her that no one who knew her would ever remember her money; the treasures of her mind so far surpassed the dross of the world. Yet, for all that, she wrote and gave me this ballad the next morning. I felt very much inclined to scold her for her want of faith."

"Do let me hear it."

"Patience, Mr. Anthony. You must give me time to tune my harp. Such a theme as love requires all the strings to sound in perfect unison. There now--let me think a few minutes. The air must be neither very sad, nor yet gay. Something touching and tender. I have it now--"

THE MAIDEN'S DREAM.

In all the guise that beauty wears, Well known by many a fabled token, Last night I saw young Love in tears, With stringless bow and arrows broken. Oh, waving light in wanton flow, Fair, sunny locks his brows adorn, And on his cheeks the roseate glow With which Aurora decks the morn.

The living light in those blind eyes No mortal tongue could ere disclose; Their hue was stol'n from brighter skies, Their tears were dew-drops on the rose. Around his limbs of heavenly mould A rainbow-tinted vest was flung, Revealing through each lucid fold The faultless form by poets sung.

He sighed; the air with fragrance breath'd; He moved; the earth confess'd the god; Her brightest chaplets nature wreath'd, Where'er his dimpled feet had press'd the sod. "Why weeps Love's young divinity alone, While men have hearts, and woman charms beneath Tell me, fair worshipp'd boy of ages flown, Is ev'ry flowret faded in Love's wreath?"

With that he raised his dewy, azure eyes, And from his lips words of soft music broke; But still the truant tears would crowding rise, And snowy bosom heave before he spoke. "Oh, come and weep with me," he cried, "fair maid Weep that the gentle reign of Love is o'er; Come, venture nearer--cease to be afraid, For I have hearts and worshippers no more.

"In vain I give to woman's lovely form All that can rapture on the heart bestow; The fairest form no dastard heart can warm While gold has greater power than Love below. In vain I breathe a freshness on her cheek; In vain the Graces round her footsteps move, And eyes of melting beauty softly speak The soul-born, silent eloquence of Love.

"It was not thus," the urchin, sighing, said, "When hope and gladness crowned the new-born earth. In Eden's bowers, beneath a myrtle's shade, Before man was, Love sprang to birth. While Heaven around me balmy fragrance shed, With rosy chains the infant year I bound; And as my bride young Nature blushing led In vestal beauty o'er the verdant ground.

"The first fond sigh that young Love stole Was wafted o'er those fields of air, To kindle light in man's stern soul, And render Heaven's best work more fair. Creation felt that tender sigh, And earth received Love's rapturous tears, Their beauty beamed in woman's eye, And music broke on human ears.

"Whether I moved upon the rolling seas, Or sank on Nature's flowery lap to rest, Or raised my light wings on the sportive breeze, The conscious earth with joy her god confess'd. While Mirth and Gladness round my footsteps play'd, And bright-haired Hope led on the laughing Hours. As man and beast in holy union stray'd To share the lucid streams and virgin flowers.

"Ah, useless then yon shafts and broken bow Till man abused the balm in mercy given; Whilst gold has greater charms than Love below, I flee from earth to find a home in heaven!" A sudden glory round his figure spread, It rose upon the sun's departing beam; With the sad vision sleep together fled: Starting, I woke--and found it all a dream!

"When I try to compose music for love songs," said Clary, suddenly turning to Anthony, whom she found buried in profound thought, "I never succeed. If you understood this glorious science of music, and could make the harp echo the inborn melodies that float through the mind, you would not fail to give them the proper effect."

"Why do you think that I should be more fortunate than your sweet self, Clary?"

"Because you 'love one bright, particular star,' with your whole heart, Anthony. The heart has a language of its own. It speaks in music. There are few that can comprehend its exquisite tones; but those who are so gifted are the best qualified to call them forth. Love must have existed before Music. The first sigh he breathed gave birth to melodious sounds. The first words he spake were song; so Juliet tells us, in this little poem, and surely she is inspired."

"What else have we here?" said Anthony, peeping into the portfolio and drawing out a sheet of paper. "Is this bold energetic-looking hand my beautiful Juliet's autograph?"

"You are disappointed, cousin Anthony. You expected to find an elegant flowing hand, as fair and graceful as the white fingers that held the pen. Now, be it known unto you, my wise cousin, that persons of genius, especially those who deal in rhymes, rarely write fine hands; their thoughts flow too rapidly to allow them the necessary time and care required to form perfect characters. Most boarding-school misses write neat and graceful hands, but few of such persons are able to compose a truly elegant sentence. The author thinks his ideas of more consequence than his autograph, which is but the mechanical process he employs to represent them on paper."

"What sort of a hand do you write, Clary?"

"Why, cousin Anthony, it just hangs between the two extremes. Not good enough to deserve much praise, nor bad enough to call forth much censure. In this respect it corresponds more with my character than Juliet's does."

"You are no judge of your mental qualifications, Clary, and I am not going to make you vain by enumeration. Can you compose music for this little ballad?" and he placed one before her.

"That? Oh, no, I can do nothing with that. But hark! I hear my brother calling me from the house. Let us go to him." She ran forward, and Anthony was about to follow her, when he was addressed in a rude familiar manner, and turning round, he beheld the burly form of William Mathews, leaning over the slight green paling that separated the lawn from the road.

"Good day to you, Mr. Anthony. You have been hiding from us of late. A pleasant place this."

"Have you any business with me, Mr. Mathews?" said Anthony, in a voice, and with a look, which rendered his meaning unmistakeable.

"Ahem! Not exactly. But 'tis natural for one to inquire after the health of an old neighbor. Are you living here, or with the old 'un?"

"Good morning, Mr. Mathews," said Anthony, turning coldly upon his heel. "I make a point of never answering impertinent questions."

"Curse you for a proud fool," muttered the ruffian, as Anthony entered the house. "If Bill Mathews does not soon pull you down from your high horse, may his limbs rot in a jail." And calling to an ugly black cur, that was prowling round the garden, and whose physiognomy greatly resembled his own, the poacher slunk off.

"Anthony," said Frederic Wildegrave, as his cousin, in no very gentle mood, entered the house, "unexpected business calls me away for some weeks to a distant county. You must make yourself as comfortable as you can during my absence. Clary will do the honors of the house. By-the-by, I have just received four hundred pounds for the sale of the big marsh. I have not time to deposit the money in the bank; but will you see to it some time during the week. There is the key of my desk. You will find the money and the banker's book in the second drawer. And now, Clary, don't look so grave, but give me a kiss, and wish me back."

"I don't think that you will have any," said Clary flinging her arms round his neck. "My heart fills with gloom at the thought of your going away--and so suddenly."

"I shall come back as soon as I possibly can. What in tears. Silly child!"

"Don't go, dear Fred."

"Nonsense! Business must not be neglected."

"Something tells me that this journey is not for good."

"Dear Clary, I could quarrel with you for these superstitious fears. Farewell, my own darling--and joy be with you."

Kissing again and again the tears from Clarissa's cheek, and shaking Anthony warmly by the hand, the young master of the mansion sprang to his saddle and was gone, leaving Anthony and Clary to amuse themselves in the best manner they could.

"You must not forget, Anthony, that Fred has left you his banker. He is so generous that the money will be safer in your hands than in his own."

Anthony laughed, and put the key of the desk into his pocket. What to him was the money? had it been four thousand, or forty thousand, he would not, in all probability have given it a second thought.

The next morning Clary was seriously indisposed, and her cousin took his breakfast alone. After making many anxious inquiries about her, and being assured by old Ruth that she only required rest to be quite well again, he retired to Frederic's study; and taking up a volume of a new work that was just out, he was soon buried in its contents.

A loud altercation in the passage, between some person who insisted upon seeing Mr. Hurdlestone and old Ruth, broke in upon his studies.

"Will you please to send up your name, sir?" said Ruth, in no very gentle tones; "Mr. Hurdlestone is busy."

"No. I told you before that I would announce myself."

Anthony instantly recognised the voice, and before he could lay aside the book, Godfrey Hurdlestone stood before him.

How changed--how dreadfully changed he was, since they last met. The wicked career of a few months had stamped and furrowed his brow with the lines of years. His dress was mean and faded. He looked dirty and slovenly, and little of his former manly beauty and elegance of person remained. So utterly degraded was his appearance, that a cry of surprise broke from Anthony's lips, so inexpressibly shocked was he at an alteration so startling.

"I suppose you know me, Anthony," said Godfrey, with a sarcastic smile; "I can't be so changed as all that?"

"You are greatly changed."

"For the worse, of course. Yes, poverty soon brings a man down who has never been used to work. It has brought me down--down to the very dust."

"I am sorry to hear you say so. I thought that you were comfortably settled with the Whitmores until you could procure a tutorship. With your education and abilities, Godfrey, you should not appear thus."

"I left the Whitmores a long time ago. I thought you had heard that piece of ill news, for such stories travel apace. You must know that, as ill-luck would have it, Juliet learned from Mary all the particulars of that unfortunate business, and I, of course, had to decamp. Since then the world has gone all wrong with me, and one misfortune has followed upon another, until I stand before you a lost and ruined man; and if you, Anthony, refuse to assist me, I must go headlong to destruction."

In spite of all his affected boldness, it was evident that the speaker was dreadfully agitated. His eyes were wild and bloodshot, his fine features swollen and distorted, and his face as pale as ashes.

Anthony continued to gaze upon him with eyes full of pity and astonishment, and cheeks yet paler than his own. Could it be Algernon Hurdlestone's son that stood before him--that cousin whom he had sworn to love and cherish as a brother, and to help to the uttermost in time of need? The solemn vow he had taken when a boy was the uppermost thought that moment in his mind; and his eyes slowly filled with tears as turning to Godfrey he said, "If I can help you I will do so to the utmost of my power. Like you, however, I am a poor man, and my power is limited."

Godfrey remained silent.

"What can have happened to agitate you thus? What have you done that can warrant such dreadful words? Sit down, cousin. You look faint. Good Heavens! how you tremble. What can occasion this terrible distress of mind?"

"I shall be better presently. Give me a glass of brandy, Tony, to make me speak steadily. I never felt nervous before."

His teeth chattered audibly and prevented him from speaking further. Anthony gave him the stimulant he desired. It seemed to possess some miraculous power. Godfrey rose from his chair, and coming quite close up to his cousin, he said with apparent calmness:

"Anthony, I have committed forgery."

Anthony recoiled backward. He caught the table convulsively to keep himself from falling, as he gasped out:

"This is too dreadful! Oh, my poor uncle! Thank Heaven, you are spared the agony of this. Godfrey, Godfrey, what could induce you to perpetrate such a crime?"

"Necessity. But don't torture me with questions. I am punished enough already. The deed is done and the forfeit must be paid. Haman Levi, the Jew, in whose name the check was drawn, has detected the fraud. Fortunately for me he is a rascal, a man without any principle, in whom avarice is a more powerful feeling than justice. He knows that he will gain nothing by hanging me; but something considerable by a compromise that will save my life. The sum drawn by me was for three hundred pounds. Haman came to me this morning, and told me that if I paid him four hundred down within twelve hours he would acknowledge the order, and stop the prosecution; but if I refused to comply with his terms, the law should take its course. I have no money, Anthony. I know not where or how to obtain such a large sum in the given time, and if I suffer this day to expire, the season for mercy is past. Rescue me, Anthony, from this frightful situation--save me from a death of shame--and the rest of my life shall be devoted to your service!"

"Alas, Godfrey, I have already borne your shame, and though your victim has pronounced me innocent, the world considers me guilty. What can I do in this dreadful business? I have no money. And my cousin who might, perhaps, for my sake have helped you in this emergency, left us last night, and will be some weeks absent."

"You have a father--a rich father, Anthony!" said Godfrey, writhing in despair. "Will you not go to him and make one effort--one last effort--to save my life. Think of our early years. Think of my generous father--of his love and friendship--of all he sacrificed for your sake--and will you let his son be hung like a dog, when a few words of persuasion might save him."

The criminal bowed his head upon his hands, and wept long and passionately. Anthony was deeply affected by his misery. Had Frederic been at home, he thought, they might have done something to rescue him. They might have gone to the miser, and together represented the necessity of the case, and by offering large interest for the loan of the money, have obtained it. What was to be done? Confounded and bewildered, he could think of no plan at all likely to succeed.

Alas for Anthony! The money which had been left in his hands by Frederic Wildegrave, at that unlucky moment flashed across his mind. It was exactly the sum. He was sure that Frederic would lend it to him at his earnest request. Anthony was young and inexperienced, he had yet to learn that we are not called upon, in such matters, to think for others, or to do evil that good may come of it. He looked doubtfully in the haggard face of the wretched suppliant.

"Have you no means of raising the money, Godfrey?"

"Yes--in a few days, perhaps. But it will be too late then."

"Cannot you persuade the Jew to wait?"

"He is inexorable. But, Anthony, if you can borrow the money for me to-day, I will repay it to-morrow night."

"Can you promise me this?"

"I swear it. I will sell the reversion of the legacy left me by my aunt Maitland, which falls due at her husband's death. It is eight hundred pounds; I will sell it for half its value to meet the demand. But to accomplish this, more time is required than I can just now command. Will this satisfy you?"

"It will. But woe to us both if you deceive me!"

"Can you imagine me such an ungrateful scoundrel?"

"You have betrayed me once before. If you fail this time, Godfrey, you will not die alone."

Anthony went to the desk, and unlocked it with a trembling hand. As he opened the drawer which contained the money, a sudden chill crept through his veins, and he paused, irresolute how to act. "It is not theft," he argued to himself; "it is but a loan, which will soon be repaid. A few hours cannot make much difference. Long before Frederic requires the money, it will be replaced."

He had gone too far to recede. Godfrey was already at his side and eagerly seized the golden prize. With tears of real or feigned gratitude he left the house, and Anthony had leisure to reflect upon what he had done.

The more he pondered over the rash act, the more imprudent and criminal it appeared; and when, by the next post, he received a letter from Frederic, informing him that he had made a very advantageous purchase of land, and requested him to transmit the money he had left in his keeping, his misery was complete.

"Unfortunate Anthony!" he cried. "Into what new dangers will your unhappy destiny hurry you!"

Snatching up his hat, he rushed forth in quest of his unprincipled relative.