 | CHAPTER III.
THE WILL. The cruiser of the mist |  |
3. CHAPTER III.
THE WILL.
Randolph, on entering his father's chamber,
met the attorney and his companion
passing out. The former looked upon
him with a smile so significant, that he
stared with surprise; but the next moment
he forgot the look in the presence of
the dead.
“He has departed without bestowing
upon me his blessing,” he said as he gazed
upon the rigid face of his father. “Woman,
wicked and evil woman, this is your
cruelty. My father sent for me, and you
reported to him falsely, that I would not
see him. My father,” he cried, kneeling
by the corpse, and pressing his lips to the
icy cheek, “my dear father, I knew not
that you desired to see me, else I would
have been near thee when thy spirit fled.
To thee, departed spirit, who art still hovering
near, to thee I address myself. Thou
knowest all things now, and thou knowest
the purity of my filial love, and also thou
seest clearly through the wickedness of
this woman!”
“What means this mockery of the
dead, sir?” cried Madam Ledyard, with
ill-suppressed rage. “Rise and quit the
room!”
“I shall not, Madam. I have here a right
above you all. Here will I remain. But
for you, I should have shared my father's
love, but you poisoned his mind against
me, and exiled me from my home and
from his heart. God will judge you!”
The widow shrunk, abashed before the
stern reproof of the indignant young man.
“Come, Arthur, come with me, and let
us leave him here. His power will be
short!”
“Nay, mother, I feel deeply for my dear
brother. I will remain with him!”
“Now that his father no longer lives,”
said the artful woman, “he will have no
restraint over his hatred for you. You
are rash to remain a moment in his presence!”
“I do not fear Randolph,” answered
Arthur quietly. “He will do me no harm!”
Madam Ledyard was vexed, but for the
present she thought best to forbear.
“After the funeral, when the will is
made known, I shall have my revenge,”
she murmured to herself as she quitted
the room.
“Arthur,” said Randolph, turning towards
him with tearful eyes, “this is a
heavy blow to both of us. He was our
father, mine as well as yours. Though
respected him. Now that he is no more,
let us be to each other in his place!”
“My dear brother!” exclaimed Arthur,
embracing him with impulsive affection.
“Arthur,” said Randolph, as he raised
his brother from his shoulder, on which he
had thrown himself, “let me warn you
against the tales with which your mother
fills your ears. She loves me not, and
would have you also hate me. But if she
says to you ever, that I do not love you,
she says what is false. You are very
dear to me. Now that our father is no
more, I as your elder brother, feel bound
to you by a closer tie. You love your
mother, you believe her to be all that is
upright and good; but she is good only to
you. Be cautious how you heed what she
whispers to you of me!”
“I will never believe any thing against
you, Randolph. I will quicker suppose
my dear mother deceived, than that you
should be false. You have my fullest confidence
and trust!”
“Thanks, thanks, dear brother. Now do
we understand each other. What a sad
sight is this lifeless clay. The spirit that
ever dwelt in it smiles upon our love, for
now it sees my heart, and knows its truth!
But let us leave the room to those who
come to prepare the dead for the grave!”
On the morning of the third day after
the death of General Ledyard, he was
placed in the family tomb, and the mourners
returned to the mansion. The attorney
produced the will at the widow's request,
and read it aloud. It made Arthur the
sole heir, with a legacy of one hundred
dollars to Randolph.
The surprise of Arthur was no less
great than that of Randolph.
“Brother—Randolph!” he cried, rushing
towards him, “despise me not—censure
me not, for I knew not of this until
this moment. But it shall be void. It
shall have no effect whatever. The base
will I will destroy with my own hands!”
As he spoke he snatched it from the
hands of the attorney, and was preparing
to destroy it, when his mother rushed forward
and rescued it.
“Are you mad, boy?”
“No mother, but just and honorable!”
Randolph stood silent and pale as a statue.
He seemed not to fully comprehend
the fatal truth. At length he smiled bitterly,
and bowing with haughty defiance
to his step-mother, he left the room and
the house.
He took his way wildly through the
garden, he scarce knew whither. His
brain whirled, his blood was on fire with
the intensity of his feelings. He reached
the water-side, and remained gazing vacantly
upon the bay. The sea breeze
cooled his brow, and he became more composed.
He began to reflect. He saw
that this result had been brought about by
the subtle acts of his step-mother.
“It is her work. This she has achieved
as the finishing stroke to her hatred of
me! I see through it all. I understand
how it was. My father sent for us both,
to see us ere he died. She gave the message
only to my brother, and returned to
him, saying I refused to come. Then my
father in his displeasure, cast me off, making
my brother his heir! How has that
boy stood in the way of my happiness
ever since he was born. I could almost
hate him as well as his mother! But I
will not think evil of him. He loves me.
He is gentle, good, brave, and all that a
brother could wish in a brother. No, I
will not think evil of him! Yet —”
“Nay, dear brother,” said the low voice
of Arthur at his ear; “nay, let no more
words fall from your lips. I am indeed,
I have been for years your enemy, but
most innocently so. For your sake I
would willingly die now. I am more
grieved than you are at this wicked will.
I can hardly forgive my father!”
“Can you forgive your mother? It was
by her arts, Arthur, your mother brought
this end about. She would not that my
father's dying blessing should descend
upon my head, and so withheld from me
the message which she conveyed to you.
refused to come. Displeased at this, he
made you his sole heir. It is your mother's
act!”
“Can it be possible my mother could
do this thing?” he asked with deep sorrow.
“Your mother is the only one to blame.
Upon her head —”
“Nay, spare her. It is not possible she
can have been so wicked!”
“Do you doubt my word, Arthur? I
repeat to thee she bore me no message,
and I sent back no such answer as she
poured into my father's ears. But let this
pass. God will judge her! I never more
enter that house. It is yours and hers!
I shall go forth upon the world to carve
my own fortunes. I refuse to touch the
pitiful legacy that has been named in the
will. Why should a brave man despair,
though he be a beggar. It is true the war
is ended, but all the paths of life are not
fenced up. Some one will I find open to
me. So, farewell, brother!”
“Do not leave me brother!” cried Arthur,
clinging to him. “Forgive all that I have
innocently done to cause this!”
“You have done nothing, brother. But
I cannot remain. I shall go. There is
my boat chafing at her moorings, awaiting
me to embark in her. I shall obey the
call. I will commit my destiny to the
winds, and whithersoever they blow shall
my prow be set!”
“I cannot have you leave me, brother,”
cried Arthur, in deep distress. “The
whole patrimony shall be your own. I
ask nothing but your love!”
Randolph made no reply, but paced in
silence the green sward upon the eminence
upon which they stood. It was at this
moment that our story opened! It was in
vain that Arthur now proceeded to urge
upon Randolph the acceptance of one half
of their patrimony. He positively refused,
and with a feeling of reckless despair,
cried,
“Do not speak to me more, brother. Do
not stay me with thy grasp, else I shall
begin to say bitter words even to you; for
dark thoughts and an evil mind against
you is fast coming upon me. I fly from
you, lest I hate you and strike you!”
Thus speaking, the wretched young man
tore himself from his brother's nervous
hold with such vehemence, that Arthur
reeled and fell upon the ground. He lay
for several minutes partially insensible.
He was about to rise to his feet to pursue
and entreat his brother to remain, when
he heard his mother's shriek, and the next
moment was folded in her arms, as she
knelt beside him upon the ground.
“Has he slain you? Oh, my child, do
you live? Where are you wounded?”
“No one has wounded me. Where is
Randolph. Let me rise, mother. I would
call to my brother, and entreat him not to
leave me!”
“Your brother is an assassin! He has
fled! I saw him from the portico when
he struck you down. My limbs would
hardly bring me to the spot. I could not
utter a cry to give the alarm to pursue
him as he fled down the precipice! But
he shall not escape!”
“Mother, Randolph has not harmed
me!” cried Arthur firmly and almost indignantly.
“If you name such a suspicion
again, I shall cease to love you. Do
not hold me!”
“Has he not wounded you?”
“No, I fell. I was alone to blame!”
“You would kiss his hand if he should
strike a dagger to your heart, I believe!”
Arthur released himself from his mother,
and hastened to the verge of the
bank, in the hope of seeing Randolph, and
of being able to prevail upon him to return.
“You need not make the effort to cause
me to believe that young man did not
strike you down,” said Madam Ledyard,
as she saw Randolph seated in the stern
of his pleasure boat, the sails hoisted to
the winds, flying down the bay. “Why
has he escaped?”
“Mother, he escapes from no one! He
is in despair! Your weak love for me has
that he may forever shut out from his eyes
scenes where he has suffered so much
sorrow! Ask your own heart, my mother,
why he flies. Be sure it is not for guilt.
I would have detained him! I offered him
the half—I offered him the whole of the
patrimony which you have so wickedly
obtained for me, if he would remain, and
let me share his beloved presence; but he
would accept nothing at my hands. He
answered that he should have received justice
from my father and from you, and not
charity from me. Nay, he even spoke
harshly to me, and did say that if he did
not fly soon, he should hate me as one of
the authors of his misery. I am grieved
and angry, mother, that you should have
done what you have done! Much rather
would I have become a beggar, than that
the bright sky of Randolph's love for me
should be darkened by a single cloud!”
“Do you reproach me, boy? Have I
not done all for your sake? Have I —”
“Do not speak of it! You have made
me as well as Randolph the victim of your
weak and guilty affection for me. I pity
my brother. I reproach both you and my
father. May God forgive him! Through
you, mother, he was banished from the endearments
of home, that I might have the
sole love of my father. He has been made
all his life a sacrifice for me; yet he has
never hated me. His noble heart has always
overflowed with love and tenderness
towards me. It has been your wicked aim
to supplant him by me. The idea of making
me the sole heir, I fear, has been from
the first in your mind. Oh, that I had
known all this! But it is now too late to
retrieve the past. Though I have unintentionally
injured my brother, I feel that I
have nothing to reproach myself for in unkindness
towards him. Never did I speak
a harsh word to him.—Noble Randolph!”
continued Arthur, gazing with eyes full of
tears after the swiftly departing boat,
“for me you have been sacrificed, and you
have not reproached me. For your sake
I refuse to benefit by my father's unjust
will. I will use no portion of the estate
that is rightfully your own. I too will try
my fortunes in the wide world; for I wish
my lot to be no better, no happier than
yours!”
“Do you mean what you are thus saying?”
cried Madam Ledyard, with a pale
cheek and a heavy conscience smiting
her for what she had done; “do you mean
to say you will not touch the property?”
“Yes, firmly and solemnly, and I appeal
to God above, and to my brother now in
view, in testimony of the truth of my
words. Mother, I have ceased to respect
you. My eyes are open to your guilt.
You have for twenty years been playing a
great game of crime. It was not love for
me so much as wicked ambition, that has
led you on in this career. You have succeeded
in your wishes! But how? True,
your son is the heir of the estates you
coveted for him, and the true heir is flying
from home. But your son not only refuses
to share an estate thus wickedly come by,
and the fruits of your guilty ambition fall
to the ground and perish. This is God's
judgment upon you!”
Madam Ledyard stood before him, transfixed
with mingled grief, rage, and disappointment.
There was no penitence in
the tearful eye; no sorrow in the pale
cheek; no remorse in the trembling lip.
These effects were caused by darker and
sterner emotions. She saw by the firmness
of the tone in which the young man
spoke, and by the resolute expression of
his indignant eyes, that he was sincere in
his determination. She approached him,
grasped his wrist with one hand, and pressed
the other strongly upon his shoulder,
while her eyes sought his.
“Arthur, do you refuse to accept what
I have worked all my life to place in your
hands?”
“I do most positively!”
“You refuse then at your peril!”
“Do not menace me, mother. I feel
that I am superior to you, because I am
innocent. You have degraded yourself by
your crimes. You have forfeited the respect
me, for I am above your menaces!” Rather
kneel and seek forgiveness of God!”
“And this is my reward!” she cried
bitterly. “Oh, Arthur, do not reject the
wealth and power that is now yours.
Have pity upon me. Do not cast aside
what I have sold my soul to obtain for
you!”
“Shall I use the price of my brother's
life—of my mother's soul!” he said with
indignant scorn. “Leave me, mother! I
would stand here and gaze on my brother's
form, so long as it is in sight. Do not disturb
me in this only happiness left me!”
The ambitious, and now wretched mother
stood back abashed and reproved.
She had began to reap the bitter fruits of
her duplicity. She saw all her hopes
dashed at a single blow. She felt that she
had calculated without the consent of him
who was the object of all her aims. That
he would refuse to take possession of the
estate, she had no suspicion. His refusal
came upon her like a thunder-clap. She
would have threatened, but she beheld in
the beautiful and gentle youth, to her surprise,
a spirit awakened, which she knew
not slumbered in his bosom. She saw that
his breast was the home of truth and honor,
and that her evil temptations found there
no resting-place.
She remained silent a few moments, reflecting
what course she should adopt to
regain her influence over him. He stood,
in the meanwhile, gazing after the departing
boat, at intervals waving his handkerchief,
which signal, to his great joy, was
answered by Randolph. At length the
little bark passed out of sight, a league
distant, by turning the southern bend of
Staten Island. During all this time, Madam
Ledyard remained silent, waiting till
his attention should be again given to her.
He turned towards her with looks full of
grief.
“Mother, there has departed one I love
better than any other being on earth. I
would that he had taken me with him, for
I cannot well bear a separation from him!”
“Your love for your brother is misplaced.
It is well for you he is gone. I know he
would have sought your life!”
“Not a word of that, Madam! I would
trust him—aye, as quickly as I would
yourself!”
“Oh, Arthur, do not look upon me so
coldly,” said the artful woman; “if you
will forgive me, I will try and atone for
what I have done!”
“Are you sorry for it?” he said severely.
“With all my heart. I did what I did
only for your good. Forgive me, for it
was from love for you, and a desire to see
you rich and happy!”
“Riches bring not happiness to any!
But I forgive you!”
“Thanks, my dear son; now my heart
is relieved. We are friends once more,
as mother and child should be. It was all
my fondness for you!”
“I would rather you should have hated
me than loved me thus wickedly. But it
is past. Randolph will no more return.
I shall follow him ere many days; for this
is no longer my home!”
“Whose then?”
“Randolph's!”
“Well, we will not talk of this now.
Let us return to the house, my dear child.
But first promise me that you will not
leave me without my knowledge!”
“This I promise. My intention is to
go to the city, and there establish myself
in some honorable calling. I shall go as
a poor youth, and trust to God and my own
industry!”
Thus speaking, he once more looked
down the bay, waved an affectionate adieu
towards the point where he had last seen
his brother's boat, and then slowly and
thoughtfully retraced his steps to the
house. His mother followed him in silence.
She saw that it would be indiscret
then to urge him to change his mind,
and left him undisturbed, trusting some
favorable opportunity would yet enable
her to effect her object.
| CHAPTER III.
THE WILL. The cruiser of the mist | |