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.