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.