Susanna Moodie - Mark Hurdlestone

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"Ah, you young ladies are so hard-hearted," said Mary, bitterly. "Pride
hinders you from falling into temptation, like other folk. If you dared,
you would be no better than one of us."

"Mary, do not change my pity for your unhappy situation into contempt.
Religion and propriety of conduct can protect the poorest girl from the
commission of crime. I am sorry for you, and will do all in my power to
save you from your present misery. But you must promise me to give up
your evil course of life."

"You may spare yourself the trouble," said the girl, regarding her
companion's beautiful countenance, and its expression of purity and
moral excellence, with a glance of envious disdain. "I ask no aid; I
need no sympathy; and, least of all, from you, who have robbed me of my
lover, and then reproach me with the evil which your selfish love of
admiration has brought upon me."

A glow of anger passed over Miss Whitmore's face, as the girl turned to
leave her. She struggled a few minutes with her feelings, until her
better nature prevailed; and following Mary, she caught her by the arm:

"Stay with me, Mary! I forgive the rash words you uttered. I am sure you
cannot mean what you say."

"You had better leave me," said the girl, gloomily. "Evil thoughts are
rising in my heart against you, and I cannot resist them."

"You surely would not do me any harm?" and Juliet involuntarily glanced
towards her horse, which was quietly grazing a few paces off,
"particularly when I feel most anxious to serve you."

The girl's countenance betrayed the most violent agitation. She turned
upon Juliet her fine eyes, in which the light of incipient madness
gleamed, and said in a low, horrid voice,

"I hate you. I should like to kill you!"

Juliet felt that to run from her, or to offer the least resistance,
would be the means of drawing upon herself the doom which her companion
threatened. Seating herself upon a fallen tree, and calmly folding her
hands together, she merely uttered, "Mary, may God forgive you for your
sinful thought!" and then awaited in silence the issue of this
extraordinary and painful scene.

The girl stood before her, regarding her with a fixed and sullen tone.
Sometimes she raised her hand in a menacing attitude; and then, again,
the sweet mild glance of her intended victim appeared to awe her into
submission.

"Shall I kill her?" she muttered aloud. "Shall I spoil that baby face,
which he prefers to mine?" Then as if that thought aroused all the worst
feelings in her breast, she continued in a louder, harsher tone, "Yes--I
will tread her beneath my feet--I will trample her into the dust; for he
loves her. Oh, misery, misery! he loves her better than me--than me who
love him so well--who could die for him! Oh, agony of agonies! for her
sake I am forgotten and despised!"

The heart of the woman was touched by the vehemence of her own passions.
Her former ferocity gave way, and she sank down upon the ground, and
buried her face in the long grass, and wept.

Her agonising sobs and groans were more than Juliet could listen to,
without offering a word of comfort to the mourner. Forgetful of her
former fears, she sat down by the prostrate weeper, and lifting her head
upon her knees put back from her swollen face the long-neglected
tresses, which, drenched by the heavy rain, fell in thick masses over
her convulsed features. Mary no longer offered any resistance. Her eyes
were closed, her lips apart. She lay quite motionless, but ever and anon
the pale lips quivered; and streams of tears gushed from beneath the
long lashes that shrouded her eyes, and fell like rain over her
garments.

Oh, love and guilt, how dreadful is your struggle in the human heart!
Like Satan after his first transgression, the divine principle, still
retains somewhat of its sovereign power and dignity, and appears little
less

"Than archangel ruined."

"Poor Mary!" sighed Juliet, "your sin has indeed found you out! Thank
heaven, the man I love is not guilty of this moral murder. Oh, Anthony,
how I have injured you! I ought to have known that you were utterly
incapable of a crime like this!"

"Leave me, Miss Juliet," said Mary, regaining her self-possession;
"leave me to my own sorrow. Oh, I wish I could die and forget it all!
But I dare not die. Hateful as life has become, I dare not look upon
death. Do not weep for me--your tears will drive me mad! Do not look at
me so--it makes me hate you. Do not ask me to go to the Lodge, for I
will not go!" she cried, springing to her feet, and clenching her hands.
"I am my own mistress! You cannot make me obey you. If I choose to bid
defiance to the world, and live as I please, it is no business of yours.
You shall not--you dare not attempt to control me!" And brushing past
Miss Whitmore, she was soon lost among the trees. Juliet drew a freer
breath when she was gone, and turning round beheld her father.

"What are you doing here in the rain, Juliet? your habit is soaked with
water. And where is Godfrey?"

"Take me home, papa!" said Juliet, flinging herself into his arms, and
sobbing upon his shoulder. "Godfrey is gone for ever. I have been
dreadfully frightened; but I will tell you all when we get home. I
cannot tell you here!"

CHAPTER XVI.

Whate'er thou hast to say, speak boldly out;
Confront me like a man--I shall not start.
Nor shiver, nor turn pale. My hand is firm,
My heart is firmer still; and both are braced
To meet the hour of danger--S.M.

About a mile and a half from the village of Ashton, at the head of an
obscure cross road, seldom traversed but by wagoners and their teams, or
the day laborer going to and fro from the neighboring farms to his work,
there stood, a little back in a pathway field, a low public house, whose
signboard merely contained the following blunt announcement to mark the
owner's calling,

"Table Beer
Sold Here."

The master of this obscure house of entertainment (which from its lonely
situation might have been termed anything but public,) was a notorious
poacher, familiarly known as Old Strawberry; and his cottage, for it
deserved no better name, was the nightly resort of all the idle young
fellows in the parish.

The in-door accommodations of the house consisted of two rooms below,
and two attics above, and a long lean-to, which ran the whole length of
the back of the building, forming an easy mode of egress, should need
be, from the chamber windows above. The front rooms were divided into a
sort of bar, which was separated from the kitchen by a high,
old-fashioned stamped-leather screen, behind which a stout red faced
middle aged woman held despotic sway, dispensing as many oaths to her
customers as she did pots of beer. The other room was of a more private
nature. It was fitted up with tables, cards and dice, to which none but
the initiated were ever admitted.

The outside of the place had a worn and dilapidated appearance; but the
inside was not at all deficient in comfort. The public room contained a
good substantial oak dining-table, a dozen well polished elm chairs, an
old fashioned varnished clock, and a huge painted cupboard in a corner,
the doors of which were left purposely open, in order to display dame
Strawberry's store of "real chany" cups and saucers, four long-necked
cut-glass decanters, and a dozen long-legged ale-glasses. Then there was
a side-table decorated with a monstrous tea-board, in which was
portrayed, in all the colors of the rainbow, the queen of Sheba's
memorable visit to the immortal wisdomship of Solomon.

Various pictures made gay the white-washed walls, amidst which shone
conspicuously the history of the prodigal son, representing in six
different stages a panoramic view of his life, in which the hero figured
in the character of a fop in the reign of the first George, dressed in a
sky blue coat, scarlet waistcoat, knee breeches, silk stockings, and
high-heeled shoes, and to crown all, a full bottomed wig. Then there
were the four Seasons, quaintly represented by four damsels, who all
stared upon you with round eyes, and flushed red faces, dame Winter
forming the only exception, whose grey locks and outstretched hands
seemed to reproach her jolly companions for their want of sympathy in
her sufferings.

Over the mantel-shelf hung a looking-glass in a carved frame, darkened
and polished by the rubbing of years, quite a relic of the past, the
top of which was ornamented by a large fan of peacock's feathers, and
bunches of the pretty scentless flowers called "Love everlasting." A
couple of guns slung to the beams that crossed the ceiling; an old
cutlass in its iron scabbard, and a very suspicious-looking pair of
horse pistols, completed the equipment of the room. The lean-to
contained a pantry and wash-house, and places for stowing away game and
liquor.

The private room was infinitely better furnished than the one just
described. It boasted the luxury of a carpeted floor, and a dozen of
painted cane-bottomed chairs, several mahogany card-tables, and a good
mirror.

In this room a tall drooping girl was busily employed in wiping the dust
from the furniture, and placing the cards and dice upon the tables.
Sometimes she stopped and sighed heavily, or looked upwards and pressed
her hand upon her head, with a sad and hopeless glance; ever and anon
wiping away the tears that trickled down her pale cheeks with the corner
of her checked apron.

The door was suddenly flung open with a sound that made the girl start,
and the broad person of Mrs. Strawberry filled up the opening.

"Mary Mathews!" she shouted at the top of her voice, "what are you
dawdling about? Do you think that I can afford to pay gals a shilling a
week to do nothing? Just tramp to the kitchen and wash them potatoes for
the men's supper. I don't want no fine ladies here, not I, I'se can tell
you! If your brother warn't a good customer it is not another hour that
I'd keep you, you useless lazy slut!"

"I was busy putting the room to rights, ma'am," said Mary, her
indignation only suffered to escape her in the wild proud flash of her
eye. "I can't be in two places at once!"

"You must learn to be in three or four, if I please," again bawled the
domestic Hecate. "Your time is mine; I have bought it, and I'll take
good care not to be cheated out of what's my due. Light up them candles.
Quick! I hear the men whistling to their dogs. They'll be here
directly."

Away waddled the human biped, and Mary, with another heavy sigh, lighted
the candles, and retreated into the bar-room.

The night was cold and damp, although it was but the first week in
October. The men were gathered about the fire, to dry their clothes and
warm themselves. The foremost of these was Godfrey Hurdlestone. "Polly!"
he shouted. "Polly Mathews, bring me a glass of brandy, and mind you
don't take toll by the way."

The men laughed. "A little would do the girl good, and raise her
spirits," said old Strawberry. "Never mind him, my dear. He's a stingy
one. Take a good sup. Brandy's good for every thing. It's good for the
head-ache, and the tooth-ache, and the heart-ache. That's right, take it
kindly. It has put a little blood into your pale face already."

"I wish it would put a little into her heart," said Godfrey: "she's
grown confoundedly dull of late."

"Why, Master Godfrey, who's fault is that, I should like to know?" said
the old poacher. "You drink all the wine out of the cask, and then kick
and abuse it, because 'tis empty. Now, before that girl came across you,
she was as high-spirited a tom-boy as ever I seed. She'd come here at
the dead o' night to fetch home her old dad, when she thought he'd been
here long enough, and she'd a song and a jest for us all. She could
take her own part then, and not one of my fellows dared to say a crooked
word to her. I thought that she was the last girl in the world to be
brought to sich a pass."

"Hush," said Godfrey; "what's the use of ripping up old grievances? Here
comes Mathews with the game!"

"A poor night's work," said that ruffian, flinging down a sack upon the
floor. "Five hares, three brace of pheasants, and one partridge. It was
not worth venturing a trip across the herring pond for such a paltry
prize. Here, Poll! stow them away in the old place. In two hours they'll
be upon their journey to Lunnon without the aid of wings. Mind, girl,
and keep a good look-out for the mail."

"Tim will take them to the four cross ways," said Mrs. Strawberry. "I
want Mary at home. Why, boys, you have hardly earned your supper."

"If it's ready, let us have it upon trust, mother," said Godfrey: "this
cold work in the plantations makes a fellow hungry."

In a moment all was bustle and confusion: the clatter of plates, and the
clashing of knives and forks, mingled with blasphemous oaths and horrid
jests, as the _worthy_ crew sat down to partake of their evening meal.
Over all might be heard the shrill harsh voice of Mistress Strawberry,
scolding, screaming, and ordering about in all directions.

The noisy banquet was soon ended; and some of the principals, like
Godfrey and his associate Mathews, retired to the inner room, to spend
the rest of the night in gambling and drinking. Mary was, as usual, in
attendance to supply their empty glasses, and to procure fresh cards, if
required.

"I don't think I shall play to-night, Mathews," said Godfrey, drawing
his companion aside. "I lost all I was worth yesterday; and Skinner is
not here. He's the only one worth plucking; the rest are all minus of
cash just now."

"By the way, Godfrey," said Mathews, "what do you mean to do about that
three hundred pounds you owe to Drew? You would buy the cattle. They
were not worth half the money you paid for them; but you were drunk, and
would have your own way. You must return the horses at a great loss."

"That's out of my power. They are gone--lost in a bet last night to that
lucky fool, Skinner."

"Whew! you are a precious fellow. I am glad that I was not born under
the same star. Why, Drew insists upon being paid, and threatens to take
legal steps against you."

"I have provided for that," said Godfrey. "Look here." They stepped to
the table at the far end of the room, and young Hurdlestone drew from
his pocket-book a paper which he gave to Mathews. "Will that pass?"

"What is this? An order for three hundred pounds upon the bank of ----,
drawn by the Jew, Haman Levi. What eloquence did you employ to obtain
such a prize?"

"It's forged," said Godfrey, drawing close up to him, and whispering the
words in his ear. "Did ever counterfeit come so close to reality?"

"Why, 'tis his own hand."

"Do you think it will escape detection?"

"Old Stratch himself could hardly find it out. You may get the blunt as
soon as you like; and, if this succeeds, my boy, you will soon be able
to replenish our empty purses." And Mathews rubbed his hands together,
and chuckled with delight.

"Have you heard anything of Anthony?" said Godfrey. "Is he still with
young Wildegrave?"

"I saw him this morning in the lane, by the old yew grove, near the
park. He was walking very lovingly with a pretty little girl. I wonder
what there is in him to make the girls so fond of him. I raised my hat
as he passed, and gave him the time of day, and hang me, if he did not
start, as if he had seen his father."

"Are they reconciled?"

"Not a bit of it. Wildegrave's man told me that he never goes near the
Hall. Between ourselves, Mr. Godfrey, this proves your cousin to be a
shrewd clever fellow. The only way to get those stingy old chaps to
leave their money to their lawful heirs is by taking no notice of them."

"Oh that this Anthony were out of my path!" said Godfrey, lowering his
voice to a whisper. "We could soon settle the old man's business."

"The lad's a good lad," said the other. "I don't much relish the idea of
having his blood to answer for. If we could but get the father and son
into an open quarrel, which would place him in suspicious
circumstances--do you understand me?--and then do the old man's
business--the blame might fall upon him instead of upon you."

"I would certainly rather transfer the hemp collar to his neck, if it
could be safely accomplished. But how can it be brought about?"

"The devil will help us at a pinch. I have scarcely turned it over in my
mind. But I'm sure your heart would fail you, Godfrey, if it came to
murder."

"Do you take _me_ for a coward?"

"Not exactly. I was making some allowance for natural affection."

"Pshaw!" muttered his companion. "Only give me the chance. Affection!
What affection do I owe to father or son? Anthony robbed me of my
father's heart, and now stands between me and my uncle's fortune."

"I owe Anthony something on my own account, if it were only for the
contempt with which he treated me in the presence of Miss Whitmore.
By-the-by, Mr. Godfrey, are all your hopes in that quarter at an end?"

"Oh, hang her! Don't name her, Mathews. I would rather have Mary without
a farthing than be domineered over by that pretty prude, and her hideous
old aunt. I believe I might have the old maid for the asking--ha! ha!
ha!"

"Mr. Godfrey," said Mathews, taking no notice of his mistimed mirth, "I
would advise you, as a friend, not to mention our designs on the old
miser to Mary."

"She won't peach."

"I'd not trust her. Women are strange creatures. They will often do the
most wicked things when their own interests and passions are concerned;
and, at other times, will sacrifice their best friends, from a foolish
qualm of conscience, or out of a mistaken feeling of benevolence. If you
wish our scheme to be successful, don't let Mary into the secret."

A wild laugh sounded in his ears: both started; and, on turning round,
beheld Mary standing quietly beside them. Mathews surveyed his sister
with a stern searching glance. She smiled contemptuously; but drew back,
as if she feared him.

"Did you overhear our conversation, Mary?"

"I can keep my own secrets," said the girl, sullenly. "I don't want to
be burthened with yours. They are not worth the trouble of keeping. My
sleep is bad enough already. A knowledge of your deeds, William, would
not make it sounder."

"It would make you sleep so soundly that evil thoughts would not be
likely to keep you awake," said her brother, clenching his fist in her
face. "Betray but one syllable of what you have overheard, and your bed
is prepared for you."

"I do not care how soon," said Mary; "if you hold out such a temptation,
I don't know what I might be tempted to do. They say that the sins of
the murdered are all visited upon the murderer. What a comfort it would
be to transfer mine to you." This was said in a tone of bitter irony;
and, however unwilling to betray himself, it seemed to produce a strange
effect upon the mind of the ruffian.

"Who talks of murder?" he said. "You are dreaming. Go to your bed, Mary.
It is late; and don't forget to say your prayers."

"Prayers!" said the girl with a mocking laugh. "The prayers of the
wicked never come up before the throne of God. My prayers would sound in
my own ears like blasphemy. How would they sound in the ears of God?"

"Don't talk in that way, Mary; you make my flesh creep," said Mathews.
"I have never said a prayer since I was a boy at my mother's knee, and
that was before Mary was born. Had mother lived I should not have been
what I now am; and poor Mary--." He paused; there was a touch of
tenderness in the ruffian's tone and manner. The remembrance of that
mother's love seemed the only holy thing that had ever been impressed
upon his mind; and sunk even as he was in guilt, and hardened in crime,
had he followed its suggestions it would have led him back to God, and
made him the protector, instead of the base vendor of his sister's
honor.

"What is the use of dwelling upon the past?" said Godfrey, pettishly.
"We were all very good little boys once. At least my father always told
me so; and by the strange contradictions which abound in human nature, I
suppose that that was the very reason which made me grow up a bad man.
And bad men we both are, Mathews, in the world's acceptation, and we may
as well make the most we can of our acquired reputation."

"Now I would like to know," said Mathews, gloomily, "if you have ever
felt a qualm of conscience in your life?"

"I do not believe in a future state. Let that answer you."

"Do you never fear the dark?" returned Mathews, glancing stealthily
around. "Never feel that eyes are looking upon you--cold, glassy eyes,
that peer into your very soul--eyes which are not of this world, and
which no other eyes can see? Snuff the candles, Mary. The room looks as
dismal as a vault."

Godfrey burst into a loud laugh. "If I were troubled with such ocular
demonstrations I would wear spectacles. By Jove! Bill Mathews, waking or
sleeping, I never was haunted by an evil spirit worse than yourself. But
here's Skinner at last! Fetch a bottle of brandy and some glasses to yon
empty table, Mary. I must try to win back from him what I lost last
night."

CHAPTER XVII.

Oh! speak to me of her I love,
And I shall think I hear
The voice whose melting tones, above
All music, charms mine ear.--S.M.

Whilst Godfrey Hurdlestone was rapidly traversing the broad road that
leads down to the gates of death, Anthony was regaining his peace of
mind in the quiet abode of domestic love. Day after day the young
cousins whiled away the charmed hours in delightful converse. They
wandered hand in hand through green quiet lanes, and along sunny paths,
talking of the beloved. Clary felt no jealous envy mar the harmony of
her dove-like soul, as she listened to Anthony's rapturous details of
the hours he had spent with Juliet, his poetical descriptions of her
lovely countenance and easy figure. Nay, she often pointed out graces
which he had omitted, and repeated, with her musical voice, sweet
strains of song by her young friend, to him unknown.

Was there no danger in this intercourse? Clarissa Wildegrave felt none.
In her young heart's simplicity, she dreamed not of the subtle essence
which unites kindred spirits. She never asked herself why she loved to
find the calm noble-looking youth for ever at her side; why she prized
the flowers he gathered, and loved the songs he loved; why the sound of
his approaching steps sent the quick blood glowing to her pallid cheek,
and lighted up those thoughtful dreamy eyes with a brilliancy which fell
with the serene lustre of moon or star-light upon the heart of her
cousin--to him as holy and as pure.

She loved to talk of Juliet, for it brought Anthony nearer. She loved to
praise her, for it called up a smile upon his melancholy face; the
expression of his brow became less stern, and his glance met hers, full
of grateful tenderness. She loved to see her own girlish face reflected
in the dark depths of those beautiful eyes, nor knew that the mysterious
fire they kindled in her breast was destined to consume her young heart,
and make it the sepulchre of her new-born affections.

"It must be a blessed thing to be loved as you love Juliet, Anthony,"
she said, as they were sitting together beneath the shadow of the great
oak which graced the centre of the lawn in front of the house. "Could
you not share your heart with another?"

"Why, my little Clary, what would you do with half a heart?" said
Anthony, smiling; for he always looked upon his fragile companion as a
child. "Love is a selfish fellow, he claims the whole, concentrates all
in himself, or scatters abroad."

"You are right, Anthony. I am sure if I had the half, I should soon
covet the whole. It would be a dangerous possession, and stand between
me and heaven. No, no, it would not be right to ask that which belongs
to another; only it seems so natural to wish those to love us whom we
love."

"I do love you, sweet Clary, and you must continue to love me; though it
is an affection quite different from that which I feel for Juliet. You
are the sister whom nature denied me--the dear friend whom I sought in
vain amidst the world and its heartless scenes; my good angel, whose
pure and holy influence subdues the evil passions of my nature, and
renders virtue more attractive. I love you, Clary. I feel a better and
humbler creature in your presence; and when you are absent, your gentle
admonitions stimulate me to further exertions."

"I am satisfied, dear Anthony," said Clary, lifting her inspired
countenance, and gazing steadily upon him. "As yon heavens exceed in
height and glory the earth beneath, so far, in my estimation, does the
love you bear to me exceed that which you feel for Juliet. One is of the
earth, and like the earth must perish; the other is light from heaven.
Evermore let me dwell in this light."

With an involuntary movement, Anthony pressed the small white hand he
held in his own to his lips. Was there the leaven of earth in that kiss,
that it brought the rosy glow into the cheek of Clary, and then paled it
to death-like whiteness? "Clary," he said, "have you forgotten the
promise you made me a few days ago?"

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