Chapter 8

'_To Algernon Hurdlestone, Esq._

'In adopting my son you pleased yourself. Had he remained with me I should have provided for him. As matters at present stand, I neither wish to be troubled with letters from him nor from you. When you next write I would thank you to pay the _post_.

Yours, &c.,

'Marcus Hurdlestone.'

"Now, Tony, I was somewhat discouraged by this ungracious answer; however as I knew the man, I wrote to him again and did pay the post; I took no notice of the tenor of his letter, but merely informed him that I had put you to school, and that you were growing a fine clever lad. Here is his reply:--

'_To Algernon Hurdlestone, Esq._

'Next to receiving impertinent letters, I detest the trouble of answering them. I have no money to fling away upon fools and foolscap.

'Marcus Hurdlestone.'

"Now, my dear boy, although so far my applications to him on your behalf have been unsuccessful, I think it only right and prudent in you to write to him yourself, and remind this affectionate father that you are still in the land of the living."

"And that you wish him," said Godfrey, popping his head in at the door, where he had been an attentive listener for the last five minutes, "well out of it."

Without heeding his cousin's nonsense, Anthony answered his uncle with great simplicity, "Dear uncle, what can I say to him?"

"Faith, my dear boy, that's more than I can tell you; just anything, the best you can. Tell him that you wish to see him, that you are grown nearly into a man; that you wish him to name what profession he wishes you to pursue, as you are about to go to college. But mark me, Tony say not one word about love, filial affection, and so forth; he'll not believe you. The more you attempt to court or conciliate such spirits as his--spirits, did I say? the man's all earth, hard unyielding clay--the more they suspect you of sinister motives. The honest bluntness of indignant truth is more likely to succeed."

"I believe you, uncle, and without exercising any great mental ingenuity, my letter, I fear, will be a sad hypocritical affair."

"Doubtless," said Godfrey, roaring with laughter, "I wish, Tony, we could change fathers."

A reproachful look from Algernon, and a flash from the calm dark eyes of Anthony, checked the immoral levity of his cousin, who, stepping briskly up to the table, continued--

"Give me a pen, and I will give you a few hints on the subject."

"This is too serious a business for mirth, Godfrey," said Anthony, gravely. "I did not love him once--I was a child. He was harsh and cold, and I was ignorant of the sacred nature of those ties that bound us together. Time has wrought a great change in me; perhaps it may have done the same in him. I am anxious to feel for him a deeper interest--to pity his unfortunate malady, and cherish in my heart the duty and affection of a son."

"Ah! Tony, Tony, you begin to know the value of the shiners, to tremble lest old skinflint Pike should cut you out of daddy's will. But come, let me write the dutiful letter that is to reinstate you in the miser's good graces. Shall it be in verse or prose? What, silent yet? Well then, here goes." And with an air of mock gravity he took up a pen, and commenced reading every line aloud as he went on--

"Dear stingy dad, I long to share The keeping of your hoarded treasure; You, I know, have lots to spare, And I, your hopeful son and heir, Would spend it with the greatest pleasure.

Oh, thou most devoted father Fill your chest--hide well the key Countless wealth for me you gather, And I selfishly would rather You should starve and save than me.

Must I--must I, still dependent, On another's bounty live--"

"What do you mean by that, sir?" cried Algernon in sudden anger, although hitherto much amused by his son's rattling nonsense. He saw the blush of shame burn on the cheeks of Anthony, and the tears of wounded pride fill his eyes.

"I meant no offence," said Godfrey, abashed by the unusual severity of the Colonel's look and tone. "What I said was only intended to make you both laugh."

"I forgive him," murmured the indignant heart-humbled lad. "He has given me another motive to write to my father."

"My dear Tony, never mind his folly." But Anthony was already in the solitude of his own chamber.

How often had he borne that taunt from Godfrey! How often had he been told before boys whom he esteemed and loved at school, and whose good opinion he was desirous to retain, that he was dependent upon the bounty of Colonel Hurdlestone, though the only son and heir of the rich miser; and that he was as selfish and mean-spirited as his father to submit to such degradation! And he had marked the sarcastic smile, the lifted shoulder, and the meaning glance that passed from boy to boy, and the galling chain of dependence had entered into his soul.

He became thoughtful and reserved, and applied more intensely to his studies, to shut out what he considered the ungracious, ungrateful conviction that he was a beggar in the house of his good uncle. Godfrey had already calculated the expense of his board and education, for he had more than once hinted to him, that when he came in for his miserly father's wealth, in common justice he ought to repay to him what his romantically generous uncle had expended upon him. Anthony had solemnly averred that such should indeed be the case, and again had been tauntingly answered--"Wait until it is yours; you will then tell a different tale." But now he had dared to reproach him in his uncle's presence; and it was more than the high-spirited youth could bear.

"Father, cruel, unnatural father!" he exclaimed, as he raised his head from between his hands; "why have you subjected your unfortunate son to insults like these?"

"Who insults you, my dear Anthony?" said the Colonel, who had followed him unobserved, and who now stood beside him. "A rash, impetuous, thoughtless boy, who never reflects upon what he says; and who, in spite of all his faults, loves you."

"When you speak, uncle, I am silent. I am sorry that you witnessed this burst of discontent. When I think upon all that I owe to you, my heart is bankrupt in thanks; I never can repay your kindness, and the thought--the consciousness of such overwhelming obligations makes me unhappy."

"I read your heart, Anthony," said the Colonel seating himself beside him. "I know all that you would say, and cannot utter; and I, instead of you become the debtor."

"Your goodness, uncle, makes me feel ashamed of being angry with my cousin. I wish I could forget the unfortunate circumstances in which I am placed; that you were my father instead of him who has disowned me--that my whole heart and soul could cling to you."

He rose hastily and flung himself into the Colonel's arms. His head was buried in his bosom, and by the convulsive heaving of the young heart against his own, Algernon knew that the lad was weeping. His own eyes became moist,--he pressed him warmly against his manly breast.

"You are my son, Anthony--the son of her who received my early vows--of her who ought to have been my wife. Her heart was mine; and though another claims your earthly part, you are the son of my soul--of my adoption. Henceforth let no sense of obligation exist between us."

"I take you at your word, beloved father, and if love can repay love, in my poor heart you have no rival."

"I know it, Anthony; but since you talk of wishing to be out of my debt, there is a way in which you can more than repay me."

He paused; Anthony raised his earnest eyes to his face. "Not only by forgiving my dear petulant Godfrey, but by continuing his friend. I know that I have spoilt him--that he has many faults, but I think his heart is sound. As he grows older, he will know better how to value your character. Promise me, Anthony, that, when I am dust, your love for me may survive for my son."

"Uncle!" said the lad, dropping upon his knees by his side, and holding up his clasped hands, "I swear by the God who made us, by the Saviour who bled for us--by our common hopes of salvation through His blood, that, whatever fortune I inherit from my father, Godfrey shall have an equal part."

"This is too much to ask of you, Anthony, all I wish you to promise is, simply to continue his friend, under every provocation to become otherwise."

Anthony pressed his uncle's hand reverentially to his lips, as he said, in a low voice, "I will endeavor to comply with your request."

They parted: Algernon to counsel his wayward boy, and Anthony to write to his father.

"Father,"

(He began,) "How gladly would I call you dear. Oh, that you would allow me to love you--to feel for you the duty and respect which the poorest child feels for his parent. What have I done, my father, that you deny me your presence, and hold no communion with me? Will you not permit me to see you? You are growing old and need some friend to be near you, to soothe the growing infirmities of age. Who could better fill this place than your son? Who could feel such an interest in your welfare, or be so firm a friend to you, as your son--your only son? You will perhaps tell me that it is your wealth, and not your love, I seek. I care not for your money. It has never conduced to your own happiness; how do I know that it will ever conduce to mine? I hate it, for it has shut up your heart against me, and made me an orphan and an outcast.

"Father, pity me? Pity the circumstances in which I am placed: dependent upon the charity of my good uncle, I feel, kind though he be to me, that I am a burden--that it is not just that I should live upon him. I have finished my school education, and can show you the most honorable testimonials from my masters. I have acquired some knowledge, but I long for more. My uncle talks of sending me to college with his son. For what profession do you wish me to study? Let me know your wishes in this respect, and they shall be strictly obeyed. I shall feel greatly honored by your answer, and remain

"Your dutiful son,

"Anthony Marcus Hurdlestone."

Anthony did not show his uncle this letter. He knew that he would object to the part relative to himself. He duly sealed it and paid the post, and for several days he awaited the reply in a state of feverish excitement. At length it came, and ran thus:

"Son Anthony,

"Your letter pleased me. I believe it to be sincere. You have been so long a stranger, that I do not feel any wish to see you; but, hereafter, if you wait with patience, you will not be forgotten. You are a Hurdlestone. I respect the old family and the old name too much to leave it without an heir.

"I am glad that you have had sense enough to improve your time. Time is money. As to a profession, the uncle who took you from my protection had best choose one for his adopted son. There are several livings in my gift. If you should make choice of the Church, they shall be yours. This would make property which has hitherto been of little value pay a good interest. As to being dependent upon your uncle, the thought amused me. If he feels you a burden, it is self-inflicted, and he must be content to bear it. You need not look to me for pecuniary assistance; I shall yield you none. An industrious young man can always free himself from a galling yoke.

"Your father and friend,

Marcus Hurdlestone."

Upon the whole, Anthony was pleased with his father's letter. It displayed more of human feeling than he expected; besides, he had not rejected his claims as a son. He had acknowledged him to be his heir. It is true, he had forbidden him his presence, and flung back his proffered affection; but he had spoken of him with respect, and his son was grateful even for this stinted courtesy. He would one day be able to repay his uncle's kindness in a more substantial manner than words; and he flew to Algernon's study with a beating heart and flushed cheeks.

"What news, my boy?" said the Colonel, looking up from the artificial fly he was making. "Have you caught a trout or a salmon?"

"Better still. I have got a letter from my father!"

"No!" said the Colonel, letting go his fishing-tackle. "Is that possible?"

"Here it is; read for yourself." And he put the letter into Algernon's hand.

"Well, Tony, lad, this is indeed better than I expected," he said, grasping his nephew warmly by the hand. "But stay; what does this paragraph mean? Have you found my love, Anthony, such a galling yoke?"

"My father has misunderstood me," replied the lad, his cheeks glowing with crimson. "I told him that it was not just for me to be dependent on your bounty."

"'Tis a crabbed old sinner," said the Colonel, laughing, "I am more astonished at his letter than anything that has happened to me since he robbed me of your mother."

Anthony looked inquiringly at his uncle.

"Come, nephew, sit down by me, and I will relate to you a page out of my own history, which will not only show you what manner of man this father of yours is, but explain to you the position in which we are both placed regarding him; clearing up what must have appeared to you very mysterious."

With intense interest the amiable son of this most execrable father listened to the tale already told of his mother's wrongs. How often did the crimes of the parent dye the cheeks of the child with honest indignation, or pale them with fear? How did his love for his generous uncle increase in a tenfold degree, when he revealed the treachery that had been practised against him! How often did he ask himself--"Is it possible that he can love the son of this cruel brother?" But then he was also the son of the woman he had loved so tenderly for years, whose memory he held in the deepest veneration; was like him in person, and, with sounder judgment and better abilities, resembled him in mind also.

Satisfied that his father would do him justice in spite of his cold, unfeeling neglect, and bequeath to him the wealth to obtain which he had sacrificed every human feeling and domestic comfort, Anthony no longer suffered the humiliating sense of obligation to weigh upon his heart and depress his spirits, and he cheerfully accepted his uncle's offer to send him to college to study for the Church.

"Five livings," Godfrey declared, were four too many for any incumbent, and he would charitably relieve Anthony from some of them, and study for the same profession. His cousin was grieved at this choice, so unfitted to the tastes and pursuits of his gay companion; but finding all remonstrance vain, he ceased to importune him on the subject, hoping that as time advanced, he would, of his own accord, abandon the idea.

To college, therefore, the lads went; and here the same dissimilarity marked their conduct as at school. Anthony applied intensely to his studies, and made rapid progress in mental and moral improvement. Serious without affectation, and pious without cant, he daily became more attached to the profession he had chosen, hoping to find through it a medium by which he could one day restore to the world the talents which for half a century his father had buried in the dust. Godfrey's career, on the other hand, was one of folly, dissipation and crime. He wasted his father's property in the most lavish expenditure, and lost at the gaming table sums that would have settled him well in life.

Anthony remonstrated with him on his want of principle, and pointed out the ruin which must follow such profligacy. This Godfrey took in very bad part, and tauntingly accused his cousin of being a spy. He told him that it sounded well from a dependent on his father's bounty to preach up abstinence to him. These circumstances threw Anthony into a deep melancholy. He did not like to write to his uncle to inform him in what a disgraceful manner his son was spending his time and money; and he constantly reproached himself with a want of faithfulness in keeping such an important matter a secret.

Disgusted with his cousin and his dissipated associates, Anthony withdrew entirely from their society, and shut himself up in his own apartments, rarely leaving his books to mingle in scenes in which he could not sympathize, and in which, from his secluded habits, he was not formed to shine. He became a dreamer. He formed a world for himself, and peopled it with beings whose imaginary perfections had no counterpart on earth. He went forth to mingle with his kind, and found them so unlike the creatures in his moral Utopia, that he determined to relinquish society and spiritualise his own nature, the better to fit him for his high calling as a minister of the gospel of Christ.

"How much better it would be to die young," he would exclaim, "than live to be old and wicked, or to watch over the decay of the warm affections and enthusiastic feelings of youth; to see the beautiful fade from the heart, and the worldly and common-place fill up the blighting void! Oh! Godfrey, Godfrey! how can you enjoy the miserable and sensual pleasures for which you are forfeiting self-respect and peace of mind for ever!"

"But Godfrey is happier than you, with all your refined feelings and cultivated tastes," whispered the tempter to his soul.

"It cannot be," returned the youth, as he communed with his own heart. "The pleasures of sin may blind the mental vision, and blunt the senses, for a while; but when the terrible truth makes all things plain--and the reaction comes--and come it assuredly will--and the mind, like a polluted stream, can no longer flow back to its own bright source, and renovate its poisoned waters; who shall then say that the madness of the sensualist can satisfy the heart?"

Thus did these two young men live together: one endeavoring by the aid of religion, and by studying the wisdom of the past, to exalt and purify his fallen nature; the other by grovelling in the dust, and mingling with beings yet more sinful and degraded, rapidly debased his mind to a more degenerate and fallen state.

Godfrey Hurdlestone had always been covetous of his cousin's anticipated wealth, but now he envied his good name, and the respect which his talents and good conduct entitled him to receive from his superiors, and he hated him accordingly. He could not bear to see him courted and caressed by his worldly companions because he was the son of the rich miser, and himself thrown into the background, although in personal endowments he far surpassed his studious and retiring companion. His own father, though reputed to be rich, was known to be in embarrassed circumstances, which the extravagance of his son was not likely to decrease. Godfrey had no mental resource but in the society of persons whom Anthony despised; and he was daily annoyed by disparaging comparisons which the very worldlings he courted were constantly drawing between them. "Oh envy!" well has it been said by the wisest of mankind, "who can stand before envy?"

Of all human passions, the meanest in its operations, the most fatal in its results, foul parent of the most revolting crimes. If the heart is guarded against this passion, the path to heaven becomes easy of access, and the broad and dangerous way loses half its attractions.

Godfrey had forfeited his own self-respect, and he hated his cousin for possessing a jewel which he had cast away. This aversion was strengthened by the anxious solicitude that Anthony expressed for his welfare, and the earnest appeals which he daily made to his conscience, to induce him to renounce his present destructive course, if not for his own, for his father's sake.

Their studies were nearly completed, when the immense sums that Godfrey had squandered in dissipation and gambling obliged the Colonel to recall them home.

Algernon, although not a little displeased with his heartless selfish son, received the young men with his usual kindness, but there was a shade of care upon his broad open brow, which told to Anthony a tale of anxiety and suffering, that caused him the deepest pain. As two whole years must necessarily elapse before Anthony could enter into holy orders, he determined to prosecute his studies in the country with their worthy curate, Mr. Grant, a gentleman of great learning, piety, and worth.

This arrangement was greatly to the satisfaction of his uncle, though Godfrey shook his shoulders, and muttered that it would be "Confounded dull work."

"I must introduce you, boys, to our new neighbors," said the Colonel, next morning, at breakfast. "But mind that you don't pull caps for Miss Whitmore, our charming young heiress."

"Who the deuce is she?" asked Godfrey.

"You knew that our poor old friend Henderson, of Hazelwood Lodge, was dead?"

"Dead! Why when did he die?" said Godfrey. "You never wrote us a word about it."

"Well, I thought I had. He died two months ago, and his property fell to a very distant relation. A captain in the navy. A man of small family and substantial means, who keeps a fine stud, a capital table, and a cross old maid, his sister, to superintend his household and take care of his daughter."

"And the young lady?"

"Is a beautiful simple-hearted girl; rather romantic, and the very reverse of the old maid. Aunt Dorothy is all ginger and vinegar. Niece Juliet, like fine Burgundy, sparkling with life and animation."

"By Jove! Anthony, good news for us. I give you warning, mister parson, that I mean to pass away the time in this dull place by making love to Miss Whitmore. So don't attempt to poach on my manor."

"That's hardly fair, Godfrey. You ought to allow your cousin an equal chance."

"The young lady will herself make the chances equal," said Anthony, with a quiet smile. "For my own part, I feel little interest in the subject, and never yet saw the woman with whom I would wish to pass my life. To me the passion of love is unknown. Godfrey, on the contrary, professes to be in love with every pretty girl he sees."

"There's no doubt that I shall win the lady," cried Godfrey. "Women are not so fond of quiet, sentimental, learned young gentlemen, like Anthony; his heart partakes too much of the cold tough nature of his father's to make a good lover. While he talks sense to the maiden aunt, I shall be pouring nonsense into the young lady's ears--nursing her lap-dog, caressing her pony, writing amatory verses in her scrap-book," (albums were not then in fashion,) "and losing no opportunity of insinuating myself into her good graces."