Astounding Stories of Super-Science February, 2026, by Astounding Stories is part of HackerNoon’s Book Blog Post series. You can jump to any chapter in this book here. The Moors and the Fens, volume 1 (of 3) - Chapter II: The Wilfulness of Youth Astounding Stories of Super-Science February 2026: The Moors and the Fens, volume 1 (of 3) - Chapter II The Wilfulness of Youth By J. H. Riddell Astounding Stories of Super-Science February, 2026, by Astounding Stories is part of HackerNoon’s Book Blog Post series. You can jump to any chapter in this book here. The Moors and the Fens, volume 1 (of 3) - Chapter II: The Wilfulness of Youth Astounding Stories of Super-Science February, 2026, by Astounding Stories is part of HackerNoon’s Book Blog Post series. You can jump to any chapter in this book here. here Astounding Stories of Super-Science February 2026: The Moors and the Fens, volume 1 (of 3) - Chapter II The Wilfulness of Youth By J. H. Riddell By J. H. Riddell Henry Ivraine had scarcely concluded, when the door of the apartment was flung violently open, giving admittance to the tall gaunt baronet, the “Miser Sir Ernest,” as he was universally called by all who knew him. He resembled, and yet was dissimilar to, both his sons, having the rapid, energetic manner of the one, and the melancholy, dissatisfied expression of the other; his hair, which had once been black as Ernest’s, was now grey and grizzled; his face was wrinkled, though apparently more from temper than great age; his eyes were dark and keen, and seemed to be perpetually darting rapid glances into remote corners in search of any coin, no matter how insignificant; his mouth, like the clasp of a purse, appeared to have a natural disinclination to open, excepting with a snap; his untrimmed beard gave 22a wild, haggard expression to his wasted features; his hands were long and thin, the fingers bent like vulture’s claws. He had on an old pair of slippers, coarse stockings, grey trousers of the commonest material, an old tattered faded dressing gown, which, floating behind as he shuffled rapidly towards the fire-place, gave him the appearance of a theatrical caricature, save that the stage always lacks that of which he had the stamp—reality. “At it again, Henry,” he commenced, hastily removing the blazing logs from their position and extinguishing them, as if they had been going to set the house on fire, “at it again, haranguing and talking and wasting the fuel; you will die in the workhouse yet, boy; you would spend a fortune in a week. If you never can keep silent for ten minutes at a time, why can’t you talk in the dark? you do not require to see when you are speaking, do you? I cannot afford such fires; and that reminds me—what’s this bill which has just come in?” “You have not left me light sufficient to inform you,” answered the youth angrily, gazing for a moment at his parent through the gloom, with a look in which contempt had decidedly gained the mastery over filial respect; but then, remembering 23that the questioner was his father, he made a strong effort, and added, in a different tone, “if you tell me the name of the sender, I shall be able to give you further particulars.” “It is a bill which I do not intend to pay,” remarked Sir Ernest, “from a tailor of the name of Turner: items—a dress coat; ditto, vest; amount, five pounds. I dare say the fellow wishes he may get it.” “I am sure he cannot afford to lose it,” said Henry warmly; “I ordered those articles, sir, when, at your desire, I went to Colonel Purday’s to propose for his hideous daughter, who ran off with Lord Rondeford before I had time to do it. I could not go to Bellefort Park in a plain shooting jacket; and in the whole of my wardrobe, at that period, there was not a coat innocent of the crime of being out at the elbows: I was forced to order the clothes from some one, and, accordingly, Turner made them.” “And you may pay for them,” his father added, “as you would not marry Miss Purday.” “As Miss Purday would not marry me, you mean, sir,” retorted Henry: “on my honour, at that time I’d have wedded Xantippe if she would only have promised to carry me bodily out of 24Lincolnshire. If I had known she was secretly engaged to that pauper, Lord Rondeford, why of course I should not have wasted a new coat upon her; but being ignorant of that fact, I did so, and Turner must not suffer for my over haste.” “Or rather want of haste,” sneered his father, who had his own private opinions on the subject. “Well, as I said before, you may pay the bill.” “Had I possessed the means of doing so, it should never have been sent to you,” said Henry; “as matters stand, I hope, sir, you will settle it. I assure you it is the last account you will ever have to discharge for me.” “Yes, the last—and the last—and the last, for years; no, no, Henry, that won’t do with me now; I am tired of that cry, I have no faith in that promise. As I cannot teach you to be economical, I will prevent these tradespeople giving you credit: let them go once or twice without their money, and they will think half-a-dozen times before trusting you again. I have been a most indulgent father; anything in reason I am willing for—anything in reason, but not for bills like this: Turner will never make coats for you again.” “He is a poor man, sir, and has a large family,” urged Henry; “it would not be a very great sum 25for you to pay, and it would be a heavy loss for him to sustain.” “The heavier the loss, the longer he will remember it,” the baronet said savagely. “He can force you to settle the account,” remarked his son. “Ay! and how, pray?” “He can summon you for the amount; I am under age,” Henry rejoined, hotly. “Just let him try it,” chuckled the baronet, “just let him try it, and I will teach him a lesson he will never forget: but he won’t attempt it. Go to law with Sir Ernest Ivraine! there’s not a man, noble or commoner, in Lincolnshire who would attempt it: summon me!” and the old miser laughed so long at the idea, that Henry had time to calm down a little ere the baronet had concluded. “I may have thought, and said, ere now that I would relieve you from the burden of supporting me,” began his son, when Sir Ernest’s merriment was fairly at an end; “but I have sworn it now: twenty-four hours more, and I shall be off to seek my fortune, or to find a grave somewhere; for I had rather dig the soil like the poorest labourer, than remain here. After to-morrow we may never meet again, and as my last request, as my only 26one ere I depart, I ask you to discharge this little debt; it is my only one, and not extravagant. Will you promise me this before I go?” Once again the baronet broke out into a sort of diabolical chuckle, as he inquired where Henry was thinking of going. “Out into the world, sir,” responded the young man sadly, and in a very different tone from that which he had used during the course of his conversation with his brother; “whither I care very little, whether east, west, north, or south, so as it take me fairly away from this wretched place. Father, I do not want to say anything disrespectful, or unkind, but I have been so miserable here, that I feel I can bear it no longer.” “You have thriven upon it,” remarked Sir Ernest, drily, glancing at the stalwart frame of his son; “you do not look miserable, though you talk so much about it: probably all your grief evaporates in words. Now, Ernest appears melancholy; perhaps it is because he never speaks.” “There are griefs too deep for words,” murmured Ernest to the smouldering embers, while Henry rejoined: “How I have looked and talked, you know; how I have felt, I know. I have often before 27said I would leave home, fully intending to carry that intention into execution when any definite plan of support presented itself. I am resolved to depart now: you have frequently told me I might; that young men ought to battle and struggle for themselves. I shall follow your advice: I shall avail myself of your permission at last, and start to-morrow.” felt “You will remain for many morrows,” sneered his parent. “The sun of heaven shall never shine on my face here again, unless, after the lapse of years, I return, rich and independent, to prove what a strong will and a just purpose may accomplish for any man,” Henry retorted. “If hereafter I should be happy and prosperous, how I would glory just once to look upon these swamps and quagmires again, and think of the weary life I led amongst them, and how I hated and detested the very name of Paradise.” “Henry!” exclaimed his brother, quickly; but the baronet merely laughed, and said, “Let him go on; it does me no harm, it makes Paradise none the less valuable, it costs no money, nothing but breath, and he has plenty of that to spare: it does him good, let him go on.” 28“You are right, sir,” said Henry, vehemently; “it does do me good on this the last evening of my sojourn under my father’s roof, to speak out for once fully and frankly. I loathe this place; for years I have had but one wish—to get away from it by any means. I have thought by day, I have pondered by night, how that object might be best effected; but it was only this morning that I took my final resolution to depart at all hazards, and, please Heaven, I will adhere to it.” “For how long?” the old man asked. “Through life,” Henry answered; “some of our relatives flatter you, sir, for their own ends. I am speaking now, not as a son to a father, not as one who hopes or expects aught from you, either now or at any future time, but as one man might to another, plainly and truthfully; and I say they do flatter you for their own ends, and talk as if Ernest and I had everything in life to be thankful for, if we would only be contented; they trace all the misery of this wretched home of ours to those who, instead of being the causes of unhappiness, are merely sufferers from the evil which has made it what it is. They tell you we are murmuring, dissatisfied, repining; and I tell you what they assert is false: that we have borne 29patiently, as few young men would have done, privations and humiliations; poverty in the midst of wealth; parsimony in the lap of plenty——stay, Ernest, as I have begun, I will speak: our youth has been wretched; we have been deprived of everything natural to our age; the poorest cottager has fared better than we; the labourers on your estate have been clad in costlier garments than the sons of its baronet possessor; we have been debarred from society, have not been educated as became our rank and your means, have neither the privileges of children, nor the advantages of men; you will not give us the means to go, you reproach us when we stay. Our relatives say all has been done for our ultimate advantage. They may be correct; but as I never expect to derive advantage from it, I confess it seems to me our present happiness has been sacrificed to a mistaken system. I have been wretched, and a pauper amidst lands and estates sufficient to have made me a being almost without a care. I had rather go forth to encounter any fate than pass the last few years of my existence over again.” “Have you nearly done?” the baronet demanded, his whole frame quivering with anger. “Almost,” said Henry. “I have only to add 30that as Paradise has been a place of torture to me, I mean to leave it in the space of a few brief hours.” “I will believe it when you are gone: and Ernest—” “What he will do I know not,” the younger brother returned. “I wish he would come with me. I trust he will be guided to a manly determination; but whether or not, whether he decide to go forth to breast the world as he can, or remain here, will make not the least alteration in my purpose: nothing could turn me now.” “Go then,” said the old man, bitterly; “I command you to go out into the world which you think will act a kinder part to you than your father has done; away from those relations whose counsel you despise: do what you like. I renounce you, I cast you off; child of mine you are, heir of mine you shall never be: go forth—see what stuff the world is made of; learn the nature of men; discover what wins their hearts, turns their purposes, sways the destinies of nations, shakes empires, moves the world,—and then repent for ever that you threw from you him, who, for your sake, struggled through years to gain the precious talisman, but who, for your sake, will struggle no longer.” 31“I know what a blessing gold can be made; I have felt what a curse it may become,” the young man replied sadly: “the world can teach me nothing about it I have not learnt already. Aid from you I ask not; but lest hereafter my conscience should reproach me for having uttered some expressions which have just escaped my lips, I request, before we part for ever, you will say you forgive them; for, though true, I admit that, perhaps, I should not have spoken them.” “Always the same,” sneered the old man; “always speaking, always repenting: always threatening, never performing; always dreaming, never acting; always murmuring, never satisfied; always extravagant, never reforming; always offending, always apologizing, but never amending; always the same—always—always—till the end of time.” And as he concluded this complimentary summary of his son’s character, the baronet turned to leave the room. “I am not threatening, I am not dreaming now; I mean to go: ere daybreak to-morrow, I shall be miles from here. After to-night, we may not meet for years again,—most likely, never: speak to me, say something before I leave this place, which, in all human probability, I shall never see more.” 32And Henry, who was always in extreme, either of anger or sorrow, laid a hand on the arm of the man, who, with his numerous faults and scanty virtues, was still, and, in spite of all, his father. But the baronet, who had come at length to regard Henry’s repinings as mere matters of course, shook him off with a scornful laugh, and murmuring and muttering “Always the same—always—always the same,” left the dark chamber, and went out into the still darker corridor beyond. How long and how earnestly the brothers remained after his departure in that dreary apartment, conversing together, it would be impossible to tell; they stayed there till the stars peeped forth and the moon arose; and then Ernest, wearied and mournful, bade Henry go to rest, and sleep upon it. Upon what? Upon the subject which was to decide his future lot; on the step which might make or mar, elevate or destroy. “He will be calmer in the morning,” thought the elder; and thus, after hours of mutual expostulation, they separated for a time. How often in after years did Ernest Ivraine remember the words and the thoughts of that memorable night, when, sleepless and wretched, he pondered on which path he should take, which 33road he would choose; when unadorned freedom and gilded slavery were presented to his choice; when he strove to see rightly by the dim flickering light of prudence, and acted wrongly after all; when it was still in his power to cast the fetters from his soul, but only bound them tighter around it; when he called Henry rash and foolish and misguided, and strove to think him so; when he fancied his own choice was better and more sensible, and felt in his heart he was wrong; when he dreamed for one minute of happiness in distant lands, and shrunk back the next, appalled by the spectre of poverty grimly awaiting him on foreign shores; when he thought, with a wild throb of pleasure, of leaving “Paradise” behind him, and then resolved to remain there, lest strangers should share his parent’s gold among them and he be left a bankrupt baronet, a beggar, an outcast,—because of over-impatience, because he could not endure the yoke till his father died. Ere the faintest shade of grey coloured the eastern sky, Henry stood by his brother’s side; he held a lighted candle in one hand, a valise in the other. “Have you made up your mind?” he asked. “Yes,” said Ernest. “And what is your decision?” Henry demanded. 34“To stay,” was the reply; “as you will not remain to take care of your own interests, I will guard them faithfully for you.” “Guard your own,” returned his brother quickly, but not unkindly. “I tell you I want nothing, I expect nothing, and I am starting in life—not as the son of Sir Ernest Ivraine, but as a man without a shilling or the hope of making one, excepting by his own exertions. If he make you his heir, I shall say you have earned every guinea by the dreariest servitude ever endured: no prospect of certain ultimate wealth could induce me to wait here for it. And remember, Ernest, that misers’ wills are often strange documents: you are not sure of riches after years of endurance: you are choosing certain misery for a mere chance. Come with me, and we will show the world what two unassisted youths can do: will you come?” certain “No,” Ernest returned: “I will not leave unbounded wealth to the cupidity of our relations; I will not cast such a chance from me, when, by enduring a little longer, I may be free to shape my destiny as I like. If I am ever rich, you shall be so too; if not, I, a titled pauper, will then take the step I dread at present. Go out and labour, and be happy if you can, and I will remain and try to do 35better for you than you might yourself, waiting and praying and trusting for happier times.” “But not for his death, Ernest, not for his death,” Henry said solemnly. his “Nothing but his death can ever bring happiness to us, Henry,” his brother responded emphatically. “Oh! Ernest, I never wished for him to die; never even at my worst.” “I often have,” was the elder’s brief confession, and gazing into his brother’s face, after he had uttered the words, he saw him turn pale and faint, as if the sentence sickened him. “God help you from sinful thoughts and deeds, Ernest,” he murmured, as they left the apartment together, and Ernest responded, “Amen.” They walked along the corridor for some yards in silence; but then Henry, pausing by a door almost at the end of it, said hurriedly, “I cannot leave without seeing him.” A bitter smile curled Ernest’s lip at the idea; he could not comprehend his brother’s half-instinctive feelings of vague, changeable affection for their parent. He had a settled hatred for the miser himself, and he could not understand how Henry, who had suffered so much that he was casting behind him all hope of wealth for ever, sooner than endure 36the thraldom longer, could entertain any other sentiment than that of fixed aversion towards the man who, though he was their father, had darkened their lives, thwarted their wishes, clouded their futures, mortified their pride through years. “He will not thank you for disturbing him and raising all sorts of horrors in his mind, concerning thieves and skeleton keys,” remarked the elder brother with a sneer his parent might have envied; but Henry called softly through the closed door, which was, as he well knew, bolted and barred in the inside. “Father, I want to speak to you—only one word.” The miser was awake and up in a moment; with trembling fingers he undid the fastenings. “What is wrong?” he inquired; “what has happened?” “I am going, sir,” said Henry. “Is that all?” his father rejoined; “I thought, perhaps, some one had broken in. When will you be back?” “If I live, before I am grey-haired,” was the answer. “A safe reply—time to come and go in: may mean to-morrow, or to-day, for that matter,” the old man remarked. 37“It does not mean to-day, or to-morrow, or the day after,” replied his son; “it means years, long years, hence: when I have made a fortune: when I am a youth no longer, but a man who has fought and struggled and won. I—I could not leave you, perhaps for ever, without one word more—I am sorry for what I said last night; you will bid me good-bye, sir, won’t you?” Perhaps the presence of his brother restrained him from asking a parent’s blessing on his enterprise; perhaps he felt that such a word from those thin avaricious lips would have been little but a mockery; perhaps such an idea never crossed his mind: at all events, the brief English honest parting phrase was all he requested, and all he received. “Good-bye, then,” said the old man, who went through the scene as if it had been a sort of farce—(in fact, he considered it as such; the only serious thing he dreaded in the piece being a demand for money); “Good-bye, then,” and he held out a long skinny hand, which his son took mournfully. All the past floated dimly before his eyes: his childhood, his mother, her death, the few kindnesses his father had ever conferred upon him, the many angry and impatient expressions he had made use of towards that parent! He glanced wildly back into 38the previous years of his existence, and at that glance all the events, and trials, and purposes, and disappointments, and wrongs, came like spectres at a master’s bidding up to view: he gazed forth almost fearfully into the dim, gloomy, uncertain future, into which, without friend, or light, or rudder, or compass, he was plunging: he was leaving a home which, though dreary, had still been a sort of home; a father who, though a selfish, unfeeling man, was his only surviving parent; a brother, to whom he had clung and appealed through years; a place, which, though surrounded by swamps and marshes and desolation, had once been tenanted by a gentle woman, his mother, who, after having bequeathed to her children whatever of good beautified their natures, died in that house which somehow, at that moment, her spirit seemed to sanctify. Leaving all—a miserable home, a miser father, a melancholy brother! going to a foreign land to face death as a common soldier! departing, certainly for years, possibly for ever! The whole vision of past, present, and future swept rapidly across his soul and softened it; and on that, the last time when he and his father ever met or parted, the young man, forgetful or regardless of Ernest’s grave, contemptuous smile, bent down his head over that hand, 39which never grasped aught eagerly save a piece of gold, and kissed it. There was something about the act which touched for an instant the old miser’s iron soul; but muttering to himself the words, “He won’t go after all; it’s all talk,” he only said, “Good-bye, then, boy, you’ll be back soon,” and so let his son depart. A sort of film obscured Henry’s eyes as he turned from that door to break all ties asunder: a sentence would have made him stay then—but the old man spoke it not—though a word might have made him depart the next day. Ere they reached the principal hall, however, the sound of Sir Ernest’s voice calling to them echoed drearily through the long corridors. Henry ran back to the foot of the stairs at the summons, his heart beating painfully. “No, no, it’s not you I want,” cried the miser, leaning over the banisters as he spoke, “but Ernest; I can trust him, and you never remember anything. Be sure to see the door is properly shut when you go out; that is all: or stay, I will fasten it after you myself.” And the old man, shuffling down the stairs and across the hall, closed and locked the heavy oaken door upon the departing figure of his youngest born, 40and with trembling eagerness adjusted each chain and bar, to see all was in its place, whilst Ernest remarked, as they walked along the terrace together, “He could sleep if we were in our coffins, Henry, but not if a bolt in the house were neglected to be drawn.” A chill had fallen over the soul of the younger brother as he heard the door bang violently behind him, and the rattling of the chains and grating of the locks smote harshly on his ear: it was his father’s farewell to him; it was the last sound he listened to in that house, till, after years of exile, he returned to find his parent dead, removed to that other world where gold and earthly treasures avail not. The damp morning wind blew not more coldly upon his cheek than the miser’s words struck to his soul; winter’s frosts never possessed a bitterness of more reality than his brother’s brief sentence. Thus Henry Ivraine passed forth, after many resolves and many struggles, as he had said he would, “into the world;” and Sir Ernest, his father, without a regretful or tender word, bolted the door of home behind him. When next he beheld that house, a different hand clasped his at the open portal: another voice bade him welcome back again, for the old man 41had gone from amongst his money bags for ever, and the place he had darkened and clouded knew him no more. For five miles the brothers pursued their way in silence; for Henry was too sick at heart, and vexed in spirit, to utter a syllable, and Ernest cared not for the exertion when it could be avoided; but at length when they reached the London road, and saw by the gloomy light of a November morning, the coach rapidly advancing along the straight, flat, interminable highway, the younger said, “Now, Ernest, finally decide; will you come with me?” “No,” was the reply; “but will you think thrice and turn?” “Not for worlds,” Henry answered, with a shudder; and, resting his arm on an old stump of a willow-tree which was lying by the road-side, he looked first, sorrowfully, at the dark object coming rolling towards them, and then wistfully at his brother. “I will never forget you,” he said at last, in a faltering voice, “in life or in death, never; and whatever comes, whether good fortune or evil, you, Ernest, must never forget me.” Without answering, the elder took the outstretched hand in his, and pressed it in his own; then, drawing 42a ring off his finger—a plain golden ring, containing a few fine threads of auburn hair—he gave it silently to his brother, with a look which Henry interpreted rightly, “Keep it for her sake, and remember me.” her As he might have twined his arms when a child about that mother’s neck, the departing one now flung them wildly round Ernest, his dark, stern brother: the latter felt his breath warm on his cheek for a moment, and the next heard him calling loudly to the coachman to stop: he saw a hand waving to him from the top of the vehicle, and then the horses, dashing round a curve in the road, bore all from his view, and left him standing there alone. The one had fairly started off into the world; and Ernest, with a blacker shade than ever on his brow, walked back, even more solitary than of yore, to the swamps, and marshes, and poplars of Paradise. Henry Ivraine was indeed gone to London to “seek his fortune,” and thither we must also proceed, though not to follow him: no—he went there to become a soldier; and we journey thither to make acquaintance with Mr. Alfred Westwood, and—some other people, to accomplish which laudable purpose it is needful to close this second chapter, and commence a third. About HackerNoon Book Series: We bring you the most important technical, scientific, and insightful public domain books. This book is part of the public domain. Astounding Stories. (2009). ASTOUNDING STORIES OF SUPER-SCIENCE, FEBRUARY 2026. USA. Project Gutenberg. Release date: February 14, 2026*, from https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/77931/pg77931-images.html#Page_99* This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org, located at https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html. About HackerNoon Book Series: We bring you the most important technical, scientific, and insightful public domain books. About HackerNoon Book Series: We bring you the most important technical, scientific, and insightful public domain books. This book is part of the public domain. Astounding Stories. (2009). ASTOUNDING STORIES OF SUPER-SCIENCE, FEBRUARY 2026. USA. Project Gutenberg. Release date: February 14, 2026*, from https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/77931/pg77931-images.html#Page_99* This book is part of the public domain. Astounding Stories. (2009). ASTOUNDING STORIES OF SUPER-SCIENCE, FEBRUARY 2026. USA. Project Gutenberg. https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/77931/pg77931-images.html#Page_99 This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org, located at https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html. This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org, located at https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html. www.gutenberg.org https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html
