Mark Hurdlestone Part 37

"A capital joke," whispered G.o.dfrey. "I could almost love the old sinner for his caustic humor. The order for the money is drawn up in the usual manner, but instead of the words '_To pay_,' the crafty old fox has written, '_Not to pay_ the bearer the sum of four hundred pounds.'"

"Excellent! But let old skinflint look to himself; with that malignant joke he has signed his own death-warrant."

Anthony by this time had recovered from his swoon. But he sat like one stupefied; his throbbing temples resting upon his hands, and his eyes fixed on vacancy. G.o.dfrey's voice at length roused him to a recollection of what had happened, and in faint tones, he requested his two companions to leave him.

"Not in this state of mind. Come, Anthony, clear up that cloudy brow. I am sorry, sorry that I have been the means of drawing you into this ugly sc.r.a.pe, but for my poor father's sake you must forgive me. If you were to make a second application to your ungracious dad, he might, in the hope of ridding himself of such an importunate beggar, give down the two hundred pounds yet wanting. Such a decrease in your demand might work wonders. What think you? Matters cannot be worse between you than they are at present."

Anthony recalled his father's parting look--his parting words.

"To-morrow, I will do you justice if you come to me, at this hour, to-morrow;" and hope again shed a faint glimmer in his breast. He repeated these words to G.o.dfrey. Had he noticed the glance which his cousin threw towards his partner in guilt, he would have been puzzled to read its meaning. Mathews understood it well.

"Go, by all means, Anthony. I have no doubt that his heart will relent; that he already feels ashamed of his barbarous conduct. At all events, it can do no harm--it may do good. Take that infamous piece of writing in your hand, and reproach him with his treachery. My father's injured spirit will be near you, to plead your cause, and you must be successful."

"Yes, I will go," said Anthony. "Either he or I must yield. My mind is made up upon the subject. G.o.dfrey, good night."

"He is ours, Mathews," whispered G.o.dfrey, as they left the house. "The old man's days are numbered. Remember this hour to-morrow night!"

Glad to find himself once more alone, Anthony continued to pace the room, revolving over in his mind his interview with his father. He felt convinced that the old man had repented of the cruel trick he had played him; that but for the entrance of Grenard Pike, he would have recalled the paper and given him the sum he desired. At all events, he was determined to see him at the hour the miser had named, and tell him, without disguise, his thoughts upon the subject.

In the midst of all this tumult of pa.s.sion, the image of Juliet glided into his mind, and seemed to whisper peace to his perturbed spirit. "Oh, that I had a friend to advise me in this gloomy hour, into whose faithful bosom I could pour out my whole soul! Shall I tell Clary? Shall I confide to the dear child my guilt and folly?" He rang the bell. Old Ruth, half asleep, made her appearance.

"How is your mistress, Ruth?"

"Better the night, sir."

"Will you tell her that I wish very much to see her."

"You won't disturb the poor lamb, sure. Why, Mr. Anthony, she has been in her bed these two hours. She asked after you several times during the day, and was very uneasy at your absence. Poor child! I believe she is mortal fond of you."

"Of me, Ruth?"

"Of you, sir. I am sure Miss Clary is over head and ears in love with you. Arn't it natural? Two handsome young creatures living in the same house together, walking, and talking, and singing and playing, all the time with each other. Why, Master Anthony, if you don't love the dear child, you must be very deceitful, after making so much of her."

The old woman left him, still muttering to herself some anathema against the deceitfulness of men; while Anthony, shocked beyond measure at the disclosure of a secret which he had never suspected, threw himself upon the sofa, and yielding to the overpowering sense of misery which oppressed him, wept--even as a woman weeps--long and bitterly.

"Why," he thought, "why am I thus continually the sport of a cruel destiny? Are the sins of my parents indeed visited upon me? Is every one that I love, or that loves me, to be involved in one common ruin?"

And then he wished for death, with a longing, intense, sinful desire, which placed him upon the very verge of self-destruction. He went to Frederic's bureau, and took out his pistols, and loaded them, then placed himself opposite to the gla.s.s, and deliberately took aim at his head. But his hand trembled, and the ghastly expression of his face startled him--so wan, so wild, so desperate. It looked not of earth, still less like a future denizen of heaven.

"No, not to-night," he said. "He the stern father may relent, or fill up the full measure of his iniquities. The morrow; G.o.d knoweth what it may bring for me. If all should fail me, then this shall be my friend. Yes, even in his presence will I fling at his feet the loathed life he gave!"

He threw himself upon the sofa, but not to sleep. Hour after hour pa.s.sed onward towards eternity. One, two, three, spoke out the loud voice of Time, and it sounded in the ears of the watcher like his knell.

And she, the fair child--she who had, at sixteen, outlived the fear of death. Had he won her young spirit back to earth, to mar its purity with the stains of human pa.s.sion? There was not a feeling in his heart at that moment so sad as this. How deeply he regretted that he ever had been admitted to that peaceful home.

But was she not a Wildegrave, and was not misery hers by right of inheritance? And then he thought of his mother--thought of his own desolate childhood--of his poor uncle--of his selfish but still dear cousin G.o.dfrey, and overcome by these sad reflections, as the glad sun broke over the hills, bringing life and joy to the earth, he sunk into a deep, dreamless sleep, from which he did not awaken until the broad shadows of evening were deepening into night.

When old Ruth dusted out the parlor, she was surprised to find him asleep upon the sofa. He looked so pale and ill, that she flung Miss Clary's large cloak over him, and went up stairs to inform her mistress of such an unusual occurrence.

All day Clary had sat beside him, holding, almost unconsciously, his burning hand in hers. Often she bathed his temples with sal-volatile and water, but so deep were his slumbers, so blessed was the perfect cessation from mental misery, that he continued to sleep until the sun disappeared behind the oak hills, and then, with a deep sigh, he once more awoke to a painful consciousness of his situation.

Clary dropped the hand she held, and started from the sofa, over which she had been leaning, the vivid flush burning upon her cheek, and sprang away to order up tea. Anthony rose, marvelling at his long sleep, and went to his chamber to make his toilet; when he returned to the parlor, he found Clary waiting for him.

"My kind little cousin," he said, taking her hand, "you have been ill--are you better?"

"I am quite well, and should be quite happy, dear Anthony, if I could see you looking so. But you are ill and low-spirited; I read it all in your dim eye and dejected looks. Come, sit down, and take a cup of tea.

You have eaten nothing all day. Here is a nice fowl, delicately cooked, which Ruth prepared for your especial benefit. Do let me see you take something."

"I cannot eat," said Anthony, pus.h.i.+ng the plate from him, and eagerly swallowing the cup of refres.h.i.+ng tea that Clary presented. "I am ill, Clary, but mine is a disease of the mind. I am, indeed, far from happy; I wish I could tell you all the deep sorrow that lies so death-like at my heart."

"And why do you make it worse by concealment?" said Clary, rising and going round to the side of the table on which he was leaning; "you need not fear to trust me, Anthony; there is no one I love on earth so well, except dear Frederic. Will you not let your little cousin share your grief?"

"My sweet child," said Anthony, winding his arm around her slender waist, and leaning his head on her shoulder, "you could render me no a.s.sistance; the knowledge of my sorrow would only make you miserable."

"If it is anything about Juliet, tell me freely. Perhaps, you think, dear Anthony, that I am jealous of you and Juliet; oh, no, I love you too well for that. I know that I can never be as dear to you as Juliet; that she is more worthy of your love--Good Heavens! you are weeping.

What have I said to cause these tears? Anthony, dear Anthony, speak to me. You distract me. Oh, tell me that I have not offended you."

Anthony's lips moved, but no word issued from them. His eyes were firmly closed, his brow pale as marble, and large tears slid in quick succession from beneath the jet-black lashes that lay like a shadow upon his ashen cheeks. And other tears were mingling with those drops of heart-felt agony--tears of the tenderest sympathy, the most devoted love, as, leaning that fair face upon the cold brow of the unhappy youth, Clary unconsciously kissed away those waters of the heart, and pressed that wan cheek against her gentle bosom. She felt his arm tighten round her, as she stood in the embrace of the beloved, scarcely daring to breathe, for fear of breaking the sad spell that had linked them together. At length Anthony unclosed his eyes, and looked long and earnestly up in his young companion's face--

"Oh, Clary! how shall I repay this love, my poor innocent lamb? Would to G.o.d we had never met!"

"Do not say that, Anthony. I never knew what it was to be happy until I knew you."

"Then you love life better than you did, Clary?"

"I love you," sighed Clary, hiding her fair face among his ebon curls, "and the new life with which you have inspired me is very dear."

"Oh, that I could bid you cherish it for my sake, dear artless girl! But we must part. In a few hours the faulty being whom you have rashly dared to love, may be no longer a denizen of earth."

"What do you mean?" cried Clary, starting from his arms, and gazing upon him with a distracted air. "While I have been idling in my bed something dreadful has happened. I read it in your averted eyes--on your sad, sad brow. Do not leave me in this state of torturing doubt. I beseech you to tell me the cause of your distress?"

"Clary, I cannot; I wish to tell you, but the circ.u.mstances are so degrading, I cannot find words to give them utterance; I feel that you would despise me--that all good men would upbraid me as a weak unprincipled fool; yet I call Heaven to witness, that at the moment I committed the rash act I thought not that it was a crime."

"It is impossible, Anthony, that you could do anything unworthy of yourself, or that could occasion this bitter grief. You are laboring under some strong delusion, and are torturing yourself to no purpose.

Frederic will be home to-morrow; he will counsel you what to do, and all will be right."

"Frederic home to-morrow!" and Anthony gasped for breath.

"Oh, I am so glad. It seems an age since he left us. By the bye, I have a letter for you, which I quite forgot. It came this morning by the post. I am sure it is from my brother, for I know his hand." Going to the mantel-shelf, Clary handed him the letter. Anthony trembled violently as he broke the seal; it ran thus:

"My Dear Anthony,

"I know not in what manner to interpret your unkind silence. Your failing to forward the money I left in your hands has caused me great mortification and inconvenience, and will oblige me to leave--to-morrow, without transacting the business that took me from home.

"Though I am certain that you will give me very satisfactory reasons for your non-compliance with my very urgent request, I feel so vexed and annoyed by it, that it makes me half inclined to quarrel with you. You would forgive this if you only knew what an irritable mortal I am. I advise you and Clary to frame some notable excuse for your negligence, or you may dread the wrath of your affectionate friend,

"Frederic."