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Title: The straight road is shortest and surest
Author: A. L. O. E.
Release date: December 30, 2025 [eBook #77568]
Language: English
Original publication: London: Frederick Warne and Co, 1867
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE STRAIGHT ROAD IS SHORTEST AND SUREST ***
Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
[Illustration: ROSA WAS PEERING INTO THE BASKET.]
THE
STRAIGHT ROAD
IS
SHORTEST AND SUREST.
BY
A. L. O. E.
[Illustration]
LONDON:
FREDERICK WARNE AND CO.
BEDFORD STREET, COVENT GARDEN.
1867.
CONTENTS.
——————
CHAP.
I. A MISHAP IN THE WOODS
II. THE OAK ROOM
III. FIRE
IV. EARTH
V. PUT TO THE QUESTION
VI. FACING IT OUT
VII. WATER
VIII. A CHASE
IX. CONJECTURES
X. DECISION
THE STRAIGHT ROAD
IS
SHORTEST AND SUREST.
———————————
CHAPTER I.
A MISHAP IN THE WOODS.
IT was a glowing, sultry day in the glorious month of June. In the
drawing-room of Cortley Hall every window was thrown wide open to
admit the breeze, which scarcely stirred the muslin curtains, or
moved one leaf of the delicate maiden-hair fern which drooped from a
fancy basket. In the deep recess of one of these windows sat a merry
black-eyed girl, with a quantity of white satin ribbon heaped loosely
upon her knee, and her workbox placed upon a little table beside her.
A graceful young maiden stood near, and pensively and tenderly, as if
each blossom were linked in her mind with thoughts of a home she was
soon to quit, was arranging a quantity of flowers—roses, fuchsias, and
geraniums—to fill a porcelain vase. Mina, was less inclined to laugh
and chat than was Rosa, her gay young cousin, whose tongue rattled
merrily on, while her nimble fingers transformed the ribbon into piles
of rosettes and favours.
In the corner of the room a gentleman, not much beyond middle age,
but whose broad bald forehead and "sable-silvered" hair made him seem
older than he really was, was seated writing at a desk. This was Mr.
Marsden, the master of Cortley Hall, and the father of Mina, the young
bride-elect. He was engaged in writing orders on a munificent scale
for donations to the sick and poor, on the occasion of the approaching
wedding. In every cottage, for miles around, the plentiful feast would
be spread; for Mr. Marsden was a benefactor to all who came within
reach of his large-hearted charity, and many had had reason to bless
the day when he had entered into possession of Cortley Hall.
"What on earth can have become of Wilfred!" exclaimed Rosa May, looking
impatiently towards the door. "How am I to finish off these favours,
with not a sprig of orange-blossom to put in the middle! He does not
usually play the snail, that young brother of yours!"
"Nay, you must remember," said Mina, "that the town is full three miles
distant, and the weather exceedingly hot; I was vexed when I heard that
you had sent him upon such an errand!"
"Oh! All the servants are busy, you know, in making grand preparations
for Thursday; and I thought," added Rosa with a laugh, "that it was
an act of public utility to get a boy out of the way for a couple of
hours, and tame down his wild spirits a little by teaching him to make
himself useful. You have spoilt Wilfred sadly, I fear!"
"How can you say so!" cried the smiling Mina.
"How dare you say so!" exclaimed a merry voice from without, and—not
through the door, but the window—in sprang a fine-looking boy
of fourteen, with heated face, and moistened hair, and a bright
good-humoured smile in his clear blue eyes, from which seemed to look
forth a spirit free and open as the day.
"Why, Wilfred, you truant knight; what can have delayed you so long?"
exclaimed Rosa May, with her finger raised in an affected attitude of
reproof. "We thought that you would have been back an hour ago, laden
with orange-blossom from the town, ready to cut, clip, run messages,
do the dutiful in every possible way to both bridesmaid and bride! But
is anything the matter?" she added. "Your clothes seem torn; your face
scratched."
"You have not met with any accident, dear Will?" exclaimed the fair
young bride; and at the question, asked in her gentle tone of concern,
Mr. Marsden turned round from his desk, and glanced at the handsome
lad, who was his only son and heir.
"Oh! I don't care a straw for a few rents in my clothes, or scratches
on my face!" exclaimed Wilfred Marsden. "But this is what provokes me:
look here, I've crushed your dainty box of orange-blossoms as flat as
a pancake!" And with an air of vexation, the boy rather threw down
than placed upon the table a light millinery box, which appeared in
deplorable plight.
"Oh! dear; how could you manage to do this!" cried his cousin the
bridesmaid, opening and surveying with a rueful air the crushed
blossoms within.
"Never mind, Wilfred dear," said Mina, approaching with a kindly smile;
"it was very good in you to go yourself to Manton for the flowers, buy
them, and bring them—"
"And smash them on the way!" added Wilfred.
"Oh! I don't believe that they are spoilt," said the bride, taking up a
sprig in her delicate fingers. "A little twist here, a little pulling
out there, and see—now is not that perfectly lovely?" And she held up
the renovated flower.
"If it is not, I know who is!" cried the boy, looking with fond
admiration upon his only sister, and thinking what a happy fellow
Edward Lyle was going to be. "I hope that there's not much harm done,
after all. I thought that the poor flowers were demolished when my foot
came smash on the lid of the box!"
"How did it happen, awkward boy?" asked the bridesmaid.
"The story is soon told," said Wilfred, sitting down, and fanning his
heated face with his straw hat. "You know that the day is grilling hot,
and I thought that I should be fairly baked if I took the straight path
across the fields, where there is not a yard of shade."
"So you went round by the wood?" said Mina.
"A fine roundabout way!" cried her cousin.
"I fancied that I could make a cut through the thicket, so struck out
from the path and tried to get across through the bushes. But it seemed
as if Puck and all the fairies had conspired to catch me prisoner! Now
my jacket was caught in a bramble; then a bough nearly knocked off my
hat; when I got free from the thorns on the right hand, I was caught by
a long straggling briar on the left! Then suddenly I felt a sharp sting
on my neck, just underneath my collar—" Wilfred clapped his hand on
the place—"I dropped the box like a hot potato, and what betwixt wasp
and briars and brambles, hardly knew what I was about, till I felt my
unlucky foot crunching through the pasteboard of the box!"
"Ah! Well, things might have been worse!" said Mina, with smiling
philosophy. "Your kind intention was all the same. Your long walk has
enabled me—"
"To show that you have the sweetest temper as well as the fairest face
in the world!" interrupted Wilfred.
"And it has taught you, I hope," said Rosa, "that the straight road is
the shortest and surest."
"Ay, I wished often enough in the wood that I had taken my way through
the fields, however hot it might have been," said Wilfred.
"That proverb, my boy," observed Mr. Marsden, who had locked his desk
and joined the group, "holds good in more important matters than your
adventure of to-day. There's many a sharp, clever fellow, with more wit
in his brain than truth in his heart, who has found in the end that
through life the straightest road is the shortest and surest."
"You mean the path of honour, papa."
"I mean the path of duty."
"Duty and honour, surely they are the same," cried Wilfred. "They are
but two names for one thing."
"Scarcely so," said the father. "I shall call honour a high sense of
what we owe to 'ourselves;' duty, a high sense of what we owe to 'our
God!'"
"But if they be not the same thing, they lead to the same actions,
surely. They both make a man shrink from anything false, dishonest, or
mean."
Mr. Marsden looked down with something of paternal pride upon the
fine, intelligent countenance of his only son, so expressive of the
contempt which the mere thought of dishonourable conduct inspired.
He, however, shook his head gravely as he made answer, "Honour, as we
usually understand the word, is but man's standard of what is becoming
in a man, and must be fallible like its author. Honour has fired the
ambitious leader, who sacrifices thousands of his fellow-creatures to
win for himself the name of a hero; honour has loaded the duellist's
pistol, and made brave men slaves to the dread of reproach. We could
as safely direct our steps by the fitful blaze of a meteor, as take
earthly honour alone for the guide of our words and actions."
"Was it not honour that made Edward Lyle give up that good living which
he could have had by merely letting it be thought that he was a few
weeks older than he was?"
At the mention of the name of her betrothed, Mina timidly raised her
blue eyes and fixed them on her father, and the tint on her soft cheek
deepened as she listened for his reply.
"I think," said Mr. Marsden, "that in that occurrence Edward was guided
by that which is always his pole-star—the fear and love of his God."
Wilfred glanced at his sister, and caught her look of intense pleasure
at the praise of her betrothed from the lips of her father.
"Well, Edward was soon rewarded," said the boy. "It was a lucky thing
that the living here fell vacant—so unexpectedly, too—not a twelvemonth
after, and that it should be in your gift! A snug little nest for our
ladye-bird, and just within reach of us all. What a different affair it
would have been," continued the boy, "if Cortley Hall had been left to
cousin Benson instead of to you!"
"I should have been working on still at my desk in Barnes' Court,"
observed Mr. Marsden, with his quiet smile.
"And I'd have been brought up as a clerk; and Mimi, poor darling Mina!
She'd have looked like some pale withered flower, one of those crushed
orange-blossoms in the smoky air of the city. Ugh! Our old great-uncle
did one good thing in his life, if he never did another, when he left
the Hall, and estate, and the gift of the living to such a man as my
father."
"Cousin Benson does not think so, I guess," laughed Rosa, who had just
finished her pile of white satin cockades.
"Cousin Benson is no more fit to be a lauded proprietor than I am to be
king of the Cannibal Islands!" exclaimed Wilfred. "A mean, sneaking,
stingy fellow; one who would skin a flint; one—"
"Oh! Wilfred!" expostulated Mina.
"No ill words of the absent, my boy," said Mr. Marsden.
"We'd better talk of some one else, then," cried Wilfred, "for I can
never think of Tom Benson with patience."
"I had a note from Sophia to-day," said Mina.
"Sophia! Oh, how is it she is not here? I thought that she was to
arrive to-day. I know that you ordered the Oak room to be made ready."
"She comes this morning," replied his sister, "but she does not wish
the Oak room."
"How do you know that?" asked Wilfred.
"She writes so in her note. Here it is."
"You don't mean to say," cried Wilfred, with a look of amused
curiosity, "that Sophia is afraid to sleep in that room, because she
fancies that it is haunted?"
"Not exactly 'haunted,'" began Mina Marsden, as she handed the letter
to her brother; "but she writes about disagreeable associations."
"Oh! I see; here it is." And Wilfred read aloud snatches from the
letter of one of his sister's expected bridesmaids: "'Don't laugh at me
as absurd—' That's more than I can promise, fair lady!—'but the idea
of occupying a room in which your poor old great-uncle was actually
burnt to death would so affect my nerves.'—Oh! Hang nerves!" exclaimed
Wilfred, tossing back the note to his sister. "That was a wise old dame
who was glad that she was born before nerves were invented."
"But you wont mind exchanging rooms, dear Wilfred?"
"Mind! I should think not!" cried the boy. "I shall have much the best
of the exchange. Oak panels instead of twopenny paper, carved ceiling
instead of white plaster, stained glass instead of square panes, one of
which, by-the-bye, I cracked right across yesterday with my elbow! I
wish that everybody would fancy that grand, gloomy room to be haunted,
that I might keep it, ghost and all, to myself! But what a joke I'll
have against Sophia! I think I'll bring in something about it when I
propose the health of the four lovely bridesmaids on Thursday."
"Nay," cried Rosa, "if you take to quizzing any of the bridesmaids, I
think that, after to-day's exploit in the woods, they may fairly turn
the tables upon you, and let the bridesman come in for his share of the
banter. You have proved yourself not a much better messenger than the
valiant squire in the song." And in a high, clear voice Rosa trilled
forth a merry lay.
THE SQUIRE.
A squire set out one moonlit night,
And prayed to the moon to give good light,
For he had many miles to travel that night,
All through the forest glen, O!
He bore a lock of his master's hair,
A tender gift to his ladye fair;
At peril of his life he the pledge must bear,
All through the forest glen, O!
Quoth he, "I fear there are robbers near,
Or goblins stalk the thicket drear,
Or merry witches hold their revels here,
All in the forest glen, O!"
An oak o'er the path its long arms spread—
Sudden it strikes him—he starts with dread:
Terrified and wild, at speed he sped
All through the forest glen, O!
He never looked behind him, or turned his head
All through the forest glen, O!
Panting and pale, at length he came
To the sheltered hall of the noble dame;
"I've brought a pledge from a knight of fame,
All through the forest glen, O!"
And he hunted—he searched—he sought for the same,
Lost in the forest glen, O!
Where was the pledge of the lover's vow?
Waving in the breeze on the oak's long bough;
And for aught that I know, it may wave there now,
All in the forest glen, O!
CHAPTER II.
THE OAK ROOM.
VERY merrily passed that Tuesday evening at Cortley Hall. Neighbours
"dropped in" to tea, Sophia arrived from London, her luggage swelled
to an unreasonable size by divers boxes and parcels labelled "glass,"
and "with care," with which she had been entrusted for the bride. There
were so many presents, of which the unpacking gave no small amusement
to Wilfred, that he declared that his wedding-gift to Mina ought to
have been a manifold writer instead of a "lady's companion," that she
might not have had half her time taken up in penning letters of thanks.
Tom Benson, the churl, was the only one, as Wilfred affirmed, who had
not done his duty, nor given so much as a flower to the bride.
There were songs and mirth, laughing and banter, interspersed with
the pleasant preparations for a village wedding, in the feasting
and gladness of which all the poor around were to share. The young
clergyman and his betrothed were deeply, tranquilly happy, the
bridesmaids full of frolic and fun, and Wilfred, the merriest, noisiest
"best man" that ever wore a white favour. There was to him nothing but
pleasure in the prospect of the marriage. There would be no separation
from the sister whom he fondly loved, for the Vicarage was so near to
the Hall that Wilfred considered that he should only possess two happy
homes instead of one.
It was late before the cheerful circle dispersed, for time seemed too
rich in enjoyment for much to be wasted in sleep. With a light step
and lighter heart, whistling the merry song of "The Squire," Wilfred
retired to the old Oak chamber; but there was something in the solemn
aspect of the room which, as soon as he entered, stopped his music
if it did not damp his spirits. The gleam of his solitary candle so
dimly lighted the dark carved panels, the massive furniture, the
heavily-draperied bed, that it seemed but to make darkness visible. One
of the pillars of that bed, blackened and charred, bore token yet of
the awful fate which had befallen the last owner of Cortley Hall.
Wilfred examined it with thrilling interest, and felt less disposed
than he had done by day to laugh at the feelings of Sophia. His mind
would perpetually recur to the miserable old man who had retired to
rest in that very room, as little expecting to rise no more as the boy
who now occupied his place. There had he lain, just there, the candle
by the bedside, the bottle on the table, the novel in his hand. There
had he fallen asleep—and oh! What an awful waking!
Wilfred found such thoughts depressing after the gay excitement of
the evening. He hurried over his toilet, extinguished his candle, and
stretched himself on the bed; he wished to sleep, but sleep would not
come at his bidding. He tried to turn his mind to Mina and her fair
prospects, but his thoughts again and again returned to the poor old
man who had perished by fire in that place, unwarned and unprepared!
"I think that this room has never lost the suffocating heat of that
fire!" exclaimed Wilfred at last, with feverish restlessness. "I feel
hardly able to breathe! How stupid I was not to throw the window wide
open, to let in a little fresh air!"
The boy pulled back his curtain, and rose, feeling his way towards the
window by the wall. As he groped thus along, passing his hand over each
panel, to his surprise Wilfred felt one of them slightly move under
his pressure. He felt angry with himself for the little start which he
gave; and his curiosity being aroused, the boy drew the panel backwards
with stronger force, and thus assured himself that he had made no
mistake in imagining that he was able to move it.
"I may have made some grand discovery," said Wilfred, half aloud. "I
may have found some secret hiding-place for treasure! There's no saying
what a store of old family plate or family jewels may lie behind that
sliding panel. If only the room were not so dark. The moon is up, I
fancy, and the window looks to the east; but there's as much stone as
glass in it, and the glass itself is stained, so that the casement
seems expressly contrived to let in as little light as may be. I must
light my candle again, if only I knew where to find the matchbox."
Wilfred groped, and felt, and fumbled, knocked over the candlestick
in his search for the box, and started at the sudden noise in the
stillness of that dark apartment. It was several minutes before he was
able to get a light, which seemed to burn dimly and heavily in the hot,
close air of the room. Wilfred instantly returned with the candle to
the spot where he had moved back the panel. The place was marked by
what looked like a broad black line on the wall; the boy soon widened
the opening, and put his hand into the recess. Wilfred could feel but
one thing within it, and that was a long parchment roll. Burning with
intense curiosity to know its contents, he drew out the roll, and,
after placing his candle upon a table, seated himself on a heavy carved
armchair beside it, to examine his prize at his leisure.
"Some great document, awfully long, and all written in black letter,
with a big red seal at the bottom! I dare say that I shall understand
as little of it as if it were all in Hebrew. Oh! Here's a date. I guess
that it will show the deed to be centuries old. No, 'eighteen hundred
and thirty-eight,' that's only ten years before I was born. Here are
signatures at the bottom. What a frightfully crabbed hand! 'Josiah
Marsden,' that's the name of my great-uncle, who was burned to death in
this room. I dare say that this is only some document relating to the
Cortley estate."
Wilfred rolling up the parchment from the bottom, so as to examine with
greater ease what was written at the top. "Last will and testament of
Josiah Marsden." Wilfred felt a little nervousness, for which he could
hardly have accounted, as he slowly made out the first line. With a
little difficulty, as he was unaccustomed to read black letter, and the
tedious forms and repetitions of a law-deed made it difficult to be
understood, Wilfred went on with his perusal.
A description of all the demesnes of the Cortley estate, which,
comprising the minutest particulars, stretched through some hundred
most tedious lines, closed with one which, like a sudden apparition,
blanched the cheek of the boy, made his hand tremble, and his heart
beat fast. "To my nephew Thomas Benson and his heirs."
Wilfred could not, would not at first believe the evidence of his
senses. He rubbed his eyes as if they must be in fault, shook himself
with the idea of awaking from what he almost hoped might be but a
dream, looked again at the yellow parchment with its thick black
letters, in which the hated name appeared so painfully distinct.
Wilfred read and re-read the will, with a desperate hope of finding out
that he had mistaken its meaning. Each perusal made the fact but more
clear that his father was not mentioned in the will, though by birth
next of kin; that the old man had bequeathed Cortley Hall, with all
the surrounding estate, fields, cottages, and timber, and the gift of
presentation to the adjoining living, to his nephew, Thomas Benson, and
his heirs!
In a paroxysm of passionate rage, Wilfred dashed the parchment on the
floor, and throwing himself back in his chair, groaned aloud in his
anguish of soul.
CHAPTER III.
FIRE.
"WHAT am I to do—what on earth am I to do!" exclaimed Wilfred. "Oh!
That I had never seen this detestable deed!" And he spurned the
parchment with his foot. "What ought I to do? Carry that will to my
father in the morning? That would certainly be the course of duty, the
course of honour; and he—my noble, upright parent—he would at once make
known to the world the existence of a will which robs him of all, which
reduces him almost to beggary, which compels him to begin the world
again, and toil for his daily bread. I can't do it—I wont do it!" cried
Wilfred, springing from his chair, and beginning to pace up and down
the gloomy apartment.
"The living, too, would be lost; all the happiness of my darling Mina
would be crushed at a blow. I never could deal that blow. It is not,"
said Wilfred, pausing in his rapid walk, and trying to bring argument
after argument to drown the voice of his conscience; "it is not as if
this Benson deserved anything at our hands; it is not as if he were
one to make a good use of fortune. The building of the school would
be stopped at once; the poor widows, whom my noble father supports,
would have no refuge but the workhouse. It would be cruel, wicked, to
sacrifice at once so many interests for the sake of one mean wretch who
cares for no one on earth but himself."
Ah, Wilfred, self-deceiver! It is not for him, not for any mortal, that
the sacrifice is required; it is sacrifice to duty, simple obedience to
the command of God, "provide things honest in the sight of all men!"
Our enemy is ever ready to persuade us that what is expedient must be
right; that we may turn a little—but a little—from the straight, narrow
path, and yet walk on with our faces towards heaven. Again and again
the voice sounds in our hearts,—
"To do a great right, do a little wrong;"
but it is the voice of the tempter.
Wilfred Marsden in his happy, peaceful home, had been guarded from
many evils, and was growing up, as he believed, in the practice of
many virtues. Generous, affectionate, truthful, kind, in reference to
outward obedience to the commandments, Wilfred might almost have said
like the ruler, "All these things have I kept from my youth up." From
conscious purity of conduct, and rectitude of purpose, had sprung a
reliance upon his own strength, his own honour, his power of resisting
temptation, which had its secret root in pride. And now, like that of
the ruler, Wilfred Marsden's obedience was brought to the test. He was
called upon to resign all that he possessed, to take up his cross and
follow his Lord! Resolution snapped, pride gave way, honour could not
stand in the trial! Like the young ruler, with a sad heart and bleeding
conscience, Wilfred was turning away from the duty which seemed too
hard to be performed. He reasoned and argued with himself, until he
became half persuaded that to ruin his family, and stop works of
charity, could not be required of him by God.
"I'll burn this parchment, I'll forget that it ever existed!" cried
Wilfred, with hasty resolution, snatching the will from the floor.
He held it to the flame of the candle, and a dark smoke-mark, like
a stain, showed the action of fire upon the roll. But Wilfred soon
perceived that it would take a considerable time to burn a large
parchment thus; and his impatient spirit could not endure the
protracted torture of thus slowly and deliberately committing a crime.
"I will burn it in the grate," muttered Wilfred. But it was
summer-time, the grate was empty, and he hastily looked around for
something that might serve as fuel. Wilfred's desk had been left
downstairs—in vain, he searched his pockets for letters—the only book
that was to be seen in the Oak room was his own Bible! Wilfred put his
handkerchief into the grate, with a few scraps of paper which, with
difficulty, he collected, laid the parchment on the little heap, and
lighted it by the candle. He then stood with his back to the fire, for
he could not bear to watch it while it was doing its unholy work of
destruction. The grate had for months been unused; the wind blew down
the chimney, a volume of smoke came curling and spreading into the
room, making the dimness yet deeper, and the heat of the place more
oppressive. With a sense of suffocation Wilfred turned round to see
the flames—quickly kindled, and quickly spent—expiring round the great
roll, which lay, blackened indeed, but unconsumed! The smell of burning
gave to the miserable Wilfred a feeling of sudden horror!
"Here, in this very room, where 'he' perished by fire, do I attempt to
burn his last will and testament! Can I find no other place, no other
way, when I wrong both the living and the dead?" Wilfred caught up the
roll from the grate. "O God, have mercy upon me!" he faltered. "Who
could have believed that I would ever have been guilty of wickedness
like this! These blackened smoke-marks are as witnesses against me. If
fire itself loses its power to destroy, I will take this as a token
that to conceal the truth is a crime against Heaven. I will not delay;
I will at once carry the will to my father. Better suffer anything than
this terrible feeling of remorse."
Wilfred moved some steps towards the door, and paused. "What am I about
to do? Am I not putting a match to a train that, in exploding, will
shatter everything that I hold dear? Mina, my own precious sister, how
shall I bear to look on her grief, to hear—no, I shall never 'hear'
reproaches; but in her heart may she not say, 'Wilfred might have
spared me this misery! It was hard that such a trial should come to
me through my only brother!' Mina shall never say, never think this!"
Wilfred turned away from the door: "I dare not burn, but I will bury
this scroll. Shall I replace it in that recess from which would—would
that I had never moved it? No, some one else would be certain to
discover it, as I have done to-night. I will bury it deep, deep in the
earth, where no one can find it!"
Again Wilfred turned towards the door. "All the house is shut up; my
step would be heard on the echoing stair; the bolts and chains could
not be withdrawn without noise; the household would be roused; I should
be questioned, and that would drive me distracted! I must at least wait
till the morning. What! Wait with that horrible blackened parchment
like a death-warrant before my eyes! I cannot endure to wait; I cannot
support through a long dreary night this terrible indecision. I can
open the window, drop down on the sod, and then bury the will in the
garden."
Wilfred hastened to the casement, and, with fingers which trembled
with nervous excitement, drew back the bolt and threw open the window.
How refreshing was the breath of the soft night air upon his fevered
brow! Wilfred hastily dressed himself, thrust the roll into his bosom,
clambered out on the sill, and then, regardless of personal danger,
first hung for a moment by his hands, and then half dropped, half
clambered down, assisting his descent by a trained rose-tree, with
whose broken twigs and crushed petals he strewed the sod beneath.
CHAPTER IV.
EARTH.
CALM and beautiful was the aspect of nature in the stillness of that
summer night. The silence was scarcely broken by the softly-warbled
song of the nightingale, which poured its lay from neighbouring grove.
The rising moon shone in the deep blue sky, tinging with silvery
brilliance the fleecy clouds amidst which she moved, and throwing a
whiteness over the dewy sward, which had almost the effect of frost,
save where the dark shadows of the trees lay sleeping upon the grass.
The breeze ever and anon lightly stirred the branches, sounding like a
low, soft sigh.
Wilfred gazed up at the Hall, with its numerous mullioned windows
gleaming in the silver moonlight, and its gable ends, with their
orb-crowned pinnacles, cutting the clear deep blue. All was so serene,
so calm, that a softening influence fell on the soul of Wilfred.
Nature seemed to lie in such holy beauty under the eye of God, that
the unhappy boy felt as if his presence were the only thing to mar the
peaceful repose of the scene. On what errand was he abroad, when every
inmate of the Hall, save himself, was buried in quiet slumber? Was it
not on an errand of evil as that which draws the robber forth under
the cover of darkness? Was it not to defraud a cousin of his right, to
defeat the ends of justice, to silence the voice of truth? Was it not
to commit an act which he dared not confess even to his nearest and
dearest friend?
Again the resolution of Wilfred wavered: better to return and dare the
worst. Did not every tremulous orb in that sky tell, as with an angel's
voice, how fleeting and insignificant are all the concerns of this
brief life compared with those eternal interests which shall survive
the stars! But Wilfred caught sight, between the trees, of the tower of
the ancient church. It was there where Mina would so soon be united to
the husband of her choice; it was there where Edward would faithfully
preach the gospel to the poor. The guilt of concealment would not be
theirs. Wilfred might load his own conscience with a weight of sin,
but theirs would be clear from reproach. Well knows the tempter how
to use the ties of earthly affection as well as the links of pride,
when he would draw a soul to evil. Wilfred tried to stifle, and almost
succeeded in stifling conviction, by keeping the thought before his
mind that he was acting no selfish part—that he was sacrificing his
peace for the sake of others. He turned from the simple view of the
question—that he had a plain duty to perform, and must ask for strength
to perform it. He did not dare to pray; he feared to think upon God;
he would fain, like the first sinners, have hidden himself from that
Presence which rebukes the bare deformity of guilt.
Wilfred, even at the midnight hour, was afraid of being watched from
the Hall. Those glimmering windows were so many eyes, and he must avoid
their ken. Wilfred turned to the left; his footsteps sounded too loud
on the gravel path; he trod noiselessly on the green verge. Scarcely
noticing the emerald spark, where the glow-worm, on his mossy bed, had
kindled his fairy lamp, Wilfred made his way to a secluded part of the
garden. The gloomy foliage of a cypress there completely screened him
from view, even if some watcher in the Hall should be gazing forth on
the stars. Wilfred took the roll from his breast, and was about to
commence his work of burying, when a sudden sound made him start. It
was but the rustle caused by a frightened bird that flew forth from the
tree at his unexpected approach; but it made his pulse throb fast with
terror.
Wilfred looked around and upwards ere he began to dig: he saw nothing
but the wheeling bat, darting between him and the moon, in search of
her nightly prey. No human being was near; no sound of human voice
was borne on the whispering breeze. Wilfred knelt down and began to
displace the sod. Unfurnished as he was with any kind of appropriate
tool, he found the unaccustomed labour far harder than he had expected.
The season was hot, the ground was dry; the boy proceeded but slowly
with the work of scooping out the earth. Anxious and impatient as he
felt to complete his painful task, and bury the parchment in the sod
so deeply that none should find it, the minutes seemed lengthened
to hours. With hands torn, bruised, and blistered, Wilfred at last
finished digging a narrow trench, just long enough and wide enough to
hold the hated roll. He pressed it in, hastily covered it over with
mould, then rose and stamped it down, sprinkling the surface with light
earth to hide the marks of his feet.
It was done—the deed was done, and Wilfred's first sensation was that
of relief. He had now leisure to remember that he was weary and needed
rest, as from the church tower solemnly pealed forth the stroke of one.
Should he return to the house? Wilfred was about to do so, when he
recollected the impossibility of getting in without rousing the inmates
by ringing the great door-bell. The house had long since been carefully
shut up, bolted and barred for the night. Wilfred could not climb up to
the casement from which he had so lately descended at no small personal
risk.
"I must wait till the servants open the doors in the morning," was
Wilfred's reflection, "and creep up unnoticed to my room. Where in the
meantime shall I spend the rest of this miserable night? In the arbour
at the end of the shrubbery: there at least I shall find a bench on
which to stretch my weary limbs."
To the arbour Wilfred proceeded; the air was beginning to feel chilly,
and he was glad of the slight protection which the place afforded.
Lying down on the wooden bench, it was not long before the exhausted
boy fell into a feverish sleep—a sleep haunted by terrible dreams.
Whatever form his slumbering fancies might take, they had ever some
reference to the parchment: now it was torn into a thousand fragments,
and reunited as if by magic; then in the vestry-room of the church,
Mina, a smiling bride, came to sign, according to custom, her maiden
name for the last time. With horror Wilfred beheld in his dream that,
instead of the page of the parish register, her hand rested upon the
deed; it was not her signature that met his gaze, but the crabbed
"Josiah Marsden."
Then the scene changed to the forest. Wilfred seemed again, amidst
briars and thorns, with stinging hosts of hornets around him,
struggling in vain to make his way through with the fatal roll in his
hand! His feet were-entangled, he could not press on, though sounds of
pursuit were behind him. In the agonized struggle to break from his
bonds, the unhappy dreamer awoke.
CHAPTER V.
PUT TO THE QUESTION.
WILFRED MARSDEN awoke with his frame chilled and stiffened, and a
weight like lead at his heart. Before full consciousness returned,
he had a sense that something dreadful had happened, or was going to
happen. It was no longer night. The bright summer morning had dawned;
the air was full of the music of birds and the perfume of flowers;
already the bee was abroad, humming merrily on the wing. The sky was
gorgeous with crimson clouds, and the dew sparkled in the level rays of
the rising sun, as if the sward had been spangled with diamonds!
But the beauty of Nature, its fair sights and sweet sounds, had now
no charm for Wilfred. He rose, stretched himself, heaved a deep-drawn
sigh, and then slowly sauntered towards the Hall. Still every blind
was drawn down, and all was silence within. Wilfred knew that the
house would not be opened for two or three hours, and there was
something intolerably irksome to the boy in having to wait so long,
with no company but that of his own remorseful thoughts. He stood
for some minutes gazing at the closed door, with its knocker which
he dared not raise, its bell which he dared not ring; and a fearful
idea crossed Wilfred's mind, that as he was shut out from his father's
home, so might he be one day shut out from heaven! Would not a single
unforsaken, unforgiven sin bar the door of mercy for ever? Wilfred
could hardly endure his own reflections: he paced up and down, up and
down, restless as a caged wild beast, during the weary interval that
elapsed before the church clock struck seven. Then, indeed, there were
sounds of movement in the house.
Young Marsden, with a feeling of relief, heard the rattle of the chain,
and the grating of the bolt of the large outer door. He resolved to
wait for a few minutes outside until Martha the servant, as was her
wont, should have passed on to open the dining-room shutters, as he did
not wish to be seen as he entered the Hall. Meantime, Rosa May, who
had risen very early, had been attracted to the gate by the appearance
at it of a little girl carrying a basket full of lovely field flowers.
It was the young daughter of the farm-bailiff, who, having been sent
by her mother with cream and fresh butter to the Hall from the home
farm, had added to her charge a bouquet of fragrant blossoms as her own
offering to the bride.
Rosa was peering into the basket when Wilfred (who was concealed behind
the laurels) perceived her and again hesitated. He thought she would
never leave off talking to the village child, but at length she turned
to enter the house, and was going up the steps when she caught sight of
him.
"Why, I thought that I was first in the field!" cried the lively girl.
"How did you manage to get out before me? Did you pass like a fairy
through the key-hole?"
Wilfred could stand no questioning then; brushing past the young lady
with uncourteous haste, he hurried into the house, then up the broad
staircase three steps at a time, and buried himself in his room.
But change of place brought no relief to the unhappy Wilfred; wherever
he went, he bore with him the burden of his terrible secret.
Time passed; Wilfred heard at last the familiar sound of the bell for
prayers. Almost for the first time in his life he did not obey the
summons. How could he kneel down and pray for forgiveness of sin, when
resolved to go on in his sinning? How venture to ask for grace, when he
did not wish to obtain it? Wilfred knew that such prayers would be but
a mockery; and yet how could one brought up in the fear of God endure
to live without prayer?
After awhile, another bell sounded; guests had come to breakfast,
and Wilfred knew that the family were assembling at the social meal.
Wilfred was aware that his absence would be noticed, and yet could
hardly summon up courage sufficient to face the circle below. Would not
everyone read in his face the secret which burdened his soul?
While yet undecided, Wilfred heard a soft tap, then a gentle voice at
his door.
"Dear Willy," said Mina Marsden, "are you not coming to breakfast? Mr.
Allfrey and sisters have dropped in early to settle arrangements for
to-morrow. I miss you so much at the table. Will you not come down
soon, and help me to entertain all our guests?"
"I am coming," said Wilfred, laconically; and, as soon as he had
heard Mina's light step tripping downstairs, he followed her to the
breakfast-room, which she had quitted in order to call him.
A burst of merry laughter was the first sound which fell on Wilfred's
ear as he entered, and the words uttered in Rosa's liveliest tone, "I'm
certain that he had seen a ghost!"
"Here he is himself!" cried Mr. Allfrey, jovial young squire, whose
sisters were to act as bridesmaids.
"Why, we thought that you were never going to make your appearance,
Master Wilfred, and I can certify that you were up early enough!"
exclaimed Rosa, as the boy exchanged morning greetings with his father
and his guests.
Wilfred would fain have taken his place by Mr. Marsden or Mina, but
Rosa had reserved a seat for him by herself, and he could not avoid
taking possession of it, as no other chair was vacant.
"Now, we're all dying of curiosity, Sophia especially, to know what you
saw in the old oak room!" continued the lively young lady, fixing her
keen black eyes upon Wilfred.
Mina saw uneasiness in the countenance of her brother, and proposed
deferring questioning until he should have taken his breakfast.
"Breakfast! Who could talk or think of such a common every-day thing
when a real ghost is on the 'tapis?' Wilfred has seen something—I'm
certain that he has! Nothing but an apparition of the most strange
and striking description could account for his singular conduct this
morning."
"What do you mean?" asked Wilfred, with a stern resolution to face out
the difficulty as best he might.
"Don't you call it very singular conduct in a young gentleman to make
his exit from the house by an upper window instead of a door?" cried
Rosa, with the keen enjoyment which a sharp lawyer might feel in
bringing forward incontrovertible evidence.
"Who said that I did?" asked Wilfred.
"It was a riddle to me," cried Rosa, "how you had managed to leave the
house without unfastening the bolts, until I looked at the trained
rose-trees which had the ill-luck to be planted under your window—which
window was, by the way, wide open! It was clear enough that that
rose-tree, ill-fitted as it might be for the purpose, had been used
last night as a ladder. Some of the branches were torn from their
fastenings, several twigs were snapped, and the poor roses looked as if
some great bear had chosen the plant as a pole for climbing."
There was profound silence round the table as Rosa paused, and every
eye was turned upon Wilfred in curiosity and interest. The boy stared
sternly at his plate, but could not utter a word.
"Besides," added Rosa, triumphantly, "there was a good deep print of a
pair of slippers impressed on the sod just beneath the window. I've a
notion that Master Wilfred Marsden knows who wore those slippers."
Wilfred longed to rush out of the room, but struggled hard to hide all
outward sign of emotion.
"Now we may imagine," continued the young lady, "that the occupant
of the oak room had merely taken a harmless fancy for a ramble by
moonlight, a hunt after bats and owls, or a quiet study of the stars.
But if so, why, when he met a fair lady in the morning, did he start as
if he took her for a goblin—which she certainly by no means resembles?
Why was his face, as white as a sheet, his eyes hollow and wild in
expression, and his hands all covered with earth? Why did he not answer
a civil question, but rush madly into the house?"
"Really, Wilfred," said Sophia, a young lady with languid eyelids, long
light hair, and a manner rather affected, "we shall expect from you a
thrilling account of your adventures in a haunted chamber."
"What did you see?" asked John Allfrey.
"Or hear?" added his sister Amelia.
"Was there not a ghost, just say—was there not a ghost?" cried Rosa,
leaning eagerly forward, and laying her hand upon Wilfred's arm.
The boy's patience was utterly exhausted. Shaking off his cousin's hand
with a rudeness which he had never before shown to a lady, he rose from
table with the muttered remark, "None but idiots talk about ghosts."
Mr. Marsden looked grave, Mina distressed, an angry flush came to the
cheek of Rosa; in a moment the merriment of the party was changed to
painful restraint. No one knew what to say next, till Edward Lyle
mentioned archery, in order to effect a diversion, and the guests rose
at once, and broke up the circle round the table.
All soon quitted the room, except the Marsdens, who lingered behind.
Mina perceived that her father was displeased with her brother, and,
dreading a painful scene, she entreated her parent with her pleading
eyes to spare the wounded spirit of his son. Wilfred was evidently then
in no state to bear a rebuke.
"I leave him to you," said Mr. Marsden, in answer to her silent appeal,
and he also quitted the apartment. He was surprised as well as annoyed
at the temper shown by his boy.
Mina noiselessly performed the little duties which belong to the lady
of a house; replaced the sugar-basin, locked the tea-caddy, and set
aside the broken loaf for the poor. She was giving time to Wilfred, who
stood at the window, to recover his temper and self-command. Then she
softly addressed her young brother—
"You have taken no breakfast, dear Wilfred?"
"I want none," was the sullen reply.
"I think—I fear that you cannot be well."
"Why should you think so?" asked her brother.
"Because—you were not like yourself just now." Mina laid her soft hand
on the arm of the boy. "Perhaps you did not mean it, dear Wilfred, but
your words gave pain to poor Rosa."
"She brought it on herself," muttered Wilfred. "I never knew so
provoking a tongue."
"She has high spirits and a playful manner, but she never means to give
serious offence," said Mina; "and at a time like this," added the young
bride, "I should wish her—you—all to be so happy."
Wilfred glanced hastily at his sister, and saw moisture gleaming on her
soft lashes.
"Are you not happy?" he exclaimed.
"How can I be so," answered Mina, "when I see that my darling brother
has some trouble which he has not confided to me?"
The heart of Wilfred was softened. "You must not care about me,
nor think about me," he said; "I am not to be always crushing your
blossoms. I have a headache." He pressed his hot brow—the plea was not
altogether a false one, though the pain in the poor boy's heart was
much worse than that to his head.
"Would the air do you good?" suggested Mina, looking anxiously into his
face.
"I can't join that noisy party at the shooting."
"But a quiet walk in the garden with me?"
"If you wish it—anything," answered Wilfred; and he added, with a
little sigh, "I shall not have you with me to-morrow!"
And so forth into the garden sauntered the brother and sister; Mina
indulging a hope that in their quiet converse together Wilfred might
unburden his heart of the mysterious weight which she felt assured was
pressing upon it.
CHAPTER VI.
FACING IT OUT.
MINA and Wilfred Marsden walked for some minutes together in silence;
she hoping that her brother would commence conversation, he not knowing
what to say. Wilfred had always been accustomed to show perfect candour
towards his sister. Though a few years younger than herself, he had
been her constant playmate and companion, sharing with her his hopes
and fears, and making her in all things his confidante and adviser.
This was the first time that the boy had possessed a secret which he
withheld from Mina, and if his silence was painful to her, it was yet
more burdensome to himself.
The maiden made one or two unsuccessful attempts to commence
conversation. Her observations called forth no reply from her brother,
and she was beginning to feel the restraint of his manner almost
intolerable, when, on turning a corner of the shrubbery, Wilfred gave a
start so sudden and violent that it was sympathetically communicated to
the sister whose arm was linked in his own.
"What is it?" exclaimed Mina, in alarm.
"He's digging near the cypress!" cried Wilfred.
The tone, not the sense of the exclamation, made the wondering girl
look in the same direction as did her brother, and she saw certainly
no cause either for surprise or apprehension in the familiar figure of
Joe, the gardener, bending over his spade. Wilfred, however, could not
conceal his nervous excitement, as he hastened up to the man.
"Why are you digging to-day," cried he, "when you ought to be stripping
the beds of flowers to deck the church and the Hall?"
"Miss Rosa said as how the ladies would gather the flowers themselves,"
replied Joe, passing his brown hand across his rough chin.
"You should make a triumphal arch, then," said Wilfred.
"Well, Master Wilfred, ye see, that's what all the school-children—"
"Who cares for the school-children?" exclaimed young Marsden, almost
stamping with irritation. "Such things are not to be left to them! This
is no time to be turning up the earth, like a mole! Leave your spade,
and go help in the preparations—no common work shall be done to-day."
Joe set his spade against the tree and slowly went away, wondering—if
his unimpressionable nature was capable of wonder—at the strangely
changed manner of the boy, who had usually a merry word and a kind
smile for the faithful old servant.
On turning round, Wilfred met his sister's distressed and anxious gaze;
a terrible idea had just flashed across her mind, that her brother's
brain might be affected.
"Why do you look at me so?" he said, sharply.
"I cannot help feeling uneasy, dear Wilfred; I cannot—"
"Oh, here's Edward Lyle coming to see what has become of his bride; I
leave you to his care," cried Wilfred, "he's a better companion than
I." And turning abruptly towards the Hall, the boy left his sister in
tears.
"I can't leave it there—no, no!" muttered Wilfred to himself as he
strode along. "I can't have a thrill of terror through my soul whenever
I see a man digging in the garden. What shall I do with that fatal
parchment? If fire can't burn it, if earth will not hide it, how shall
I cover my secret so closely as to lose this intolerable dread of its
being discovered at last? I will dig up the will as soon as darkness
sets in; I will carry it to the swift, deep stream which flows at the
bottom of the field, tie a heavy stone to it, and let the waters bury
it for ever. Yes, yes, I was insane not to think of this before. Would
that the night were come! I shall have no rest until I have drowned
the roll! I will not wait till the house is shut up; I will make my
escape after dinner; for twenty minutes I shall not be missed, and
twenty minutes will suffice for the deed. In the meantime, I must lull
suspicion by putting on my old cheerful manner. I must let no one
consider me strange; I must reassure the mind of sweet Mina; I must act
a lie!" Wilfred ground his teeth at the thought. "I must lay aside my
natural frankness and candour to wear the mask of deceit! And this is
the life-long task which I have imposed on myself. Oh, what a miserable
thing it is to wander from the straight path of duty!"
As Wilfred entered the Hall, he met his father accompanied by the very
last man whom young Marsden would have wished at that moment to see—his
injured cousin, Tom Benson!
Mr. Benson was a thin, sickly-looking man, with a stoop. A long
struggle with difficulties and cares, which weak health and feeble
spirits had rendered more hard, had left the stamp on his features of
almost peevish melancholy. There were lines on his face and furrows
on his brow which, however, on the present auspicious occasion, were
rather less marked than usual; and though his smile was of a sickly
character, there was still an attempt to smile. Mr. Benson bore a
reputation for narrowness of mind and penuriousness of nature, which
had rendered him an object of contempt to Wilfred, who had prided
himself on generosity and delicate sense of honour.
But what a change the last twelve hours had wrought in the feelings of
the youth! But the day before, it would have been impossible to have
persuaded Wilfred Marsden that he could ever be abashed and humbled by
the presence of his cousin, that he could ever be ashamed to look that
man in the face, or feel a pang of remorse at shaking him by the hand!
"Our cousin has walked over all the way from Thornley to see our dear
bride," said Mr. Marsden, "and has kindly brought her strawberries
which have been gathered from his own garden."
"Poor things, poor things!" said Mr. Benson apologetically. "I am
my own gardener, as you know. And how have you been?" he continued,
addressing himself to Wilfred. "It does not seem to me that you are
looking as well as usual."
"I do not think that Wilfred is very well," said Mr. Marsden, struck,
as the visitor had been, by the haggard looks of his boy.
"Too much bustle for him, too much excitement; he feels parting with
his sister," observed Benson. "You must let him, when all is over, come
to me for a change. I've not much to offer, to be sure, but the air is
counted fine at Thornley."
"Your cousin is very kind," said Mr. Marsden to Wilfred, whose silence
he mistook for rudeness.
"Too kind," faltered the boy; and his words had a depth of meaning
which his hearers little understood.
"Shall we join the party on the lawn?" said Mr. Marsden. "I heard
something said about archery."
The three proceeded to the place where the guests were assembled in
front of the target, amusing themselves by shooting.
Wilfred at once commenced following out his resolution of lulling any
suspicions which his strange demeanour might have excited, by assuming
gaiety of manner. He almost over-acted his part. Amidst his cheerful
companions, none was so uproariously merry as he. He jested with the
bridesmaids, whistled, sang, readily joined in amusements, and though
he did not shoot with a steady hand, when his arrows went wide of the
mark, none laughed so loudly as Wilfred. He was making a desperate
effort not only to deceive those around him, but to drown in wild
excitement the misery which he felt. He would give himself no time for
thought; he would intoxicate himself with amusement! Wretched resource
of the worldly, who seek to fly from themselves, and gild the fetters
which they cannot throw off, in hopes of forgetting their weight.
There were but two of those around him whose society Wilfred
instinctively shunned.
He could not bear to be near the relative whom he was defrauding of his
rights, and he avoided all converse with Rosa with a kind of intuitive
dread. Wilfred knew that he had offended the young lady; he believed
that he had drawn upon himself both her suspicion and dislike; he
felt that she was watching him, and, though at present forbearing to
question, was intent upon discovering his secret.
With these two exceptions, Wilfred chatted freely with all the guests
of his father. He even, in conversation with Sophia, purposely entered
on the subject of the oak room, and forced himself to assure her, with
a smiling face, that he had not seen the shadow of a ghost. He had,
however, he said, found the chamber oppressively hot, and had taken the
simplest means of getting fresh air without disturbing the house.
So passed the day before the wedding until the dinner-hour arrived.
The afternoon had been rainy, and archery had been exchanged for
in-door amusements. Wilfred had been the life and soul of the party at
the bagatelle-table and the round game, and had shown indefatigable
energy in decorating the Hall. Yet Mina's heart was not at rest; she
suspected that her brother's mirth was assumed, and that his jests
and laughter were no true tokens of a light and buoyant heart. Even
with her betrothed at her side, the young maiden's spirit was troubled
on account of her brother. It pained Mina to notice at dinner that,
though Wilfred's usual beverage was water, he filled and refilled his
glass of wine, and pledged the bride and bridesmaids with loud and
boisterous mirth. Mina gave the signal to leave the table earlier than
she otherwise would have done, and the gentlemen immediately followed
the ladies.
Wilfred watched for an opportunity of stealing away from the party.
The arrival and unpacking of the grand cake from London, which had
come so late that fears had been entertained lest the splendour of the
wedding-breakfast should be marred by its non-appearance, gave the
opportunity required. While the party gathered around the box, whose
contents were of so interesting a nature, Wilfred glided silently away,
unnoticed, as he thought, by all; he knew not that a pair of sharp
black eyes were watching every movement; keen as hound on a scent was
curiosity in the bosom of Rosa May.
CHAPTER VII.
WATER.
THE night was very different from what the preceding one had been. The
day, which had begun in sunny smiles, had changed to rain at noon, and
now it had closed in storm. Wilfred little heeded the wild wind, the
pelting rain, or the muttering thunder; he was well content that heavy
clouds should deepen the shades of twilight. In the present state of
his mind, storm was far more congenial than sunshine. To his wild mirth
had succeeded deep gloom—as the bright flame of kindled paper soon dies
out, leaving but blackened ashes behind.
Wilfred in a few minutes was again kneeling under the cypress. He had
provided himself with a large knife, and with very little difficulty
dug up the old man's will from the moist earthy bed in which it had
lain. Clogged with mould, soiled and stained was the roll, as Wilfred
drew it forth; then, rising with a heavy sigh, the boy made his way to
the garden-door. It was locked, as he might have expected it to be at
so late an hour.
In Wilfred's present mood, such a difficulty as this caused irritation,
but little delay. He climbed over the wall, he knew not how, bruised
his hands, but was not at the time even aware that he had done so. The
wide field lay before him, he could not miss his way. Wilfred strode
through the long wet grass, which grew almost as high as his knees,
drenched and dripping from the rain from-above, and the heavy damp
from below. Once he fancied that he heard a sound as if some one were
following behind. Wilfred stopped and listened, but nothing, was to be
heard but the patter of the rain and the howl of the wind.
"I am growing as nervous as a girl," he muttered; "I who was once proud
of my courage! How true is that line of Shakspeare—''Tis conscience
that makes cowards of us all!'"
Wilfred reached the hedge which bounded the lower end of the field.
There was a gate some hundred paces to the left, but the impatient boy
would not go so far out of his way. He mounted the embankment, pushed
aside straggling branches and briars, and forced his path through the
hedge.
The dark swift river was now before Wilfred; he could dimly trace the
course of the waters flowing between their sedgy banks, bending the
rushes, and eddying around the drooping tresses of a willow. Wilfred
searched for a large heavy pebble; in the feeble light it was no easy
task to find one that would suit his purpose. The thought actually
crossed his mind of making a weight of his watch! A large smooth pebble
was, however, at last discovered; with nervous fingers the unhappy
Wilfred fastened some twine around it, and then tied it on to the roll.
But when young Marsden was about to fling both into the dark water,
again the secret force of conscience arrested his uplifted arm.
"What am I about to do? That stream may hide the parchment from the eye
of man, but can even its deep current hide it from the eye of God? That
eye is upon me now. I have known no peace since I resolved to do that
which must draw God's wrath upon me. I shall never know peace—in life
or in death—while I wilfully break His law. Happily, I have not yet
gone too far to return. I have yet power to carry this fatal deed to my
father; to do what conscience bids me do, and leave the rest to God."
But the tempter whispered again of crushed hopes and blighted joys,
pictured a revered parent wrestling in life's decline with poverty
and distress, a sister broken-hearted, friendships dissolved, schemes
overthrown—nay, he even brought to Wilfred's mind many a treasured
possession, which, though comparatively of no great value, the boy felt
it hard to part with. His horse, his dog, his gun, all must be given
up. He must leave the home that he loved for some smoky lodging in
London, the occupations in which he delighted for hard dry study, in
order to earn the means of subsistence. Wilfred did not pause long, the
temptation was too strong upon him; with a sudden desperate impulse, he
flung the parchment into the stream.
The violence with which it was thrown dislodged the large smooth stone
from its insecure fastening, splash it fell into the water several
feet from the roll. With a feeling of superstitious horror, Wilfred
discerned a dim white object floating upon the river. After all his
care to weight it, the fatal scroll would not sink!
"I believe that if I flung that will into the burning crater of
Vesuvius, it would float down on some lava-stream to the very feet of
Benson," exclaimed Wilfred, in desperation. "But I must get it out of
the water, nor let it bear my secret to others."
He leant forward—he could almost touch the end of the parchment with
his hand; he went to the very edge of the slimy, slippery bank; the
object was just beyond his reach, in another minute the current would
carry it to a part of the stream from which it would be impossible for
him by any exertion to regain it! Wilfred grew dizzy with anxious fear.
He made one more desperate attempt to seize the roll, caught (clutched)
it, held it fast, but over-balanced himself in the effort, and fell
headlong into the river!
That was an awful moment! Wilfred excelled in most manly exercises,
but he was unable to swim. The night was dark, the water deep; he
sank struggling to the bottom. There was a gasping, a gurgling, a
rushing sound in his ears, and then came that strange power given to
the drowning, to recall in a moment the events of the past, the last
effort of expiring nature. The gloomy oak room rose before the mind's
eye of Wilfred as the waters rolled over his head, the will, with its
black letter writing, and seal as red as blood. He had a horrible
consciousness that he had sinned; that the hand of Death was upon him;
that he was arrested by Heaven's stern minister, even in the act of
committing a crime. The agony of that knowledge was more terrible than
the anguish of the death-struggle. Then fell a dullness, a darkness
over the wretched boy, and Wilfred lay amongst the weeds beneath the
rushing stream, with the parchment still in his grasp.
CHAPTER VIII.
A CHASE.
WE will now return to the wedding guests at the Hall.
"Mr. Allfrey! Mr. Allfrey!" whispered the voice of Rosa May.
And the tall young squire, who had been standing surveying the most
magnificent pile of white sugar, silver leaves, and orange-blossom that
had ever appeared in that part of the Country, turned slowly round to
meet the eager, animated gaze of the bridesmaid.
"Now's your time! He has just left the house. After him, and see where
he goes."
"What! Stolen away—and on a night like this?" The rain was pattering
against the windows.
"Hist!" whispered Rosa May. "You do not mind weather, I suppose?"
"No more than a duck," said the squire. "I've been out in many a pretty
pelting. But how can I know that the young fellow has not quietly gone
to his room?"
"He left this house a moment ago, I tell you, and turned to the left,
as if he were going to the garden. Be quick, or the track will be lost!
Just steal out without attracting any notice; leave the cake to those
who care for such things."
So, in obedience to a lady's command, John Allfrey stalked out into the
rain, turned to the left as directed, and proceeded for about twenty
paces. He then stopped, as he could see nothing of Wilfred, and felt
himself to be in rather a foolish position, standing there all alone
to get drenched with the rain on a stormy night. Soon, however, the
squire's ear caught the noise made by Wilfred in clambering over the
wall.
"There he goes! Hark! Follow," cried the jovial sportsman. "The fox is
taking to the fields." And Allfrey proceeded to the nearest point at
which he himself could climb the wall. The tall young man, however,
took longer in doing this than the active boy had done, and, before he
had jumped down on the opposite side, Allfrey had again lost the track
of Wilfred.
"There's a gate on t'other side of the field, he'll be making for
that," said John to himself; he knew every yard of the country round.
The young squire's height gave him a great advantage in striding
through the long grass. Before he had reached the gate, however, he
heard the crashing of boughs to the right, where Wilfred was breaking
through the hedge.
"The boy must want to get to the river. I will go on to the gate,
spring over it, and be round in two minutes by the bank; then he will
not hear my approach."
On to the gate, and over the gate, went John Allfrey, while Wilfred
was anxiously groping about for something with which to weight his
parchment. With slow stealthy steps the hunter crept round towards him,
unable in the dim light to distinguish what the boy could possibly be
doing. Allfrey saw then—or rather heard—that something was thrown into
the stream, which, in a minute afterwards, Wilfred seemed to be eagerly
trying to recover.
"If he lean over so, he'll be in, as sure as a gun!" muttered the
watcher, and, even as the words were on his lips, Wilfred fell
splashing into the stream.
Well was it for the unhappy young Marsden that a strong man and
bold swimmer was near. Not that John Allfrey was an impetuous
philanthropist, eager to rush forward to the rescue on seeing a
fellow-creature in danger. He took off his hat and drew off his coat
and boots preparatory to the plunge before he made it. Allfrey expected
to see Wilfred rise to the surface of the river, but he expected in
vain, so sprang into the water, and dived at the spot where he had seen
young Marsden disappear. But the boy had been carried a short way down
by the current, the swimmer could not find him at once; several minutes
elapsed before the gasping Allfrey reappeared, dragging with him by the
hair the senseless body of the boy.
"This has been a strange, and might have been a fatal adventure,"
muttered the squire, as he laid the youth on the bank, with his face
to the ground, so that the water might flow freely from his nostrils
and mouth. "I must get him back at once to the house, there a hot drink
and warm bed will set all to rights, I hope, before morning. What is
it that he holds in his hand? A long roll—a parchment deed!" The young
man disengaged the will from the grasp of the cold livid fingers. "It
must have been this which he was so anxiously fishing out of the water.
Mysteries never will end! Well, whatever it be, it must not be lost,
since he almost threw away his life to get it."
Allfrey was now hastily drawing on his own coat, and he secured the
long roll, wet as it was, under his outer garment; then, raising poor
Wilfred in his arms, the strong man carried him as if he had been a
young child, not over the field, but round by the road and the front
drive of Cortley Hall—a way longer, indeed, but far easier, as no wall
would have to be climbed.
While with long, rapid strides John Allfrey went on his road, he turned
over in his mind what he should say in regard to the night's adventure.
"I've a notion—" thus flowed the current of his thoughts—"that the
whole secret, whatever it may be, lies in that wet roll of sheep-skin
as the kernel lies in a nut. Shall I give it to Rosa May? I don't
see," pursued honest John, "what right she has to possess it, nor what
mischief might be done by her seeing it. There's a world of trouble
often comes from meddling with bits of old parchment! Shall I look into
the roll, and judge for myself? It does not seem to me that to do so
would be the act of a gentleman. It is not mine—I have no right to read
it. I'll keep the whole matter quiet. If this poor fellow recovers, as
I hope that he will, he shall have his roll back unopened; if not, I
shall make it over to his father."
And having thus settled the question in his mind, and at the same time
reached the door of the Hall, Allfrey shouted out with stentorian voice
to bring the household to his assistance.
The scene that followed may readily be imagined. Great were the alarm
and surprise in the Hall when the tidings spread that John Allfrey had
just entered, dripping with water, and bearing in his arms the only
son and heir of the master of the house, senseless—perhaps lifeless.
There was running to and fro, loud ringing of bells, voices calling for
flannels, brandy, hot water. Anxiety, curiosity, or wonder, were marked
upon every face. A horse was saddled at once, and Edward Lyle rode off
at full speed for a doctor.
Wilfred Marsden was borne to his room in the arms of his father,
undressed, swathed in hot flannels, his cold limbs chafed with anxious
care. No means of restoring circulation were left untried by Mr.
Marsden and his weeping daughter.
The guests below, who could not share the labours of the sick-room,
eagerly gathered around John Allfrey, and the young man was overwhelmed
by a perfect torrent of questions. How had he tracked Wilfred Marsden?
What had taken the boy to the river? How could he possibly have
fallen in? Allfrey replied to some of the questions, others he left
unanswered. He wanted to get to a fire, and change his wet clothes, and
not be kept, as he said, like a poor wretch in a witness-box, after a
sudden cold bath in the river.
It was some time before Allfrey was suffered to make his retreat to Mr.
Marsden's room, in which a fire had been lighted, and where, while he
changed his clothes for some of his host's, he took the opportunity of
drying—not reading—the parchment.
CHAPTER IX.
CONJECTURES.
"I'M sure that it is a perfect mystery to me what could have induced
him to leave all the party here, to wander about in the rain and end by
throwing himself into the river!" exclaimed Sophia Adair.
"Every act of the boy during the whole of the day has been
incomprehensible," cried Rosa. "His wild looks in the morning when I
met him, his late appearance at breakfast, his temper, his rudeness, he
who was always courtesy itself to the ladies."
"He seemed in high spirits during the whole afternoon."
"Strange, uncertain, unnatural spirits. Did you notice the feverish
flush on his check?"
"Has the doctor seen him?" asked John Allfrey, who joined the speakers
at that moment.
"Yes, the doctor has been here for some time, but I have not yet heard
his opinion. Such a bad business, is it not?" cried Sophia. "And just
the night before the wedding! I suppose that the marriage will be put
off!"
"Oh! I should not think so," said John; "a boy is not usually the worse
for wetting."
"But he has been so long in coming to himself, and then—" Sophia
lowered her voice and touched her forehead as she added, "it looks as
if something were wrong with his head."
"I suspect that poor Mina thinks so," observed Rosa, "for she looks the
picture of misery."
"And she was so happy," sighed Sophia.
"But I want to know everything that you saw, from beginning to end,"
cried Rosa, addressing John Allfrey. "You said that you first heard him
getting over the garden-wall; what could have taken him to the garden?"
John only shrugged his shoulders in reply.
"And then down the field, through the hedge, and so straight on to the
river. Do you think that the wretched boy really meant to throw himself
in?"
"I don't think so," replied young Allfrey.
"Why, then, should he go to the river at all? There's no way of
crossing it there."
John was quite aware of that fact.
"He could not fish in the dark; the idea of bathing is absurd. Could he
wish to get anything out of the water?"
"You had better ask himself, when he is able to answer," said Allfrey,
who grew more and more determined to let her know nothing of the roll.
"There goes the doctor," cried Rosa. "Oh! I wish that I had seen him
before he went."
"Mina will tell us the news," said Sophia, as, pale with anxious
watching, the bride-elect entered the room.
"He has come to himself, thank God!" said Mina. "The doctor is going to
send him fever-draughts at once, for his pulse runs high. Dr. Penn says
that we have nothing to fear; but I can't help being anxious—oh! so
anxious! He is so dear a brother to me!"
"Has he said anything since he has revived?" asked the curious Rosa.
"Does he seem conscious of all that has happened?"
"I scarcely know whether he is. He looks wildly around him, as if he
were in search of something; he cries 'Where is it?—Where is it?' Like
one who has lost what he prized very much. The doctor says that Wilfred
should be kept very quiet, but our poor boy is so anxious to rise."
"He'll never get round while his mind is in this excited state,"
observed Rosa.
"I cannot stay away from him longer, though papa never leaves his
bedside," said Mina, quitting the room as she spoke.
John Allfrey followed her into the hall, closing the door behind him.
"Miss Marsden—one word," said he.
Mina paused with her foot on the stair.
"When I drew your poor brother out of the water, he had a roll clenched
so tight in his hand that I could hardly get it away." The young
man drew forth the parchment. "If he is so restlessly looking for
something, it seems likely that it may be this. I need scarcely add,"
said Allfrey, as he placed the roll in the maiden's hand, "that not a
single word has been read."
"Oh! Mr. Allfrey," exclaimed Mina, with deep emotion, "you have done
us a service to-night which we can never, never repay. You must have
thought me the most ungrateful of beings, in my anxiety for my brother,
never yet to have expressed my gratitude to his preserver."
John felt embarrassed at being thanked for what he thought so simple
a matter as pulling a drowning boy out of the river; he muttered
something about seeing whether the carriage had not come for his
sisters, while Mina, with a throbbing heart, glided up to her brother's
apartments.
As she entered the room with the roll in her hand, her father came
forward to meet her, his finger raised to his lips.
"He sleeps," said Mr. Marsden, to his daughter; "I have sent Martha out
of the room, for I wish to keep away all noise—anything that may cause
excitement." He resumed the seat which he had quitted; Mina knelt at
his side.
"Father," she softly whispered, "you should know everything; you will
judge what is right. Mr. Allfrey has just given me this parchment, he
took it out of poor Wilfred's grasp when he had drawn him out of the
water. It may be something of importance, it may be the cause of the
restless uneasiness which alarms us so much to-night."
The father took the roll with the keenest interest.
"Thankful, most thankful should I be," he said, "to discover any
sufficient cause for the conduct of my poor boy."
"Will you examine the parchment, papa?"
Mr. Marsden remained for several moments buried in thought before he
replied, "Perhaps it would be better not to do so; perhaps it may
quiet Wilfred's mind to be assured that no one is in possession of his
secret, if a secret there be."
"Then what would you have us do?"
"Place the roll within his reach, my child; if it be that for which he
so anxiously inquires, the sight of it cannot but soothe him. And now
that you are here to watch, I will go down and dismiss our guests. I
fervently trust that the worst is over, and I fain would have the house
quiet."
Noiselessly Mr. Marsden left the sick-room; noiselessly Mina
approached the bed, and, as she laid the will upon it, tenderly gazed
on the sleeping boy. What sad traces had the sufferings of the last
twenty-four hours left on that pale young face! Even in sleep it wore
an expression of distress, which went to the heart of Mina. She knelt
down beside the bed, and clasping her hands together, long, and fondly,
and fervently prayed to a merciful God for her brother. Mina approached
the Throne of Grace with the same trustful, childlike confidence with
which she had come to her earthly father. The maiden's heart felt
soothed and calmed by the act of devotion; as she rose, more full of
hope that this strange, mysterious cloud of sorrow on her bright sky
would pass away, she looked at her brother and saw that his eyes were
wide open, and lovingly fixed on herself.
"You were praying for me," he murmured, and a deep sigh followed the
words.
"And God has answered my prayer already," she replied, thankful to see
him so collected.
At that moment Wilfred's glance fell on the roll beside him. With
almost a cry of surprise, he grasped it in feverish haste.
"How came this here?" he exclaimed.
"I put it there," answered Mina.
"You—you! Have you read it?" gasped Wilfred, half raising himself in
his bed.
"No, no one has read it," said Mina.
An expression of unutterable relief came over the features of Wilfred;
he hid the parchment under his pillow, and then, in a calmer voice,
asked his sister where she had found the roll.
"John Allfrey found it—but he did not look into it," added Mina,
quickly, for she saw that her first sentence had re-awakened her
brother's fears.
"You are sure of that?"
"Quite sure," she replied.
"But how came Allfrey to be near me?"
The question was asked in a tone so rational that Mina's hope rose yet
higher.
"I can hardly tell you," she answered; "I think that our merciful God
must have sent him to the river to preserve so precious a life."
"It was strange, indeed!" murmured Wilfred.
"But you must think of nothing now, dearest, to perplex, excite, or
distress you. You must just remain quiet and still, and let us nurse
and take care of you. Ah! Here comes papa with the fever-draught. He
will be so thankful to find you better."
Mina poured out the cooling drink, and gave it to her brother; he drank
it, and felt refreshed.
"Is it late?" he abruptly asked. "Have the Allfreys left the house?"
"They have just gone," replied Mr. Marsden, "and Sophia and Rosa have
retired to their rooms."
"And so must our bride," said Wilfred; "I cannot endure to see her
looking so pale and wan, and with those red marks under her eyes. What
a torment I have been to you all! Mina must rest and get strength for
to-morrow—for her wedding-day," he added.
"Not my wedding-day, if you are ill. I could not leave you thus," said
Mina.
"What! Delay your happiness for me! That would indeed be more than I
could bear. I shall be all right to-morrow," said Wilfred, raising
himself in the bed. "I am only tired and chilled. I shall be at the
wedding, or, if not, John Allfrey can take my place. It would put me
into a fever if any change were made on my account."
Mr. Marsden saw that Wilfred was thoroughly in earnest; and his own
mind being greatly relieved, he readily promised that if his son were
no worse in the morning, no change should be made in the wedding
arrangements. He bade Mina go to rest, gave her his paternal blessing,
but proposed himself to pass the remainder of the night in the chamber
of his boy. Against this latter part of the arrangement, Wilfred
expostulated in vain.
CHAPTER X.
DECISION.
"AND so everything is to go on as was settled yesterday?" said Sophia
to Rosa, when the two fair bridesmaids met on the following morning.
"Yes; favours, flowers, feasting, and fun, all after the most approved
fashion," replied Rosa. "I have just sent off a note, by Mina's desire,
to ask the Miss Allfreys to be here by ten, that we of the white tulle
and rosebuds may set off to the church together. Of course you have
heard that their brother is to act the part of best man?"
"Has the doctor been here to-day?"
"Oh! He was here before seven," said Rosa, "and he found that the fever
was almost gone! He won't let the patient get up, however, and talks
of excitement and that sort of thing; but it is clear that not much is
the matter." And Rosa gave a little scornful toss of the head. "I am
only vexed about poor Mina. There is she on her wedding morning talking
of chicken broth and barley-water, and listening as earnestly to old
Dr. Penn as if he were her bridegroom. I don't believe that if her
four bridesmaids went to church in black poke bonnets instead of white
veils, Mina would even notice the difference, her head is so full of
this Wilfred."
"And his father sat up all night?"
"I've no patience with the boy," cried Rosa, whose curiosity had been
kept so long on the rack, that the effect was seen in her temper.
"I think," said Sophia, gravely, "that this has all been the result
of an attack on the nerves, brought on by sleeping in that horrible
chamber."
Rosa gave a little laugh at the mention of nerves, remembering what
Wilfred himself had said to her on the subject. "No," she replied, "it
is that the boy did yesterday what he did on a smaller scale on the
preceding day. He has gone wildly blundering on, in some self-chosen
path of his own, till he has not only wounded himself with the thorns,
but has almost succeeded in crushing poor Mina's bridal blossoms."
Rosa had little idea how very near her guess was to the truth.
Merrily rang the church bells; the sound of the school-children's happy
voices, as they assembled on the lawn to see the bride going to church,
and to strew her path with flowers, rose on the summer air.
Wilfred lay alone in his chamber, listening and thinking. The sunshine
came through the coloured panes of the mullioned window, throwing
gorgeous many-tinted stains on the oak-panelled wall. In the stillness
of that room, how severe a conflict was going on in the mind of that
boy! Words of his sister rang in his ears, "the mercy of God," as shown
towards himself in the strange events of the night. Was it not through
that mercy that he now lay on his pillow, a living, breathing form? Why
was it, that instead of the merry chime, there was not the slow toll of
the bell for the dead; that robes of mourning were not to be prepared
for his sister instead of white bridal attire; that his own body was
not laid out—a cold lifeless corpse—drawn after long search from those
waters on whose chilly depths Wilfred shuddered to think? Was it not
through the mercy of God—that God whose commands he had broken? Had
he not been snatched—it seemed to Wilfred almost by miracle—from a
fate so well deserved? And, had his body perished in that dark river,
where would his soul now have been? Most awful of all thoughts to young
Marsden! He would have been cut off in his sin, summoned to his last
account, without space given for repentance, without time vouchsafed
for prayer. Lines haunted the boy, he knew not where he had read them,
but they seemed to image forth to him his own experience—
"Methought by a slender cord I hung
O'er the black abyss of eternal death;
Wildly I struggled and wildly clung,
Sobs of agony choked my breath;
Sin drew me down, with a mountain's weight,
Each frenzied effort more hopeless making.
Was judgment passed? was return too late?
The last hope failing—'the cord was breaking.'
I woke with a cry
Of agony—
My God! how fearful was that waking!"
"Yes, Mina, all that I have suffered, all that I have made you suffer,
has been through my turning aside from the duty which I had not
courage to face. Never, never can I forget the lesson branded into my
heart, that no sacrifice for God can be so painful as the effects of
disobedience, and that, however thorny it be—in the end, THE STRAIGHT
ROAD IS SHORTEST AND SUREST."
THE END.
LONDON:
SAVILL AND EDWARDS, PRINTERS, CHANDOS STREET
COVENT GARDEN.
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