"What, silent yet. Nay, then by Heaven! I will not leave the house until you give me the money. Give me this paltry sum, and you may leave your h.o.a.rded treasures to the owls and bats, or make glad with your useless wealth some penurious wretch, as fond of gold as yourself!"

Mark Hurdlestone rocked to and fro in his chair, as if laboring with some great internal emotion; at length he half rose from his seat, and drew a key from beneath his vest. Anthony, who watched all his movements with intense interest, felt something like the glow of hope animate his breast; but these expectations were doomed to be annihilated, as the miser again sunk down in his chair, and hastily concealed the key among the tattered remains of his garments.

"Anthony, Anthony," he said, in a hollow voice, which issued from his chest as from a sepulchre. "Cannot you wait patiently until my death? It will all be your own, then."

"It will be too late," returned the agitated young man, whilst his cheeks glowed with the crimson blush of shame, as a thousand agonising recollections crowded upon his brain, and, covering his face with his hands, he groaned aloud. A long and painful pause succeeded. At length a desperate thought flashed through his mind.

He drew nearer, and fixed his dark expanded eyes upon his father's face, until the old man cowered, beneath the awful scrutiny. Again he spoke, but his voice was calm, dreadfully calm. "Father, will you grant my request? Let your answer be briefly, yes--or no?"

"No!" thundered the miser. "I will part with my life first."

"Be not rash. We are alone," returned the son, with the same unnatural composure. "You are weak, and I am strong. If you wantonly provoke the indignation of a desperate man, what will your riches avail you?"

The miser instinctively grasped at the huge poker that graced the fireplace, in whose rusty grate a cheerful fire had not been kindled for many years. Anthony's quick eye detected the movement, and he took possession of the dangerous weapon with the same cool but determined air.

"Think not that I mean to take your life. G.o.d forbid that I should stain my hand with so foul a crime, and destroy your soul by sending it so unprepared into the presence of the Creator. It is not blood--but money I want."

"Would not a less sum satisfy you?" and the miser eyed fearfully the weapon of offence, on which his son continued to lean, and again drew forth the key.

"Not one farthing less."

Mark glanced hurriedly round the apartment, and listened with intense anxiety for the sound of expected footsteps. The sigh of the old trees that bent over the hovel, swept occasionally by the fitful autumnal blast alone broke the deep silence, and rendered it doubly painful.

"Where can the fellow stay?" he muttered to himself; then as if a thought suddenly struck him, he turned to his eon, and addressed him in a more courteous tone. "Anthony, I cannot give you this great, sum to-night. But come to me at this hour to-morrow night, and it shall be yours."

"On what surety?"

"My word."

"I dare not trust to that. You may deceive me."

"When was Mark Hurdlestone ever known to utter a lie?" and a dark red flush of anger mounted to the miser's face.

"When he forged the news of his brother's death, to murder by slow degrees my unhappy mother," said Anthony, scornfully. "The spirits of the dead are near us in this hour; silently, but truly, they bear witness against you."

The old man groaned, and sunk his face between his hands as his son continued;

"I cannot wait until the morrow. This night alone is mine. If you cannot readily lay your hands upon the money, write me an order upon your banker for the sum."

"I have neither pen, ink, nor paper," said the miser, eagerly availing himself of the most paltry subterfuge, in order to gain time until the return of Grenard Pike, or to escape paying the money.

"I can supply you." And Anthony drew forth a small writing case, and placed paper before him, and put a pen into his father's hand.

"Anthony, you had better trust to my word," said Mark, solemnly. "Gold is a heavier surety than paper, and by the G.o.d who made us, I swear to keep my promise."

"Aye, but you forget the old proverb, father. 'A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.'"

The old man eyed him with a glance of peculiar meaning as with a trembling hand he proceeded to write the order. When he had finished, he folded the paper carefully together, and presented it to his son.

"You will not trust to my honor. Be it so. Take this paper, Anthony Hurdlestone, for a Hurdlestone you are, and for the first time in my life I believe that you are my son. But it is the sole inheritance you will ever receive from me. Go, and let me see your face no more."

"G.o.d bless you, sir," said the youth, in a faltering voice. "Forgive my late intemperate conduct; it was influenced by despair. From this moment I will love and respect you as my father."

The miser's thin lips quivered as his son turned to leave him. He called faintly after him, "Anthony, Anthony! Don't leave me alone with the spirits of the dead. To-morrow I will do you justice. At this hour to-morrow."

His son stopped, but the entrance of old Pike stifled the rising gleam of paternal regard, and dismissed the ghastly phantoms of the past from the excited mind of the gold-worshipper. He grumbled a welcome to his minion, and sternly waved to the unwelcome intruder to quit the house.

His wishes were instantly obeyed.

CHAPTER XIX.

Murder most foul hath been committed here, By thee committed--for thy hand is red, And on thy pallid brow I see impress'd The mark of Cain.--S.M.

A thrilling feeling of joy at having gained the object of his visit to Oak Hall, and obtained the means of wiping off the stain he so much dreaded from his character, was throbbing in the breast of Anthony Hurdlestone, as he reached, about nine o'clock in the evening, his nominal home.

He had sold his birthright for a mere trifle, but the loss of wealth weighed lightly in his estimation against the loss of honor. On entering Frederic's study, he found his cousin G.o.dfrey and the ruffian Mathews awaiting his return.

G.o.dfrey had dogged his steps to Ashton, had seen him enter the miser's hovel, and from the length of his visit guessed rightly the cause. His anxiety to know the result of this meeting induced him to return a part of the money he had the day before received from his cousin, which he had neither lost at play, as he had affirmed to Anthony, nor paid to the Jew the fict.i.tious debt which he had declared was due to him. These falsehoods had been planned by him and his base companion, in order to draw the unsuspecting young man into their toils, and bring about the rupture they desired with his father.

"My dear Anthony," he said, shaking him heartily by the hand, as he rose to meet him. "I have not enjoyed a moment's peace since we parted this evening. Here is half the sum you so kindly advanced, and if you can wait for a few days, I hope to have the rest ready for you."

With a heavy sigh, Anthony received the notes from his cousin, and counting them over he locked them up in the desk, doubly rejoiced that he had the means of replacing the whole sum.

"You have been to Oak Hall," said G.o.dfrey, carelessly. "How did the old place look?"

"I did not notice it. My mind was too much agitated. When I left you ruin stared me in the face; as a last desperate chance to free myself, I determined to visit my father, and request the loan of the money."

"A daring move that," said G.o.dfrey, with a smile to his companion; "particularly after the rebuff you got from him, when you visited him on behalf of my poor father. May I ask if you were successful?"

"Here is the order for the money;" and with a feeling of natural triumph, Anthony took the order from his pocket-book.

"Is it possible! The philosopher's stone is no fable, if words of yours could extract gold from a heart of flint. Brave Anthony! you have wrought a miracle. But let me look at the order. Seeing's believing; and I cannot believe such an improbable thing without I witness it with my own eyes."

"Nay, convince yourself of the truth, G.o.dfrey. What object can I have in attempting to deceive you? It would be against my own interest so to do, as you are still my debtor for two hundred pounds."

G.o.dfrey took the paper from his cousin's hand, and went to the table to examine it by the light. As he glanced over the contents he gave a sudden exclamation of surprise, and a smile curled his lip.

"Do you believe me now?" said Anthony, who knew not exactly how to interpret the dubious expression of G.o.dfrey's face.

"Read for yourself," returned G.o.dfrey, giving back the paper. "When you deal with such an accomplished scoundrel as Mark Hurdlestone, you should give the devil a retaining fee."

"What do you mean, G.o.dfrey?" and his cousin eagerly s.n.a.t.c.hed the paper from his grasp. "He has not dared to deceive me!"

Still, as he read, his countenance fell, a deadly paleness suddenly pervaded his features, and uttering a faint moan, in which all the bitter disappointment he experienced was visibly concentrated, he sank down in a swoon at G.o.dfrey's feet.

"What on earth's the matter with the lad?" said Mathews, as he a.s.sisted G.o.dfrey in lifting him to the sofa. "What's in the wind?"