Susanna Moodie - Mark Hurdlestone

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"And pray, Dolly, will you inform me at what age a lady should commence
this laudable act of self-denial? for I am pretty certain that your
first lesson is still to learn."

Oh, how poor Aunt Dorothy flounced and flew, at this speech! how she let
her tongue run on, without bit or bridle, while vindicating her injured
honor from this foul aspersion, quite forgetting her own theory in the
redundancy of her practice! There never was, by her own account, such a
discreet, amiable, well-spoken, benevolent, and virtuous gentlewoman!
And how the cruel Captain continued to laugh at, and quiz, and draw her
out: until Juliet, in order to cause a diversion in her aunt's favor,
pinched her favorite black cat's ear. But this stratagem only turned the
whole torrent of the old maid's wrath upon herself.

"How cruel you are, Miss Juliet!" she cried, snatching the ill-used
darling to her bosom. "You never think that these poor animals can feel
ill-treatment as severely as yourself. I despise young ladies who write
poetry, and weep and whine over a novel, yet are destitute of the common
feelings of humanity."

"Puss will forgive me," said Juliet, holding out her small white hand to
the cat, which immediately left off rubbing herself against Aunt
Dorothy's velvet stomacher, to fawn upon the proffered peace-offering.

The old Captain, who had remained for some minutes in deep thought, now
suddenly turned from the window, and said:

"Juliet, would you like to visit London?"

"What, at this beautiful season of the year!" And Juliet left off
caressing the cat, and regarded her father with surprise, not unmixed
with curiosity.

"The flowers of the gay world, Julee, always blossom at the same time
with those in the country; only the latter have always this advantage,
that they are never out of season, and blossom for the day, instead of
for the night. But, my dear child, I think it necessary for you to go.
The change of scene and air will be very beneficial to your health, and
tend to invigorate both your mind and body. Now, don't pout and shake
your head, Juliet; I do most earnestly wish you to go. The very best
antidote to love is a visit to London. You will see other men, you will
learn to know your own power; and all these idle fancies will be
forgotten. Aunt Dorothy, what say you to the trip?"

"Oh, sir, I am always ready at the post of duty. Juliet wants a little
polishing--she is horribly countryfied. When shall we prepare for the
journey?"

"Directly. I will write to her Aunt Seaford by tonight's post. She will
be delighted to have Juliet with her. The little sly puss is the old
lady's heir; but she is quite indifferent to her good fortune."

"I never covet the possession of great wealth," said Juliet. "Mark
Hurdlestone is an awful example to those who grasp after riches. I do
not anticipate much pleasure in this London visit, but I will go, dear
papa, as you wish it."

"There's a dear good girl!" and the old man fondly kissed her. "I wish I
could see the rose's blush once more upon this pale face. You look so
like your mother, Julee, it makes my heart ache. Ah! just so thin and
pale she looked, before I lost her. You must not leave your poor old
father in this cold-hearted world alone."

Juliet flung her arms round his neck. "Do not make my heart ache, dear
papa, as I know not how soon we may part. You once loved poor Anthony,"
she whispered: "for Julee's sake, love him still."

"She will forget him," said the Captain looking fondly after her, as she
left the room, "she will forget him in London."

And to London they went. Juliet was received by her rich aunt with the
most lively demonstrations of regard. She felt proud of introducing to
the notice of the gay world a creature so beautiful. Admired for her
great personal attractions, and courted for her wealth, Juliet soon
found herself the centre of attraction to a large circle of friends. But
ah! how vapid and tasteless to the young lover of nature were the
artificial manners and the unmeaning flatteries of the world.
Professions of attachment, breathed into her ears by interested
admirers, shocked and disgusted her simple taste, and made her thoughts
turn continually to the one adored object, whose candid and honest
bearing had won her heart. His soul had been poured forth at the same
shrine, had drunk inspiration from the same sacred fount, and his
sympathies and feelings were in perfect unison with her own.

How could she forget Anthony whilst mingling in scenes so uncongenial to
her own pursuits? Was he not brought every hour nearer to her thoughts?
Was she not constantly drawing contrasts between him and the worldly
beings by whom she was surrounded! Did not his touching voice thrill
more musically in her mental ear, when the affected ostentatious tones
of the votary of fashion and pleasure tried to attract her attention by
a display of his accomplishments and breeding? There was a want of
reality in all she heard and saw that struck painfully upon her heart;
and after the first novelty of the scene had worn off, she began to pine
for the country. Her step became less elastic, her cheek yet paler, and
the anxious father began to watch more closely these hectic changes, and
to tremble for the health of his child.

"I am sick of this crowded place, of these sophisticated people, papa. I
shall die here. Let me return to the country."

Frightened at the daily alteration in her appearance, the Captain
promised to grant her request. Her aunt gave a large party the night
before they were to leave town; and Juliet, to please her kind relative,
exerted herself to the utmost to appear in good spirits.

"There has been a shocking murder committed in your neighborhood, Miss
Whitmore," said the officer, with whom she had been dancing, as he led
her to a seat. "Have you seen the papers?"

"No," said Juliet, carelessly. "I seldom read these accounts. They are
so shocking; and we read them too much as matters of mere amusement and
idle curiosity, without reflecting sufficiently upon the awful guilt
which they involve."

"This is a very dreadful business indeed. I thought you might know
something of the parties."

"Not very likely. We lead such a secluded life at the Lodge, that we are
strangers to most of the people in the neighborhood."

"You have heard of the eccentric miser, Mark Hurdlestone?"

"Who has not?" and Juliet started, and turned pale. "Surely he has not
been murdered?"

"Yes; and by his own son."

"His son? Oh, not by his son! His nephew, you mean?"

"His son. Anthony Hurdlestone. The heir of his immense wealth."

He spoke to a cold ear. Juliet had fainted.

How did that dreadful night pass over the hapless maiden? It did pass,
however, and on the morrow she was far on her journey home.

"I never thought he could be guilty of a crime like this," said the
Captain to his sister as she sat opposite to him in his travelling
carriage. His arm encircled the slender waist of his daughter, and her
pale cheek rested on his shoulder. But no tear hung in the long, dark,
drooping eyelashes of his child. Juliet was stunned; but she had not
wept.

"He is not guilty," she cried, in a passionate voice. "I know and feel
that he is not guilty. Remember Mary Mathews--how strong the
circumstantial evidence against him in that case. Yet he was
innocent--innocent, poor Anthony!"

The Captain, who felt the most tender sympathy for the state of mind
into which this afflicting news had thrown his child, was willing to
soothe, if possible, her grief.

"If he is innocent it will be proved on the trial, Julee darling. We
will hope for the best."

"It will be proved," said Juliet, sitting upright, and looking her
father earnestly, if not sternly in the face. "I am so confident of his
innocence that, on that score, I have not shed a single tear. Ah! we are
drawing near home," she continued with a sigh. "Dear home! why did I
leave it? There is something pure and holy in the very air of home. See,
papa! there is the church spire rising above the trees. The dear old elm
trees! We shall have time to think here, to hope, to pray; but who is
that woman lying along the bank. She is ill, or dead."

"Perhaps she is intoxicated," said Miss Dorothy.

"It is--yes--it is Mary Mathews!" cried Juliet, without noticing her
aunt's remark. "What can bring her here?"

"No good, you may be sure," remarked the Captain.

"Oh! stop the carriage, dear papa, and let us speak to her. She may know
something about the murder."

"You are right, Juliet; let us ask her a few questions."

They both left the carriage, and hurried to the spot where Mary,
overcome with fatigue and fever, lay insensible and unconscious of her
danger by the roadside.

Captain Whitmore lifted up the unhappy girl from the ground, and placed
her in the carriage, greatly to the indignation of Miss Dorothy, and
conveyed her to the Lodge. A medical gentleman in the neighborhood was
sent for; and Juliet, in the deep interest she felt for the alarming
state of the poor sufferer, for a while forgot her own poignant grief.

The next morning, on entering the parlor, she found Frederic Wildegrave
in close conversation with her father.

After the usual compliments had passed between them, Juliet asked, with
an air of intense anxiety depicted on her fine countenance, if Mr.
Wildegrave thought it possible that Anthony Hurdlestone had committed
the murder?

He replied sorrowfully, "My dear Miss Whitmore, I know not what to
think."

"Have you seen him since his imprisonment?"

"I have not. Many sorrows have confined me at home. This melancholy
business has had a sad effect upon the weak nerves of my poor little
sister. Clary is ill. I fear dying. She has expressed such a strong
desire to see you, Miss Whitmore, once again, that I came over to make
known to you her urgent request. It is asking of you a very great favor;
but one, I hope, that you will not refuse to grant to our tears."

"Juliet is in very poor health herself," said her father. "If she could
be spared this trying scene, it would be the better for her."

"Poor, pretty Clarissa; and she is ill--is dying," said Juliet, speaking
unconsciously aloud. "This dreadful affair has killed her; and she
wishes to see me. Yes, I will go."

"My child, you know not what you are about to undertake," said the old
man, coming forward. "It may be the death of you."

"Dear papa, I am stronger than you think. I have borne a worse sorrow,"
she added, in a whisper. "Let me go."

"Please yourself, Julee; but I fear it will be too much for you."

Frederic was anxious that Clary should be gratified; and, in spite of
Captain Whitmore's objections, he continued, backed by Juliet, to urge
his request. Reluctantly the old man yielded to their united entreaties.

Before Juliet set out upon her melancholy journey, she visited the sick
chamber of the unconscious Mary Mathews, whom she strongly recommended
to the care of Aunt Dorothy and her own waiting-woman. The latter, who
loved her young mistress very tenderly, and who perhaps was not ignorant
of her attachment to young Hurdlestone, promised to pay every attention
to the poor invalid during her absence. Satisfied with these
arrangements, Juliet kissed her father; and begging him not to be uneasy
on her account, as for his sake she would endeavor to bear up against
the melancholy which oppressed her, she accepted Mr. Wildegrave's escort
to Ashton.

During the journey, she found that Frederic was acquainted with
Anthony's attachment to her; and the frank and generous sympathy that he
expressed for the unhappy young man won from his fair companion her
confidence and friendship. He was the only person whom she had ever met
to whom she could speak of Anthony without reserve, and he behaved to
her like a true friend in the dark hour of doubt and agony.

The night was far advanced when they arrived at Millbank. Clary was
sleeping, and the physician thought it better that she should not be
disturbed.

The room allotted to Miss Whitmore's use was the one which had been
occupied by Anthony. Everything served to remind her of its late tenant.
His books, his papers, his flute, were there. Her own portfolio,
containing the little poems he so much admired, was lying upon the
table, and within it lay a bunch of dried flowers--wild flowers--which
she had gathered for him upon the heath near his uncle's park; but what
paper is that attached to the faded nosegay? It is a copy of verses. She
knows his handwriting, and trembles as she reads--

Ye are wither'd, sweet buds, but love's hand can portray
On memory's tablets each delicate hue;
And recall to my bosom the long happy day
When she gathered ye, fresh sprinkled over with dew.
Ah, never did garland so lovely appear,
For her warm lip had breathed on each beautiful flower;
And the pearl on each leaf was less bright than the tear
That gleamed in her eyes in that rapturous hour.

Ye are wither'd, sweet buds, but in memory ye bloom,
Nor can nature's stern edict your loveliness stain;
Ye are fadeless and rich in undying perfume,
And your sweetness, like truth, shall unaltered remain.
When this fond beating heart shall be cold in the grave,
Oh, mock not my bier with fame's glittering wreath;
But bid on my temples these wither'd buds wave,
Through life fondly cherish'd, and treasured in death.

And had he really kept these withered flowers for her sake? How did her
soul flow up into her eyes, to descend upon those faded blossoms in
floods of tears, as sadly she pressed them to her lips and heart!

Then came the dreadful thought--He whom you thus passionately love is a
murderer, the murderer of his father! The hand that penned those tender
lines has been stained with blood. Shuddering, she let the flowers fall
from her grasp. She turned, and met the mild beautiful eyes of his
mother. The lifeless picture seemed to reproach her for daring for a
moment to entertain such unworthy suspicions of her child, and she
murmured for the hundredth time, since she first heard the tale of
horror, "No, no, I cannot believe him guilty."

She undressed and went to bed. The bed in which he had so lately slept,
in which he had passed so many wakeful hours in thinking of her; in
forming bright schemes of future happiness, and triumphing in idea over
the seeming impossibilities of his untoward destiny. His spirit
appeared to hover around her, and in dreams she once more wandered with
him through forest paths, eloquent with the song of birds, and bright
with spring and sunshine.

Oh, love! how strong is thy faith! How confiding thy trust. The world in
vain frowns upon the object of thy devotion. Calumny may blacken, and
circumstances condemn, but thou, in thy blind simplicity, still
clingest, through storm and shine, to the imaginary perfections of thy
idol.

To believe in the innocence of Anthony Hurdlestone was to hope against
hope; yet Juliet firmly, confidingly, and religiously believed him
guiltless. Oh, who might not envy her this love and faith!

The robin red-breast from his fading bower of hawthorns warbled in the
early dawn of the cold, bright, autumnal day. The first rays of the sun
gilded the gay changing leaves of the vine that clustered about the
windows with hues of the richest dye, and the large bunches of grapes
peeping from among the leaves looked more temptingly ripe, bathed in dew
and brightened in the morning beam. A slight rap at her chamber door
dispelled Juliet's slumbers, and Ruth Candler entered the room.

"Is anything wrong, Ruth?"

"My mistress is awake, and wishes to see you, Miss," said Ruth, bursting
into tears. "It's the last morn. I'm thinking, that she'll ever see on
earth. She's in no pain, she says, but she is so pale, and her eyes do
not look like the eyes of the living. Alas! alas! what shall we do when
she is gone? The dear sweet young creter!"

Ruth wept aloud with her face to the wall while Juliet hurried on her
clothes, and, with a full heart, followed the old woman to the chamber
of the invalid.

She found Clary sitting up in the bed, supported by pillows. Cold as it
was, the casement was open to admit the full beams of the rising sun,
and the arms of the dying girl were extended towards it, and her
countenance lighted up with an expression of angelic beauty and intense
admiration. Her brother was seated upon the bed, his face concealed in
the pillow, while ever and anon a deep sob burst from his full laboring
heart.

He had watched there through the long night--had watched and prayed
while the dear one slept her last sleep on earth; and he knew that the
young spirit had only roused itself to look once more upon the lovely
creation of God before it plumed its bright wing for its final flight.

"Sun, beautiful sun! I shall see thee no more," said the child. "Thou
glorious emblem of the power and love of God. But I go to him who is the
Sun of the spirit-world, the life and light of the soul. There is joy in
my heart--deep joy--joy which no mortal tongue can express, for the
happiness I feel is not of the world. The fresh breezes of morning fan
my brow; to-morrow they will sigh over my grave. The earth returns to
the earth, the spirit to the God who gave it. Weep not for me, dear
brother. For this hour I was born. For this hour I came into the world,
and you should rejoice and be exceedingly glad that I have so soon
obtained my passport to the skies."

"Ah, my sister, what will life be to me, when you are gone? You are the
last kindred tie that binds me to earth."

"There will be another strong tie to draw you towards heaven, my
brother. Our spirits will not be divided. I shall still live in your
memory--still visit you in dreams. Your love for me will grow stronger,
for it will never know diminution or decay."

She paused for a few seconds, and folded her poor wasted hands
together, whilst a serene smile passed over her wan features, lighting
them with a holy joy.

"I had a dream last night, Frederic. A beautiful dream. If I have
strength I will try and tell it to you. I thought much of Death last
night, and my soul shrunk within me, for I felt that he was near. I did
not fear Death while my heart was free from earthly love, but now he
seemed to wear a harsh and terrible aspect. I prayed long and fervently
to God to give me strength to enable me to pass tranquilly through the
dark valley; but in my heart I felt no response to my prayer. Soon after
this, the pains, that had racked me all yesterday, left me, and I fell
into a deep sleep. And then me-thought I stood in a narrow pass between
two vast walls of black rock, that enclosed me on either side, and
appeared to reach to the very clouds. The place was lighted by a dim
twilight that flowed through an enormous arch that united in the far
distance these gigantic walls; an arch, high and deep enough to have
sustained the weight of the whole world. I felt like an atom in
immensity, alone in that strange place. Still as I gazed in bewildered
awe upon that great gateway, a figure rose like a dim mist out of the
darkness, and it grew and brightened into a real and living presence;
its dazzling robes of snowy whiteness shedding a sort of glorious
moonshine all around. Oh, the beauty, the surpassing beauty of the
heavenly vision! it filled my whole soul with light.

"Whilst I continued to gaze upon it with increasing awe and admiration,
it addressed me in a voice so rich and melodious that it awoke echoes of
soft music from those eternal rocks.

"'Child of earth,' he said, 'is my aspect so terrible that men should
shrink from me in horror?'

"'Not so,' I exclaimed, in an extasy of joy. 'Your face is like the
face of the angel of the Lord, when he welcomes the beloved with a smile
of peace into the presence of God.'

"'Yet I am he whom men regard as their worst enemy, and shrink from with
cowardly fear. Yes, maiden, I am Death! Death, the friend of man, the
conqueror of grief and pain. I hold in my hand the keys of the unknown
world. I am the bright spirit who unlocks for the good the golden gates
of eternal joy.'

"He took my out-stretched hands, and drawing me forward, bade me look
through the black archway into the far eternity. Oh, that glorious land,
those rivers of delight--those trees and flowers, and warbled
songs--that paradise of living praise! I long, my brother, to break
these bonds asunder, to pass the dark archway, and tread that heavenly
shore."

"Happy Clary," said Juliet, softly approaching the bed. "Dear blessed
girl, who would wish to detain you in this cold miserable world, when
heaven offers you a brighter home?"

"You are come to see your poor friend, my Juliet," said Clary, twining
her thin white arms about her neck. "The sight of you recalls me back to
earth, filling my mind with sad thoughts and dark forebodings. Brother,"
she continued, turning to Frederic, "leave us for a few minutes. I must
speak to Juliet Whitmore, for a short space, alone."

For some seconds the two young creatures remained locked in each other's
arms. Clary was the first to speak.

"The thoughts of heaven," she said, "are full of rapture; the
recollections of earth, full of anguish and tears. It is not for myself,
Juliet, I weep. It is for the living I mourn --for the friends I leave
behind. For me--I have lived long enough. It is better for me to go,
Juliet; I am dying; will you kiss me once more, and tell me that you
forgive your poor little Clary for having dared to love one whose whole
heart was given to you, and who was by you beloved again?"

"Was Anthony dear to your gentle heart, Clary?" said Juliet, stooping
down, and kissing fervently the cold damp brow of the dying girl. "Oh,
dearer far dearer are you to me, in having thus shared, to its full
extent, all the deep sorrow that weighs down my spirit."

"My love, Juliet, was full of hope and joy, of blissful dreams and
visions of peace and happiness. The storm came suddenly upon me, and the
feeble threads that held together my frail existence parted in the
conflict. I am thankful and resigned, and bless the hand that, in mercy,
dealt the blow." After a few minutes' silence, she said very solemnly,
"Anthony Hurdlestone is accused of having perpetrated a great crime. Do
you, Juliet, believe him guilty?"

"When you believe that yon burning orb of fire is a mass of cold
unmeaning ice," said Juliet, pointing to the sun, "then will I suspect
the man I love to be a base unnatural monster, a thief and a parricide."

"Then you, and you alone, Juliet, are worthy of his love. And he loves
you. Ah! so truly, so well, that I feel that he is innocent. A voice
from heaven tells me so. Yes, dearest Juliet, God will yet vindicate his
injured servant, and you and Anthony will meet again."

"In heaven," said Juliet, weeping.

"On earth," returned Clary in feebler accents. "When you see each other,
Juliet, tell him that Clary loved him and prayed for him to the last;
that dying she blessed him, and believed him innocent. To you, Juliet,
I leave my harp, the friend and companion of my lonely childhood. When
you play the sweet airs I loved so well, think kindly of me. When you
wander by sparkling brooks, and through flowery paths, listening to the
song of birds, and the music of forest shades, remember me. Ah! I have
loved the bright and beautiful things of this glorious earth, and my
wish has been granted, that I might pass hence with sunshine about my
bed, and the music of Nature's wild minstrels ringing in my ears. Sun of
earth, farewell. Friends of earth we shall meet again. See, heaven
opens. Its one eternal day streams in upon my soul. Farewell.

"Happy spirit, welcome in;
Hark! the song of seraphim
Hails thy presence at the throne--
Earth is lost, and Heaven is won!
Enter in."

The voice died away in faint indistinct murmurs; the eye lost the living
fire; the prophetic lip paled to marble, quivered a moment, and was
still for ever. The spirit of Clary had passed the dark gateway, and was
the new-born of heaven.

"My sister; oh, my sister! Is she indeed gone from me for ever?"
exclaimed Frederic, bursting into the room, and flinging himself upon
the bed beside her. "Clary! my angel! Clary! What! cold and dead? Oh, my
poor heart!"

"Oh, how I envy her this blessed change!" said Juliet.

"Aye, 'tis a sin to weep for her. But grief is selfish, Miss Whitmore;
it will have its way. Oh! sister, dear sister, why did you leave me
alone, the last survivor of an unfortunate race?"

And thus sorrow poured forth its querulous wailings into the cold ear
of death. The storm which bereaves us of our best affections passes
over; the whirlwind, the thunder, and the shower, desolating our harvest
of expected joys; but the sun bursts forth again. Hope blossoms afresh
in its beams, and the heart of man revives to form new schemes of future
enjoyment. Such is life.

CHAPTER XXIII.

And hast thou sought me in this dreary cell,
This dark abode of guilt and misery;
To win my sadden'd spirit back to earth
With words of blessed import?--S.M.

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