Mark Hurdlestone Part 23

The old man regarded him with a sullen scowl; but whatever were his feelings (and that he did feel the whole truth of the young man's pa.s.sionate appeal, the restless motion of his foot and hand sufficiently indicated) he returned no answer; and Anthony emboldened by despair, and finding a relief in giving utterance to the long pent-up feelings which for years had corroded his breast, continued,

"I rightly concluded that I should be considered by you, Mr.

Hurdlestone, an unwelcome visitor. Hateful to the sight of the injurer is the person of the injured, and I stand before you a living reproach, an awful witness both here and hereafter at the throne of G.o.d of what you ought to have been, and what you have neglected to be--a father to your motherless child. But let that pa.s.s. I am in the hands of One who is the protector of the innocent, and in His righteous hands I leave my cause. Your brother, sir, who has been a father to me, is in prison. His heart, sorely pressed by his painful situation, droops to the grave. I came to see if you, out of your abundance, are willing to save him, Father, let your old grudge be forgotten. Let the child of your poor lost Elinor be the means of reconciling you to each other. Cease to remember him as a rival: behold him only in the light of a brother--of that twin brother who shared your cradle--of a friend whom you have deeply injured--a generous fellow-creature fallen, whom you have the power to raise up and restore. Let not the kind protector of your son end his days in a jail, when a small sum, which never could be missed from your immense wealth, would enable him to end his days in peace."

"A _small_ sum!" responded the miser, with a bitter laugh. "Let me hear what _you_, consider a _small_ sum. Your uncle has the impudence to demand of me the sum of _two thousand pounds_, which is _his idea_ of a _small sum_, which he considers a _trifling remuneration_ for bringing up and educating my son from the age of seven years to twenty. Anthony Hurdlestone, go back to your employer, and tell him that I never expended that sum in sixty years."

"You do not mean to dismiss me, sir, with this cruel and insulting message?"

"From me, young man, you will obtain no other."

"Is it possible that a creature, made in G.o.d's image, can possess such a hard heart? Alas! sir, I have considered your avarice in the light of a dire disease; as such I have pitied and excused it. The delusion is over. You are but too sane, and I _feel_ ashamed of my father!"

The old man started and clenched his fist, his teeth grated together, he glared upon his son with his fiery eyes, but remained obstinately silent.

Regardless of his anger, the young man continued--"It is a hard thing for a son to be compelled to plead with his father in a cause like this.

Is there no world beyond the grave? Does no fear of the future compel you to act justly? or are your thoughts so wholly engrossed with the dust on which you have placed all your earthly affections, that you will not, for the love of G.o.d, bestow a small portion of that wealth which you want the heart to enjoy, to save a brother from destruction? Oh!

listen to me, father--listen to me, that I may love and bless you." He flung himself pa.s.sionately at the old man's feet. "Give now, that you may possess treasures hereafter, that you may meet a reconciled brother and wife in the realms of bliss!"

"Fool!" exclaimed the miser, spurning him from his feet. "In heaven they are neither married nor are given in marriage. Your mother and I will never meet, and G.o.d forbid we should!"

Anthony shuddered. He felt that such a meeting was impossible; and he started from the degrading posture he had a.s.sumed, and stood before the old man with a brow as stern and a glance as fierce as his own.

"And now, Anthony Hurdlestone, let me speak a few words to you, and mark them well. Is it for a boy like you to prescribe rules for his father's conduct? Away from my presence! I will not be insulted in my own house by a beardless boy, and a.s.sailed by such impertinent importunities.

Reflect, young man, on your present undutiful conduct, and, if ever you provoke me by a repet.i.tion of it, I will strike your name out of my will, and leave my property to strangers more deserving of it. I hear that you have been studying for the Church, under the idea that I will provide for you in that profession; I could do it. I would have done it, and made good a promise I once gave you to that effect. But this meeting has determined me to pursue another plan, and leave you to provide for yourself."

"You are welcome so to do, Mr. Hurdlestone," said Anthony, proudly; "the education which I have received at your brother's expense will place me above want. Farewell! and may G.o.d judge between us!"

With a heavy heart, Anthony returned to ----. He saw a crowd collected round the jail, and forcing his way to the entrance, was met by G.o.dfrey; his face was deadly pale, and his lips quivered as he addressed his cousin.

"You are too late, Anthony--'tis all over. My poor father--."

He turned away, for his heart, at that time, was not wholly dead to the feelings common to our nature. He could not conclude the sentence.

Anthony instantly comprehended his meaning, and rushed past him into the room which had been appropriated to his uncle's use.

And there, stretched upon that mean bed, never to rise up, or whistle to hawk or hound, lay the generous, reckless Algernon Hurdlestone. His face wore a placid smile; his grey hair hung in solemn ma.s.ses round his open, candid brow; and he looked as if he had bidden the cares and sorrows of time a long good-night, and had fallen into a deep, tranquil sleep.

A tall man stood beside the bed, gazing sadly and earnestly upon the face of the deceased. Anthony did not heed him--the arrow was in his heart. The sight of his dead uncle--his best, his dearest, his only friend--had blinded him to all else upon earth. With a cry of deep and heart-uttered sorrow, he flung himself upon the breast of the dead, and wept with all the pa.s.sionate, uncontrollable anguish which a final separation from the beloved wrings from a devoted woman's heart.

"Poor lad! how dearly he loved him!" remarked a voice near him, addressing the person who had occupied the room when Anthony first entered. It was Mr. Grant, the rector of the parish, who spoke.

"I hope this sudden bereavement will serve him as a warning to amend his own evil ways," returned his companion, who happened to be no other than Captain Whitmore, as he left the apartment.

The voice roused Anthony from his trance of grief, and stung by the unmerited reproach, which he felt was misplaced, even if deserved, in an hour like that, he raised his dark eyes, flas.h.i.+ng through the tears that blinded them, to demand of the Captain an explanation. But the self-elected monitor was gone; and the unhappy youth again bowed his head, and wept upon the bosom of the dead.

"Anthony, be comforted," said the kind clergyman, taking his young friend's hand. "Your poor uncle has been taken in mercy from the evil to come. You know his frank, generous nature--you know his extravagant habits and self-indulgence. How could such a man struggle with the sorrows and cares of poverty, or encounter the cold glances of those whom he was wont to entertain? Think, think a moment, and restrain this pa.s.sionate grief. Would it be wise, or kind, or Christian-like, to wish him back?"

Anthony remembered his interview with his father--the wreck of the last hope to which his uncle had clung; and he felt that Mr. Grant was right.

"All is for the best. My loss is his gain--but such a loss--such a dreadful loss!--I know not how to bear it with becoming fort.i.tude!"

"I will not attempt to insult your grief by offering common-place condolence. These are but words, of course. Nature says, weep--weep freely, my dear young friend; but do not regret his departure."

"How did he die?--dear kind uncle! Was he at all prepared for such a sudden unexpected event?"

"The agitating occurrences of the last week had induced a tendency of blood to the head, which ended in apoplexy. From the moment of seizure he was insensible to all outward objects; he did not even recognise his son, in whose arms he breathed his last. Of his mental state, it is impossible for us to determine. He had faults, but they were more the result of unhappy circ.u.mstances than of any peculiar tendency to evil in his nature. He was kind, benevolent, and merciful: a good neighbor, and a warm and faithful friend. Let us hope that he has found forgiveness through the merits of his Redeemer, and is at rest."

Anthony kissed his uncle's cold cheek, and said, "G.o.d bless him!" with great fervor.

"And now, my young friend, tell me candidly, in what way you have offended Captain Whitmore--a man both wealthy and powerful, and who has proved himself such a disinterested friend to your uncle and cousin; and who might, if he pleased, be of infinite service, to you? Can you explain to me the meaning of his parting words?"

"Not here--not here," said Anthony, greatly agitated. "By the dead body of the father, how can a creature so long dependent upon his bounty denounce his only son? Captain Whitmore labors under a strong delusion--he has believed a lie; and poor and friendless as I am, I am too proud to convince him of his error."

"You are wrong, Anthony. No one should suffer an undeserved stigma to rest upon his character. But I will say no more upon a painful subject.

What are you going to do with yourself? Where will you find a home to-night?"

"Here with the dead. Whilst he remains upon earth I have no other home.

I know Mr. Winthrop the jailer--he is a kind benevolent man; he will not deny me an asylum for a few days."

"My house is close at hand; remain with me until the funeral is over."

"There will be no delay, I hope. They will not attempt to seize the body."

"Captain Whitmore has generously provided for that. He paid the creditor on whose suit your uncle was detained, this morning; but the Colonel was too ill to be moved."

"That was n.o.ble--generous. G.o.d bless him for that! And G.o.dfrey--what is to become of him?"

"The Captain has insisted on his living at the Lodge until his affairs are settled. Your cousin bore the death of his father with uncommon fort.i.tude. It must have been a terrible shock!"

"That is a sad misapplication of the word. A want of natural affection and sensibility, the world calls fort.i.tude. G.o.dfrey had too little respect for his father while living, to mourn very deeply for his death."

"Alas! my young friend; what he is, in a great measure, his father made him. I have known G.o.dfrey from the petted selfish child to the self-willed, extravagant, dissipated young man; and though I augur very little good from what I do know of his character, much that is prominently evil might have been restrained by proper management, and the amiable qualities which now lie dormant been cherished and cultivated until they became virtues. The loss of fortune, if it leads him to apply the talents which he does possess to useful purposes, may, in the end, prove a great gain."

Anthony shook his head. "G.o.dfrey will never work."

"Then, my dear sir, he must starve."

"He will do neither."

And the conversation between the friends terminated.

CHAPTER XIII.

The world has done its worst, you need not heed Its praise or censure now.--Your name is held In deep abhorrence by the good: the bad Make it a sad example for fresh guilt.--S.M.