Chapter 19

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.