Mark Hurdlestone Part 25

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. G.o.dfrey. 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."

G.o.dfrey, 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 gla.s.s, he drew a small table between them, and stretching his legs towards the cheering blaze he handed a gla.s.s 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."

G.o.dfrey eagerly seized the proffered gla.s.s 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 h.e.l.l?"

"Pshaw!" said G.o.dfrey, lighting his pipe, "do you believe such idle fables?"

"Why, do you see, Master G.o.dfrey, 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 h.e.l.l," said G.o.dfrey, 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, G.o.dfrey 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 G.o.dfrey with vacant bloodshot eyes.

"Don't take me for a ghost," said G.o.dfrey, the same sarcastic smile pa.s.sing 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 G.o.dfrey 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. G.o.dfrey, 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 G.o.dfrey, 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 G.o.dfrey 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?"

G.o.dfrey took the hand of the smuggler and pressed it hard.

"Can you form no better scheme than that?"

"I understand you, Mr. G.o.dfrey. 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 G.o.dfrey, 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."

"I wish the funeral was over," said G.o.dfrey, "I hate being forced to act a conspicuous part in so grave a farce."

"Your cousin will help you out. He is the real mourner; you, the actor.

Remember what I hinted to you, and let me know your opinion in a few days."

"The risk is too great," said G.o.dfrey, shrugging his shoulders. "When I am reduced to my last s.h.i.+ft, it will be time enough to talk of that."

The grey misty dawn was just struggling into day, when G.o.dfrey left the cottage. Mathews looked after him, as, opening a side gate that led to a foot-path that intersected the park, he vanished from his sight.

"Well, there goes the greatest scoundrel that ever was unhung," he muttered to himself. "He has never shed blood, nor done what I have done, but hang me if I would exchange characters with him, bad as I may be. He thinks to make a fool of me; but if I do not make him repay a thousand fold the injuries he has heaped on me and mine, may we swing on the same gallows."

In no very enviable mood, G.o.dfrey pursued his way though the lonely park. The birds had not yet sung their matin hymn to awaken the earth.

Deep silence rested upon the august face of nature. Not a breath of air stirred the branches, heavy with dew-drops. The hour was full of beauty and mystery. An awe fell insensibly upon the heart, as if it saw the eye of G.o.d visibly watching over the sleeping world. Its holy influence was felt even by the selfish heartless G.o.dfrey.

The deep silence--the strange stillness--the uncertain light--the scenes he had lately witnessed--his altered fortunes--his degrading pursuits--the fallen and depraved state of his mind, crowded into his thoughts, and filled his bosom with keen remorse and painful regrets.

"Oh, that I could repent!" he cried, stopping, and clasping his hands together, and fixing his eyes mournfully upon the earth,--"that I could believe that there was a G.o.d--a heaven--a h.e.l.l! Yet if there be no hereafter, why this stifling sense of guilt--this ever-haunting miserable consciousness of unworthiness? Am I worse than other men, or are all men alike--the circ.u.mstances in which they are placed producing that which we denominate good or evil in their characters? What if I determine to renounce the evil, and cling to the good; would it yet be well with me? Would Juliet, like a good angel, consent to be my guide, and lead me gently back to the forsaken paths of rect.i.tude and peace?"

While the voice in his heart yet spake to him for good, another voice sounded in his ears, and all his virtuous resolutions melted into air.

"G.o.dfrey," said the voice of Mary Mathews, "dear Mr. G.o.dfrey, have I become so indifferent to you, that you will neither look at me nor speak to me?"

She was the last person in the world who at that moment he wished to see. The sight of her recalled him to a sense of his degradation, and all that he had lost by his unhappy connexion with her, and he secretly wished that she had died instead of her father.

"Mary," he said, coldly, "what do you want with me? The morning is damp and raw; you had better go home."

"What do I want with you?" reiterated the girl. "And is it come to that?

Can you, who have so often sworn to me that you loved me better than anything in heaven or on earth, now ask me, in my misery, what I want with you?"