Chapter 21

O dread uncertainty: Life-wasting agony! How dost thou pain the heart, Causing such tears to start As sorrow never shed O'er hopes for ever fled!--S.M.

What a night of intense anxiety was that to the young Clary! Hour after hour, she paced the veranda in front of the cottage; now listening for approaching footsteps, now straining her eyes to catch through the gloom of the fir-trees the figure of him for whom she watched and wept in vain. The cold night wind sighed through her fair locks, scattering them upon the midnight air. The rising dews chilled the fragile form, but stilled not the wild throbbing of the aching heart.

"Oh, to know the worst--the very worst--were better than this sore agony." Years of care were compressed into that one night of weary watching. "He will never come. I shall never, never see him again. I feel now, as I felt when my sisters were taken from me, that I should see them no more on earth. But I cannot weep for him as I wept for them. I knew that they were happy, that they were gone to rest, and I felt as if an angel's hand dried my tears. But I weep for him as one without hope, as for one whom a terrible destiny has torn from me. I love him, but my love is a crime, for he loves another. Oh, woe is me! Why did we ever meet, if thus we are doomed to part?"

She looked up at the cold clear moon--up to the glorious stars of night, and her thoughts, so lately chained to earth, soared upwards to the Father of her spirit, and once more she bowed in silent adoration to her Saviour and her God.

"Forgive me, holy Father!" she murmured. "I have strayed from thy fold, and my steps have stumbled upon the rough places of the earth. I have reared up an idol in thy sacred temple, and worshipped the creature more than the Creator. The love of the world is an unholy thing. It cannot satisfy the cravings of an immortal spirit. It cannot fill up the emptiness of the human heart. Return to thy rest, O my soul! I dedicate thee and all thy affections to thy God!"

She bowed her head upon her hands and wept; such tears purify the source from whence they flow, and Clary felt a solemn calm steal over her agitated spirit, as, kneeling beneath the wide canopy of heaven, she prayed long and earnestly for strength to subdue her passion for Anthony, and to become obedient in word, thought, and deed, to the will of God; and she prayed for him, with a fervor and devotion which love alone can give--prayed that he might be shielded from all temptation, from the wickedness and vanity of the world, from the deceitfulness of his own heart.

She was still in the act of devotion, when the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps caused her to start suddenly from her knees. A man ran past at full speed, then another, and another: then a group of women without hats and shawls, running and calling to one another. What could all this mean, at that still hour of night, and in that lonely place?

Clary's heart beat tumultuously. She rushed to the garden gate, that opened from the lawn into the main road. She called aloud to one of the retreating figures to stop and inform her what was the matter. Why they were abroad at that late hour, and whither they were going? No one slackened their speed, or stayed one moment to answer her enquires. At length an old man, tired and out of breath, came panting along; one whom Clary knew, and springing into the road she intercepted his path.

"Ralph Hilton, what is the matter? Is there a fire in the neighborhood? Where are you all going?"

"Up to the Hall, Miss Clary. Dear, dear, have you not heard the news? The old man has been murdered. Murdered by his son. Alack, alack, 'tis a desperate piece of wickedness! The coroner is up at the old cottage, sitting upon the body, and I want to get a sight of the murdered man, like the rest of 'un."

"Who is it you mean? Who has been murdered?" gasped out the terrified girl.

"Why old Squire Hurdlestone. He has been shot dead by his own son--that young chap who has been staying here so long. They have got him safe, though. And by this time he must be in jail. Oh, I hope they will hang 'un. But hanging is too good. He should be burnt alive."

And here the old man hobbled on, eager to get a sight of the frightful spectacle, and to hear all the news from the fountain head.

The first blush of the red dawn was glowing in the east; but Clary still remained in the same attitude, with her hand resting upon the half-open gate, her eyes fixed on vacancy, her lips apart, a breathing image of despair. The stage coach from ---- drove briskly up. A gentleman sprang from the top of the vehicle. A portmanteau was flung down to him by the guard.--"All right," and the horses were again at full gallop.

"Clary, dear Clary, who would have thought of your being up so early to meet me?"

That voice seemed to recall the wandering spirit of the pale girl back to its earthly tabernacle. With a long wild cry, she flung herself into her brother's arms. "Hide me in your heart, Frederic, hide me from myself. I am sick and weary of the world!"

Unable to comprehend the cause of this violent agitation, Frederic Wildegrave carried his now insensible sister into the house, and calling Ruth, who was busy kindling the fires, he bade her awake Mr. Anthony. The woman shook her head mysteriously.

"He's gone, sir. He left us suddenly last night, and Miss Clary has been up ever since."

"I fear it is as I suspected. He must have robbed me. Yet, if he has deceived me, I never will trust to physiognomy again."

He opened his desk, and found two hundred pounds in notes, and turning to the window to examine them, he recognised the letter addressed to him by Anthony that was lying on the table.

With feelings of compassion and astonishment, he hastily glanced over the affecting account it contained of the thrilling events of the past week. Several times the tears sprang to his eyes, and he reproached himself for having suspected Anthony of having eloped with the money left in his charge. He knew what agony of mind his cousin must have endured before he could prevail upon himself to petition his relentless father for the loan of the sum he had imprudently lent to Godfrey. He only blamed him for the want of confidence which had hindered him from communicating his situation to his friend. Fearing that he had been induced to commit some desperate act, he did not wait to change his dress, or partake of the breakfast old Ruth had provided, but mounting a horse, rode full speed to Ashton.

Long before he reached the village he learned the dreadful tale of the murder, and though he did not like to believe Anthony guilty, he knew not how to get satisfactorily over the great mass of circumstantial evidence, which even his own letter contained against him. Every person with whom he talked upon the subject held the same opinion, and many who before had execrated the old man, and spoke with abhorrence of his conduct to his son, now mentioned him with pity and respect, and decried the young man as a monster, for whom hanging was too good, who deserved to die a thousand deaths.

Deeply grieved for his unfortunate relative, Wildegrave at first defended him with some warmth, and urged as an excuse for his conduct the unnatural treatment he had from infancy received from his father.

"Sir," said an old farmer, who had formed one of the jury during the inquest, "with all his faults, old Mark was an honest man, and doubtless he had good reasons for his conduct, and knew the lad better than we did, as the result has proved."

"It has not been proved yet," said Frederic, "and I believe, however strongly appearances are against him, that Anthony Hurdlestone never committed the murder."

"Mr. Wildegrave, I am sorry to contradict a gentleman like you, but did not Grenard Pike see him with his own eyes fire at the old man through the window? And has he not known the lad from a baby?"

"He will be hung," said another farmer, riding up; "and that's not half punishment enough for such a villain!"

"He should be torn to pieces," cried a third.

"He was a queer little boy," said a fourth; "I never thought that he would come to any good."

"His uncle was the ruin of him," said a fifth. "If he had never taken him from his father, the old man would have been alive this day."

"Oh hang him!" cried another. "I don't pity the old miser. He deserved his death--but 'twas terrible from the hand of his own son."

"Old Mark is to have a grand funeral," said the first speaker. "He is to be buried on Monday. All the gentlemen in the county will attend."

"It would break his heart, if he were alive," said another, "could he but see the fine coffin that Jones is making for him. It is to be covered all over with silk velvet and gold."

"How old was he?" asked some voice in the group.

"Just in his sixty-fifth, and a fine hale man for his years; he might have lived to have been a hundred."

"Did they find any money in the house?" whispered a long-nosed, sharp-visaged man; "I heard that he had lots hidden away under the thatch. Old Grenard knows that a box containing several thousand gold guineas was taken away."

"Then the devil, or old Grenard, must have flown away with it," said the sexton of the parish, "for I was there when they seized the poor lad, and he had not a penny in his possession."

"Will they bury him with his wife?" asked the old farmer.

"He'll never rest beside her," said a man near him. "He treated her about as well as he did her poor boy."

"How can the like o' him rest in the grave?" chimed in a female voice. "I've no manner of doubt but he'll haunt the old Hall, as his father did afore him. Mercy on us, sirs! what an awful like ghost he will make!"

"Was old Squire Anthony ever seen?" said another woman, in a mysterious whisper.

"Ay, scores of times. I've heard that the old miser met him one night himself upon the staircase, and that was the reason why he shut up the Hall."

"Who'll heir the property?" asked the old farmer.

"Algernon's son Godfrey; a fine handsome fellow. He'll make ducks and drakes of the miser's gold. We shall have fine times when he comes to the Hall."

"He'll lower the rents and the tithes upon us. Come, my lads, let's go to the public-house and drink his health."

The male portion of the group instantly acceded to the proposal; and Frederic Wildegrave set spurs to his horse and rode off, disgusted with the scene he had witnessed, and returned to his home with a sorrowful heart.