Susanna Moodie - Mark Hurdlestone
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Susanna Moodie >> Mark Hurdlestone
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The sound of his brother's footsteps not only roused the miser to
animation, but to an acute sense of suffering. For some minutes he
writhed in dreadful pain, and Algernon had time to examine his ghastly
face, and thin attenuated figure.
They had parted in the prime of youthful manhood--they met in the autumn
of life; and the snows of winter had prematurely descended upon the head
of the miser. The wear and tear of evil passions had made such fearful
ravages in his once handsome and stern exterior, that his twin brother
would have passed him in the streets without recognition.
The spasms at length subsided, and after several ineffectual efforts,
Algernon at length spoke.
"Mark, I am here, in compliance with your request; I am very sorry to
find you in this sad state; I hope that you may yet recover."
The sick man rose slowly up in his bed, and shading his eyes with his
hand, surveyed his brother with a long and careful gaze, as though he
scarcely recognised in the portly figure before him the elegant
fashionable young man of former days. "Algernon! can that be you?"
"Am I so much altered that you do not know me?"
"Humph! The voice is the voice of Algernon--but as for the rest, time
has paid as little respect to your fine exterior as it has done to mine;
but if it has diminished your graces, it has added greatly to your bulk.
One thing, however, it has not taught you, with all its hard
teachings."
"What is that?" said Algernon, with some curiosity.
"To speak the truth!" muttered the miser, falling back upon his pillow.
"You wish for my recovery!--ha! ha! that is rich--is good. Do you think,
Algernon, I am such a fool as to believe that?"
"Indeed, I was sincere."
"You deceive yourself--the thing is impossible. Human nature is not so
far removed from its original guilt. _You_ wish my life to be prolonged,
when you hope to be a _gainer_ by my death. The thought is really
amusing--so originally philanthropic, but I forgive you, I should do
just the same in your place. Now, sit down if you can find a chair, I
have a few words to say to you--a few painful words."
Algernon took his seat on the bed without speaking. He perceived that
time had only increased the bitterness of his brother's caustic temper.
"Algernon," said the miser, "I will not enter into a detail of the past.
I robbed you of your share of my father's property to gratify my love of
money; and I married your mistress out of revenge. Both of these deeds
have proved a curse to me--I cannot enjoy the one, and I loathe the
other. I am dying; I cannot close my eyes in peace with these crimes
upon my conscience. Give me your hand, brother, and say that you forgive
me; and I will make a just restitution of the money, and leave you in
the undisturbed possession of the wife."
He laughed, that horrid fiendish laugh. Algernon shrunk back with strong
disgust, and relinquished the hand which no longer sought his grasp.
"Well, I see how it is. There are some natures that cannot amalgamate.
You cannot overcome the old hate; but say that you forgive me; it is all
I ask."
"If you can forgive yourself, Mark, I forgive you; and I pray that God
may do the same."
"That leaves the case doubtful; however, it is of no use forcing nature.
We never loved each other. The soil of the heart has been too much
corrupted by the leaven of the world, to nourish a new growth of
affection. We have lived enemies--we cannot part friends; but take this
in payment of the debt I owe you."
He drew from beneath his pillow a paper, which he placed in his
brother's hand. It was a draft upon his banker for ten thousand pounds,
payable at sight. "Will that satisfy you for all you lost by me?"
"Money cannot do that."
"You allude to my wife. I saved you from a curse by entailing it upon
myself; for which service I at least deserve your thanks."
"What has proved a curse to you would have been to me the greatest
earthly blessing. I freely forgive you for wronging me out of my share
of the inheritance, but for robbing me of Elinor, I cannot."
He turned from the bed with the tears in his eyes, and was about to quit
the room. The miser called him back. "Do not be such a fool as to refuse
the money, Algernon; the lady I will bequeath to you as a legacy when I
am gone."
"He is mad!" muttered Algernon, "no sane man could act this diabolical
part. It is useless to resent his words. He must soon answer for them at
a higher tribunal. Yes--I will forgive him--I will not add to his future
misery."
He came back to the bed, and taking the burning hand of the miser, said
in a broken voice, "Brother, I wronged you when I believed that you
were an accountable being; I no longer consider you answerable for your
actions, and may God view your unnatural conduct to me in the same
light; by the mercy which He ever shows to His erring creatures. I
forgive you for the past." The stony heart of the miser seemed touched,
but his pride was wounded. "Mad--mad," he said; "so you look upon me as
mad. The world is full of maniacs; I do not differ from my kind. But
take the paper, and let there be peace between you and me."
Twenty years ago, and the high-spirited Algernon Hurdlestone would have
rejected the miser's offer with contempt, but his long intercourse with
the world had taught him the value of money, and his extravagant habits
generally exceeded his fine income. Besides, what Mark offered him was,
after all, but a small portion of what ought to have been his own. With
an air of cheerful good-nature he thanked his brother, and carefully
deposited the draft in his pocket-book.
After having absolved his conscience by what he considered not only a
good action, but one of sufficient magnitude to save his soul, Mark
intimated to his brother that he might now leave him--he had nothing
further to say; a permission which Algernon was not slow to accept.
As he groped his way through the dark gallery that led from the miser's
chamber, a door was opened cautiously at the far end of the passage, and
a female figure, holding a dim light in her hand, beckoned to him to
approach.
Not without reluctance Algernon obeyed the summons, and found himself in
the centre of a large empty apartment which had once been the saloon,
and face to face with Mrs. Hurdlestone.
Elinor carefully locked the door, and placing the light on the
mantel-shelf, stood before the astonished Algernon, like some
memory-haunting phantom of the past.
Yes. It was Elinor--his Elinor; but not a vestige remained of the grace
and beauty that had won his youthful heart. So great was the change
produced by years of hopeless misery, that Algernon, in the haggard and
careworn being before him, did not at first recognise the object of his
early love. Painfully conscious of this humiliating fact, Elinor at
length said--"I do not wonder that Mr. Algernon Hurdlestone has
forgotten me; I once was Elinor Wildegrave."
A gush of tears--of bitter, heart-felt, agonizing tears--followed this
avowal, and her whole frame trembled with the overpowering emotions
which filled her mind.
Too much overcome by surprise to speak, Algernon took her hand, and for
a few minutes looked earnestly in her altered face. What a mournful
history of mental and physical suffering was written there! That look of
tender regard recalled the blighted hopes and wasted affections of other
years; and the wretched Elinor, unable to control her grief, bowed her
head upon her hands, and groaned aloud.
"Oh, Elinor!--and is it thus we meet? You might have been happy with me.
How could you, for the paltry love of gain, become the wife of Mark
Hurdlestone?"
"Alas, Algernon! necessity left me no alternative in my unhappy choice.
I was deceived--cruelly deceived. Yet would to God that I had begged my
bread, and dared every hardship--been spurned from the presence of the
rich, and endured the contempt of the poor, before I consented to become
his wife."
"But what strange infatuation induced you to throw away your own
happiness, and ruin mine? Did not my letters constantly breathe the
most ardent affection? Were not the sums of money constantly remitted in
them more than sufficient to supply all your wants?"
"Algernon, I never received the sums you name, not even a letter from
you after the third year of our separation."
"Can this be true?" exclaimed Algernon, grasping her arm. "Is it
possible that this statement can be true?"
"As true as that I now stand before you a betrayed, forsaken,
heart-broken woman."
"Poor Elinor; how can I look into that sad face, and believe you false?"
"God bless you, my once dear friend, for these kind words. You know not
the peace they convey to my aching heart. Oh, Algernon, my sufferings
have been dreadful; and there were times when I ceased to know those
sufferings. They called me mad, but I was happy then. My dreams were of
you. I thought myself your wife, and my misery as Mark's helpmate was
forgotten. When sanity returned, the horrible consciousness that you
believed me a heartless, ungrateful, avaricious woman, was the worst
pang of all. Oh, how I longed to throw myself at your feet, and tell you
the whole dreadful truth. I would not have insulted you to-night with my
presence, or wounded your peace with a recapitulation of my wrongs, but
I could no longer live and bear the imputation of such guilt. When you
have heard my sad story, you will, I am sure, not only pity, but forgive
me."
With feelings of unalloyed indignation, Algernon listened to the
iniquitous manner in which Elinor had been deceived and betrayed, and
when she concluded her sad relation, he fiercely declared that he would
return to the sick man's chamber--reproach him with his crimes, and
revoke his forgiveness.
"Leave the sinner to his God!" exclaimed the terrified Elinor, placing
herself before the door. "For my sake--for your own sake, pity and
forgive him. Remember that, monster though he be, he is my husband and
your brother, the father of the unfortunate child whose birth I
anticipate with such sad forebodings."
"Before that period arrives," said Algernon, with deep commiseration.
"Mark will have paid the forfeit of his crimes, and your child will be
the heir of immense wealth."
"You believe him to be a dying man," said Elinor. "He will live. A
change has come over him for the better; the surgeon, this morning, gave
strong hopes of his recovery. Sinner that I am, if he could but have
looked into my heart he would have been shocked at the pain that this
communication conveyed. Algernon, I wished his death. God has reversed
the awful sentence; it is the mother, not the father of the unhappy
infant, that will be called hence. Heaven knows that I am weary of
life--that I would willingly die, could I but take the poor babe with
me; should it, however, survive its unfortunate mother, promise me,
Algernon, by the love of our early years, to be a guardian and protector
to my child."
She endeavored to sink at his feet, but Algernon prevented her.
"Your request is granted, Elinor, and for the dear mother's sake, I
promise to cherish the infant as my own."
"It is enough. I thank my God for this great mercy; and now that I have
been permitted to clear my character, leave me, Algernon, and take my
blessing with you. Only remember in your prayers that such a miserable
wretch as Elinor Wildegrave still lives."
The violent ringing of the miser's bell hurried her away. Algernon
remained for some minutes rooted to the spot, his heart still heaving
with the sense of intolerable wrong. Elinor did not again appear; and
descending to what was once the Servants' Hall, he bade Ruth summon his
attendants, and slipping a guinea into that delighted damsel's hand, he
bade a long adieu to the home of his ancestors.
CHAPTER VI.
Oh, what a change--a goodly change!
I, too, am changed. I feel my heart expand;
My spirit, long bowed down with misery,
Grow light and buoyant 'mid these blessed scenes.--S.M.
As Elinor predicted, the miser slowly recovered, and for a few months
his severe illness had a salutary effect upon his mind and temper. He
was even inclined to treat his wife with more respect; and when informed
by Dr. Moore of the birth of his son, he received the intelligence with
less impatience than she had anticipated. But this gleam of sunshine did
not last long. With returning strength his old monomania returned; and
he began loudly to complain of the expense which his long illness had
incurred, and to rave at the extortion of doctors and nurses; declaring
the necessity of making every possible retrenchment, in order to replace
the money so lost. Elinor did not live long enough to endure these fresh
privations. She sunk into a lingering decline, and before her little boy
could lisp her name, the friendly turf had closed over his heart-broken
mother.
Small was the grief expressed by the miser for the death of his gentle
partner. To avoid all unnecessary expense, she was buried in the
churchyard, instead of occupying a place in the family vault; and no
stone was erected during the life of the squire, to her memory.
It was a matter of surprise to the whole neighborhood that the young
child survived his mother. His father left Nature to supply her place,
and, but for the doting affection of Ruth, who came every night and
morning to wash and feed him, out of pure affection to her dear
mistress, the little Anthony would soon have occupied a place by his
ill-fated mother.
The Squire never cast a thought upon his half-clad half-famished babe
without bitterly cursing him as an additional and useless expense.
Anthony was a quiet and sweet-tempered little fellow; the school in
which he was educated taught him to endure with patience trials that
would have broken the spirit of a less neglected child.
Except the kindness which he received from Ruth, who was now married to
a laborer, and the mother of children of her own, he was a stranger to
sympathy and affection; and he did not expect to receive from strangers
the tenderness which he never experienced at home.
The mind of a child, like the mind of a grown person, requires
excitement: and, as Anthony could neither read nor write, and his father
seldom deigned to notice him, he was forced to seek abroad for those
amusements which he could not obtain at home. By the time he had
completed his eighth year he was to be seen daily mingling with the poor
boys in the village, with face unwashed and hair uncombed, and clothes
more ragged and dirty than those of his indigent associates.
One fine summer afternoon, while engaged in the exciting game of
pitch-and-toss, a handsome elderly gentleman rode up to the group of
boys, and asked the rosy ragged Anthony if he would run before him and
open the gate that led to the Hall.
"Wait awhile," cried the little fellow, adroitly poising the halfpenny
that he was about to throw, on the tip of his finger. "If I win by this
toss I will show you the way to my father's."
"Your father!" said the gentleman, surveying attentively the ragged
child. "Are you the gardener's son?"
"No, no," replied the boy, laughing and winking to his companions; "not
quite so bad as that. My father is a rich man, though he acts like a
poor one, and lets me, his only son, run about the streets without
shoes. But, did I belong to skin-flint Pike, instead of one slice of
bread to my milk and water, I might chance to get none. My father is the
old Squire, and my name is Anthony Marcus Hurdlestone."
"His father and grandfather's names combined--names of evil omen have
they been to me," sighed the stranger, who was, indeed, no other than
Algernon Hurdlestone, who for eight long years had forgotten the solemn
promise given to Elinor, that he would be a friend and guardian to her
child. Nor would he now have remembered the circumstance, had not his
own spoilt Godfrey been earnestly teasing him for a playmate. "Be a good
boy, Godfrey, and I will bring you home a cousin to be a brother and
playfellow," he said, as his conscience smote him for this long
neglected duty; and ordering his groom to saddle his horse, he rode over
to Oak Hall to treat with the miser for his son.
"Alas!" he thought, "can this neglected child be the son of my beautiful
Elinor, and heir to the richest commoner in England? But the boy
resembles my own dear Godfrey, and, for Elinor's sake, I will try and
rescue him from the barbarous indifference of such a father."
Then, telling the bare-footed urchin that he was his uncle Algernon,
and that he should come to Norgood Hall, and live with him, and have
plenty to eat and drink, and pretty clothes to wear, and a nice pony of
his own to ride, and a sweet little fellow of his own age to play with,
he lifted the astonished and delighted child before him on the saddle,
and was about to proceed to the Hall.
"The Squire does not live at the Hall," said the child, pulling at the
rein, in order to give the horse another direction. "Oh, no; he is _too
poor_ (and he laughed outright) to live there."
"What do you mean, Anthony and why do you call Mr. Hurdlestone the
Squire, instead of papa?"
"He never tells me to call him papa; he never calls me his son, or
'little boy,' or even 'Anthony,' or speaks to me as other fathers speak
to their children. He calls me chit and brat, and rude noisy fellow; and
it's 'Get out of my way, you little wretch! Don't come here to annoy
me.' And how can I call him father or papa, when he treats me as if I
did not belong to him?"
"My dear child, I much fear that you do not love your father."
"How can I, when he does not love me? If he would be kind to me, I would
love him very much; for I have nothing in the world to love but old
Shock, and he's half-starved. But he does love me, and I give him all I
can spare from my meals, and that's little enough. I often wish for
more, for poor Shock's sake; for they say that he was mamma's dog, and
Ruth Candler told me that when mamma died, he used to go every day for
months and lie upon her grave. Now was not that kind of Shock? I wish
papa loved me only half as well as old Shock loved my mother, and I
would not mind being starved, and going about the streets without
shoes."
Thus the child, prattled on, revealing to his new companion the secrets
of the prison-house. Had he looked up at that moment into his uncle's
face, he would have seen the tear upon his cheeks. He pressed the poor
child silently against him as they rode on.
"We will take Shock with us, Anthony, and he shall have plenty to eat as
well as you."
"Oh, dear uncle, how we shall love you, both Shock and I!"
"But tell me, Anthony, has your father really left the Hall?"
"Long, long ago; as far back as I can remember. It is the first thing I
can remember, since I awoke in this world and found myself alive, the
removing to old Pike's cottage. The Squire said that he was too poor to
live at the Hall, and there was plenty of room in the gardener's cottage
for us three, and there we have lived ever since. See, uncle, we are now
coming to it."
Algernon looked up and saw that they had entered a long avenue of lofty
trees, which he recognised as a back way to the extensive gardens, at
the extremity of which, and near the garden gate, stood a small cottage,
once neat and comfortable, but now fast falling to decay. He had often
played there with his brother and Grenard Pike in their childhood. The
plastered walls of the tenement in many places had given way, and the
broken windows were filled with pieces of board, which, if they kept out
the wind and rain, dismally diminished the small portion of light which
found its way through the dusty panes.
Fastening his horse to the moss-grown paling, Algernon proceeded to
knock at the door.
"Who's there?" growled a deep voice from within.
"A gentleman wishes to speak to Mr. Hurdlestone."
"He's not at home to strangers," responded the former growl, without
unclosing the door.
"That's Grenard Pike," whispered the boy. "You may be sure that the
Squire is not far off."
"I _must_ see Mr. Hurdlestone. I cannot wait until he returns," said
Algernon, walking into the house "I ought, I think, to be no stranger
here."
A small spare man, with sharp features, a brown leather face, thin lank
black hair, and eyes like a snake, drew back from the door, as Algernon
thus unceremoniously effected an entrance. His partner in penury, the
miser, was seated at an old oak table making arithmetical calculations
upon a bit of broken slate.
The tall stately figure of Mark Hurdlestone was, at this period, still
unbent with age, and he rose from his seat, his face flushed with anger
at being detected in sanctioning an untruth. His quick eye recognised
his brother, and he motioned to him to take a seat on the bench near
him.
It was not in the nature of the miser to consider Algernon a welcome
visitor. He was continually haunted by the recollection of the ten
thousand pounds that remorse had extorted from him, in the evil hour
when death stared him in the face, and the fear of future punishment,
for a brief season, triumphed over the besetting sin. He could not
forgive Algernon for this dreadful sacrifice; and but for very shame
would have asked him to return the money, giving him a bond to restore
it at his death.
"Well, brother," he began, in his usual ungracious tones, "what business
brings you here?"
"I came to ask of you a favor," said Algernon, seating himself, and
drawing the little Anthony between his knees; "one which I hope that you
will not refuse to grant."
"Humph!" said Mark. "I must tell you, without mincing the matter brother
Algernon, that I never grant favors in any shape. That I never ask
favors of any one. That I never lend money, or borrow money. That I
never require security for myself of others, or give my name as security
to them. If such is your errand to me you may expect, what you will
find--disappointment."
"Fortunately my visit to you has nothing to do with money. Nor do I
think that the favor I am about to ask will cause you to make the least
sacrifice. Will you give me this boy?"
The novel request created some surprise, it was so different from the
one the miser expected. He looked from the ragged child to his
fashionably-dressed brother, then to the child again, as if doubtful
what answer to return. The living brown skeleton, Pike, slipped softly
across the room to his side; and a glance of peculiar meaning shot from
his rat-like eyes, into the dark, deep-set, searching orbs of the miser.
"What do you think of it, Pike? Hey!"
"It is too good an offer to be refused," whispered the avaricious
satellite, who always looked upon himself as the miser's heir. "Take him
at his word."
"What do you want with the child?" said Mark, turning to his brother.
"Have you not a son of your own?"
"I have--a handsome clever little fellow. This nephew of mine greatly
resembles him."
"He cannot be more like you than this child is, whom his mother dared to
call mine. For my own part I never have, nor ever shall, consider him as
such."
"Brother! brother! you cannot, dare not, insinuate aught against the
honor of your wife!" and Algernon sprang from his seat, his cheeks
burning with anger.
"Sit down, sit down," said the miser coldly; "I do not mean to quarrel
with you on that score. In one sense of the word she was faithful. I
gave her no opportunity of being otherwise. But her heart"--and his dark
eye emitted an unnatural blaze of light--"her heart was false to me, or
that boy could not have resembled you in every feature."
"These things happen every day," said Algernon. "Children often resemble
their grandfathers and uncles more than they do their own parents. It is
hard to blame poor Elinor for having a child like me. Let me look at
you, boy," he continued, turning the child's head towards him as he
spoke. "Are you so very, very like your uncle Algernon?" The
extraordinary likeness could not fail to strike him. It filled the heart
of the miser with envy, hatred, and all uncharitableness. Still the
expression of the child's face was the only point of real resemblance;
his features and complexion belonged to his father. "Your jealous fancy,
Mark, has conjured up a phantom to annoy you. Where did this boy get his
black eyes from, if not from you? his dark complexion? I am fair, my
eyes are blue."
"He has his mother's eyes," sullenly returned the miser.
"I might as well accuse you of being the father of Godfrey, because he
has your eyes."
"You cannot reason me out of my senses. This Anthony is as like you,
Algernon, as two peas. He is your own son, and you are welcome to him.
His absence will give me no pain, nor will his adoption by you extort
from me one farthing for his future maintenance. If you persist in
taking him it will be at your own risk."
"I am contented to accept the poor orphan on these terms," said the
generous Algernon. "May God soften your iron heart towards your
neglected child. While I have wealth he shall not want; and were I
deprived of it to-morrow, he should share my bread while I have a
crust."
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