Irving Bacheller - "A Man for the Ages"

Lawrence Gilman - "Debussy's Pelleas et Melisande"

Hugh Quigley - "The Cross and the Shamrock"

Edgar Allan Poe - "The Raven"

Books of The Times: A 5th Gospel Can Be Like a 5th Wheel
An independent publisher said it was negotiating to release Herman Rosenblat’s discredited memoir, “Angel at the Fence,” as fiction.

Arts, Briefly: False Memoir May Find New Life as Fiction
The architectural historian Kenneth Frampton has updated his 1995 book with 11 additional houses.

Currents | Books: 11 More Great Homes
A personal Christmas tale posted online by the author Neale Donald Walsch turns out to belong to someone else — the writer Candy Chand, who first published it 10 years ago.

Susanna Moodie - Mark Hurdlestone

S >> Susanna Moodie >> Mark Hurdlestone




"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 God'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 God, 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 passionately 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 God forbid we should!"

Anthony shuddered. He felt that such a meeting was impossible; and he
started from the degrading posture he had assumed, 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 assailed by such impertinent importunities.
Reflect, young man, on your present undutiful conduct, and, if ever you
provoke me by a repetition 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 God 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 Godfrey;
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 masses 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 passionate, 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, flashing 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
passionate 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 fortitude!"

"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 circumstances 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, "God 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 noble--generous. God bless him for that! And Godfrey--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
fortitude. 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 fortitude. Godfrey 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 Godfrey 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. "Godfrey 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.


We will leave Anthony Hurdlestone to weep and watch beside the newly
dead, and conduct our readers into the cottage occupied by Farmer
Mathews and his family.

Returning the night before from market, very much the worse from liquor,
the farmer had fallen from his horse, and received a very severe
concussion of the brain. William, surprised at his long absence, left
the house at daybreak in search of his father, and found him lying,
apparently dead, within sight of his own door.

With Mary's assistance, he carried him into the house. Medical aid was
called in, and all had been done that man could do to alleviate the
sufferings of the injured farmer, but with little effect. The man had
received a mortal blow, and the doctor, when he left that evening, had
pronounced the fatal sentence that his case was hopeless; that, in all
probability, he would expire before the morning.

As the night drew on, the elder Mathews became quite unconscious of
surrounding objects, and but for the quick hard breathing, you would
have imagined him already dead.

The door of the cottage was open, to admit the fresh air; and in the
door way, revealed by the solitary candle which burnt upon the little
table by the bed-side, stood the tall athletic figure of William
Mathews. His sister was sitting in a low chair by the bed's head, her
eyes fixed with a vacant stare upon the heavy features of the dying man.

"William," she said, in a quick deep voice, "where are you? Do come and
watch with me. I do not like to be alone."

"You are not alone," returned the ruffian sullenly; "I am here; and some
one else is here whom you cannot see."

"Whom do you mean?"

"The devil, to be sure," responded her brother. "He is always near us;
but never more near than in the hour of death and the day of judgment."

"Good Lord, deliver us!" said the girl, repeating unconsciously aloud
part of the liturgy of the Church to which nominally she belonged.

"All in good time," responded the human fiend. "Has father shown any
sign of returning sense since the morning?"

"No, he has remained just in the same state. William, will he die?"

"You may be sure of that, Mary. Living men never look as he does now."

"It is a terrible sight," said his sister. "I always did hope that I
should die before father; but since I got into this trouble I have
wished that he might never live to know it. That was sin, William. See
how my wicked thoughts have become prophecy. Yet I am so glad that he
never found out my crime, that it makes the tears dry in my eyes to see
him thus."

"You make too much fuss about your condition, girl! What is done cannot
be undone. All you can now do is to turn it to the best possible
account."

"What do you mean, William?"

"Make money by it."

"Alas," said the girl, "what was given away freely cannot be redeemed
with gold. Had I the wealth of the whole world, I would gladly give it
to regain my lost peace of mind. Oh, for one night of calm fresh sleep,
such as I used to enjoy after a hard day's work in the field. What would
I not give for such a night's rest? Rest! I never rest now. I work and
toil all day; I go to bed--heart-weary and head-weary--but sleep never
comes as it used to come. After long hours of tossing from side to side,
just about the dawn of day, a heavy stupor comes over me, full of
frightful sights and sounds, so frightful that I start and awake, and
pray not to sleep again."

"And what has made such a change--that one act?" said the ruffian.
"Pshaw! girl. God will never damn your soul for the like of that. It was
foolish and imprudent; but I don't call _that_ sin."

"Then what is sin?" said the girl solemnly.

"Why, murder, and theft, and--"

"And what?"

"Hang me! if I wish to go deeper into the matter. But if that is sin,
which you make such a to-do about, then the whole world are sinners."

"Do you think that you are not a sinner, William?"

"I never thought a word about it," said the man. "I am not a whit worse
than others; but I am poorer, and that makes my faults more conspicuous.
There is Godfrey Hurdlestone, every whit as bad as I am, yet were we to
be tried by the same jury, the men that would hang me would acquit him.
But his day is over," he continued, talking to himself. "He is now as
poor as me; and if the rich heiress does not marry him, will be much
worse off."

"Marry!" cried Mary, springing from her seat, and grasping her brother's
arm. "Who talks of Godfrey Hurdlestone marrying?"

"I talk of it--every one talks of it--he boasts of it himself. I was
told last night by Captain Whitmore's serving-man, that his master had
given his consent to the match, and that the young lady was coming
round, and that Mr. Godfrey was every day at the house. Perhaps the
Colonel being cooped up in jail may spoil the young man's wooing."

"In jail! Colonel Hurdlestone in jail! Can that be true?"

"Fact."

"And Mr. Godfrey? What will become of Mr. Godfrey?"

"He will become one of us, and have to take care of himself. And if he
does marry Miss Whitmore, he will have enough to take care of you."

"Do you think that I would share his affections with another woman?"
cried the girl, her pale cheeks flushing to crimson. "Brother, I am not
sunk so low as that--not quite so low."

"You are sunk quite low enough for anything, Mary. You may be as bad as
you like now, the world will think no worse of you than it does at
present. You have made a bad bargain, and you must stand by it. If you
cannot be the man's wife, you must rest content with being his mistress;
married or single you will always be Godfrey Hurdlestone's better half.
Miss Whitmore is not to compare to you, in spite of her pretty waxen
face, and she is not the woman to please such a wild fellow as him. He
will grow tired of her before the honeymoon is over, and you will have
it all your own way."

"Juliet Whitmore shall never be his wife, nor any other woman, while I
live. But, William, if he is as poor as you say he is, what use will it
be to you my continuing to live with him in sin? He cannot give me money
if he has none for himself."

"Hush," said the ruffian, drawing nearer, and glancing quickly round, to
be certain that they were alone. "Did you never hear of the rich miser,
Mark Hurdlestone?"

"Mr. Anthony's father?"

"The same. And do you not know that, were Anthony out of the way,
removed by death or any other cause, Godfrey Hurdlestone would be his
heir?"

"Well, what of that? Anthony is alive and well, and may outlive us all."

"Strong men often die very suddenly. There is an ill-luck hangs about
this same Mr. Anthony. I prophesy that his life will be a short one.
Hark! Was that a groan? Father is coming to himself."

He took the candle and went up to the bed. The sick man still breathed,
but remained in the same stupor as before. "This cannot last long," said
his son, stooping over the corpse-like figure. "Father was a strong man
for his age, but 'tis all up with him now. I wish he could speak to us,
and tell us where he is going; but I'm thinking that we shall never hear
the sound of his voice again. The bell will toll for him before sunrise
to-morrow."

He had scarcely finished speaking when the slow, deep boom of the
death-bell awoke the sluggish stillness of the heavy night. The brother
and sister started, and Mary gave a loud scream.

"Who's dead?" said Mathews, stepping to the open door "some of the
quality, or that bell would not speak out at this late hour of night.
Ha! Mr. Godfrey Hurdlestone. Is that you?"

"What's wrong here?" cried Godfrey, glancing rapidly round the cottage.
"Mathews, have you heard the news? My poor father's dead."

"Dead!" exclaimed both his companions in a breath. "Colonel Hurdlestone
dead! When did he die?"

"This evening, at sunset. 'Tis a bad piece of business, Mathews. He died
insolvent, and I am left without a penny."

"Alas, what will become of us all!" shrieked Mary, flinging herself
frantically upon the bed. "William, he has ceased to breathe. Our father
too is dead!"

The grief of the lower orders is generally loud and violent.
Unaccustomed to restrain their feelings, Nature lifts up her voice, and
tells, in tones which cannot be misunderstood, the blow which has left
her desolate. And so Mary Mathews poured forth the anguish of her soul
over the parent that, but a few days before, she had wished dead, to
conceal from him her guilt. Yet now that he was gone--that the strong
tie was broken, and her conscience reproached her for having cherished
for a moment the unnatural thought--she wept as if her heart had never
known a deeper sorrow. Her brother and lover strove in vain to comfort
her. She neither saw nor heeded them, but in a stern voice bade them
depart and leave her alone.

"The wilful creature! Let her have her own way, Mr. Godfrey. Grief like
that, like the down-pouring of a thunder-shower, soon storms itself to
rest. She will be better soon. Leave her to take care of the dead, while
you and I step into the kitchen and consult together about the living."

Godfrey, who had suffered much that day from mental excitement, felt
doubly depressed by the scene he had just witnessed, and gladly obeyed.

Mathews lighted a fresh candle, and led the way into the kitchen. The
fire that had been used to prepare the evening meal was nearly out;
Mathews raked the ashes together and threw a fresh billet into the
grate; then reaching from a small cupboard a bottle and a glass, he drew
a small table between them, and stretching his legs towards the cheering
blaze he handed a glass of brandy to his companion.

"Hang it, man! don't look so down in the mouth. This is the best friend
in time of need. This is my way of driving out the blue devils that
pinch and freeze my heart."

Godfrey eagerly seized the proffered glass and drained it at a draught.

"Well, that's what I call hearty!" continued the ruffian, following his
example. "There's nothing like that for killing care. I don't wonder at
your being low. I feel queer myself--devilish queer. It is a strange
thing to lose a father. A something is gone--a string is loosened from
the heart, which we feel can never be tied again. I wonder whether the
souls gone from among us to-night are lost or saved--or if there be a
heaven or hell?"

"Pshaw!" said Godfrey, lighting his pipe, "do you believe such idle
fables?"

"Why, do you see, Master Godfrey, I would fain think them false for my
own sake--mere old women's tales. But terrible thoughts will come into
my mind; and though I seldom think of heaven, I often hear a voice from
the shut up depths of my heart--a voice that I cannot stifle. Do not
smile," said the man gloomily, "I am in no mood to be laughed at. Bad
as I am, confound me if you are not ten times worse."

"If you are so afraid of going to hell," said Godfrey, sarcastically,
"why do you not amend your life? I, for my part, am troubled with no
such qualms of conscience."

"If you had seen blood as often upon your hand as I have upon mine, you
would tell a different story. Kill a man, and then see if what we hear
of ghosts and spirits are mere fables. I tell thee, Godfrey Hurdlestone,
they never die, but live and walk abroad, and haunt you continually. The
voice they speak with will be heard. In solitary places--in the midst of
crowds--at fairs and merry-makings--in the noon of day, and at the dead
of night, I have heard their mocking tones." He leaned his elbows upon
his knees, and supported his chin between the palms of his hands, and
continued to stare upon Godfrey with vacant bloodshot eyes.

"Don't take me for a ghost," said Godfrey, the same sarcastic smile
passing over his handsome face. "What does it matter to us where our
fathers are gone? If there is a place of future rewards or punishments,
depend upon it we shall only have to answer for our own sins; and as you
and I have, at present, but a small chance of getting to heaven, we may
as well make the most of our time on earth."

"Confound that death-bell," said the smuggler, "it has a living voice
to-night. I never hear it but it reminds me of Newgate, and I fancy that
I shall hear it toll for my own death before I die."

"A very probable consummation, though certainly not a very pleasant
one," said Godfrey ironically. "But away with such melancholy presages.
Take another sup of the brandy, Mathews, and tell me what you are going
to do for a living. The lease of your farm expires in a few days. Mr.
---- has taken possession of the estates, and means, Johnstone tells me,
to put in another tenant. What will become of you and Mary in the
meanwhile?"

"I have not thought about it yet. At any rate, I can always live by the
old trade, and fall upon my feet. At all events, we must leave this
place. It is little that father has saved. The neighbors think him rich,
but a drunkard never dies rich; and you know, Mr. Godfrey, that the
weight of a pig is never known until after it is dead. There will not be
much more than will bury him. There are the crops in the ground, to be
sure, and the cattle, and a few sticks of furniture; but debts of honor
must be paid, and I have been very unlucky of late. By the by, Master
Godfrey, what does your cousin mean to do with himself?"

"He must go home to his miserly dad, I suppose."

"Humph! I think that I will go to Ashton and settle in that neighborhood
myself; I like to be near old friends."

"What can induce _you_, Mathews, to go there?"

"I have my reasons. Strong reasons too, in which I am sure _you_ will
heartily concur." He looked into his companion's eyes, with an
expression so peculiar, that Godfrey started as if some new light had
suddenly flashed upon his soul, while Mathews continued in a lower
voice, "Suppose, now that we could get up a regular quarrel between old
Ironsides and his son; who would then be the miser's heir?"

Godfrey took the hand of the smuggler and pressed it hard.

"Can you form no better scheme than that?"

"I understand you, Mr. Godfrey. You are a perfect genius in wickedness.
The devil never found a fitter agent for doing his business on a grand
scale. Yes, yes, I understand you."

"Would it be possible?"

"All things are possible to those who have the courage to perform. If I
could remove this obstacle out of your way, what would be my reward?"

"A thousand pounds!"

"Your conscience! Do you think that I would risk my neck for such a
paltry bribe?"

"You have done it often for the hundredth part."

"That's neither here nor there. If I have played the fool a dozen times,
that's no reason that I am to do so again. Go shares, and promise to
make an honest woman of Mary, and you shall not be long out of
possession."

"The sacrifice is too great," said Godfrey, musing. "Let us say no more
about it at present."

"You will think about it?"

"Thoughts are free."

"Not exactly. Evil thoughts lead to evil deeds, as surely as fruit
follows flowers upon the tree. Try to lay that babe of the brain to
rest, and see if it will not waken to plague you yet."

"It was one of your own begetting--you should know best how to quiet the
imp."

"Leave me alone for that. The day is breaking; we must part. We have
both melancholy duties to perform."

Copyright (c) 2007. topmasterworks.com. All rights reserved.