It had been a very wet afternoon. The clouds had parted towards nightfall, and the moon rose with unusual splendor, rendering every object in his path as distinctly visible as at noonday. The beauty of the night only seemed to increase the gloom of Anthony Hurdlestone's spirit. He strode on at a rapid pace, as if to outspeed the quick succession of melancholy thoughts, that were hurrying him on to commit a deed of desperation. He entered the great avenue that led up to the back of the Hall, and past the miser's miserable domicile, and had traversed about half the extent of the darkly shaded path, when his attention was aroused by a tall figure leaning against the trunk of a large elm tree. A blasted oak, bare of foliage, on the opposite side the road, let in a flood of light through its leafless branches, which shone full upon the face of the stranger, and Anthony, with a shudder, recognised William Mathews.
"A fine evening for your expedition, Mr. Hurdlestone. It might well be termed the forlorn hope; however I wish with all my heart that you may be successful." As he spoke he lowered a fowling-piece from his shoulder to the ground. "Do you hear that raven that sits croaking upon the rotten branch of the old oak opposite? Does not his confounded noise make you nervous? It always does me. It sounds like a bad omen. I was just going to pull down at him as you came along. I fancy, however, that he's too far above us for a good shot."
"I am in no humor for trifling to-night," said Anthony, stopping and glancing up at the bird, who sat motionless on a decayed branch a few yards above his head. "If you are afraid of such sounds, you can soon silence that for ever."
"It would require a good eye, and an excellent fowling-piece, to bring down the black gentleman from his lofty perch. I have heard that you, Mr. Hurdlestone, are accounted a capital shot, far before your cousin Godfrey. I wish you would just give me a trial of your skill."
"Nonsense!" muttered Anthony. "The bird's only a few yards above us. A pistol would bring him down."
"I should like to see it done," said Mathews, with a grin. "Here, sir, take my gun."
Impatient of interruption, and anxious to get rid of the company of a man whose presence he loathed, Anthony drew one of the pistols from his breast pocket, and, taking a deliberate aim at the bird, he fired, and the raven fell dead at his feet. Picking it up, and tossing it over to Mathews, he said—"Do you believe me now? Pshaw! it was not worth staining my hands and clothes with blood for such a paltry prize."
Mathews laughed heartily at this speech; but there was something so revolting in the tones of his mirth, that Anthony quickened his pace to avoid its painful repetition. A few minutes more brought him in sight of the miser's cottage. No light gleamed from the broken casement, and both the door and the window of the hovel were wide open, and flapping in the night wind. Surprised at a circumstance so unusual, Anthony hastily entered the house. The first object that met his sight rivetted him to the threshold.
The moon threw a broad line of silver light into the dusty worm-eaten apartment, and danced and gleamed in horrid mockery upon a stream of dark liquid which was slowly spreading itself over the floor. And there, extended upon the brick pavement, his features shockingly distorted, his hands still clenched, and his white locks dabbled in blood, lay the cold, mutilated form of his father.
Overpowered with horror, unable to advance or retreat, Anthony continued to gaze upon the horrid spectacle, until the hair stiffened upon his head, and a cold perspiration bedewed all his limbs.