Mark Hurdlestone Part 3

A strong mind, when it comprehends the worst, rouses up all its latent energies to combat with, and triumph over, its misfortunes. Algernon was an amiable man, a man of warm pa.s.sions and generous impulses, but he was a weak man. His indignation found vent in sighs and tears, when he should have been up and doing.

A light step rustled among the underwood--ashamed of his weakness he sprang to his feet, and saw before him, not the slight form of Elinor Wildegrave, into which belief busy fancy had cheated him, but the drooping figure and mild face of his mother, shrouded in the gloomy garments of her recent widowhood. With pale cheeks and eyelids swollen with tears, she had followed her injured son to his lonely hiding-place.

"Mother!" he cried, holding out his arms to receive the poor weeper, "dear mother! what have I done to be thus treated?"

A convulsive spasm choked his utterance; and as she seated herself beside him on the gra.s.s, his head sunk upon her lap, as in other years, and the proud man's spirit was humbled and subdued like that of a little child.

"Your father, Algernon, has died, committing an act of injustice, but for your mother's sake you must forgive him."

Algernon tore up several tufts of gra.s.s, and flung them with violence from him--but he remained silent.

"Your brother, too, my Algernon, though harsh and unkind in his general deportment, feels for your present situation. He is anxious to make some amends to you for the injustice of his father. He sent me to tell you that any sum you may think fit to name, and which you consider sufficient to settle you in life, shall be yours."

"He sent you--he--the hypocrite! Was it not he who robbed me of my father's love--he, who has robbed me of my natural claims to a portion of my father's property? What! does the incendiary think that I am blind to his treachery--that I am ignorant of the hand that struck me this blow--that I will stoop to receive as a liberal donation, an act of special favor, a modic.u.m of that which ought to be my own? Mother, I will starve before I can receive one farthing from him!"

"Do not be rash, my son"--

"Mother, I cannot be mean. It grieves me, dearest mother, that you should undertake to be the bearer of this message to me."

"Are you not both my children?--though, G.o.d knows, not equally dear; and ought not the welfare of both to be precious to the heart of a mother?

It is not so: Mark never had an equal share of my affections, and G.o.d has punished me for my undue partiality, by making him the heir of all."

"But, mother, this was no fault of mine."

"True; but he has regarded it as a crime. You have robbed him of my love, and he in revenge has robbed you of your fortune. Had I been a kinder mother to him, he might have prized the gold less, and my affection more. My conscience reproaches me as the author of your present sufferings. Do not make my self-upbraidings more acute, by refusing the a.s.sistance which your brother offers you."

"Esau sold his birthright for a mess of pottage, mother. I will not sell my honor for a sum of money, however acceptable that sum might be. It would never prosper with me, if it came from him."

"Well, Algernon, if you will not be persuaded, you must have it your own way. Your father, though he received from me a n.o.ble fortune, has left me dependent upon your brother. I cannot, if I would, aid you with money; but this case of jewels is valuable; I am old, I have no further occasion for such baubles; I have no daughters to wear them after me.

Take them, you can raise upon them several thousand pounds--and may the proceeds arising from their sale be blessed to your use."

"Dearest mother, I accept your generous present;" and Algernon's countenance brightened as hope once more dawned in his breast. "If I should be fortunate, I will return to you in hard gold the value of these gems."

He took the casket from his mother's hand, and caught her to his heart in a long and last embrace. "Should Heaven bless my honest endeavors to obtain a respectable independence, my heart and my home, beloved one, shall ever be open to you."

And so they parted--the good mother and the disinherited son, to meet no more on this side the grave.

"Poor mother!" sighed Algernon, as he turned his steps to the widow's cottage, "how I pity you, having to live upon the charity of that churl!

It would seem that my father was determined to punish you for your devoted love to me."

Before Algernon reached the humble abode that contained his earthly treasure, his buoyant mind had decided upon the best course to pursue.

The sale of his mother's jewels would purchase a commission in the East India Company's service. To India, therefore, he determined to go; and he flattered himself that, before the expiration of ten years, he would return with an independent fortune to claim his bride. It was a long period in perspective, but Elinor was in the early bloom of youth, and her charms would scarcely have reached maturity when he hoped again to revisit his native land. The bitterest pang was yet to come. He must inform her of his father's unjust bequeathment of all his property to his brother, and of his own determination to seek his fortune in the East. He must bid the idol of his soul adieu, for a period which, to the imagination of a lover, almost involved eternity. Alas for the fond hearts and the warm hopes of youth! How could they bear the annihilation of all the delightful antic.i.p.ations which they had formed of future enjoyment?

Elinor had not seen Algernon since his return to the Hall. She ran down the little path which led to the road to meet him, and the next moment was in his arms. Algernon could not restrain his feelings as he clasped her to his heart; he burst into tears.

"You have had a great loss, my Algernon; I will not chide these tears.

The death of a kind parent leaves an awful blank in our existence, a wound which time alone can heal."

"His death, Elinor, has not cost me a single tear."

"Then why this grief?"

"We must part."

"Algernon!" Elinor stepped back, and looked at her lover with death-pale cheeks and expanded eyes. "Part!"

"Yes, but not for ever, I hope. But for a long, long period of time; so long, that hope dies in my heart while naming it."

"But why is this, Algernon? Your father's death, you always told me, would remove the only obstacle to--to--" Her voice failed her. She buried her face in her ap.r.o.n, and wept.

"Yes, dearest; that was, provided he left me the means to support a wife. He has not done so. He has left all to my brother--and I am dest.i.tute."

"Good Heaven! And this is my doing. Oh, Algernon. What have you not lost on my account!"

"We will not think of that now, love," said Algernon, growing calmer now the worst had been told; "I came to pour into your faithful heart all my sorrows, and to tell you my plans for the future."

"Algernon," said Elinor, gravely, after remaining for some time in deep thought, "your attachment to me has overwhelmed you with misfortunes.

Comply with your father's wishes--resign your engagement to me, and your brother will, in all probability, restore to you the property you have lost."

"And would you wish me to be under obligations to him? Is not this his work? Elinor, I would rather enlist as a common soldier, than live in affluence, and he my benefactor. But I am poor now, and my love may have become valueless in your eyes," and he turned his fine eyes, moist with tears, reproachfully on his beautiful mistress.

"I spoke not for myself," said Elinor, gently. "Is not the love that has sacrificed a fortune for my sake beyond all price? But the thought of ruining the man I love overwhelms me with despair."

"Patience, my dear girl--time will remedy the evil. I am going to work hard to win a fortune. In a few years I shall return from India, a rich man."

"India!"

"It is the only spot on the earth where fortunes can be made in a few years."

"But the dreadful climate--the many chances against you--"

"I will brave all for your dear sake. Only promise to be true to me, Elinor; never whilst I live, to wed another."

The promise was given, and sealed upon her lips, and the lovers parted with many sighs and tears; promising, by everything most holy and dear to them, to remain constant to each other. Such vows are too often traced in sand, to be washed out by the returning tide of pa.s.sion or interest: sometimes by an unfortunate combination of untoward circ.u.mstances, over which the poor lover cannot exercise the least control. We shall see how Algernon and his Elinor kept their vows of eternal fidelity.

Mark Hurdlestone heard of his brother's departure and safe arrival in India with unspeakable satisfaction. With cautious steps he pursued the path suggested to him by the implacable spirit of revenge. Before many months had elapsed, the death of Mrs. Hurdlestone afforded him an opportunity of obtaining a fresh introduction to Miss Wildegrave. At his mother's particular request, Mrs. Wildegrave and her daughter had visited her frequently during her dying illness; and as it exactly suited his own purpose, Mark offered no objection, but did all in his power to meet his mother's wishes. The dying woman felt an intense desire to see the person for whom her favorite son had sacrificed so much, and she was so pleased with his choice, that she forgave her all the trouble she had occasioned, kept her constantly near her person during her last illness, and finally expired in her arms.

To Elinor she owed much of the attention she received at that time from her stern unloving son. He treated her with a degree of tenderness quite unusual to him, antic.i.p.ated all her comforts, and seldom left her apartment. "They may call the Squire a harsh cruel man," said Elinor to her mother, "but I must say, that I never saw a kinder or a better son."

After the funeral, Mark called upon Mrs. Wildegrave, to deliver into her hands a few memorials of his mother's regard, to which he added some handsome ornaments for Elinor out of his own purse, and he expressed in the warmest terms his grateful thanks for their attention and kindness to the deceased. He displayed so much feeling on this melancholy occasion, and spoke with such affection and respect of his departed parent, that it made a deep impression upon Mrs. Wildegrave and her daughter.

Encouraged by this favorable reception, the Squire soon repeated his visit, and by adroitly flattering the elder lady, he continued to ingratiate himself into her favor. Mrs. Wildegrave was a kind well-meaning woman, but she had struggled so long with poverty, that wealth had acquired, as a natural consequence, too great an ascendancy over her mind. The possession of these coveted riches gave to Mark Hurdlestone an importance in her eyes, which made her blind to the defects of his character, and she secretly wished that her daughter had not entered into a rash engagement with his brother, which must unavoidably extend over an indefinite number of years, but could transfer her affections to the handsome owner of Oak Hall. Alas! how often are mothers, and fond mothers too, induced to sacrifice the earthly and eternal peace of a beloved child to the demon of this world, the selfish soul-destroying power of wealth, that daily slays its thousands and tens of thousands, yet never finds one worshipper the less.

About this period, Mr. Hurdlestone purchased the cottage rented by the widow, and appeared in a new character, that of a landlord. The old lady was fond of planning improvements, which gave him an opportunity of gratifying her taste; and he took no small pains in accommodating himself to her wishes. "He was a fine generous man," she said, "one whom the world has greatly misrepresented. All his father's faults have been heaped upon his innocent head. She had had sore reason to hate the illiberal narrow-minded father, but she admired and esteemed the son."

"I do not think that Algernon did his brother justice," said Elinor; "but members of the same family are often blind to each other's merits.

Certainly the Squire is not the bad selfish man I took him for."