"Well, hang me if that is not a good joke!" cried the smuggler, bursting into a coa.r.s.e laugh, which quickened the steps of his retreating foe.

"The devil had some mischief in store when he made those chaps so much alike. I would not wish my own brother to resemble me so closely as all that, lest mayhap he should murder or steal, and the halter should fall on my neck instead of his."

CHAPTER XI.

Oh, human hearts are strangely cast, Time softens grief and pain; Like reeds that shiver in the blast, They bend to rise again.--S.M.

"Come, Miss Whitmore, you must rouse yourself from this unwomanly grief.

It is quite improper for a young lady of your rank and fortune to be shedding tears for the immoral conduct of a worthless young profligate."

"Peace, Dorothy; don't scold the poor child. You see her heart is nearly broken. It will do her good to cry. Come, my own darling, come to your old father's arms, and never mind what your aunt says to you."

"Really, Captain Whitmore, if you mean to encourage your daughter's disrespectful conduct to me, the sooner we part the better."

"Dolly, Dolly, have you no feeling for the poor child? Do hold that cruel tongue of yours. It never sounded so harsh and disagreeable to me before. Look up, my Julee, and kiss your old father."

And Juliet made an effort to raise her head from her father's bosom, and look in his face. The big tears weighed down her eyelids, and she sank back upon his shoulder, faintly murmuring, "And I thought him so good."

"Yes," said Miss Dorothy, whose temper was not at all softened by her brother's reproof; "you never would believe me. You would follow your own headstrong fancy; and now you see the result of your folly. I often wondered to see you reading and flirting with that silent, down looking young man, while his frank, good-natured cousin was treated with contempt. I hope you will trust to my judgment another time."

"Aunt, spare me these reproaches. If I have acted imprudently I am severely punished."

"I am sure the poor child was not worse deceived than I have been," said the Captain; "but the lad's to be pitied; he comes of a bad breed. But rouse up, my Julee--show yourself a girl of spirit. Go to your own room; a little sleep will do you a world of good. To-morrow you will forget it all."

"That poor girl!" said Juliet, and a shudder ran through her frame. "How can I forget her? Her pale face--her sunken eyes--her look of unutterable woe. Oh, she haunts me continually; and I--I--may have been the cause of all this misery. My head aches sadly. I will go to bed. I long to be alone."

She embraced her father, and bade him good night, and curtseying to aunt Dorothy, for her heart was too sore to speak to her, she sought the silence and solitude of her own chamber.

Oh, what luxury it was to be alone--to know that no prying eyes looked upon her grief; no harsh voice, with unfeeling common-place, tore open the deep wounds of her aching heart, and made them bleed afresh!

"Oh, that I could think him innocent!" she said. "Yet I cannot wholly consider him guilty. He looked--oh, how sad and touching was that look!

It spoke of sorrow, but it revealed no trait of remorse; but then, would Mary, by her strange conduct, have condemned a man whom she knew to be innocent? Alas! it must be so, and 'tis a crime to love him."

She sank upon her knees, and buried her face in the coverlid of the bed, but no prayer rose to her lips--an utter prostration of soul was there, but the shrine of her G.o.d was dark and voiceless; the waves of human pa.s.sion had flowed over it, and marred the purity of the accustomed offering. Hour after hour still found her on her knees, yet she could not form a single pet.i.tion to the Divine Father. As Southey has beautifully expressed the same feelings in the finest of all his poems:

"An agony of tears was all her soul could offer."

Midnight came; the moon had climbed high in the heavens. The family had retired for the night, and deep silence reigned through the house, when Juliet rose from her knees, and approaching the open cas.e.m.e.nt, looked long and sadly into the serene, tranquil depths of the cloudless night.

Who ever gazed upon the face of the divine mother in vain? The spirit of peace brooded over the slumbering world--that holy calm which no pa.s.sion of man can disturb--which falls with the same profound stillness round the turmoil of the battle-field, and the bed of death--which enfolds in its silent embrace the eternity of the past--the wide ocean of the present. How many streaming eyes had been raised to that cloudless moon!--how many hands had been lifted up in heart-felt prayer to those solemn star-gemmed heavens! What tales of bitter grief had been poured out to the majesty of night! The eyes were quenched in the darkness of the grave; the hands were dust; and the impa.s.sioned hearts that once breathed those plaintive notes of woe, where, oh where were they? The spirit that listened to the sorrows of their day had no revelation to make of their fate!

"And I, what am I, that I should repine and murmur against the decrees of Providence?" sighed Juliet. "The sorrows that I now endure have been felt by thousands who now feel no more. G.o.d, give me patience under every trial. In humble faith teach me resignation to Thy divine will."

With a sorrowful tranquillity of mind she turned from the window, struck a light, and prepared to undress, when her attention was arrested by a letter lying upon her dressing table. She instantly recognised the hand, and hastily breaking the seal, read with no small emotion the following lines

Say, dost thou think that I could be False to myself and false to thee?

This broken heart and fever'd brain May never wake to joy again.

Yet conscious innocence has given A hope that triumphs o'er despair; I trust my righteous cause to heaven, And brace my tortured soul to bear The worst that can on earth befall, In losing thee--my life, my all!

The dove of promise to my ark, The pole-star to my wandering bark, The beautiful by love enshrined, And worshipp'd with such fond excess; Whose being with my being twined In one bright dream of happiness, Not death itself can rend apart The link that binds thee to my heart.

Spurn not the crush'd and wither'd flower; There yet shall dawn a brighter hour, When ev'ry tear you shed o'er this Shall be repaid with tenfold bliss; And hope's bright arch shall span the cloud That wraps us in its envious shroud.

Then banish from thy breast for ever The cold, ungenerous thought of ill, Falsehood awhile our hearts may sever, But injured worth must triumph still.

Juliet did not for a moment doubt that Anthony Hurdlestone was the author of these lines, and involuntarily she pressed the paper to her lips. Realities are stern things, but Juliet could not now believe him guilty: and with all the romance of her nature, she was willing to hope against hope; and she retired to bed, comforted for her past sufferings, and as much in love with Anthony as ever.

While Juliet enjoyed a profound and tranquil sleep, her unfortunate lover was a prey to the most agonising doubts and fears. "Surely, surely, she cannot think me guilty," thought the devoted Anthony, as he tossed from side to side upon his restless bed. "She is too generous to condemn me without further evidence. Yet, why do I cling to a forlorn hope? Stronger minds than hers would believe appearances which speak so loudly against me. But why should I bear this brand of infamy? I will go to her in the morning and expose the real criminal."

This idea, entertained for a moment, was quickly abandoned. What, if he did expose his cousin's guilt, might not G.o.dfrey deny the facts, and Mary, in order to shield her unprincipled lover, bear him out in his denial; and then his ingrat.i.tude to the father would be more conspicuously displayed in thus denouncing his son. No: for Algernon's sake he would bear the deep wrong, and leave to Heaven the vindication of his honor. He had made an appeal to her feelings; and youth, ever sanguine, fondly hoped that it had not been made in vain.

Another plan suggested itself to his disturbed mind. He would inform G.o.dfrey of the miserable situation in which he was placed, and trust to his generosity to exonerate him from the false charge, which Mary, in her waywardness or madness, had fixed upon him. Judging his cousin's mind by his own, he felt that he was secure--that, however painful to G.o.dfrey's self-love, he would never suffer him to bear the reproach of a crime committed by himself.

Confident of success, he rose by the dawn of day, and sought his cousin's apartment. After rapping several times at the door, his summons was answered by G.o.dfrey in a grumbling tone, between sleeping and waking.

"I must see you, G.o.dfrey," cried Anthony, impatiently shaking the door.

"My errand brooks no delay."

"What the deuce do you want at this early hour?" said G.o.dfrey with a heavy yawn. "Now do be quiet, Tony, and give a man time to pull his eyes open."

Again the door was violently shaken. G.o.dfrey had fallen back into a deep sleep, and Anthony, in his eagerness to gain an audience, made noise enough to have roused the Seven Sleepers from their memorable nap. With a desperate effort G.o.dfrey at length sprang from his bed, and unlocked the door, but, as the morning was chilly, he as quickly retreated to his warm nest, and buried his head in the blankets.

"G.o.dfrey, do rouse yourself, and attend to me; I have something of great consequence to communicate, the recital of which cannot fail to grieve you, if you retain the least affection for me."

"Could you not wait until after breakfast?" and G.o.dfrey forced himself into a sitting posture. "I was out late last night, and drank too much wine. I feel confoundedly stupid, and the uproar that you have been making for the last hour at the door has given me an awful headache.

But what is the matter with you, Tony? You look like a spectre. Are you ill? or have you, like me, been too long over your cups?"

"You know I never drink, G.o.dfrey, nor have I any bodily ailment; but in truth my mind is ill at ease. I am sick at heart, and you, you, cousin, are the cause of my present sufferings."

"Ah! the old love story. You repent of giving up Juliet, and want me to release you from your promise. I am not such a romantic fool! I never give up an advantage once gained, and am as miserly of opportunities as your father is of his cash. But speak out Anthony," he continued, seeing his cousin turn pale, "I should like to hear what dreadful charge you have to bring against me."

"You shall hear, G.o.dfrey, if I have strength and courage to tell you."

Anthony sat down on an easy chair by the side of the bed, and after a long pause, in which he tried to compose his agitated feelings, he informed his cousin of the conversation that he had overheard between Mary and her brother, and what had subsequently happened. G.o.dfrey listened with intense interest until he came to that part of the narrative where Mary, in her wandering mood, had confounded him with Anthony; and there, at the very circ.u.mstance which had occasioned his cousin such acute anguish, and when he expected from him the deepest sympathy, how were his feelings shocked as, throwing himself back upon his pillow, G.o.dfrey burst into a loud fit of laughter, exclaiming in a jocular and triumphant tone, "By Jove, Anthony, but you are an unlucky dog!"

This was too much for the excited state of mind under which Anthony had been laboring for some hours, and with a stifled groan he fell across the bed in a fit. G.o.dfrey alarmed in his turn, checked his indecent mirth, and dressing himself as quickly as he could, roused up his valet to run for the surgeon. The fresh air and the loss of a little blood soon restored the unfortunate young man to his senses and to a deep consciousness of his cousin's ungentlemanly and base conduct.

Instead of being sorry for this unfortunate mistake, G.o.dfrey secretly congratulated himself upon his singular good fortune, and laughed at the strange accident that had miraculously transferred the shame of his own guilt to his cousin.

"This will destroy for ever what little influence he possessed with Juliet, and will close the Captain's doors against him. If I do not improve my present advantage, may I die a poor dependent upon the bounty of a Hurdlestone!"

Again he laughed, and strode onward to the Lodge, humming a gay tune, and talking and whistling alternately to his dog.

He found Miss Dorothy and her niece at work; the latter as pale as marble, the tears still lingering in the long dark lashes that veiled her sad and downcast eyes. The Captain was rocking to and fro in an easy chair, smoking his pipe and glancing first towards his daughter, and then at her starch prim-looking aunt, with no very complaisant expression.

"By Jove, Dorothy! if you continue to torment that poor child with your eternal sermons, you will compel me to send you from the house."