"A child! my child!" cried G.o.dfrey, stepping eagerly forward. "Poor Mary! she is safe through that trial. But the child--"

"Is dead," said Mathews. "Yes, dead. G.o.dfrey you are in luck. What a fortunate thing for us all."

"Dead!" said the young father, laying his hand upon the cold pale cheek of his first born. "Aye, so it is. She was so healthy, I dared not hope for this. Poor little pale cold thing, how happy I am to see you thus!

What a load of anxiety your death has removed from my heart! What a blessing it would have been if it had pleased G.o.d to take them both!"

This from the man she loved--the father of her child--was too much. Mary opened her large tear-swollen eyes, and fixed them mournfully upon his face. He stooped down, and would have kissed her; but she drew back with ill-disguised horror. The love she had so madly cherished for him was gone--vanished for ever in those cruel words, and nought but the blank darkness and horror of remorse remained. She turned upon her pillow, and fixing her eyes upon the dead infant, mentally swore that she would live for revenge. She no longer shed a tear, or uttered the least complaint, but secretly blessed G.o.d that the babe was dead. She had lived to hear the father of that child, for whose sake she had borne the contempt of her neighbors, the reproaches of conscience, and the fears of eternal punishment, rejoice in the death of his first-born; and without a tear or sigh, wish that she might share the same grave. Could such things be?

Alas! they happen every day, and are the sure reward of guilt.

"My poor Mary," said the hypocrite. "You have suffered a good deal for my sake; but do not cry. G.o.d knew best when he took the child from us.

It is painful for us to part with him, but depend upon it, he is much better off where he is."

"I know it now," said the young mother. "Yes, G.o.dfrey Hurdlestone, he is better off where he is; and for some wise end, G.o.d has spared my worthless life. Is that you, William? The murderer of my child has no business here."

"Mary, it was the drink. I did not mean to hurt either you or the child; so shake hands, and say that you forgive me."

He leant over the bed and held out his hand. Mary put it contemptuously aside. "Never," she said firmly; "neither in this world, nor in the world to come."

"Do you know what you say?" said Mathews, bending over the pillow and doubling his fist in his sister's face, whilst his dark grey eyes emitted a deadly light.

"I am in my senses," returned Mary, with a bitter laugh, "although you have done your best to drive me mad. You need not stamp your foot, nor frown, nor glare upon me like a beast of prey. I defy your malice. What I said I will again repeat; and may my curse and the curse of an offended G.o.d cleave to you for ever!"

"I will murder you for those words!" said the fiend, grinding his teeth.

"Death is no punishment. Threaten me, William, with something that I fear. I am helpless, now, but I shall soon be strong and well, and my arm may be a match for the feeble drunkard--the cowardly destroyer of women and children."

"Unhand me, G.o.dfrey Hurdlestone!" roared out the villain, struggling in the powerful grasp of his colleague in guilt. "For by all the fiends of h.e.l.l! she shall answer for those words!"

"Hold, Mathews! You are mad! I will stab you to the heart if you attempt to touch her."

He spoke to the winds, for throwing him back to the wall, Mathews seized the knife from his hand, and sprang upon his intended victim. Rising slowly up in the bed, with an air of calm solemn grandeur, she held up the pure pale form of the dead child between herself and the murderer.

Not a word was spoken. With an awful curse the man reeled back as if he had been stung by a serpent, and fell writhing upon the floor, and Mary sunk back upon her pillow, and covered her face with her hands, muttering as she did so,--"How strong is innocence! The wicked are like the chaff which the wind scatters abroad. Oh, G.o.d, forgive the past, which is no longer in my power; and let the future be spent in thy service. I repent in dust and ashes. Oh, woe is me, for I have sinned!"

Rousing Mathews from the fit into which he had fallen, and in no very enviable state of mind, G.o.dfrey left the chamber, and joined a set of notorious gamblers in the room below.

From this scene of riot and drunken debauchery, he was summoned by Mrs.

Strawberry to attend a gentleman who wished to speak to him in the outer room. With unsteady steps, and a face flushed with the eager excitement of gambling. G.o.dfrey followed his conductress, and ruffian as he was, his cheek paled, and his eyes sought the ground when he found himself in the presence of his injured cousin.

Shocked at the situation in which he found him, Anthony briefly stated the difficulty he had had in tracing G.o.dfrey to this infamous resort, and the awkward circ.u.mstances in which he was placed with young Wildegrave; and he claimed the promise made to him by his cousin on the preceding day, to relieve him from the impending danger.

"I told you that to-night, Anthony, the money should be repaid. The clock has not yet struck for eight. If I have luck, it shall be returned before twelve to-night."

"Luck!" reiterated Anthony, gasping for breath, as he staggered to the wall for support. "Is it on such a precarious basis that my honor and your honesty must rest? You talked yesterday of the sale of your reversionary property."

"I did. But the Jew was too cunning for me. He became the purchaser, and the money just satisfied his demand, and covered an old debt of honor, that I had forgotten was due to him, and I am worse off than I was before."

"But you can restore the money you got from me last night, as Haman was satisfied by the sale of the legacy."

"I could if you had called two hours ago. I was tempted to try my luck in the hope of gaining a few pounds for my self, and--"

"It is lost at the gaming table?"

G.o.dfrey nodded his head.

"It is well," said Anthony, bitterly. "You have saved your own life by transferring the doom to me."

He did not wait for further explanation, but walked rapidly from the house; and after a thousand severe self-upbraidings, in a fit of despair, took the road that led through Ashton Park to the miser's dwelling.

After an hour's walk he came in sight of the wretched hovel. It was now evening, and a faint light, shed from a rush candle, gleamed through the broken apertures of the low cas.e.m.e.nt. He paused upon the threshold of this abode of want and misery, and for the first time in his life he thought it had been well for him had he never left it. For some time he continued knocking loudly at the door, without being able to gain admittance; at, length, bolt after bolt was slowly withdrawn, and the miser himself let him in.

"It is well, Grenard, that you are home at last," growled forth the surly old man. "If you make a practice of staying out so late at night, we shall both be murdered."

But when, on holding up the light, he discovered his mistake, and recognised the features of his son, he demanded in an angry tone, "What business he had with him?"

Anthony pushed past him, and entered the house.

"Father, I will tell you immediately--but I am tired and ill. I must sit down."

Without regarding the old man's stern look of surprise and displeasure, he advanced to the table, and sat down upon the empty bench which was generally occupied by Grenard Pike, secretly rejoicing that that worthy was not at home. The awkwardness and difficulty of his situation pressed so painfully upon the young man, that for a few seconds he could not utter a word. A cold perspiration bedewed his limbs, and his knees trembled with agitation.

Stern and erect, the old man, still holding the light, stood before him, and though he did not raise his head to meet the miser's glance, he felt that the searching gaze from which he used to shrink when a boy was riveted upon him.

Mark Hurdlestone was the first to break the awful silence.

"Well, sir! If you are ready to explain the cause of this extraordinary visit, I am ready to listen to you. What do you want?"

"Your advice and aid," at length gasped forth the unhappy youth. "I have acted very foolishly, and in an hour of great difficulty and danger, I fling myself upon your mercy, and I beseech you not to turn a deaf ear to my prayer."

Mark sat down in his high-backed chair, and placed the light upon the table in such a manner as fully to reveal the pale agitated features of his son. Had a stranger at that moment entered the cottage, he might for the first time have perceived the strong family likeness that existed between them. The same high features, the same compressed lips and haughty stern expression of eye. The gloom which overspread the countenance of the one, produced by the habitual absence of all joyous feeling; the other by actual despair. Yes, in that hour they looked alike, and the miser seemed tacitly to acknowledge the resemblance, for a softening expression stole over his rigid features as he continued to gaze upon his son.

"You have acted foolishly," he said; "no uncommon thing at your age--and in danger and difficulty you seek me. I suppose I ought to consider this act of condescension on your part a great compliment. Your circ.u.mstances must be desperate indeed, when they lead you to make a confidant of your father, considering how greatly I am indebted to you for filial love. You have been in my neighborhood, Anthony Hurdlestone, nearly a month, and this is the first visit with which you have honored me."

"I should have been most happy to have paid my respects to you, sir, could I have imagined that my visits would have been acceptable."

"It was worth your while to make the trial, young man. It was not for you to think, but to act, and the result would have proved to you how far you were right. But to dismiss all idle excuses, which but aggravate your want of duty in my eyes, be pleased briefly to inform me, why I am honored so late at night with a visit from Mr. Anthony Hurdlestone?"

Anthony bit his lips. It was too late to retract, and though he deeply repented having placed himself in such a humiliating situation, he faithfully related to his stern auditor the cause of his distress. The old man listened to him attentively, a sarcastic smile at times writhing his thin lips; and when Anthony implored him for the loan of four hundred pounds, until the return of Mr. Wildegrave, who he was certain would overlook his unintentional fraud--he burst into a taunting laugh, and flatly refused to grant his request.

Anthony a.s.sailed him with a storm of eloquence, using every argument which the agony of the moment suggested, in order to soften his hard heart. He might as well have asked charity of the marble monuments of his ancestors. Stung to madness by the old man's obstinate refusal, he sprang from his seat.

"Father, relent I beseech you: revoke this cruel decision. My request is too urgent to admit of a denial!"

He dashed his clenched fist upon the shattered remains of the old oak table, upon which Mark was leaning, his head resting between his long bony attenuated hands. The blow sent a hollow sound through the empty desolate apartment. The grey-haired man raised his eyes, without lifting his head, and surveyed his son with an expression of mocking triumph, but answered not a word. His contemptuous silence was more galling to the irritated applicant than the loudest torrent of abuse. He was prepared for that, and he turned from the stony glance and harsh face of his father with eyes full of tears, and his breast heaving under the sense of intolerable wrongs.

At length his feelings found utterance. His dark eyes flashed fire, and despair, with all her attendant furies, took possession of his heart.

"I will not reproach you, Mr. Hurdlestone, for giving me life," he cried, in tones tremulous with pa.s.sion, "for that would be to insult the G.o.d who made me: but your unnatural conduct to me since the first moment I inherited that melancholy boon has made me consider that my greatest misfortune is being your son. It was in your power to have rendered it a mutual blessing. From a child, I have been a stranger in your house, an alien to your affections. While you possessed a yearly income of two hundred thousand pounds, you suffered your only son to be educated on the charity of your injured brother, your sordid love of gold rendering you indifferent to the wants of your motherless child. Dest.i.tute of a home without money, and driven to desperation by an act of imprudence, which my compa.s.sion for the son of that generous uncle urged me in an unguarded hour to commit, I seek you in my dire necessity to ask the loan of a small sum, to save me from utter ruin. This you refuse. I now call upon you by every feeling, both human and divine, to grant my request.