Chapter 23

The lyre is hush'd, for ever hush'd the hand, That woke to ecstacy its thrilling chords; And that sweet voice, with music eloquent, Sleeps with the silent lyre and broken heart.--S.M.

"Why do you look so sad, Juliet," said Captain Whitmore to his daughter, as they stood together at the open window, the morning after her perilous meeting with Mary Mathews in the park. "Have _I_ said anything to wound your feelings?"

"I thought that you would have been so glad to find him innocent, papa," said Juliet, the tears again stealing down her cheeks, "and I am disappointed--bitterly disappointed."

"Well, my girl. I am glad that the lad is not guilty of so heinous an offence. But I can't help feeling a strong prejudice against the whole breed. These Hurdlestones are a bad set--a bad set. I have seen enough of them. And, for your own happiness, I advise you, my dear Juliet, to banish this young man for ever from your thoughts. With my consent you never shall be his wife."

"Without it I certainly never shall." And Juliet folded her hands together, and turned away to hide the fresh gush of tears that blinded her eyes. "At the same time, papa, I must think that the ill-will you bear to an innocent person is both cruel and unjust."

"Juliet," said the Captain, very gravely, "from the earnestness of your manner, I fear that you feel a deeper interest in this young Hurdlestone than I am willing to believe. Answer me truly--do you love the lad?"

"Father, I do love him. I feel that my happiness is inseparably connected with his." This was said with that charming candor which was the most attractive feature in Juliet Whitmore's character. It had its effect upon the old man's generous nature. He could no longer chide, however repugnant to his feelings the confession she had just made. He drew her gently to his manly breast, and kissed away the tears that still lingered on her cheeks.

"My poor girl, I am sorry for you--very sorry. But I see no chance of your ever becoming his wife."

"I am contented to remain single, papa; I never can love another as I love him."

"Stuff and nonsense! What should hinder you? Why, child, you will get over this romantic passion. Few people are able to marry the first person with whom they fall in love; and, in nine cases out of ten, they would be grievously disappointed if they did. This Anthony Hurdlestone may be a good young man, but his father is a very bad man. His children may inherit some of the family propensities, which you know, my little daughter are everything but agreeable. I should not like to be grandpapa to a second edition of Mark Hurdlestone, or even of his hopeful nephew, Master Godfrey."

"Ah, my dear father," said Juliet, with great simplicity, "this may be all very true; but how do you know that we should have any children?"

This unexpected confession threw the old Captain, in spite of his grave lecture, into convulsions of laughter, whilst it covered his daughter's face with crimson blushes.

"Miss Juliet!" cried her aunt, who entered just in time to hear her niece speak her thoughts aloud, "I am perfectly astonished at you. Have you no sense of decorum?"

"Pshaw, Dolly!" said the Captain, still laughing. "It was quite accidental. Your over delicate ladies are the most indelicate people in the world. I am sure what the child said was perfectly natural."

"Nature, Captain Whitmore, is not the best book for young ladies to study," said Miss Dorothy, drawing herself up to her full height. "If we were to act entirely from her suggestions, we should reduce ourselves to a level with the brutes. Young ladies should never venture a remark until they have duly considered what they have to say. They should know how to keep the organ of speech in due subjection."

"And pray, Dolly, will you inform me at what age a lady should commence this laudable act of self-denial? for I am pretty certain that your first lesson is still to learn."

Oh, how poor Aunt Dorothy flounced and flew, at this speech! how she let her tongue run on, without bit or bridle, while vindicating her injured honor from this foul aspersion, quite forgetting her own theory in the redundancy of her practice! There never was, by her own account, such a discreet, amiable, well-spoken, benevolent, and virtuous gentlewoman! And how the cruel Captain continued to laugh at, and quiz, and draw her out: until Juliet, in order to cause a diversion in her aunt's favor, pinched her favorite black cat's ear. But this stratagem only turned the whole torrent of the old maid's wrath upon herself.

"How cruel you are, Miss Juliet!" she cried, snatching the ill-used darling to her bosom. "You never think that these poor animals can feel ill-treatment as severely as yourself. I despise young ladies who write poetry, and weep and whine over a novel, yet are destitute of the common feelings of humanity."

"Puss will forgive me," said Juliet, holding out her small white hand to the cat, which immediately left off rubbing herself against Aunt Dorothy's velvet stomacher, to fawn upon the proffered peace-offering.

The old Captain, who had remained for some minutes in deep thought, now suddenly turned from the window, and said:

"Juliet, would you like to visit London?"

"What, at this beautiful season of the year!" And Juliet left off caressing the cat, and regarded her father with surprise, not unmixed with curiosity.

"The flowers of the gay world, Julee, always blossom at the same time with those in the country; only the latter have always this advantage, that they are never out of season, and blossom for the day, instead of for the night. But, my dear child, I think it necessary for you to go. The change of scene and air will be very beneficial to your health, and tend to invigorate both your mind and body. Now, don't pout and shake your head, Juliet; I do most earnestly wish you to go. The very best antidote to love is a visit to London. You will see other men, you will learn to know your own power; and all these idle fancies will be forgotten. Aunt Dorothy, what say you to the trip?"

"Oh, sir, I am always ready at the post of duty. Juliet wants a little polishing--she is horribly countryfied. When shall we prepare for the journey?"

"Directly. I will write to her Aunt Seaford by tonight's post. She will be delighted to have Juliet with her. The little sly puss is the old lady's heir; but she is quite indifferent to her good fortune."

"I never covet the possession of great wealth," said Juliet. "Mark Hurdlestone is an awful example to those who grasp after riches. I do not anticipate much pleasure in this London visit, but I will go, dear papa, as you wish it."

"There's a dear good girl!" and the old man fondly kissed her. "I wish I could see the rose's blush once more upon this pale face. You look so like your mother, Julee, it makes my heart ache. Ah! just so thin and pale she looked, before I lost her. You must not leave your poor old father in this cold-hearted world alone."

Juliet flung her arms round his neck. "Do not make my heart ache, dear papa, as I know not how soon we may part. You once loved poor Anthony," she whispered: "for Julee's sake, love him still."

"She will forget him," said the Captain looking fondly after her, as she left the room, "she will forget him in London."

And to London they went. Juliet was received by her rich aunt with the most lively demonstrations of regard. She felt proud of introducing to the notice of the gay world a creature so beautiful. Admired for her great personal attractions, and courted for her wealth, Juliet soon found herself the centre of attraction to a large circle of friends. But ah! how vapid and tasteless to the young lover of nature were the artificial manners and the unmeaning flatteries of the world. Professions of attachment, breathed into her ears by interested admirers, shocked and disgusted her simple taste, and made her thoughts turn continually to the one adored object, whose candid and honest bearing had won her heart. His soul had been poured forth at the same shrine, had drunk inspiration from the same sacred fount, and his sympathies and feelings were in perfect unison with her own.

How could she forget Anthony whilst mingling in scenes so uncongenial to her own pursuits? Was he not brought every hour nearer to her thoughts? Was she not constantly drawing contrasts between him and the worldly beings by whom she was surrounded! Did not his touching voice thrill more musically in her mental ear, when the affected ostentatious tones of the votary of fashion and pleasure tried to attract her attention by a display of his accomplishments and breeding? There was a want of reality in all she heard and saw that struck painfully upon her heart; and after the first novelty of the scene had worn off, she began to pine for the country. Her step became less elastic, her cheek yet paler, and the anxious father began to watch more closely these hectic changes, and to tremble for the health of his child.

"I am sick of this crowded place, of these sophisticated people, papa. I shall die here. Let me return to the country."

Frightened at the daily alteration in her appearance, the Captain promised to grant her request. Her aunt gave a large party the night before they were to leave town; and Juliet, to please her kind relative, exerted herself to the utmost to appear in good spirits.

"There has been a shocking murder committed in your neighborhood, Miss Whitmore," said the officer, with whom she had been dancing, as he led her to a seat. "Have you seen the papers?"

"No," said Juliet, carelessly. "I seldom read these accounts. They are so shocking; and we read them too much as matters of mere amusement and idle curiosity, without reflecting sufficiently upon the awful guilt which they involve."

"This is a very dreadful business indeed. I thought you might know something of the parties."

"Not very likely. We lead such a secluded life at the Lodge, that we are strangers to most of the people in the neighborhood."

"You have heard of the eccentric miser, Mark Hurdlestone?"

"Who has not?" and Juliet started, and turned pale. "Surely he has not been murdered?"

"Yes; and by his own son."

"His son? Oh, not by his son! His nephew, you mean?"

"His son. Anthony Hurdlestone. The heir of his immense wealth."

He spoke to a cold ear. Juliet had fainted.

How did that dreadful night pass over the hapless maiden? It did pass, however, and on the morrow she was far on her journey home.

"I never thought he could be guilty of a crime like this," said the Captain to his sister as she sat opposite to him in his travelling carriage. His arm encircled the slender waist of his daughter, and her pale cheek rested on his shoulder. But no tear hung in the long, dark, drooping eyelashes of his child. Juliet was stunned; but she had not wept.

"He is not guilty," she cried, in a passionate voice. "I know and feel that he is not guilty. Remember Mary Mathews--how strong the circumstantial evidence against him in that case. Yet he was innocent--innocent, poor Anthony!"

The Captain, who felt the most tender sympathy for the state of mind into which this afflicting news had thrown his child, was willing to soothe, if possible, her grief.

"If he is innocent it will be proved on the trial, Julee darling. We will hope for the best."

"It will be proved," said Juliet, sitting upright, and looking her father earnestly, if not sternly in the face. "I am so confident of his innocence that, on that score, I have not shed a single tear. Ah! we are drawing near home," she continued with a sigh. "Dear home! why did I leave it? There is something pure and holy in the very air of home. See, papa! there is the church spire rising above the trees. The dear old elm trees! We shall have time to think here, to hope, to pray; but who is that woman lying along the bank. She is ill, or dead."

"Perhaps she is intoxicated," said Miss Dorothy.

"It is--yes--it is Mary Mathews!" cried Juliet, without noticing her aunt's remark. "What can bring her here?"

"No good, you may be sure," remarked the Captain.

"Oh! stop the carriage, dear papa, and let us speak to her. She may know something about the murder."

"You are right, Juliet; let us ask her a few questions."

They both left the carriage, and hurried to the spot where Mary, overcome with fatigue and fever, lay insensible and unconscious of her danger by the roadside.

Captain Whitmore lifted up the unhappy girl from the ground, and placed her in the carriage, greatly to the indignation of Miss Dorothy, and conveyed her to the Lodge. A medical gentleman in the neighborhood was sent for; and Juliet, in the deep interest she felt for the alarming state of the poor sufferer, for a while forgot her own poignant grief.

The next morning, on entering the parlor, she found Frederic Wildegrave in close conversation with her father.

After the usual compliments had passed between them, Juliet asked, with an air of intense anxiety depicted on her fine countenance, if Mr. Wildegrave thought it possible that Anthony Hurdlestone had committed the murder?

He replied sorrowfully, "My dear Miss Whitmore, I know not what to think."

"Have you seen him since his imprisonment?"

"I have not. Many sorrows have confined me at home. This melancholy business has had a sad effect upon the weak nerves of my poor little sister. Clary is ill. I fear dying. She has expressed such a strong desire to see you, Miss Whitmore, once again, that I came over to make known to you her urgent request. It is asking of you a very great favor; but one, I hope, that you will not refuse to grant to our tears."

"Juliet is in very poor health herself," said her father. "If she could be spared this trying scene, it would be the better for her."

"Poor, pretty Clarissa; and she is ill--is dying," said Juliet, speaking unconsciously aloud. "This dreadful affair has killed her; and she wishes to see me. Yes, I will go."

"My child, you know not what you are about to undertake," said the old man, coming forward. "It may be the death of you."

"Dear papa, I am stronger than you think. I have borne a worse sorrow," she added, in a whisper. "Let me go."

"Please yourself, Julee; but I fear it will be too much for you."

Frederic was anxious that Clary should be gratified; and, in spite of Captain Whitmore's objections, he continued, backed by Juliet, to urge his request. Reluctantly the old man yielded to their united entreaties.

Before Juliet set out upon her melancholy journey, she visited the sick chamber of the unconscious Mary Mathews, whom she strongly recommended to the care of Aunt Dorothy and her own waiting-woman. The latter, who loved her young mistress very tenderly, and who perhaps was not ignorant of her attachment to young Hurdlestone, promised to pay every attention to the poor invalid during her absence. Satisfied with these arrangements, Juliet kissed her father; and begging him not to be uneasy on her account, as for his sake she would endeavor to bear up against the melancholy which oppressed her, she accepted Mr. Wildegrave's escort to Ashton.

During the journey, she found that Frederic was acquainted with Anthony's attachment to her; and the frank and generous sympathy that he expressed for the unhappy young man won from his fair companion her confidence and friendship. He was the only person whom she had ever met to whom she could speak of Anthony without reserve, and he behaved to her like a true friend in the dark hour of doubt and agony.

The night was far advanced when they arrived at Millbank. Clary was sleeping, and the physician thought it better that she should not be disturbed.

The room allotted to Miss Whitmore's use was the one which had been occupied by Anthony. Everything served to remind her of its late tenant. His books, his papers, his flute, were there. Her own portfolio, containing the little poems he so much admired, was lying upon the table, and within it lay a bunch of dried flowers--wild flowers--which she had gathered for him upon the heath near his uncle's park; but what paper is that attached to the faded nosegay? It is a copy of verses. She knows his handwriting, and trembles as she reads--

Ye are wither'd, sweet buds, but love's hand can portray On memory's tablets each delicate hue; And recall to my bosom the long happy day When she gathered ye, fresh sprinkled over with dew. Ah, never did garland so lovely appear, For her warm lip had breathed on each beautiful flower; And the pearl on each leaf was less bright than the tear That gleamed in her eyes in that rapturous hour.

Ye are wither'd, sweet buds, but in memory ye bloom, Nor can nature's stern edict your loveliness stain; Ye are fadeless and rich in undying perfume, And your sweetness, like truth, shall unaltered remain. When this fond beating heart shall be cold in the grave, Oh, mock not my bier with fame's glittering wreath; But bid on my temples these wither'd buds wave, Through life fondly cherish'd, and treasured in death.

And had he really kept these withered flowers for her sake? How did her soul flow up into her eyes, to descend upon those faded blossoms in floods of tears, as sadly she pressed them to her lips and heart!

Then came the dreadful thought--He whom you thus passionately love is a murderer, the murderer of his father! The hand that penned those tender lines has been stained with blood. Shuddering, she let the flowers fall from her grasp. She turned, and met the mild beautiful eyes of his mother. The lifeless picture seemed to reproach her for daring for a moment to entertain such unworthy suspicions of her child, and she murmured for the hundredth time, since she first heard the tale of horror, "No, no, I cannot believe him guilty."

She undressed and went to bed. The bed in which he had so lately slept, in which he had passed so many wakeful hours in thinking of her; in forming bright schemes of future happiness, and triumphing in idea over the seeming impossibilities of his untoward destiny. His spirit appeared to hover around her, and in dreams she once more wandered with him through forest paths, eloquent with the song of birds, and bright with spring and sunshine.

Oh, love! how strong is thy faith! How confiding thy trust. The world in vain frowns upon the object of thy devotion. Calumny may blacken, and circumstances condemn, but thou, in thy blind simplicity, still clingest, through storm and shine, to the imaginary perfections of thy idol.

To believe in the innocence of Anthony Hurdlestone was to hope against hope; yet Juliet firmly, confidingly, and religiously believed him guiltless. Oh, who might not envy her this love and faith!

The robin red-breast from his fading bower of hawthorns warbled in the early dawn of the cold, bright, autumnal day. The first rays of the sun gilded the gay changing leaves of the vine that clustered about the windows with hues of the richest dye, and the large bunches of grapes peeping from among the leaves looked more temptingly ripe, bathed in dew and brightened in the morning beam. A slight rap at her chamber door dispelled Juliet's slumbers, and Ruth Candler entered the room.

"Is anything wrong, Ruth?"

"My mistress is awake, and wishes to see you, Miss," said Ruth, bursting into tears. "It's the last morn. I'm thinking, that she'll ever see on earth. She's in no pain, she says, but she is so pale, and her eyes do not look like the eyes of the living. Alas! alas! what shall we do when she is gone? The dear sweet young creter!"

Ruth wept aloud with her face to the wall while Juliet hurried on her clothes, and, with a full heart, followed the old woman to the chamber of the invalid.

She found Clary sitting up in the bed, supported by pillows. Cold as it was, the casement was open to admit the full beams of the rising sun, and the arms of the dying girl were extended towards it, and her countenance lighted up with an expression of angelic beauty and intense admiration. Her brother was seated upon the bed, his face concealed in the pillow, while ever and anon a deep sob burst from his full laboring heart.

He had watched there through the long night--had watched and prayed while the dear one slept her last sleep on earth; and he knew that the young spirit had only roused itself to look once more upon the lovely creation of God before it plumed its bright wing for its final flight.

"Sun, beautiful sun! I shall see thee no more," said the child. "Thou glorious emblem of the power and love of God. But I go to him who is the Sun of the spirit-world, the life and light of the soul. There is joy in my heart--deep joy--joy which no mortal tongue can express, for the happiness I feel is not of the world. The fresh breezes of morning fan my brow; to-morrow they will sigh over my grave. The earth returns to the earth, the spirit to the God who gave it. Weep not for me, dear brother. For this hour I was born. For this hour I came into the world, and you should rejoice and be exceedingly glad that I have so soon obtained my passport to the skies."

"Ah, my sister, what will life be to me, when you are gone? You are the last kindred tie that binds me to earth."

"There will be another strong tie to draw you towards heaven, my brother. Our spirits will not be divided. I shall still live in your memory--still visit you in dreams. Your love for me will grow stronger, for it will never know diminution or decay."

She paused for a few seconds, and folded her poor wasted hands together, whilst a serene smile passed over her wan features, lighting them with a holy joy.

"I had a dream last night, Frederic. A beautiful dream. If I have strength I will try and tell it to you. I thought much of Death last night, and my soul shrunk within me, for I felt that he was near. I did not fear Death while my heart was free from earthly love, but now he seemed to wear a harsh and terrible aspect. I prayed long and fervently to God to give me strength to enable me to pass tranquilly through the dark valley; but in my heart I felt no response to my prayer. Soon after this, the pains, that had racked me all yesterday, left me, and I fell into a deep sleep. And then me-thought I stood in a narrow pass between two vast walls of black rock, that enclosed me on either side, and appeared to reach to the very clouds. The place was lighted by a dim twilight that flowed through an enormous arch that united in the far distance these gigantic walls; an arch, high and deep enough to have sustained the weight of the whole world. I felt like an atom in immensity, alone in that strange place. Still as I gazed in bewildered awe upon that great gateway, a figure rose like a dim mist out of the darkness, and it grew and brightened into a real and living presence; its dazzling robes of snowy whiteness shedding a sort of glorious moonshine all around. Oh, the beauty, the surpassing beauty of the heavenly vision! it filled my whole soul with light.

"Whilst I continued to gaze upon it with increasing awe and admiration, it addressed me in a voice so rich and melodious that it awoke echoes of soft music from those eternal rocks.

"'Child of earth,' he said, 'is my aspect so terrible that men should shrink from me in horror?'

"'Not so,' I exclaimed, in an extasy of joy. 'Your face is like the face of the angel of the Lord, when he welcomes the beloved with a smile of peace into the presence of God.'

"'Yet I am he whom men regard as their worst enemy, and shrink from with cowardly fear. Yes, maiden, I am Death! Death, the friend of man, the conqueror of grief and pain. I hold in my hand the keys of the unknown world. I am the bright spirit who unlocks for the good the golden gates of eternal joy.'

"He took my out-stretched hands, and drawing me forward, bade me look through the black archway into the far eternity. Oh, that glorious land, those rivers of delight--those trees and flowers, and warbled songs--that paradise of living praise! I long, my brother, to break these bonds asunder, to pass the dark archway, and tread that heavenly shore."

"Happy Clary," said Juliet, softly approaching the bed. "Dear blessed girl, who would wish to detain you in this cold miserable world, when heaven offers you a brighter home?"

"You are come to see your poor friend, my Juliet," said Clary, twining her thin white arms about her neck. "The sight of you recalls me back to earth, filling my mind with sad thoughts and dark forebodings. Brother," she continued, turning to Frederic, "leave us for a few minutes. I must speak to Juliet Whitmore, for a short space, alone."

For some seconds the two young creatures remained locked in each other's arms. Clary was the first to speak.

"The thoughts of heaven," she said, "are full of rapture; the recollections of earth, full of anguish and tears. It is not for myself, Juliet, I weep. It is for the living I mourn --for the friends I leave behind. For me--I have lived long enough. It is better for me to go, Juliet; I am dying; will you kiss me once more, and tell me that you forgive your poor little Clary for having dared to love one whose whole heart was given to you, and who was by you beloved again?"

"Was Anthony dear to your gentle heart, Clary?" said Juliet, stooping down, and kissing fervently the cold damp brow of the dying girl. "Oh, dearer far dearer are you to me, in having thus shared, to its full extent, all the deep sorrow that weighs down my spirit."

"My love, Juliet, was full of hope and joy, of blissful dreams and visions of peace and happiness. The storm came suddenly upon me, and the feeble threads that held together my frail existence parted in the conflict. I am thankful and resigned, and bless the hand that, in mercy, dealt the blow." After a few minutes' silence, she said very solemnly, "Anthony Hurdlestone is accused of having perpetrated a great crime. Do you, Juliet, believe him guilty?"

"When you believe that yon burning orb of fire is a mass of cold unmeaning ice," said Juliet, pointing to the sun, "then will I suspect the man I love to be a base unnatural monster, a thief and a parricide."

"Then you, and you alone, Juliet, are worthy of his love. And he loves you. Ah! so truly, so well, that I feel that he is innocent. A voice from heaven tells me so. Yes, dearest Juliet, God will yet vindicate his injured servant, and you and Anthony will meet again."

"In heaven," said Juliet, weeping.

"On earth," returned Clary in feebler accents. "When you see each other, Juliet, tell him that Clary loved him and prayed for him to the last; that dying she blessed him, and believed him innocent. To you, Juliet, I leave my harp, the friend and companion of my lonely childhood. When you play the sweet airs I loved so well, think kindly of me. When you wander by sparkling brooks, and through flowery paths, listening to the song of birds, and the music of forest shades, remember me. Ah! I have loved the bright and beautiful things of this glorious earth, and my wish has been granted, that I might pass hence with sunshine about my bed, and the music of Nature's wild minstrels ringing in my ears. Sun of earth, farewell. Friends of earth we shall meet again. See, heaven opens. Its one eternal day streams in upon my soul. Farewell.

"Happy spirit, welcome in; Hark! the song of seraphim Hails thy presence at the throne-- Earth is lost, and Heaven is won! Enter in."

The voice died away in faint indistinct murmurs; the eye lost the living fire; the prophetic lip paled to marble, quivered a moment, and was still for ever. The spirit of Clary had passed the dark gateway, and was the new-born of heaven.

"My sister; oh, my sister! Is she indeed gone from me for ever?" exclaimed Frederic, bursting into the room, and flinging himself upon the bed beside her. "Clary! my angel! Clary! What! cold and dead? Oh, my poor heart!"

"Oh, how I envy her this blessed change!" said Juliet.

"Aye, 'tis a sin to weep for her. But grief is selfish, Miss Whitmore; it will have its way. Oh! sister, dear sister, why did you leave me alone, the last survivor of an unfortunate race?"

And thus sorrow poured forth its querulous wailings into the cold ear of death. The storm which bereaves us of our best affections passes over; the whirlwind, the thunder, and the shower, desolating our harvest of expected joys; but the sun bursts forth again. Hope blossoms afresh in its beams, and the heart of man revives to form new schemes of future enjoyment. Such is life.