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Title: The Man in Black: An Historical Novel of the Days of Queen Anne

Author: G. P. R. James

Release date: February 11, 2016 [eBook #51174]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Charles Bowen from page images provided by
        Google Books (University of Minnesota)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MAN IN BLACK: AN HISTORICAL NOVEL OF THE DAYS OF QUEEN ANNE ***




Produced by Charles Bowen from page images provided by
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Transcriber's Notes:
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      (University of Minnesota)
   2. The diphthong oe is represented by [oe].


THE MAN IN BLACK.

AN

Historical Novel of the Days of Queen Anne.

BY

----------------------------------------------------------------------
G. P. R. JAMES, ESQ.

AUTHOR OF "LORD MONTAGU'S PAGE," "THE CAVALIER," "ARRAN NEIL," "EVA
ST. CLAIR," "MARY OF BURGUNDY," "PHILIP AUGUSTUS," ETC., ETC.
----------------------------------------------------------------------

-----------------------
COMPLETE IN ONE VOLUME.
-----------------------



Philadelphia:
T. B. PETERSON AND BROTHERS,
306 CHESTNUT STREET.





----------------------------------------------------------------------
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1860, by

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS,

In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States, to
and for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania.
----------------------------------------------------------------------






THE MAN IN BLACK.




CHAPTER I.


Let me take you into an old-fashioned country house, built by
architects of the early reign of James the First. It had all the
peculiarities--I might almost say the oddities--of that particular
epoch in the building art. Chimneys innumerable had it. Heaven only
knows what rooms they ventilated; but their name must have been
legion. The windows were not fewer in number, and much more irregular:
for the chimneys were gathered together in some sort of symmetrical
arrangement, while the windows were scattered all over the various
faces of the building, with no apparent arrangement at all. Heaven
knows, also, what rooms they lighted, or were intended to light, for
they very little served the purpose, being narrow, and obstructed by
the stone mullions of the Elizabethan age. Each, too, had its label of
stone superincumbent, and projecting from the brick-work, which might
leave the period of construction somewhat doubtful--but the gables
decided the fact.

They, too, were manifold; for although the house had been built all at
once, it seemed, nevertheless, to have been erected in detached
masses, and joined together as best the builder could; so that there
were no less than six gables, turning north, south, east, and west,
with four right angles, and flat walls between them. These gables were
surmounted--topped, as it were, by a triangular wall, somewhat higher
than the acute roof, and this wall was constructed with a row of
steps, coped with freestone, on either side of the ascent, as if the
architect had fancied that some man or statue would, one day or
another, have to climb up to the top of the pyramid, and take his
place upon the crowning stone.

It was a gloomy old edifice: the bricks had become discolored; the
livery of age, yellow and gray lichen, was upon it; daws hovered round
the chimney tops; rooks passed cawing over it, on the way to their
conventicle hard by; no swallow built under the eaves; and the trees,
as if repelled by its stern, cold aspect, retreated from it on three
sides, leaving it alone on its own flat ground, like a moody man
amidst a gay society. On the fourth side, indeed, an avenue--that is
to say, two rows of old elms--crept cautiously up to it in a winding
and sinuous course, as if afraid of approaching too rapidly; and at
the distance of some five or six hundred yards, clumps of old trees,
beeches, and ever-green oaks, and things of sombre foliage, dotted the
park, only enlivened by here and there a herd of deer.

Now and then, a milk-maid, a country woman going to church or market,
a peasant, or at game-keeper, might be seen traversing the dry brown
expanse of grass, and but rarely deviating from a beaten path, which
led from one stile over the path wall to another. It was all sombre
and monotonous: the very spirit of dulness seemed to hang over it; and
the clouds themselves--the rapid sportive clouds, free denizens of the
sky, and playmates of the wind and sunbeam--appeared to grow dull and
tardy, as they passed across the wide space open to the view, and to
proceed with awe and gravity, like timid youth in the presence of
stern old age.

Enough of the outside of the house. Let me take you into the interior,
reader, and into one particular room--not the largest and the finest;
but one of the highest. It was a little oblong chamber, with one
window, which was ornamented--the only ornament the chamber had--with
a decent curtain of red and white checked linen. On the side next the
door, and between it and the western wall, was a small bed. A
walnut-tree table and two or three chairs were near the window. In one
corner stood a washing-stand, not very tidily arranged, in another
chest of drawers; and opposite the fire-place, hung from nails driven
into the wall, two or three shelves of the same material as the table,
each supporting a row of books, which, by the dark black covers, brown
edges, and thumbed corners, seemed to have a right to boast of some
antiquity and much use.

At the table, as you perceive, there is seated a boy of some fifteen
years of age, with pen and ink and paper, and an open book. If you
look over his shoulder, you will perceive that the words are Latin.
Yet he reads it with ease and facility, and seeks no aid from the
dictionary. It is the "Cato Major" of Cicero. Heaven! what a book for
a child like that to read! Boyhood studying old age!

But let us turn from the book, and examine the lad himself more
closely. See that pale face, with a manlike unnatural gravity upon it.
Look at that high broad brow, towering as a monument above the eyes.
Remark those eyes themselves, with their deep eager thought; and then
the gleam in them--something more than earnestness, and less than
wildness--a thirsty sort of expression, as if they drank in that they
rested on, and yet were unsated.

The brow rests upon the pale fair hand, as if requiring something to
support the heavy weight of thoughts with which the brain is burdened.
He marks nothing but the lines of that old book. His whole soul is in
the eloquent words. He hears not the door open; he sees not that tall,
venerable, but somewhat stiff and gaunt figure, enter and approach
him. He reads on, till the old man's Geneva cloak brushes his arm, and
his hand is upon his shoulder. Then he starts up--looks around--but
says nothing. A faint smile, pleasant yet grave, crosses his finely
cut lip; but that is the only welcome, as he raises his eyes to the
face that bends over him. Can that boy in years be already aged in
heart?

It is clear that the old man--the old clergyman, for so he evidently
is--has no very tender nature. Every line of his face forbids the
supposition. The expression itself is grave, not to say stern. There
is powerful thought about it, but small gentleness. He seems one of
those who have been tried and hardened in some one of the many fiery
furnaces which the world provides for the test of men of strong minds
and strong hearts. There has been much persecution in the land; there
have been changes, from the rigid and severe to the light and
frivolous--from the light and frivolous to the bitter and cruel. There
have been tyrants of all shapes and all characters within the last
forty years, and fools, and knaves, and madmen, to cry them on in
every course of evil. In all these chances and changes, what fixed and
rigid mind could escape the fangs of persecution and wrong? He had
known both; but they had changed him little. His was originally an
unbending spirit: it grew more tough and stubborn by the habit of
resistance; but its original bent was still the same.

Fortune--heaven's will--or his own inclination, had denied him wife or
child; and near relation he had none. A friend he had: that boy's
father, who had sheltered him in evil times, protected him as far as
possible against the rage of enemies, and bestowed upon him the small
living which afforded him support. He did his duty therein
conscientiously, but with a firm unyielding spirit, adhering to the
Calvinistic tenets which he had early received, in spite of the
universal falling off of companions and neighbors. He would not have
yielded an iota to have saved his head.

With all his hardness, he had one object of affection, to which all
that was gentle in his nature was bent. That object wits the boy by
whom he now stood, and for whom he had a great--an almost parental
regard. Perhaps it was that he thought the lad not very well treated;
and, as such had been his own case, there was sympathy in the matter.
But besides, he had been intrusted with his education from a very
early period, had taken a pleasure in the task, had found his scholar
apt, willing, and affectionate, with a sufficient touch of his own
character in the boy to make the sympathy strong, and yet sufficient
diversity to interest and to excite.

The old man was tenderer toward him than toward any other being upon
earth; and he sometimes feared that his early injunctions to study and
perseverance were somewhat too strictly followed--even to the
detriment of health. He often looked with some anxiety at the
increasing paleness of the cheek, at the too vivid gleam of the eye,
at the eager nervous quivering of the lip, and said within himself,
"This is overdone."

He did not like to check, after he had encouraged--to draw the rein
where he had been using the spur. There is something of vanity in us
all, and the sternest is not without that share which makes man shrink
from the imputation of error, even when made by his own heart. He did
not choose to think that the lad had needed no urging forward and yet
he would fain have had him relax a little more, and strove at times to
make him do so. But the impulse had been given: it had carried the
youth over the difficulties and obstacles in the way to knowledge, and
now he went on to acquire it, with an eagerness, a thirst, that had
something fearful in it. A bent, too, had been given to his mind--nay,
to his character, partly by the stern uncompromising character of him
to whom his education had been solely intrusted, partly by his own
peculiar situation, and partly by the subjects on which his reading
had chiefly turned.

The stern old Roman of the early republic; the deeds of heroic
virtue--as virtue was understood by the Romans; the sacrifice of all
tender affections, all the sensibilities of our nature to the rigid
thought of what is right; the remorseless disregard of feelings
implanted by God, when opposed to the notion of duties of man's
creation, excited his wonder and his admiration, and would have
hardened and perverted his heart, had not that heart been naturally
full of kindlier affections. As it was, there often existed a
struggle--a sort of hypothetical struggle--in his bosom, between the
mind and the heart. He asked himself sometimes, if he could sacrifice
any of those he knew and loved--his father, his mother, his brother,
to the good of his country, to some grave duty; and he felt pained and
roused to resistance of his own affections when he perceived what a
pang it would cost him.

Yet his home was not a very happy one; the kindlier things of domestic
life had not gathered green around him. His father was varying and
uneven in temper, especially toward his second son; sometimes stern
and gloomy, sometimes irascible almost to a degree of insanity.
Generous, brave, and upright, he was; but every one said, that a wound
he had received on the head in the wars, had marvelously increased the
infirmities of his temper.

The mother, indeed, was full of tenderness and gentleness; and
doubtless it was through her veins that the milk of human kindness had
found its way into that strange boy's heart. But yet she loved her
eldest son best, and unfortunately showed it.

The brother was a wild, rash, reckless young man, some three years
older; fond of the other, yet often pleased to irritate--or at least
to try, for he seldom succeeded. He was the favorite, however,
somewhat spoiled, much indulged; and whatever was done, was done for
him. He was the person most considered in the house; his were the
parties of pleasure: his the advantages. Even now the family was
absent, in order to let him see the capital of his native land, to
open his mind to the general world, to show him life on a more
extended scale than could be done in the country; and his younger
brother was left at home, to pursue his studies in dull solitude.

Yet he did not complain; there was not even a murmur at his heart. He
thought it all quite right. His destiny was before him. He was to
form his fortune for himself, by his own abilities, his own learning,
his own exertions. It was needful he should study, and his greatest
ambition for the time was to enter with distinction at the University;
his brightest thoughts of pleasure, the comparative freedom and
independence of a collegiate life.

Not that he did not find it dull; that gloomy old house, inhabited by
none but himself and few servants. Sometimes it seemed to oppress him
with a sense of terrible loneliness; sometimes it drove him to think
of the strange difference of human destinies, and why it should be
that--because it had pleased Heaven one man should be born a little
sooner or a little later than another, or in some other place--such a
wide interval should be placed between the different degrees of
happiness and fortune.

He felt, however, that such speculations were not good; they led him
beyond his depth; he involved himself in subtilties more common in
those days than in ours; he lost his way; and with passionate
eagerness flew to his books, to drive the mists and shadows from his
mind. Such had been the case even now: and there he sat, unconscious
that a complete and total change was coming over his destiny.

Oh, the dark workshop of Fate! what strange things go on therein,
affecting human misery and joy, repairing or breaking shackles for the
mind, the means of carrying us forward in a glorious cause, the
relentless weights which hurry us down to destruction! While you sit
there and read--while I sit here and write, who can say what strange
alterations, what combinations in the must discrepant things may be
going on around--without our will, without our knowledge--to alter the
whole course of our future existence? Doubtless, could man make his
own fate, he would mar it; and the impossibility of doing so is good.
The freedom of his own actions is sufficient, nay, somewhat too much;
and it is well for the world, aye, and for himself--that there is an
overruling Providence which so shapes circumstances around him, that
he cannot go beyond his limit, flutter as he will.

There is something in that old man's face more than is common with
him--a deeper gravity even than ordinary, yet mingled with a
tenderness that is rare. There is something like hesitation,
too--ay, hesitation even in him who during a stormy life has seldom
known what it is to doubt or to deliberate: a man of strict and ready
preparation, whose fixed, clear, definite mind was always prompt and
competent to act.

"Come, Philip, my son," he said, laying his hand, as I have stated, on
the lad's shoulder, "enough of study for to-day. You read too hard.
You run before my precepts. The body must have thought as well as the
mind; and if you let the whole summer day pass without exercise, you
will soon find that under the weight of corporeal sickness the
intellect will flag and the spirit droop. I am going for a walk. Come
with me; and we will converse of high things by the way."

"Study is my task and my duty, sir." replied the boy; "my father tells
me so, you have told me so often, and as for health I fear not. I seem
refreshed when I get up from reading, especially such books as this.
It is only when I have been out long, riding or walking, that I feel
tired."

"A proof that you should ride and walk the more," replied the old man.
"Come, put on your hat and cloak. You shall read no more to-day. There
are other thoughts before you; you know, Philip," he continued, "that
by reading we get but materials, which we must use to build up an
edifice in our own minds. If all our thoughts are derived from others
gone before us, we are but robbers of the dead, and live upon labors
not our own."

"Elder sons," replied the boy, with a laugh, "who take an inheritance
for which they toiled not."

"Something worse than that," replied the clergyman, "for we gather
what we do not employ rightly--what we have every right to possess,
but upon the sole condition of using well. Each man possessed of
intellect is bound to make his own mind, not to have it made for him;
to adapt it to the times and circumstances in which he lives, squaring
it by just rules, and employing the best materials he can find."

"Well, sir, I am ready," replied the youth, after a moment of deep
thought; and he and his old preceptor issued forth together down the
long staircase, with the slant sunshine pouring through the windows
upon the unequal steps, and illuminating the motes in the thick
atmosphere we breathe, like fancy brightening the idle floating things
which surround us in this world of vanity.

They walked across the park toward the stile. The youth was silent,
for the old man's last words seemed to have awakened a train of
thought altogether new.

His companion was silent also; for there was something working within
him which embarrassed and distressed him. He had something to tell
that young man, and he knew not how to tell it. For the first time in
his life he perceived, from the difficulty he experienced in deciding
upon his course, how little he really knew of his pupil's character.
He had dealt much with his mind, and that he comprehended well--its
depth, its clearness, its powers; but his heart and disposition he had
not scanned so accurately. He had a surmise, indeed, that there were
feelings strong and intense within; but he thought that the mind ruled
them with habitual sway that nothing could shake. Yet he paused and
pondered; and once he stopped, as if about to speak, but went on again
and said nothing.

At length, as they approached the park wall, he laid his finger on his
temple, muttering to himself, "Yes, the quicker the better. 'Tis well
to mingle two passions. Surprise will share with grief--if much grief
there be." Then turning to the young man, he said, "Philip, I think
you loved your brother Arthur?"

He spoke loudly, and in plain distinct tones; but the lad did not seem
to remark the past tense he used. "Certainly, sir," he said, "I love
him dearly. What of that?"

"Then you will be very happy to hear," replied the old man, "that he
had been singularly fortunate--I mean that he has been removed from
earth and all its allurements--the vanities, the sins, the follies of
the world in which he seemed destined to move, before he could be
corrupted by its evils, or his spirit receive a taint from its vices."

The young man turned and gazed on him with inquiring eyes, as if still
he did not comprehend what he meant.

"He was drowned," said the clergyman, "on Saturday last, while sailing
with a party of pleasure on the Thames;" and Philip fell at his feet
as senseless as if he had shot him.




CHAPTER II.


I must not dwell long upon the youthful scenes of the lad I have just
introduced to the reader; but as it is absolutely needful that his
peculiar character should be clearly understood, I must suffer it to
display itself a little farther before I step from his boyhood to his
maturity.

We left Philip Hastings senseless upon the ground, at the feet of his
old preceptor, struck down by the sudden intelligence he had received,
without warning or preparation.

The old man was immeasurably shocked at what he had done, and he
reproached himself bitterly; but he had been a man of action all his
life, who never suffered thought, whether pleasant or painful, to
impede him. He could think while he acted, and as he was a strong man
too, he had no great difficulty in taking the slight, pale youth up in
his arms, and carrying him over the park stile, which was close at
hand, as the reader may remember. He had made up his mind at once to
bear his young charge to a small cottage belonging to a laborer on the
other side of the road which ran under the park wall; but on reaching
it, he found that the whole family were out walking in the fields, and
both doors and windows were closed.

This was a great disappointment to him, although there was a very
handsome house, in modern taste, not two hundred yards off. But there
were circumstances which made him unwilling to bear the son of Sir
John Hastings to the dwelling of his next neighbor. Next neighbors are
not always friends; and even the clergyman of the parish may have his
likings and dislikings.

Colonel Marshal and Sir John Hastings were political opponents. The
latter was of the Calvinistic branch of the Church of England--not
absolutely a non-juror, but suspected even of having, a tendency that
way. He was sturdy and stiff in his political opinions, too, and had
but small consideration for the conscientious views and sincere
opinions of others. To say the truth, he was but little inclined to
believe that any one who differed from him had conscientious views or
sincere opinions at all; and certainly the demeanor, if not the
conduct, of the worthy Colonel did not betoken any fixed notion or
strong principles. He was a man of the Court--gay, lively, even witty,
making a jest of most things, however grave and worthy of reverence.
He played high, generally won, was shrewd, complaisant, and particular
in his deference to kings and prime ministers. Moreover, he was of the
very highest of the High Church party--so high, indeed, that those who
belonged to the Low Church party, fancied he must soon topple over
into Catholicism.

In truth, I believe, had the heart of the Colonel been very strictly
examined, it would have been found very empty of anything like real
religion. But then the king was a Roman Catholic, and it was pleasant
to be as near him as possible.

It may be asked, why then did not the Colonel go the same length as
his Majesty? The answer is very simple. Colonel Marshal was a shrewd
observer of the signs of the times. At the card table, after the three
first cards were played, he could tell where every other card in the
pack was placed. Now in politics he was nearly as discerning; and he
perceived that, although King James had a great number of honors in
his hand, he did not hold the trumps, and would eventually lose the
game. Had it been otherwise, there is no saying what sort of religion
he might have adopted. There is no reason to think that
Transubstantiation would have stood in the way at all; and as for the
Council of Trent, he would have swallowed it like a roll for his
breakfast.

For this man, then, Sir John Hastings had both a thorough hatred and a
profound contempt, and he extended the same sensations to every member
of the family. In the estimation of the worthy old clergyman the
Colonel did not stand much higher; but he was more liberal toward the
Colonel's family. Lady Annabelle Marshal, his wife, was, when in the
country, a very regular attendant at his church. She had been
exceedingly beautiful, was still handsome, and she had, moreover, a
sweet, saint-like, placid expression, not untouched by melancholy,
which was very winning, even in an old man's eyes. She was known, too,
to have made a very good wife to a not very good husband; and, to say
the truth, Dr. Paulding both pitied and esteemed her. He went but
little to the house, indeed, for Colonel Marshal was odious to him;
and the Colonel returned the compliment by never going to the church.

Such were the reasons which rendered the thought of carrying young
Philip Hastings up to The Court--as Colonel Marshal's house was
called--anything but agreeable to the good clergyman. But then, what
could he do? He looked in the boy's face. It was like that of a
corpse. Not a sign of returning animation showed itself. He had heard
of persons dying under such sudden affections of the mind; and so
still, so death-like, was the form and countenance before him, as he
laid the lad down for a moment on the bench at the cottage door, that
his heart misgave him, and a trembling feeling of dread came over his
old frame. He hesitated no longer, but after a moment's pause to gain
breath, caught young Hastings up in his arms again, and hurried away
with him toward Colonel Marshal's house.

I have said that is was a modern mansion; that is to imply, that it
was modern in that day. Heaven only knows what has become of it now;
but Louis Quatorze, though he had no hand in the building of it, had
many of its sins to answer for--and the rest belonged to Mansard. It
was the strangest possible contrast to the old-fashioned country seat
of Sir John Hastings, who had his joke at it, and at the owner
too--for he, too, could jest in a bitter way--and he used to say that
he wondered his neighbor had not added his own name to the building,
to distinguish it from all other courts; and then it would have been
Court Marshal. Many were the windows of the house; many the ornaments;
pilasters running up between the casements, with sunken panels,
covered over with quaint wreaths of flowers, as if each had an
embroidered waistcoat on; and a large flight of steps running down
from the great doorway, decorated with Cupids and cornucopias running
over with this most indigestible kind of stone-fruit.

The path from the gates up to the house was well graveled, and ran in
and out amongst sundry parterres, and basins of water, with the
Tritons, &c., of the age, all spouting away as hard as a large
reservoir on the top of the neighboring slope could make them. But for
serviceable purposes these basins were vain, as the water was never
suffered to rise nearly to the brim; and good Dr. Paulding gazed on
them without hope, as he passed on toward the broad flight of steps.

There, however, he found something of a more comfortable aspect. The
path he had been obliged to take had one convenience to the dwellers
in the mansion. Every window in that side of the house commanded a
view of it, and the Doctor and his burden were seen by one pair of
eyes at least.

Running down the steps without any of the frightful appendages of the
day upon her head, but her own bright beautiful hair curling wild like
the tendrils of a vine, came a lovely girl of fourteen or fifteen,
just past the ugly age, and blushing in the spring of womanhood. There
was eagerness and some alarm in her face: for the air and haste of the
worthy clergyman, as well as the form he carried in his arms, spoke as
plainly as words could have done that some accident had happened; and
she called to him, at some distance, to ask what was the matter.

"Matter, child! matter!" cried the clergyman, "I believe I have half
killed this poor boy."

"Killed him!" exclaimed the girl, with a look of doubt as well as
surprise.

"Ay, Mistress Rachael," replied the old man, "killed him by unkindly
and rashly telling him of his brother's death, without preparation."

"You intended it for kind, I am sure," murmured the girl in a sweet
low tone, coming down the steps, and gazing on his pale face, while
the clergyman carried the lad up the steps.

"There, Miss Marshal, do not stay staring," said Dr. Paulding; "but
pray call some of the lackeys, and bid them bring water or hartshorn,
or something. Your lady-mother must have some essences to bring
folks out of swoons. There is nothing but swooning at Court, I am
told--except gaming, and drinking, and profanity."

The girl was already on her way, but she looked back, saying, "My
father and mother are both out; but I will soon find help."

When the lad opened his eyes, there was something very near, which
seemed to him exceedingly beautiful--rich, warm coloring, like that of
a sunny landscape; a pair of liquid, tender eyes, deeply fringed and
full of sympathy; and the while some sunny curls of bright brown hair
played about his cheek, moved by the hay-field breath of the sweet
lips that bent close over him.

"Where am I?" he said. "What is the matter? What has happened? Ah! now
I recollect. My brother--my poor brother! Was it a dream?"

"Hush, hush!" said a musical voice. "Talk to him, sir. Talk to him,
and make him still."

"It is but too true, my dear Philip," said the old clergyman; "your
brother is lost to us. But recollect yourself, my son. It is weak to
give way in this manner. I announced your misfortune somewhat
suddenly, it is true, trusting that your philosophy was stronger than
it is--your Christian fortitude. Remember, all these dispensations are
from the hand of the most merciful God. He who gives the sunshine,
shall he not bring the clouds? Doubt not that all is merciful; and
suffer not the manifestations of His will to find you unprepared or
unsubmissive."

"I have been very weak," said the young man, "but it was so sudden!
Heaven! how full of health and strength he looked when he went away!
He was the picture of life--almost of immortality. I was but as a reed
beside him--a weak, feeble reed, beside a sapling oak."

"'One shall be taken, and the other left,'" said the sweet voice of
the young girl; and the eyes both of the youth and the old clergyman
turned suddenly upon her.

Philip Hastings raised himself upon his arm, and seemed to meditate
for a moment or two. His thoughts were confused and indistinct. He
knew not well where he was. The impression of what had happened was
vague and indefinite. As eyes which have been seared by the lightning,
his mind, which had lost the too vivid impression, now perceived
everything in mist and confusion.

"I have been very weak," he said, "too weak. It is strange. I thought
myself firmer. What is the use of thought and example, if the mind
remains thus feeble? But I am better now I will never yield thus
again;" and flinging himself off the sofa on which they had laid him,
he stood for a moment on his feet, gazing round upon the old clergyman
and that beautiful young girl, and two or three servants who had been
called to minister to him.

We all know--at least, all who have dealt with the fiery things of
life--all who have felt and suffered, and struggled and conquered, and
yielded and grieved, and triumphed in the end--we all know how
short-lived are the first conquests of mind over body, and how much
strength and experience it requires to make the victory complete. To
render the soul the despot, the tyranny must be habitual.

Philip Hastings rose, as I have said, and gazed around him. He
struggled against the shock which his mere animal nature had received,
shattered as it had been by long and intense study, and neglect of all
that contributes to corporeal power. But everything grew hazy to his
eyes again. He felt his limbs weak and powerless; even his mind
feeble, and his thoughts confused. Before he knew what was coming, he
sunk fainting on the sofa again, and when he woke from the dull sort
of trance into which he had fallen, there were other faces around him;
he was stretched quietly in bed in a strange room, a physician and a
beautiful lady of mature years were standing by his bedside, and he
felt the oppressive lassitude of fever in every nerve and in every
limb.

But we must turn to good Doctor Paulding. He went back to his rectory
discontented with himself, leaving the lad in the care of Lady
Annabelle Marshal and her family. The ordinary--as the man who carried
the letters, was frequently called in those days--was to depart in an
hour, and he knew that Sir John Hastings expected his only remaining
eon in London to attend the body of his brother down to the family
burying place. It was impossible that the lad could go, and the old
clergyman had to sit down and write an account of what had occurred.

There was nothing upon earth, or beyond the earth, which would have
induced him to tell a lie. True, his mind might be subject to such
self-deceptions as the mind of all other men. He might be induced to
find excuses to his own conscience for anything he did that was
wrong--for any mistake or error in judgment; for, willfully, he never
did what was wrong; and it was only by the results that he knew it.
But yet he was eagerly, painfully upon his guard against himself. He
knew the weakness of human nature--he had dealt with it often, and
observed it shrewdly, and applied the lesson with bitter severity to
his own heart, detecting its shrinking from candor, its hankering
after self-defense, its misty prejudices, its turnings and windings to
escape conviction; and he dealt with it as hardly as he would have
done with a spoiled child.

Calmly and deliberately he sat down to write to Sir John Hastings a
full account of what had occurred, taking more blame to himself than
was really his due. I have his feet, gazing round upon the old
clergyman called it a full account, though it occupied but one page of
paper, for the good doctor was anything but profuse of words; and
there are some men who can say much in small space. He blamed himself
greatly, anticipating reproach; but the thing which he feared the most
to communicate was the fact that the lad was left ill at the house of
Colonel Marshal, and at the house of a man so very much disliked by
Sir John Hastings.

There are some men--men of strong mind and great abilities--who go
through life learning some of its lessons, and totally neglecting
others--pre-occupied by one branch of the great study, and seeing
nothing in the course of scholarship but that. Dr. Paulding had no
conception of the change which the loss of their eldest son had
wrought in the heart of Sir John and Lady Hastings. The second--the
neglected one--had now become not only the eldest, but the only one.
His illness, painfully as it affected them, was a blessing to them. It
withdrew their thoughts from their late bereavement. It occupied their
mind with a new anxiety. It withdrew it from grief and from
disappointment. They thought little or nothing of whose house he was
at, or whose care he was under; but leaving the body of their dead
child to be brought down by slow and solemn procession to the country,
they hurried on before, to watch over the one that was left.

Sir John Hastings utterly forgot his ancient feelings toward Colonel
Marshal. He was at the house every day, and almost all day long, and
Lady Hastings was there day and night.

Wonderful how--when barriers are broken down--we see the objects
brought into proximity under a totally different point of view from
that in which we beheld them at a distance. There might be some
stiffness in the first meeting of Colonel Marshal and Sir John
Hastings, but it wore off with exceeding rapidity. The Colonel's
kindness and attention to the sick youth were marked. Lady Annabelle
devoted herself to him as to one of her own children. Rachael Marshal
made herself a mere nurse. Hard hearts could only withstand such
things. Philip was now an only child, and the parents were filled with
gratitude and affection.




CHAPTER III.


The stone which covered the vault of the Hastings family had been
raised, and light and air let into the cold, damp interior. A ray of
sunshine, streaming through the church window, found its way across
the mouldy velvet of the old coffins as they stood ranged along in
solemn order, containing the dust of many ancestors of the present
possessors of the manor. There, too, apart from the rest were the
coffins of those who had died childless; the small narrow
resting-place of childhood, where the guileless infant, the father's
and mother's joy and hope, slept its last sleep, leaving tearful eyes
and sorrowing hearts behind, with naught to comfort but the blessed
thought that by calling such from earth, God peoples heaven with
angels; the coffins, too, of those cut off in the early spring of
manhood, whom the fell mower had struck down in the flower before the
fruit was ripe. Oh, how his scythe levels the blossoming fields of
hope! There, too, lay the stern old soldier, whose life had been given
up to his country's service, and who would not spare one thought or
moment to soften domestic joys; and many another who had lived,
perhaps and loved, and passed away without receiving love's reward.

Amongst these, close at the end of the line, stood two tressels, ready
for a fresh occupant of the tomb, and the church bell tolled heavily
above, while the old sexton looked forth from the door of the church
toward the gates of the park, and the heavy clouded sky seemed to
menace rain.

"Happy the bride the sun shines upon: happy the corpse the heaven
rains upon!" said the old man to himself. But the rain did not come
down; and presently, from the spot where he stood, which overlooked
the park-wall, he saw come on in slow and solemn procession along the
great road to the gates, the funeral train of him who had been lately
heir to all the fine property around. The body had been brought from
London after the career of youth had been cut short in a moment of
giddy pleasure, and father and mother, as was then customary, with a
long line of friends, relations, and dependents, now conveyed the
remains of him once so dearly loved, to the cold grave.

Only one of all the numerous connections of the family was wanting on
this occasion, and that was the brother of the dead; but he lay slowly
recovering from the shock he had received, and every one had been told
that it was impossible for him to attend. All the rest of the family
had hastened to the hall in answer to the summons they had received,
for though Sir John Hastings was not much loved, he was much respected
and somewhat feared--at least, the deference which was paid to him, no
one well knew why, savored somewhat of dread.

It is a strange propensity in many old persons to hang about the grave
to which they are rapidly tending, when it is opened for another, and
to comment--sometimes even with a bitter pleasantry--upon an event
which must soon overtake themselves. As soon as it was known that the
funeral procession had set out from the hall door, a number of aged
people, principally women, but comprising one or two shriveled men,
tottered forth from the cottages, which lay scattered about the
church, and made their way into the churchyard, there to hold
conference upon the dead and upon the living.

"Ay, ay!" said one old woman, "he has been taken at an early time; but
he was a fine lad, and better than most of those hard people."

"Ay, Peggy would praise the devil himself if he were dead," said an
old man, leaning on a stick, "though she has never a good word for the
living. The boy is taken away from mischief, that is the truth of it.
If he had lived to come down here again, he would have broken the
heart of my niece's daughter Jane, or made a public shame of her. What
business had a gentleman's son like that to be always hanging about a
poor cottage girl, following her into the corn-fields, and luring her
out in the evenings?"

"Faith! she might have been proud enough of his notice," said an old
crone; "and I dare say she was, too, in spite of all your conceit,
Matthew. She is not so dainty as you pretend to be; and we may see
something come of it yet."

"At all events," said another, "he was better than this white-faced,
spiritless boy that is left, who is likely enough to be taken earlier
than his brother, for he looks as if breath would blow him away."

"He will live to do something yet, that will make people talk of him;"
said a woman older than any of the rest, but taller and straighter;
"there is a spirit in him, be it angel or devil, that is not for death
so soon."

"Ay! they're making a pomp of it, I warrant," said another old woman,
fixing her eyes on the high road under the park wall, upon which the
procession now entered. "Marry, there are escutcheons enough, and
coats of arms! One would think he was a lord's son, with all this to
do! But there is a curse upon the race anyhow; this man was the last
of eleven brothers, and I have heard say, his father died a bad death.
Now his eldest son must die by drowning--saved the hangman something,
perchance--we shall see what comes of the one that is left. 'Tis a
curse upon them ever since Worcester fight, when the old man, who is
dead and gone, advised to send the poor fellows who were taken, to
work as slaves in the colonies."

As she spoke, the funeral procession advanced up the road, and
approached that curious sort of gate with a penthouse over it, erected
probably to shelter the clergyman of the church while receiving the
corpse at the gate of the burial-ground, which was then universally to
be found at the entrance to all cemeteries. She broke off abruptly, as
if there was something still on her mind which she had not spoken, and
ranging themselves on each side of the church-yard path, the old men
and women formed a lane down which good Dr. Paulding speedily moved
with book in hand. The people assembled, whose numbers had been
increased by the arrival of some thirty or forty young and
middle-aged, said not a word as the clergymen marched on, but when the
body had passed up between them, and the bereaved father followed as
chief-mourner, with a fixed, stern, but tearless eye, betokening more
intense affliction perhaps, in a man of his character, than if his
cheeks had been covered with drops of womanly sorrow, several voices
were heard saying aloud. "God bless and comfort you, Sir John."

Strange, marvelously strange it was, that these words should come from
tongues, and from those alone, which had been so busily engaged in
carping censure and unfeeling sneers but the moment before. It was the
old men and women alone who had just been commenting bitterly upon the
fate, history, and character of the family, who now uttered the unfelt
expressions of sympathy in a beggar-like, whining tone. It was those
who really felt compassion who said nothing.

The coffin had been carried into the church, and the solemn rites, the
beautiful service of the Church of England, had proceeded some way,
when another person was added to the congregation who had not at first
been there. All eyes but those of the father of the dead and the lady
who sat weeping by his side, turned upon the new-comer, as with a face
as pale as death, and a faltering step, he took his place on one of
the benches somewhat remote from the rest. There was an expression of
feeble lassitude in the young man's countenance, but of strong
resolution, which overcame the weakness of the frame. He looked as if
each moment he would have fainted, but yet he sat out the whole
service of the Church, mingled with the crowd when the body was
lowered into the vault, and saw the handful of earth hurled out upon
the velvet coffin, as if in mockery of the empty pride of all the pomp
and circumstance which attended the burial of the rich and high.

No tear came into his eyes--no sob escaped from his bosom; a slight
quivering of the lip alone betrayed that there was strong agitation
within. When all was over, and the father still gazing down into the
vault, the young lad crept quietly back into a pew, covered his face
with his hand, and wept.

The last rite was over. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust were committed.
Sir John Hastings drew his wife's arm through his own, and walked with
a heavy, steadfast, and unwavering step down the aisle. Everybody drew
back respectfully as he passed; for generally, even in the hardest
hearts, true sorrow finds reverence. He had descended the steps from
the church into the burying ground, and had passed half way along the
path toward his carriage, when suddenly the tall upright old woman
whom I have mentioned thrust herself into his way, and addressed him
with a cold look and somewhat menacing tone--

"Now, Sir John Hastings," she said, "will you do me justice about that
bit of land? By your son's grave I ask it. The hand of heaven has
smitten you. It may, perhaps, have touched your heart. You know the
land is mine. It was taken from my husband by the usurper because he
fought for the king to whom he had pledged his faith. It was given to
your father because he broke his faith to his king and brought evil
days upon his country. Will you give me back the land, I say? Out man!
It is but a garden of herbs, but it is mine, and in God's sight I
claim it."

"Away out of my path," replied Sir John Hastings angrily. "Is this a
time to talk of such things? Get you gone, I say, and choose some
better hour. Do you suppose I can listen to you now?"

"You have never listened, and you never will," replied the old woman,
and suffering him to pass without further opposition, she remained
upon the path behind him muttering to herself what seemed curses
bitter and deep, but the words of which were audible only to herself.

The little crowd gathered round her, and listened eagerly to catch the
sense of what she said, but the moment after the old sexton laid his
hand upon her shoulder and pushed her from the path, saying, "Get
along with you, get along with you, Popish Beldam. What business have
you here scandalizing the congregation, and brawling at the church
door? You should be put in the stocks!"

"I pity you, old worm," replied the old woman, "you will be soon among
those you feed upon," and with a hanging head and dejected air she
quitted the church-yard.

In the meanwhile Dr. Paulding had remained gazing down into the vault,
while the stout young men who had come to assist the sexton withdrew
the broad hempen bands by which the coffin had been lowered, from
beneath it, arranged it properly upon the tressels in its orderly
place among the dead, and then mounted by a ladder into the body of
the church, again preparing to replace the stone over the mouth of the
vault. He then turned to the church door and looked out, and then
quietly approached a pew in the side aisle.

"Philip, this is very wrong," he said; "your father never wished or
intended you should be here."

"He did not forbid me," replied the young man. "Why should I only be
absent from my brother's funeral?"

"Because you are sick. Because, by coming, you may have risked your
life," replied the old clergyman.

"What is life to a duty?" replied the lad. "Have you not taught me,
sir, that there is no earthly thing--no interest of this life, no
pleasure, no happiness, no hope, that ought not to be sacrificed at
once to that which the heart says is right?"

"True--true," replied the old clergyman, almost impatiently; "but in
following precept so severely, boy, you should use some
discrimination. You have a duty to a living father, which is of more
weight than a mere imaginary one to a dead brother. You could do no
good to the latter; as the Psalmist wisely said, 'You must go to him,
but he can never come back to you.' To your father, on the contrary,
you have high duties to perform; to console and cheer him in his
present affliction; to comfort and support his declining years. When a
real duty presents itself, Philip, to yourself, to your fellow men, to
your country, or to your God--I say again, as I have often said, do it
in spite of every possible affection. Let it cut through everything,
break through every tie, thrust aside every consideration. There,
indeed, I would fain see you act the old Roman, whom you are so fond
of studying, and be a Cato or a Brutus, if you will. But you must make
very sure that you do not make your fancy create unreal duties, and
make them of greater importance in your eyes than the true ones. But
now I must get you back as speedily as possible, for your mother, ere
long, will be up to see you, and your father, and they must not find
you absent on this errand."

The lad made no reply, but readily walked back toward the court with
Dr. Paulding, though his steps were slow and feeble. He took the old
man's arm, too, and leaned heavily upon it; for, to say the truth, he
felt already the consequences of the foolish act he had committed; and
the first excitement past, lassitude and fever took possession once
more of every limb, and his feet would hardly bear him to the gates.

The beautiful girl who had been the first to receive him at that
house, met the eyes both of the young man and the old one, the moment
they entered the gardens. She looked wild and anxious, and was
wandering about with her head uncovered; but as soon as she beheld the
youth, she ran toward him, exclaiming, "Oh, Philip, Philip, this is
very wrong and cruel of you. I have been looking for you everywhere.
You should not have done this. How could you let him, Dr. Paulding?"

"I did not let him, my dear child," replied the old man, "he came of
his own will, and would not be let. But take him in with you; send him
to bed as speedily as may be; give him a large glass of the
fever-water he was taking, and say as little as possible of this rash
act to any one."

The girl made the sick boy lean upon her rounded arm, led him away
into the house, and tended him like a sister. She kept the secret of
his rashness, too, from every one; and there were feelings sprang up
in his bosom toward her during the next few hours which were never to
be obliterated. She was so beautiful, so tender, so gentle, so full of
all womanly graces, that he fancied, with his strong imagination, that
no one perfection of body or mind could be wanting; and he continued
to think so for many a long year after.




CHAPTER IV.


Enough of boyhood and its faults and follies. I sought but to show the
reader, as in a glass, the back of a pageant that has past. Oh, how I
sometimes laugh at the fools--the critics--God save the mark! who see
no more in the slight sketch I choose to give, than a mere daub of
paint across the canvas, when that one touch gives effect to the whole
picture. Let them stand back, and view it as a whole; and if they can
find aught in it to make them say "Well done," let them look at the
frame. That is enough for them; their wits are only fitted to deal
with "leather, and prunella."

I have given you, reader--kind and judicious reader--a sketch of the
boy, that you may be enabled to judge rightly of the man. Now, take
the lad as I have moulded him--bake him well in the fiery furnace of
strong passion, remembering still that the form is of hard
iron--quench and harden him in the cold waters of opposition, and
disappointment, and anxiety--and bring him forth tempered, but too
highly tempered for the world he has to live in--not pliable--not
elastic; no watch-spring, but like a graver's tool, which must cut
into everything opposed to it, or break under the pressure.

Let us start upon our new course some fifteen years after the period
at which our tale began, and view Philip Hastings as that which he had
now become.

Dr. Paulding had passed from this working day world to another and a
better--where we hope the virtues of the heart may be weighed against
vices of the head--a mode of dealing rare here below. Sir John
Hastings and his wife had gone whither their eldest son had gone
before them; and Philip Hastings was no longer the boy. Manhood had
set its seal upon his brow only too early; but what a change had come
with manhood!--a change not in the substance, but in its mode.

Oh, Time! thy province is not only to destroy! Thou worker-out of
human destinies--thou new-fashioner of all things earthly--thou
blender of races--thou changer of institutions--thou discoverer--thou
concealer--thou builder up--thou dark destroyer; thy waters as they
flow have sometimes a petrifying, sometimes a solvent power, hardening
the soft, melting the strong, accumulating the sand, undermining the
rock! What had been thine effect upon Philip Hastings?

All the thoughts had grown manly as well as the body. The slight
youth had been developed into the hardy and powerful man; somewhat
inactive--at least so it seemed to common eyes--more thoughtful than
brilliant, steady in resolution, though calm in expression, giving way
no more to bursts of boyish feeling, somewhat stern, men said somewhat
hard, but yet extremely just, and resolute for justice. The poetry of
life--I should have said the poetry of young life--the brilliancy of
fancy and hope, seemed somewhat dimmed in him--mark, I say seemed, for
that which seems too often is not; and he might, perhaps, have learnt
to rule and conceal feelings which he could not altogether conquer or
resist.

Still there were many traces of his old self visible: the same love of
study, the same choice of books and subjects of thought, the same
subdued yet strong enthusiasms. The very fact of mingling with the
world, which had taught him to repress those enthusiasms, seemed to
have concentrated and rendered them more intense.

The course of his studies; the habits of his mind; his fondness for
the school of the stoics, it might have been supposed, would rather
have disgusted him with the society in which he now habitually
mingled, and made him look upon mankind--for it was a very corrupt
age--with contempt, if not with horror.

Such, however, was not the case. He had less of the cynic in him than
his father--indeed he had nothing of the cynic in him at all. He loved
mankind in his own peculiar way. He was a philanthropist of a certain
sort; and would willingly have put a considerable portion of his
fellow-creatures to death, in order to serve, and elevate, and improve
the rest.

His was a remarkable character--not altogether fitted for the times in
which he lived; but one which in its wild and rugged strength,
commanded much respect and admiration even then. Weak things clung to
it, as ivy to an oak or a strong wall: and its power over them was
increased by a certain sort of tenderness--a protecting pity, which
mingled strangely with his harder and ruder qualities. He seemed to be
sorry for everything that was weak, and to seek to console and comfort
it, under the curse of feebleness. It seldom offended him--he rather
loved it, it rarely came in his way; and his feeling toward it might
approach contempt but never rose to anger.

He was capable too of intense and strong affections, though he could
not extend them to many objects. All that was vigorous and powerful in
him concentrated itself in separate points here and there; and general
things were viewed with much indifference.

See him as he walks up and down there before the old house, which I
have elsewhere described. He has grown tall and powerful in frame: and
yet his gait is somewhat slovenly and negligent, although his step is
firm and strong. He is not much more than thirty-one years of age; but
he looks forty at the least; and his hair is even thickly sprinkled
with gray. His face is pale, with some strong marked lines and
indentations in it; yet, on the whole, it is handsome, and the slight
habitual frown, thoughtful rather than stern, together with the
massive jaw, and the slight drawing down of the corners of the mouth,
give it an expression of resolute firmness, that is only contradicted
by the frequent variation of the eye, which is sometimes full of deep
thought, sometimes of tenderness; and sometimes is flashing with a
wild and almost unearthly fire.

But there is a lady hanging on his arm which supports her somewhat
feeble steps. She seems recovering from illness; the rose in her cheek
is faint and delicate; and an air of languor is in her whole face and
form. Yet she is very beautiful, and seems fully ten years younger
than her husband, although, in truth, she is of the same age--or
perhaps a little older. It is Rachael Marshal, now become Lady
Hastings.

Their union did not take place without opposition; all Sir John
Hastings' prejudices against the Marshal family revived as soon as his
son's attachment to the daughter of the house became apparent. Like
most fathers, he saw too late; and then sought to prevent that which
had become inevitable. He sent his son to travel in foreign lands; he
even laid out a scheme for marrying him to another, younger, and as he
thought fairer. He contrived that the young man should fall into the
society of the lady he had selected, and he fancied that would be
quite sufficient; for he saw in her character, young as she was,
traits, much more harmonious, as he fancied, with those of his son,
than could be found in the softer, gentler, weaker Rachael Marshal.
There was energy, perseverance, resolution, keen and quick
perceptions--perhaps a little too much keenness. More, he did not stay
to inquire; but, as is usual in matters of the heart, Philip Hastings
loved best the converse of himself. The progress of the scheme was
interrupted by the illness of Sir John Hastings, which recalled his
son from Rome. Philip returned, found his father dead, and married
Rachael Marshal.

They had had several children; but only one remained; that gay, light,
gossamer girl, like a gleam darting along the path from sunny rays
piercing through wind-borne clouds. On she ran with a step of light
and careless air, yet every now and then she paused suddenly, gazed
earnestly at a flower, plucked it, pored into its very heart with her
deep eyes, and, after seeming to labor under thought for a moment,
sprang forward again as light as ever.

The eyes of the father followed her with a look of grave, thoughtful,
intense affection. The mother's eyes looked up to him, and then
glanced onward to the child.

She was between nine and ten years old--not very handsome, for it is
not a handsome age. Yet there were indications of future beauty--fine
and sparkling eyes, rich, waving, silky hair, long eyelashes, a fine
complexion, a light and graceful figure, though deformed by the stiff
fashions of the day.

There was a sparkle too in her look--that bright outpouring of the
heart upon the face which is one of the most powerful charms of youth
and innocence. Ah! how soon gone by! How soon checked by the thousand
loads which this heavy laboring world casts upon the buoyancy of
youthful spirits--the chilling conventionality--the knowledge, and the
fear of wrong--the first taste of sorrow--the anxieties, cares,
fears--even the hopes of mature life, are all weights to bear down the
pinions of young, lark-like joy. After twenty, does the heart ever
rise up from her green sod and fling at Heaven's gate as in childhood?
Never--eh, never! The dust of earth is upon the wing of the sky
songster, and will never let her mount to her ancient pitch.

That child was a strange combination of her father and her mother. She
was destined to be their only one; and it seemed as if nature had
taken a pleasure in blending the characters of both in one. Not that
they were intimately mingled, but that they seemed like the twins of
Laconia, to rise and set by turns.

In her morning walk: in her hours of sportive play; when no subject of
deep thought, no matter that affected the heart or the imagination was
presented to her, she was light and gay as a butterfly; the child--the
happy child was in every look, and word, and movement. But call her
for a moment from this bright land of pleasantness--present something
to her mind or to her fancy which rouses sympathies, or sets the
energetic thoughts at work, and she was grave, meditative, studious,
deep beyond her years.

She was a subject of much contemplation, some anxiety, some wonder to
her father. The brightness of her perceptions, her eagerness in the
pursuit of knowledge, her vigorous resolution even as a child, when
convinced that she was right, showed him his own mind reflected in
hers. Even her tenderness, her strong affections, he could comprehend;
for the same were in his own heart, and though he believed them to be
weaknesses, he could well understand their existence in a child and in
a woman.

But that which he did not understand--that which made him marvel--was
her lightness, her gayety, her wild vivacity--I might almost say, her
trifling, when not moved by deep feeling or chained down by thought.

This was beyond him. Yet strange! the same characteristics did not
surprise nor shook him in her mother--never had surprised or shocked
him; indeed he had rather loved her for those qualities, so unlike his
own. Perhaps it was that he thought it strange, his child should, in
any mood, be so unlike himself; or perhaps it was the contrast between
the two sides of the same character that moved his wonder when he saw
it in his child, he might forget that her mother was her parent as
well as himself; and that she had an inheritance from each.

In his thoughtful, considering, theoretical way, he determined
studiously to seek a remedy for what he considered the defect in his
child--to cultivate with all the zeal and perseverance of paternal
affection, supported by his own force of character, those qualities
which were most like his own--those, in short, which were the least
womanly. But nature would not be baffled. You may divert her to a
certain degree; but you cannot turn her aside from her course
altogether.

He found that he could not--by any means which his heart would let him
employ--conquer what he called, the frivolity of the child. Frivolity!
Heaven save us! There were times when she showed no frivolity, but on
the contrary, a depth and intensity far, far beyond her years. Indeed,
the ordinary current of her mind was calm and thoughtful. It was but
when a breeze rippled it that it sparkled on the surface. Her father,
too, saw that this was so; that the wild gayety was but occasional.
But still it surprised and pained him--perhaps the more because it was
occasional. It seemed to hie eyes an anomaly in her nature. He would
have had her altogether like himself. He could not conceive any one
possessing so much of his own character, having room in heart and
brain for aught else. It was a subject of constant wonder to him; of
speculation, of anxious thought.

He often asked himself if this was the only anomaly in his child--if
there were not other traits, yet undiscovered, as discrepant as this
light volatility with her general character: and he puzzled himself
sorely.

Still he pursued her education upon his own principles; taught her
many things which women rarely learned in those days; imbued her mind
with thoughts and feelings of his own; and often thought, when a
season of peculiar gravity fell upon her, that he made progress in
rendering her character all that he could wish it. This impression
never lasted long, however; for sooner or later the bird-like spirit
within her found the cage door open, and fluttered forth upon some gay
excursion, leaving all his dreams vanished and his wishes
disappointed.

Nevertheless he loved her with all the strong affection of which his
nature was capable; and still he persevered in the course which he
thought for her benefit. At times, indeed, he would make efforts to
unravel the mystery of her double nature, not perceiving that the only
cause of mystery was in himself: that what seemed strange in his
daughter depended more upon his own want of power to comprehend her
variety than upon anything extraordinary in her. He would endeavor to
go along with her in her sportive moods--to let his mind run free
beside hers in its gay ramble to find some motive for them which he
could understand; to reduce them to a system; to discover the rule by
which the problem was to be solved. But he made nothing of it, and
wearied conjecture in vain.

Lady Hastings sometimes interposed a little; for in unimportant things
she had great influence with her husband. He let her have her own way
wherever he thought it not worth while to oppose her; and that was
very often. She perfectly comprehended the side of her daughter's
character which was all darkness to the father; and strange to say,
with greater penetration than his own, she comprehended the other side
likewise. She recognized easily the traits in her child which she knew
and admired in her husband, but wished them heartily away in her
daughter's case, thinking such strength of mind, joined with whatever
grace and sweetness, somewhat unfeminine.

Though she was full of prejudices, and where her quickness of
perception failed her, altogether unteachable by reason, yet she was
naturally too virtuous and good to attempt even to thwart the objects
of the father's efforts in the education of his child. I have said
that she interfered at times, but it was only to remonstrate against
too close study, to obtain frequent and healthful relaxation, and to
add all those womanly accomplishments on which she set great value. In
this she was not opposed. Music, singing, dancing, and a knowledge of
modern languages, were added to other branches of education, and Lady
Hastings was so far satisfied.




CHAPTER V.


The Italian singing-master was a peculiar man, and well worthy of a
few words in description. He was tall and thin, but well built; and
his face had probably once been very handsome, in that Italian style,
which, by the exaggeration of age, grows so soon into ugliness. The
nose was now large and conspicuous, the eyes bright, black, and
twinkling, the mouth good in shape, but with an animal expression
about it, the ear very voluminous.

He was somewhat more than fifty years of age, and his hair was
speckled with gray; but age was not apparent in wrinkles and furrows,
and in gait he was firm and upright.

At first Sir Philip Hastings did not like him at all. He did not like
to have him there. It was against the grain he admitted him into the
house. He did it, partly because he thought it right to yield in some
degree to the wishes of his wife; partly from a grudging deference to
the customs of society.

But the Signor was a shrewd and world-taught man, accustomed to
overcome prejudices, and to make his way against disadvantages; and he
soon established himself well in the opinion of both father and
mother. It was done by a peculiar process, which is well worth the
consideration of all those who seek _les moyens de parvenir_.

In his general and ordinary intercourse with his fellow-men, he had a
happy middle tone,--a grave reticent manner, which never compromised
him to anything. A shrewd smile, without an elucidatory remark, served
to harmonize him with the gay and vivacious; a serious tranquillity,
unaccompanied by any public professions, was enough to make the sober
and the decent rank him amongst themselves. Perhaps that class of
men--whether pure at heart or not--have always overestimated decency
of exterior.

All this was in public however. In private, in a _tête-à-tête_, Signor
Guardini was a very different man. Nay more, in each and every
_tête-à-tête_ he was a different man from what he appeared in the other.
Yet, with a marvelous art, he contrived to make both sides of his
apparent character harmonize with his public and open appearance. Or
rather perhaps I should say that his public demeanor was a middle tint
which served to harmonize the opposite extremes of coloring displayed
by his character. Nothing could exemplify this more strongly than the
different impressions he produced on Sir Philip and Lady Hastings. The
lady was soon won to his side. She was predisposed to favor him; and a
few light gay sallies, a great deal of conventional talk about the
fashionable life of London, and a cheerful bantering tone of
persiflage, completely charmed her. Sir Philip was more difficult to
win. Nevertheless, in a few short sentences, hardly longer than those
which Sterne's mendicant whispered in the ear of the passengers, he
succeeded in disarming many prejudices. With him, the Signor was a
stoic; he had some tincture of letters, though a singer, and had read
sufficient of the history of his own land, to have caught all the
salient points of the glorious past.

Perhaps he might even feel a certain interest in the antecedents of
his decrepit land--not to influence his conduct, or to plant ambitious
or nourish pure and high hopes for its regeneration--but to waken a
sort of touchwood enthusiasm, which glowed brightly when fanned by the
stronger powers of others. Yet before Sir Philip had had time to
communicate to him one spark of his own ardor, he had as I have said
made great progress in his esteem. In five minutes' conversation he
had established for himself the character of one of a higher and
nobler character whose lot had fallen in evil days.

"In other years," thought the English gentleman, "this might have been
a great man--the defender unto death of his country's rights--the
advocate of all that is ennobling, stern, and grand."

What was the secret of all this? Simply that he, a man almost without
character, had keen and well-nigh intuitive perceptions of the
characters of others; and that without difficulty his pliable nature
and easy principles would accommodate themselves to all.

He made great progress then in the regard of Sir Philip, although
their conversations seldom lasted above five minutes. He made greater
progress still with the mother. But with the daughter he made
none--worse than none.

What was the cause, it may be asked. What did he do or say--how did he
demean himself so as to produce in her bosom a feeling of horror and
disgust toward him that nothing could remove?

I cannot tell. He was a man of strong passions and no principles: that
his after--perhaps his previous--life would evince. There is a
touchstone for pure gold in the heart of an innocent and high-minded
woman that detects all baser metals: they are discovered in a moment:
they cannot stand the test.

Now, whether his heart-cankering corruption, his want of faith,
honesty, and truth, made themselves felt, and were pointed out by the
index of that fine barometer, without any overt act at all--or whether
he gave actual cause of offense, I do not know--none has ever known.

Suddenly, however, the gay, the apparently somewhat wayward girl, now
between fifteen and sixteen, assumed a new character in her father's
and mother's eyes. With a strange frank abruptness she told them she
would take no more singing lessons of the Italian; but she added no
explanation.

Lady Hastings was angry, and expostulated warmly; but the girl was
firm and resolute. She heard her mother's argument, and answered in
soft and humble tones that she would not,--could not learn to sing any
longer--that she was very sorry to grieve or to offend her mother; but
she had learned long enough, and would learn no more.

More angry than before, with the air of indignant pride in which
weakness so often takes refuge, the mother quitted the room; and the
father then, in a calmer spirit, inquired the cause of her resolution.

She blushed like the early morning sky; but there was a sort of
bewildered look upon her face as she replied, "I know no cause--I can
give no reason, my dear father; but the man is hateful to me. I will
never see him again."

Her father sought for farther explanation, but he could obtain none.
Guardini had not said anything nor done anything, she admitted, to
give her offense; but yet she firmly refused to be his pupil any
longer.

There are instincts in fine and delicate minds, which, by signs and
indications intangible to coarser natures discover in others thoughts
and feelings, wishes and designs, discordant--repugnant to themselves.
They are instincts, I say, not amenable to reason, escaping analysis,
incapable of explanation--the warning voice of God in the heart,
bidding them beware of evil.

Sir Philip Hastings was not a man to allow aught for such impulses--to
conceive or understand them in the least. He had been accustomed to
delude himself with reasons, some just, others very much the reverse,
but he had never done a deed or entertained a thought for which he
could not give some reason of convincing power to his own mind.

He did not understand his daughter's conduct at all; but he would not
press her any farther. She was in some degree a mysterious being to
him. Indeed, as I have before shown, she had always been a mystery;
for he had no key to her character in his own. It was written in the
unknown language.

Yet, did he love or cherish her the less? Oh no! Perhaps a deeper
interest gathered round his heart for her, the chief object of his
affections. More strongly than ever he determined to cultivate and
form her mind on his own model, in consequence of what he called a
strange caprice, although he could not but sometimes hope and fancy
that her resolute rejection of any farther lessons from Signor
Guardini arose from her distaste to what he himself considered one of
the frivolous pursuits of fashion.

Yet she showed no distaste for singing: for somehow every day she
would practice eagerly, till her sweet voice, under a delicate taste,
acquired a flexibility and power which charmed and captivated her
father, notwithstanding his would-be cynicism. He was naturally fond
of music; his nature was a vehement one, though curbed by such strong
restraints; and all vehement natures are much moved by music. He
would sit calmly, with his eyes fixed upon a book, but listening all
the time to that sweet voice, with feelings working in him--emotions,
thrilling, deep, intense, which he would have felt ashamed to expose
to any human eye.

All this however made her conduct toward Guardini the more mysterious;
and her father often gazed upon her beautiful face with a look of
doubting inquiry, as one may look on the surface of a bright lake, and
ask, What is below?

That face was now indeed becoming very beautiful. Every feature had
been refined and softened by time. There was soul in the eyes, and a
gleam of heaven upon the smile, besides the mere beauties of line and
coloring. The form too had nearly reached perfection. It was full of
symmetry and grace, and budding charms; and while the mother marked
all these attractions, and thought how powerful they would prove in
the world, the father felt their influence in a different manner: with
a sort of abstract admiration of her loveliness, which went, no
farther than a proud acknowledgment to his own heart that she was
beautiful indeed. To him her beauty was as a gem, a picture, a
beautiful possession, which he had no thought of ever parting
with--something on which his eyes would rest well pleased until they
closed forever. How blessed he might have been in the possession of
such a child could he have comprehended her--could he have divested
his mind of the idea that there was something strange and inharmonious
in her character! Could he have made his heart a woman's heart for but
one hour, all mystery would have been dispelled; but it was
impossible, and it remained.

No tangible effect did it produce at the time; but preconceptions of
another's character are very dangerous things. Everything is seen
through their medium, everything is colored and often distorted. That
which produced no fruit at the time, had very important results at an
after period.

But I must turn now to other scenes and more stirring events, having I
trust made the reader well enough acquainted with father, mother, and
daughter, at least sufficiently for all the purposes of this tale. It
is upon the characters of two of them that all the interest if there
be any depends. Let them be marked then and remembered, if the reader
would derive pleasure from what follows.




CHAPTER VI.


Reader, can you go back for twenty years? You do it every day. You
say, "Twenty years ago I was a boy--twenty years ago I was a
youth--twenty years ago I played at peg-top and at marbles--twenty
years ago I wooed--was loved--I sinned--I suffered!"

What is there in twenty years that should keep us from going back
over them? You go on so fast, so smoothly, so easily on the forward
course--why not in retrogression? But let me tell you: it makes a very
great difference whether Hope or Memory drives the coach.

But let us see what we can do. Twenty years before the period at which
the last chapter broke off, Philip Hastings, now a father of a girl of
fifteen, was a lad standing by the side of his brother's grave. Twenty
years ago Sir John Hastings was the living lord of these fine lands
and broad estates. Twenty years ago he passed, from the mouth of the
vault in which he had laid the clay of the first-born, into the open
splendor of the day, and felt sorrow's desolation in the sunshine.
Twenty years age, he had been confronted on the church-yard path by a
tall old woman, and challenged with words high and stern, to do her
right in regard to a paltry rood or two of land. Twenty years ago he
had given her a harsh, cold answer, and treated her menaces with
impatient scorn.

Do you remember her, reader? Well, if you do, that brings us to the
point I sought to reach in the dull flat expanse of the far past; and
we can stand and look around us for awhile.

That old woman was not one easily to forget or lightly to yield her
resentments. There was something perdurable in them as well as in her
gaunt, sinewy frame. As she stood there menacing him, she wanted but
three years of seventy. She had battled too with many a storm--wind
and weather, suffering and persecution, sorrow and privation, had beat
upon her hard--very hard. They had but served to stiffen and wither
and harden, however.

Her corporeal frame, shattered as it seemed, was destined to outlive
many of the young and fair spirit-tabernacles around it--to pass over,
by long years, the ordinary allotted space of human life; and it
seemed as if even misfortune had with her but a preserving power. It
is not wonderful, however, that, while it worked thus upon her body,
it should likewise have stiffened and withered and hardened her heart.

I am not sure that conscience itself went untouched in this searing
process. It is not clear at all that even her claim upon Sir John
Hastings was not an unjust one; but just or unjust his repulse sunk
deep and festered.

Let us trace her from the church-yard after she met him. She took her
path away from the perk and the hamlet, between two cottages, the
ragged boys at the doors of which called her "Old Witch," and spoke
about a broomstick.

She heeded them little: there were deeper offences rankling at her
heart.

She walked on, across a corn-field and a meadow, and then she came
upon some woodlands, through which a little sandy path wound its way,
round stumps of old trees long cut down, amidst young bushes and
saplings just springing up, and catching the sunshine here and there
through the bright-tinted foliage overhead. Up the hill it went, over
the slope on which the copse was scattered, and then burst forth again
on the opposite side of wood and rise, where the ground fell gently
the other way, looking down upon the richly-dressed grounds of Colonel
Marshall, at the distance of some three miles.

Not more than a hundred yards distant was a poor man's cottage, with
an old gray thatch which wanted some repairing, and was plentifully
covered with herbs, sending the threads of their roots into the straw.
A. little badly-cultivated garden, fenced off from the hill-side by a
loose stone wall, surrounded the horse, and a gate without hinges gave
entrance to this inclosed space.

The old woman went in and approached the cottage door. When near it
she stopped and listened, lifting one of the flapping ears of her
cotton cap to aid the dull sense of hearing. There were no voices
within; but there was a low sobbing sound issued forth as if some one
were in bitter distress.

"I should not wonder if she were alone," said the old woman; "the
ruffian father is always out; the drudging mother goes about this time
to the town. They will neither stay at home, I wot, to grieve for him
they let too often into that door, nor to comfort her he has left
desolate. But it matters little whether they be in or out. It were
better to talk to her first. I will give her better than
comfort--revenge, if I judge right. They must play their part
afterwards."

Thus communing with herself, she laid her hand upon the latch and
opened the door. In an attitude of unspeakable grief sat immediately
before her a young and exceedingly beautiful girl, of hardly seventeen
years of age.

The wheel stood still by her side; the spindle had fallen from her
hands; her head was bowed down as with sorrow she could not bear up
against; and her eyes were dropping tears like rain.

The moment she heard the door open she started, and looked up with
fear upon her face, and strove to dash the tears from her eyes; but
the old women bespoke her softly, saying, "Good even, my dear; is your
mother in the place?"

"No," replied the girl; "she has gone to sell the lint, and father is
out too. It is very lonely, and I get sad here."

"I do not wonder at it, poor child," said the old woman; "you have had
a heavy loss, my dear, and may well cry. You can't help what is past,
you know; but we can do a good deal for what is to come, if we but
take care and make up our minds in time."

Many and strange were the changes of expression which came upon the
poor girl's face as she heard these few simple words. At first her
cheek glowed hot, as with the burning blush of shame; then she turned
pale and trembled, gazing inquiringly in her visitor's face, as if she
would have asked, "Am I detected?" and then she cast down her eyes
again, still pale as ashes, and the tears rolled forth once more and
fell upon her lap.

The old woman sat down beside her, and talked to her tenderly; but,
alas! very cunningly too. She assumed far greater knowledge than she
possessed. She persuaded the poor girl that there was nothing to
conceal from her; and what neither father nor mother knew, was told
that day to one comparatively a stranger. Still the old woman spoke
tenderly--ay, very tenderly; excused her fault--made light of her
fears--gave her hope--gave her strength. But all the time she
concealed her full purpose. That was to be revealed by degrees.
Whatever had been the girl's errors, she was too innocent to be made a
party to a scheme of fraud and wrong and vengeance at once. All that
the woman communicated was blessed comfort to a bruised and bleeding
heart; and the poor girl leaned her head upon her old companion's
shoulder, and, amidst bitter tears and sobs and sighs, poured out
every secret of her heart.

But what is that she says, which makes the old woman start with a look
of triumph?

"Letters!" she exclaimed; "two letters: let me see them, child--let me
see them! Perhaps they may be more valuable than you think."

The girl took them from her bosom, where she kept them as all that she
possessed of one gone that day into the tomb.

The old woman read them with slow eyes, but eager attention; and then
gave them back, saying, "That one you had better destroy as soon as
possible--it tells too much. But this first one keep, as you value
your own welfare--as you value your child's fortune, station, and
happiness. You can do much with this. Why, here are words that may
make your father a proud man. Hark! I hear footsteps coming. Put them
up--we must go to work cautiously, and break the matter to your
parents by degrees."

It was the mother of the girl who entered; and she seemed faint and
tired. Well had the old woman called her a drudge, for such she was--a
poor patient household drudge, laboring for a hard, heartless, idle,
and cunning husband, and but too tenderly fond of the poor girl whose
beauty had been a snare to her.

She seemed somewhat surprised to see the old woman there; for they
were of different creeds, and those creeds made wide separation in the
days I speak of. Perhaps she was surprised and grieved to see the
traces of tears and agitation on her daughter's face; but of that she
took no notice; for there were doubts and fears at her heart which she
dreaded to confirm. The girl was more cheerful, however, than she had
been for the last week--not gay, not even calm; but yet there was a
look of some relief.

Often even after her mother's entrance, the tears would gather thick
in her eyes when she thought of the dead; but it was evident that hope
had risen up: that the future was not all darkness and terror. This
was a comfort to her; and she spoke and looked cheerfully. She had
sold all the thread of her and her daughter's spinning, and she had
sold it well. Part she hid in a corner to keep a pittance for bread
from her husband's eyes; part she reserved to give up to him for the
purchase of drink: but while she made all these little arrangements,
she looked somewhat anxiously at the old woman, from time to time, as
if she fain would have asked, "What brought you here?"

The crone was cautious, however, and knew well with whom she had to
deal. She talked in solemn and oracular tones, as if she had possessed
all the secrets of fate, but she told nothing, and when she went away
she said in a low voice but authoritative manner, "Be kind to your
girl--be very kind; for she will bring good luck and fortune to you
all." The next day she laid wait for the husband, found and forced him
to stop and hear her. At first he was impatient, rude, and brutal;
swore, cursed, and called her many and evil names. But soon he
listened eagerly enough: looks of intelligence and eager design passed
between the two, and ere they parted they perfectly understood each
other.

The man was then, on more than one day, seen going down to the hall.
At first he was refused admission to Sir John Hastings; for his
character was known. The next day, however, he brought a letter,
written under his dictation by his daughter, who had been taught at a
charitable school of old foundation hard by; and this time he was
admitted. His conversation with the Lord of the Manor was long; but no
one knew its import. He came again and again, and was still admitted.

A change came over the cottage and its denizens. The fences were put
in order, the walls were repaired, the thatch renewed, another room or
two was added; plenty reigned within; mother and daughter appeared in
somewhat finer apparel; and money was not wanting.

At the end of some months there was the cry of a young child in the
house. The neighbors were scandalized, and gossips spoke censoriously
even in the father's ears; but he stopped them fiercely, with proud
and mysterious words; boasted aloud of what they had thought his
daughter's shame; and claimed a higher place for her than was
willingly yielded to her companions. Strange rumors got afloat, but
ere a twelvemonth had passed, the father had drank himself to death.
His widow and her daughter and her grandson moved to a better house,
and lived at ease on money none knew the source of, while the cottage,
now neat and in good repair, became the dwelling of the old woman, who
had been driven with scorn from Sir John's presence. Was she
satisfied--had she sated herself? Not yet.




CHAPTER VII.


There was a lady, a very beautiful lady indeed, came to a lonely
house, which seemed to have been tenanted for several years by none
but servants, about three years after the death of Sir John Hastings.
That house stood some miles to the north of the seat of that
gentleman, which now had passed to his son; and it was a fine-looking
place, with a massive sort of solemn brick-and-mortar grandeur
about it, which impressed the mind with a sense of the wealth and
long-standing of its owners.

The plural has slipped from my pen, and perhaps it is right; for the
house looked as if it had had many owners, and all of them had been
rich.

Now, there was but one owner,--the lady who descended from that
lumbering, heavy coach, with the two great leathern wings on each side
of the door. She was dressed in widow's weeds, and she had every right
to wear them. Though two-and-twenty only, she stood there orphan,
heiress, and widow. She had known many changes of condition, but not
of fate, and they did not seem to have affected her much. Of high-born
and proud parentage, she had been an only child for many years before
her parents' death. She had been spoiled, to use a common, but not
always appropriate phrase; for there are some people who cannot be
spoiled, either because the ethereal essence within them is
incorruptible, or because there is no ethereal essence to spoil at
all. However, she had been spoiled very successfully by fate, fortune,
and kind friends. She had never been contradicted in her life; she had
never been disappointed--but once. She had travelled, seen strange
countries--which was rare in those days with women--had enjoyed many
things. She had married a handsome, foolish man, whom she chose--few
knew rightly why. She had lost both her parents not long after; got
tired of her husband, and lost him too, just when the loss could leave
little behind but a decent regret, which she cultivated as a slight
stimulant to keep her mind from stagnating. And now, without husband,
child, or parents, she returned to the house of her childhood, which
she had not seen for five long years.

Is that all her history? No, not exactly all. There is one little
incident which may as well be referred to here. Her parents had
entered into an arrangement for her marriage with a very different man
from him whom she afterwards chose,--Sir Philip Hastings; and
foolishly they had told her of what had been done, before the
young man's own assent had been given. She did not see much of
him--certainly not enough to fall in love with him. She even thought
him a strange, moody youth; but yet there was something in his
moodiness and eccentricity which excited her fancy. The reader knows
that he chose for himself; and the lady also married immediately
after.

Thus had passed for her a part of life's pageant; and now she came to
her own native dwelling, to let the rest march by as it might. At
first, as she slowly descended from the carriage, her large, dark,
brilliant eyes were fixed upon the ground. She had looked long at the
house as she was driving towards it, and it seemed to have cast her
into a thoughtful mood. It is hardly possible to enter a house where
we have spent many early years, without finding memory suddenly seize
upon the heart and possess it totally. What a grave it is! What a long
line of buried ancestors may not _the present_ always contemplate
there.

Nor are there many received into the tomb worth so much respect as one
dead hour. All else shall live again: lost hours have no resurrection.

There were old servants waiting around, to welcome her, new ones
attending upon her orders; but for a moment or two she noticed no one,
till at length the old housekeeper, who knew her from a babe, spoke
out, saying, "Ah, madam I do not wonder to see you a little sad on
first coming to the old place again, after all that has happened."

"Ah, indeed, Arnold," replied the lady, "many sad things have happened
since we parted. But how are you, Goody? You look blooming:" and
walking into the house, she heard the reply in the hall.

From the hall, the old housekeeper led her lady through the house, and
mightily did she chatter and gossip by the way. The lady listened
nearly in silence; for Mrs. Arnold was generous in conversation, and
spared her companion all expense of words. At length, however,
something she said seemed to rouse her mistress, and she exclaimed
with a somewhat bitter laugh, "And so the good people declared I was
going to be married to Sir Philip Hastings?"

"_Mr_. Hastings he was then, madam," answered the housekeeper "to be
sure they did. All the country around talked of it, and the tenants
listened at church to hear the banns proclaimed."

The lady turned very red, and the old woman went on to say, "Old Sir
John seemed quite sure of it; but he reckoned without his host, I
fancy."

"He did indeed," said the lady with an uncheerful smile, and there the
subject dropped for the time. Not long after, however, the lady
herself brought the conversation back to nearly the same point, asked
after Sir Philip's health and manner of living, and how he was liked
in the neighborhood, adding, "He seemed a strange being at the time I
saw him, which was only once or twice--not likely to make a very
pleasant husband, I thought."

"Oh dear, yes, madam, he does," answered Mrs. Arnold, "many a worse, I
can assure you. He is very fond of his lady indeed, and gives up more
to her than one would think. He is a little stern, they say, but very
just and upright; and no libertine fellow, like his brother who was
drowned--which I am sure was a providence, for if he was so bad when
he was young, what would he have been when he was old?"

"Better, perhaps," replied her mistress, with a quiet smile; "but was
he so very wicked? I never heard any evil of him."

"Oh dear me, madam! do not you know?" exclaimed the old woman; and
then came the whole story of the cotter's daughter on the hill, and
how she and her father and old Mother Danby--whom people believed to
be a witch--had persuaded or threatened Sir John Hastings into making
rich people of them.

"Persuaded or threatened Sir John Hastings!" said the lady in a tone
of doubt. "I knew him better than either of his sons; and never did I
see a man so little likely to yield to persuasion or to bow to menace;"
and she fell into a deep fit of musing, which lasted long, while the
old housekeeper rambled on from subject to subject, unlistened to, but
very well content.

Let us dwell a little on the lady, and on her character. There is
always something to interest, something to instruct, in the character
of a woman. It is like many a problem in Euclid, which seems at first
sight as plain and simple as the broad sunshine; but when we come to
study it, we find intricacies beneath which puzzle us mightily to
resolve. It is a fine, curious, delicate, complicated piece of
anatomy, a woman's heart. I have dissected many, and I know the fact.
Take and lay that fibre apart--take care, for heaven's sake! that you
do not tear the one next to it; and be sure you do not dissever the
fragments which bind those most opposite parts together! See, here
lies a muscle of keen sensibility; and there--what is that? A
cartilage, hard as a nether millstone. Look at those light, irritable
nerves, quivering at the slightest touch; and then see those tendons,
firm, fixed, and powerful as the resolution of a martyr. Oh, that
wonderful piece of organization who can describe it accurately?

I must not pretend to do so; but I will give a slight sketch of the
being before me.

There she stands, somewhat above the usual height, but beautifully
formed, with every line rounded and flowing gracefully into the
others. There is calmness and dignity in the whole air, and in every
movement; but yet there is something very firm, very resolute, very
considerate, in the fall of that small foot upon the carpet. She
cannot intend her foot to stay there for ever; and yet, when she sets
it down, one would be inclined to think she did. Her face is very
beautiful--every feature finely cut--the eyes almost dazzling in their
dark brightness. How chaste, how lovely the fine lines of that mouth.
Yet do you see what a habit she has of keeping the pearly teeth close
shut--one pure row pressed hard against the other. The slight
sarcastic quiver of the upper lip does not escape you; and the
expanded nostril and flash of the eye, contradicted by the fixed
motionless mouth.

Such is her outward appearance, such is she too within--though the
complexion there is somewhat darker. Much that, had it been cultivated
and improved, would have blossomed into womanly virtue; a capability
of love, strong, fiery, vehement, changeless--not much tenderness--not
much pity,--no remorse--are there. Pride, of a peculiar character, but
strong, ungovernable, unforgiving, and a power of hate and thirst of
vengeance, which only pride can give, are there likewise. Super-add a
shrewdness--a policy--a cunning--nay, something greater--something
approaching the sublime--a divination, where passion is to be
gratified, that seldom leads astray from the object.

Yes, such is the interior of that fair temple, and yet, how calm,
sweet, and promising it stands.

I have omitted much perhaps; for the human heart is like the caldron
of the witches in Macbeth, and one might go on throwing in ingredients
till the audience became tired of the song. However, what I have said
will be enough for the reader's information; and if we come upon any
unexplained phenomena, I must endeavor to elucidate them hereafter.

Let us suppose the lady's interview with her housekeeper at an
end--all her domestic arrangements made--the house restored to its air
of habitation--visits received and paid. Amongst the earliest visitors
were Sir Philip and Lady Hastings. He came frankly, and in one of his
most happy moods, perfectly ignorant that she had ever been made aware
of there having been a marriage proposed between himself and her and
she received him and his fair wife with every appearance of
cordiality. But as soon as these visits and all the ceremonies were
over, the lady began to drive much about the country, and to collect
every tale and rumor she could meet with of all the neighboring
families. Her closest attention, however, centred upon those affecting
the Hastings' race; and she found the whole strange story of the
cottage girl confirmed, with many another particular added. She smiled
when she heard this--smiled blandly--it seemed to give her pleasure.
She would fain have called upon the girl and her mother too. She
longed to do so, and to draw forth with skill, of which she possessed
no small share, the key secret of the whole. But her station, her
reputation, prevented her from taking a step which she knew might be
noised abroad and create strange comments.

She resolved upon another move, however, which she thought would do as
well. There would be no objection to her visiting her poorer
neighbors, to comfort, to relieve; and she went to the huts of many.
At length one early morning, on a clear autumn day, the carriage was
left below on the high road, and the lady climbed the hill alone
towards the cottage, where the girl and her parents formerly lived.
She found the old woman, who was now its occupant, busily cooking her
morning meal; and sitting down, she entered into conversation with
her. At first she could obtain but little information; the old woman
was in a sullen mood, and would not speak of any thing she did not
like. Money was of no avail to unlock her eloquence.

She had never asked or taken charity, the old woman said, and now she
did not need it.

The lady pondered for a few minutes, considering the character of her
ancient hostess, trying it by her experience and intuition; and thus
she boldly asked her for the whole history of young John Hastings and
the cottage girl.

"Tell me all," she said, "for I wish to know it--I have an interest in
it."

"Ay?" said the old woman, gazing at her, "then you are the pretty lady
Sir Philip was to have married, but would not have her?"

"The same," replied the visitor, and for an instant a bright red spot
arose upon her cheek--a pang like a knife passed through her heart.

That was the price she paid for the gratification of her curiosity.
But it probably was gratified, for she stayed nearly an hour and a
half in the cottage--so long, indeed, that her servants, who were with
the carriage, became alarmed, and one of the footmen walked up the
hill. He met his lady coming down.

"Poor thing," she said, as if speaking of the old woman she had just
left, "her senses wander a little; but she is poor, and has been much
persecuted. I must do what I can for her. Whenever she comes to the
house, see she is admitted."

The old woman did come often, and always had a conference with the
lady of the mansion; but here let us leave them for the present. They
may appear upon the stage again.




CHAPTER VIII.


"MY DEAR SIR PHILIP:

"I have not seen you or dear Lady Hastings for many months; nor your
sweet Emily either, except at a distance, when one day she passed my
carriage on horseback, sweeping along the hill-side like a gleam of
light. My life is a sad, solitary one here; and I wish my friends
would take more compassion upon me and let me see human faces
oftener--especial faces that I love.

"But I know that you are very inexorable in these respects, and,
sufficient to yourself, cannot readily conceive how a lone woman can
pine for the society of other more loving friends than books or
nature. I must, therefore, attack the only accessible point I know
about you, meaning your compassion, which you never refuse to those
who really require it. Now I do require it greatly; for I am at this
present engaged in business of a very painful and intricate nature,
which I cannot clearly understand, and in which I have no one to
advise me but a country attorney, whose integrity as well as ability I
much doubt. To whom can I apply so well as to you, when I need the
counsel and assistance of a friend, equally kind, disinterested, and
clear-headed? I venture to do so, then, in full confidence, and ask
you to ride over as soon as you can, to give me your advice, or rather
to decide for me, in a matter where a considerable amount of property
is at stake, and where decision is required immediately. I trust when
you do come you will stay all night, as the business is, I fear, of so
complicated a nature, that it may occupy more than one day of your
valuable time in the affairs of

   Your faithful and obliged servant,
   CAROLINE HAZLETON."

"Is Mrs. Hazleton's messenger waiting?" asked Sir Philip Hastings,
after having read the letter and mused for a moment.

The servant answered in the affirmative; and his master rejoined,
"Tell him I will not write an answer, as I have some business to
attend to; but I beg he will tell his mistress that I will be with her
in three hours."

Lady Hastings uttered a low-toned exclamation of surprise. She did not
venture to ask any question--indeed she rarely questioned her husband
on any subject; but when anything excited her wonder, or, as was more
frequently the case, her curiosity, she was accustomed to seek for
satisfaction in a somewhat indirect way, by raising her beautiful
eyebrows with a doubtful sort of smile, or, as in the present
instance, by exclaiming, "Good gracious! Dear me!" or giving voice to
some other little vocative, with a note of interrogation strongly
marked after it.

In this case there was more than one feeling at the bottom of her
exclamation. She was surprised; she was curious; and she was,
moreover, in the least degree in the world, jealous. She had her share
of weaknesses, as I have said; and one of them was of a kind less
uncommon than may be supposed. Of her husband's conduct she had no
fear--not the slightest suspicion. Indeed, to have entertained any
would have been impossible--but she could not bear to see him liked,
admired, esteemed, by any woman--mark, me, I say by _any woman_; for
no one could feel more triumphant joy than she did when she saw him
duly appreciated by men. She was a great monopolizer: she did not wish
one thought of his to be won away from her by another woman; and a
sort of irritable feeling came upon her even when she saw him seated
by any young and pretty girl, and paying her the common attentions of
society. She was too well bred to display such sensations except by
those slight indications, or by a certain petulance of manner, which
he was not close observer enough of other people's conduct to remark.

Not to dwell too long on such things, Sir Philip Hastings, though
perfectly unconscious of what was going on in her heart, rarely kept
her long in suspense, when he saw any signs of curiosity. He perhaps
might think it a point of Roman virtue to spoil his wife, although she
had very little of the Portia in her character. On the present
occasion, he quietly handed over to her the letter of Mrs. Hazleton;
and then summoned a servant and gave orders for various preparations.

"Had not I and Emily better go with you?" asked Lady Hastings,
pointing out to him the passage in the letter which spoke of the long
absence of all the family.

"Not when I am going on business," replied her husband gravely, and
quitted the room.

An hour after, Philip Hastings was on horseback with a servant
carrying a valise behind him, and riding slowly through the park. The
day was far advanced, and the distance was likely to occupy about an
hour and a half in travelling; but the gentleman had fallen into a
reverie, and rode very slowly. They passed the park gates; they took
their way down the lane by the church and near the parsonage. Here Sir
Philip pulled in his horse suddenly, and ordered the man to ride on
and announce that he would be at Mrs. Hazleton's soon after. He then
fastened his horse to a large hook, put up for the express purpose on
most country houses of that day in England, and walked up to the door.
It was ajar, and without ceremony he walked in, as he was often
accustomed to do, and entered the little study of the rector.

The clergyman himself was not there; but there were two persons in the
room, one a young and somewhat dashing-looking man, one or two and
twenty years of age, exceedingly handsome both in face and figure;
the other personage past the middle age, thin, pale, eager and
keen-looking, in whom Sir Philip instantly recognized a well known,
but not very well reputed attorney, of a country town about twenty
miles distant. They had one of the large parish books before them, and
were both bending over it with great appearance of earnestness.

The step of Sir Philip Hastings roused them, and turning round, the
attorney bowed law, saying, "I give you good day, Sir Philip. I hope I
have the honor of seeing you well."

"Quite so," was the brief reply, and it was followed by an inquiry for
the pastor, who it seemed had gone into another room for some papers
which were required.

In the mean time the younger of the two previous occupants of the room
had been gazing at Sir Philip Hastings with a rude, familiar stare,
which the object of it did not remark; and in another moment the
clergyman himself appeared, carrying a bundle of old letters in his
hand.

He was a heavy, somewhat timid man, the reverse of his predecessor in
all things, but a very good sort of person upon the whole. On seeing
the baronet there, however, something seemed strangely to affect
him--a sort of confused surprise, which, after various stammering
efforts, burst forth as soon as the usual salutation was over, in the
words, "Pray, Sir Philip, did you come by appointment?"

Sir Philip Hastings, as the reader already knows, was a somewhat
unobservant man of what was passing around him in the world. He had
his own deep, stern trains of thought, which he pursued with a
passionate earnestness almost amounting to monomania. The actions,
words, and even looks of those few in whom he took an interest, he
could sometimes watch and comment on in his own mind with intense
study. True, he watched without understanding, and commented wrongly;
for he had too little experience of the motives of others from outward
observation, and found too little sympathy with the general motives of
the world, in his own heart, to judge even those he loved rightly. But
the conduct, the looks, the words of ordinary men, he hardly took the
trouble of remarking; and the good parson's surprise and hesitation,
passed like breath upon a mirror, seen perhaps, but retaining no hold
upon his mind for a moment. Neither did the abrupt question surprise
him; nor the quick, angry look which it called up on the face of the
attorney attract his notice; but he replied quietly to Mr. Dixwell, "I
do not remember having made any appointment with you."

The matter was all well so far; and would have continued well; but the
attorney, a meddling fellow, had nearly spoiled all, by calling the
attention of Philip Hastings more strongly to the strangeness of the
clergyman's question.

"Perhaps," said the man of law, interrupting the baronet in the midst,
"Perhaps Mr. Dixwell thought, Sir Philip, that you came here to speak
with me on the business of the Honorable Mrs. Hazleton. She told me
she would consult you, and I can explain the whole matter to you."

But the clergyman instantly declared that he meant nothing of the
kind; and at the same moment Sir Philip Hastings said, "I beg you will
not, sir. Mrs. Hazleton will explain what she thinks proper to me,
herself. I desire no previous information, as I am now on my way to
her. Why my good friend here should suppose I came by appointment, I
cannot tell. However, I did not; and it does not matter. I only wish,
Mr. Dixwell, to say, that I hear the old woman Danley is ill and
dying. She is a papist, and the foolish people about fancy she is a
witch. Little help or comfort will she obtain from them, even if they
do not injure or insult her. As I shall be absent all night, and
perhaps all to-morrow, I will call at her cottage as I ride over to
Mrs. Hazleton's and inquire into her wants. I will put down on paper,
and leave there, what I wish my people to do for her; but there is one
thing which I must request you to do, namely, to take every means, by
exhortation and remonstrance, to prevent the ignorant peasantry from
troubling this poor creature's death-bed. Her sad errors in matters of
faith should only at such a moment make us feel the greater compassion
for her."

Mr. Dixwell thought differently, for though a good man, he was a
fanatic. He did not indeed venture to think of disobeying the
injunction of the great man of the parish--the man who now held both
the Hastings and the Marshal property; but he would fain have detained
Sir Philip to explain and make clear to him the position--as clear as
a demonstration in Euclid to his own mind--that all Roman Catholics
ought to be, at the very least, banished from the country for ever.

But Sir Philip Hastings was not inclined to listen, and although the
good man began the argument in a solemn tone, his visitor, falling
into a fit of thought, walked slowly out of the room, along the
passage, through the door, and mounted his horse, without effectually
hearing one word, though they were many which Mr. Dixwell showered
upon him as he followed.

At his return to his little study, the parson found the young man and
the lawyer, no longer looking at the book, but conversing together
very eagerly, with excited countenances and quick gestures. The moment
he entered, however, they stopped, the young man ending with an oath,
for which the clergyman reproved him on the spot.

"That is very well, Mr. Dixwell," said the attorney, "and my young
friend here will be much the better for some good admonition; and for
sitting under your ministry, as I trust he will, some day soon; but we
must go I fear directly. However, there is one thing I want to say;
for you had nearly spoiled every thing to-day. No person playing at
cards--"

"I never touch them," said the parson, with a holy horror in his face.

"Well, others do," said the attorney, "and those who do never show
their hand to their opponent. Now, law is like a game of cards--"

"In which the lawyer is sure to get the odd trick," observed the young
man.

"And we must not have Sir Philip Hastings know one step that we are
taking," continued the lawyer. "If you have conscience, as I am sure
you have, and honor, as I know you have, you will not suffer any thing
that we have asked you, or said to you, to transpire; for then, of
course, Sir Philip would take every means to prevent our obtaining
information."

"I do not think it," said the parson.

"And justice and equity would be frustrated," proceeded the attorney,
"which you are bound by your profession to promote. We want nothing
but justice, Mr. Dixwell: justice, I say; and no one can tell what
card Sir Philip may play."

"I will trump it with the knave," said the young man to himself; and
having again cautioned the clergyman to be secret, not without some
obscure menaces of danger to himself, if he failed, the two gentlemen
left him, and hurried down, as fast as they could go, to a small
alehouse in the village, where they had left their horses. In a few
minutes, a well known poacher, whose very frequent habitation was the
jail or the cage, was seen to issue forth from the door of the
ale-house, then to lead a very showy looking horse from the stable,
and then to mount him and take his way over the hill. The poacher had
never possessed a more dignified quadruped than a dog or a donkey in
his life; so that it was evident the horse could not be his. That he
was not engaged in the congenial but dangerous occupation of stealing
it, was clear from the fact of the owner of the beast gazing quietly
at him out of the window while he mounted; and then turning round to
the attorney, who sat at a table hard by, and saying, "he is off, I
think."

"Well, let him go," replied the lawyer, "but I do not half like it,
Master John. Every thing in law should be cool and quiet. No
violence--no bustle."

"But this is not a matter of law," replied the younger man, "it is a
matter of safety, you fool. What might come of it, if he were to have
a long canting talk with the old wretch upon her death-bed?"

"Very little," replied the attorney, in a calm well-assured tone, "I
know her well. She is as hard as a flint stone. She always was, and
time has not softened her. Besides, he has no one with him to take
depositions, and if what you say is true, she'll not live till
morning."

"But I tell you, she is getting frightened, as she comes near death!"
exclaimed the young man. "She has got all sorts of fancies into her
head; about hell, and purgatory, and the devil knows what; and she
spoke to my mother yesterday about repentance, and atonement, and a
pack of stuff more, and wanted extreme unction, and to confess to a
priest. It would be a fine salve, I fancy, that could patch up the
wounds in her conscience; but if this Philip Hastings were to come to
her with his grave face and solemn tone, and frighten her still more,
he would get any thing out of her he pleased."

"I don't think it," answered the lawyer deliberately; "hate, Master
John, is the longest lived passion I know. It lasts into the grave,
as I have often seen in making good men's wills when they were
dying--sanctified, good men, I say. Why I have seen a man who has
spent half his fortune in charity, and built alms-houses, leave a
thoughtless son, or a runaway daughter, or a plain-spoken nephew, to
struggle with poverty all his life, refusing to forgive him, and
comforting himself with a text or a pretence. No, no; hate is the only
possession that goes out of the world with a man: and this old witch,
Danby, hates the whole race of Hastings with a goodly strength that
will not decay as her body does. Besides, Sir Philip is well-nigh as
puritanical as his father--a sort of cross-breed between an English
fanatic and an old Roman cynic. She abominates the very sound of his
voice, and nothing would reconcile her to him but his taking the mass
and abjuring the errors of Calvin. Ha! ha! ha! However, as you have
sent the fellow, it cannot be helped. Only remember I had nothing to
do with it if violence follows. That man is not to be trusted, and I
like to keep on the safe side of the law."

"Ay, doubtless, doubtless," answered the youth, somewhat thoughtfully;
"it is your shield; and better stand behind than before it. However, I
don't doubt Tom Cutter in the least. Besides, I only told him to
interrupt them in their talk, and take care they had no private
gossip; to stick there till he was gone, and all that."

"Sir Philip is not a man to bear such interruption," said the
attorney, gravely; "he is as quiet looking as the deep sea on a
summer's day; but there can come storms, I tell you, John, and then
woe to those who have trusted the quiet look."

"Then, if he gets in a passion, and mischief comes of it," replied the
young man, with a laugh, "the fault is his, you know, Shanks."

"True," answered the attorney, meditating, "and perhaps, by a little
clever twisting and timing, we might make something of it if he did,
were there any other person concerned but this Tom Cutter, and we had
a good serviceable witness or two. But this man is such a rogue that
his word is worth nothing; and to thrash him--though the business of
the beadle--would be no discredit to the magistrate. Besides, he is
sure to give the provocation, and one word of Sir Philip's would be
worth a thousand oaths of Tom Cutter's, in any court in the kingdom."

"As to thrashing him, that few can do," replied the youth; "but only
remember, Shanks, that I gave no orders for violence."

"I was not present," replied the attorney, with a grin; "you had
better, by a great deal, trust entirely to me, in these things, Master
John. If you do, I will bring you safely through, depend upon it; but
if you do not, nobody can tell what may come. Here comes Folwell, the
sexton. Now hold your tongue, and let me manage him, sir. You are not
acquainted with these matters."




CHAPTER IX.


Did you ever examine an ant-hill, dear reader? What a wonderful little
cosmos it is--what an epitome of a great city--of the human race! See
how the little fellows run bustling along upon their several
businesses--see how some get out of each other's way, how others
jostle, and others walk over their fellows' heads! But especially mark
that black gentleman, pulling hard to drag along a fat beetle's leg
and thigh, three times as large as his own body. He cannot get it on,
do what he will; and yet he tugs away, thinking it a very fine haunch
indeed. He does not perceive, what is nevertheless the fact, that
there are two others of his own race pulling at the other end, and
thus frustrating all his efforts.

And thus it is with you, and me, and every one in the wide world. We
work blindly, unknowing the favoring or counteracting causes that are
constantly going on around us, to facilitate or impede our endeavors.
The wish to look into futurity is vain, irrational, almost impious;
but what a service would it be to any man if he could but get a sight
into Fate's great workshop, and see only that part in which the events
are on the anvil that affect our own proceedings. Still, even if we
did, we might not understand the machinery after all, and only burn or
pinch our fingers in trying to put pieces together which fate did not
intend to fit.

In the mean time--that is to say while the attorney and his companion
were talking together at the alehouse--Sir Philip Hastings rode
quietly up the hill to the cottage I have before described, and
therefore shall not describe again, merely noticing that it now
presented an appearance of neatness and repair which it had not before
possessed. He tied his horse to the palings, walked slowly up the
little path, gazing right and left at the cabbages and carrots on
either side, and then without ceremony went in.

The cottage had two tenants at this time, the invalid old woman, and
another, well-nigh as old but less decrepit, who had been engaged to
attend upon her in her sickness. How she got the money to pay her no
one knew, for her middle life and the first stage of old age had been
marked by poverty and distress; but somehow money seems to have a
natural affinity for old age. It grows upon old people, I think, like
corns; and certainly she never wanted money now.

There she was, lying in her bed, a miserable object indeed to see. She
was like a woman made of fungus--not of that smooth, putty-like,
fleshy fungus which grows in dank places, but of the rough, rugged,
brown, carunculated sort which rises upon old stumps of trees and
dry-rot gate-posts. Teeth had departed nearly a quarter of a century
before, and the aquiline features had become more hooked and beaky for
their loss; but the eyes had now lost their keen fire, and were dull
and filmy.

The attorney was quite right. Hate was the last thing to go out in the
ashes where the spark of life itself lingered, but faintly. At first
she could not see who it was entered the cottage; for the sight now
reached but a short distance from her own face. But the sound of his
voice, as he inquired of the other old woman how she was going on, at
once showed her who it was, and hate at least roused "the dull cold
ear of death."

For a moment or two she lay muttering sounds which seemed to have no
meaning; but at length she said, distinctly enough, "Is that Philip
Hastings?"

"Yes, my poor woman," said the baronet; "is there any thing I can do
for you?"

"Come nearer, come nearer," she replied, "I cannot see you plainly."

"I am close to you, nevertheless," he answered. "I am touching the bed
on which you lie."

"Let me feel you," continued she--"give me your hand."

He did as she asked him; and holding by his hand, she made a great
struggle to raise herself in bed; but she could not, and lay exhausted
for a minute before she spoke again.

At length, however, she raised her voice louder and shriller than
before--"May a curse rest upon this hand and upon that head!" she
exclaimed; "may the hand work its own evil, and the head its own
destruction! May the child of your love poison your peace, and make
you a scoff, and a by-word, and a shame! May the wife of your bosom
perish by----"

But Sir Philip Hastings withdrew his hand suddenly, and an unwonted
flush came upon his cheek.

"For shame!" he said, in a low stern tone, "for shame!"

The next moment, however, he recovered himself perfectly; and turning
to the nurse he added, "Poor wretch! my presence only seems to excite
evil feelings which should long have passed away, and are not fit
counsellors for the hour of death. If there be any thing which can
tend to her bodily comfort that the hall can supply, send up for it.
The servants have orders. Would that any thing could be done for her
spiritual comfort; for this state is terrible to witness."

"She often asks for a priest, your worship," said the nurse. "Perhaps
if she could see one she might think better before she died."

"Alas, I doubt it," replied the visitor; "but at all events we cannot
afford her that relief. No such person can be found here."

"I don't know, Sir Philip," said the old woman, with a good deal of
hesitation; "they do say that at Carrington, there is--there is what
they call a seminary."

"You do not mean a papist college!" exclaimed the baronet, with
unfeigned surprise and consternation.

"Oh, dear, no sir," replied the nurse, "only a gentleman--a
seminary--a seminary priest, I think they call it; a papist certainly;
but they say he is a very good gentleman, all but that."

Sir Philip mused for a minute or two, and then turned to the door,
saying, "Methinks it is hard that a dying woman cannot have the
consolations of the rites of her own faith--mummery though they be. As
a magistrate, my good woman, I can give no authority in this business.
You must do as you think fit. I myself know of no priest in this
neighborhood, or I should be bound to cause his apprehension. I shall
take no notice of your word, however, and as to the rest, you must, as
I have said, act as you think fit. I did not make the laws, and I may
think them cruel. Did I make them, I would not attempt to shackle the
conscience of any one. Farewell," and passing through the door, he
remounted his horse and rode away.

It was in the early autumn time of the year, and the scene was
peculiarly lovely. I have given a slight description of it before, but
I must pause and dwell upon it once more, even as Sir Philip Hastings
paused and dwelt upon its loveliness at that moment, although he had
seen and watched it a thousand times before. He was not very
impressible by fine scenery. Like the sages of Laputa, his eyes were
more frequently turned inwards than outwards; but there was something
in that landscape which struck a chord in his heart, that is sure to
vibrate easily in the heart of every one of his countrymen.

It was peculiarly English--I might say singularly English; for I have
never seen any thing of exactly the same character anywhere else but
in Old England--except indeed in New England, where I know not whether
it be from the country having assimilated itself to the people, or
from the people having chosen the country from the resemblance to
their own paternal dwelling place, many a scene strikes the eye which
brings back to the wandering Englishman all the old, dear feelings of
his native land, and for a moment he may well forget that the broad
Atlantic rolls between him and and the home of his youth.

But let me return to my picture. Sir Philip Hastings sat upon his
horse's back, very nearly at the summit of the long range of hills
which bisected the county in which he dwelt. I have described, in
mentioning his park, the sandy character of the soil on the opposite
slope of the rise; but here higher up, and little trodden by
pulverizing feet, the sandstone rock itself occasionally broke out in
rugged maps, diversifying the softer characteristics of the scene.
Wide, and far away, on either hand, the eye could wander along the
range, catching first upon some bold mass of hill, or craggy piece of
ground, assuming almost the character of a cliff, seen in hard and
sharp distinctness, with its plume of trees and coronet of yellow
gorse, and then, proceeding onward to wave after wave, the sight
rested upon the various projecting points, each softer and softer as
they receded, like the memories of early days, till the last lines of
the wide sweep left the mind doubtful whether they were forms of earth
or clouds, or merely fancy.

Such was the scene on either hand, but straightforward it was very
different, but still quite English. Were you ever, reader, borne to
the top of a very high wave in a small boat, and did you ever, looking
down the watery mountain, mark how the steep descent, into the depth
below, was checkered by smaller waves, and these waves again by
ripples? Such was the character of the view beneath the feet of the
spectator. There was a gradual, easy descent from the highest point of
the whole county down to a river-nurtured valley, not unbroken, but
with lesser and lesser waves of earth, varying the aspect of the
scene. These waves again were marked out, first by scattered and
somewhat stunted trees, then by large oaks and chestnuts, not
undiversified by the white and gleaming bark of the graceful birch. A
massive group of birches here and there was seen; a scattered cottage,
too, with its pale bluish wreath of smoke curling up over the
tree-tops. Then, on the lower slope of all, came hedgerows of elms,
with bright green rolls of verdant turf between; the spires of
churches; the roofs and white walls of many sorts of man's
dwelling-places, and gleams of a bright river, with two or three
arches of a bridge. Beyond that again appeared a rich wide valley--I
might almost have called it a plain, all in gay confusion, with
fields, and houses, and villages, and trees, and streams, and towns,
mixed altogether in exquisite disorder, and tinted with all the
variety of colors and shades that belong to autumn and to sunset.

Down the descent, the eye of Sir Philip Hastings could trace several
roads and paths, every step of which he knew, like daily habits. There
was one, a bridle-way from a town about sixteen miles distant, which,
climbing the hills almost at its outset, swept along the whole range,
about midway between the summit and the valley. Another, by which he
had come, and along which he intended to proceed, traversed the crest
of the hills ere it reached the cottage, and then descended with a
wavy line into the valley, crossing the bridle-path I have mentioned.
A wider path--indeed it might be called a road, though it was not a
turnpike--came over the hills from the left, and with all those easy
graceful turns which Englishmen so much love in their highways, and
Frenchmen so greatly abhor, descended likewise into the valley, to the
small market-town, glimpses of which might be caught over the tops of
the trees. As the baronet sat there on horseback, and looked around,
more than one living object met his eye. To say nothing of some sheep
wandering along the uninclosed part of the hill, now stopping to
nibble the short grass, now trotting forward for a sweeter bite,--not
to notice the oxen in the pastures below, there was a large cart
slowly winding its way along an open part of the road, about half a
mile distant, and upon the bridle-path which I have mentioned, the
figure of a single horseman was seen, riding quietly and easily along,
with a sauntering sort of air, which gave the beholder at once the
notion that he was what Sterne would have called a "picturesque
traveller," and was enjoying the prospect as he went.

On the road that came over the hill from the left, was another rider
of very different demeanor, going along at a rattling pace, and
apparently somewhat careless of his horse's knees.

The glance which Sir Philip Hastings gave to either of them was but
slight and hasty. His eyes were fixed upon the scene before him,
feeling, rather than understanding, its beauties, while he commented
In his mind, after his own peculiar fashion. I need not trace the
procession of thought through his brain. It ended, however, with the
half uttered words,

"Strange, that such a land should have produced so many scoundrels,
tyrants, and knaves!"

He then slowly urged his horse forward, down the side of the hill,
soon reached some tall trees, where the inclosures and hedgerows
commenced, and was approaching the point at which the road he was
travelling, crossed the bridle-path, when he heard some loud, and as
it seemed to him, angry words, passing between two persons he could
not see.

"I will soon teach you that;" cried a loud, coarse tongue, adding an
exceedingly blasphemous oath, which I will spare the reader.

"My good friend," replied another milder voice, "I neither desire to
be taught any thing, just now, nor would you be the teacher I should
chose, if I did, though perchance, in case of need, I might give you a
lesson, which would be of some service to you."

Sir Philip rode on, and the next words he heard were spoken by the
first voice, to the following effect; "Curse me, if I would not try
that, only my man might get off in the mean time; and I have other
business in hand than yours. Otherwise I would give you such a licking
in two minutes, you would be puzzled to find a white spot on your skin
for the neat month."

"Two minutes would not detain you long," replied the calmer voice,
"and, as I have never had such a beating, I should like to see, first,
whether you could give it, and secondly, what it would be like."

"Upon my soul, you are cool!" exclaimed the first speaker with another
oath.

"Perfectly," replied the second; and, at the same moment, Sir Philip
Hastings emerged from among the trees, at the point where the two
roads crossed, and where the two speakers were face to face before his
eyes.

The one, who was in truth the sauntering traveller whom he has seen
wending along the bridle-path, was a tall, good-looking young man, of
three or four and twenty years of age. In the other, the Baronet had
no difficulty in recognizing at once, Tom Cutter, the notorious
poacher and bruiser, whom he had more than once had the satisfaction
of committing to jail. To see him mounted on a very fine powerful
horse, was a matter of no slight surprise to Sir Philip; but,
naturally concluding that he had stolen it, and was making off with
his prize for sale to the neighboring town, he rode forward and put
himself right in the way, determined to stop him.

"Ay, ay! Here is my man!" cried Tom Cutter, as soon as he saw him. "I
will settle with him first, and then for you, my friend."

"No, no, to an old proverb, first come must be first served," replied
the traveller, pushing his horse forward a few steps.

"Keep the peace, in the King's name!" exclaimed Sir Philip Hastings.
"I, as a magistrate, charge you, sir, to assist me in apprehending
this man!--Thomas Cutter, get off that horse!"

The only reply was a coarse and violent expletive, and a blow with a
thick heavy stick, aimed right at Sir Philip's head. The magistrate
put up his arm, which received the blow, and was nearly fractured by
it; but at the same moment, the younger traveller spurred forward his
horse upon the ruffian, and with one sweep of his arm struck him to
the ground.

Tom Cutter was upon, his feet again in a moment. He was accustomed to
hard blows, and like the immortal hero of Butler, could almost tell
the quality of the stick he was beat withal. He was not long in
discovering, therefore, that the fist which struck him was of no
ordinary weight, and was directed with skill as well as with vigor;
but he was accustomed to make it his boast, that he had never taken a
licking "from any man," which vanity caused him at once to risk such
another blow, in the hope of having his revenge.

Rushing upon the young stranger then, stick in hand, he prepared to
knock him from his horse; for the other appeared to have no defensive
arms, but a slight hazel twig, pulled from a hedge.

"He will jump off the other side of his horse," thought Tom Cutter;
"and then, if he do, I'll contrive to knock the nag over upon him. I
know that trick, well enough."

But the stranger disappointed him. Instead of opposing the horse
between him and his assailant, he sprung with one bound out of the
saddle, on the side next to the ruffian himself, caught the uplifted
stick with one hand, and seized the collar of the bruiser's coat with
the other.

Tom Cutter began to suspect he had made a mistake; but, knowing that
at such close quarters the stick would avail him little, and that
strength of thews and sinews would avail him much, he dropped the
cudgel, and grappled with the stranger in return.

It was all the work of a moment. Sir Philip Hastings had no time to
interfere. There was a momentary struggle, developing the fine
proportions and great strength and skill of the wrestlers; and then,
Tom Cutter lay on his back upon the ground. The next instant, the
victor put his foot upon his chest, and kept the ruffian forcibly
down, notwithstanding all his exclamations of "Curse me, that isn't
fair! When you give a man a fall, let him get up again!"

"If he is a fair fighter, I do," replied the other; "but when he plays
pirate, I don't--" Then turning to Sir Philip Hastings, who had by
this time dismounted, he said, "What is to be done with this fellow,
sir? It seems he came here for the express purpose of assaulting you,
for he began his impertinence, with asking if you had passed, giving a
very accurate description of your person, and swearing you should find
every dog would have his day."

"His offence towards myself," replied the Baronet, "I will pass over,
for it seems to me, he has been punished enough in his own way; but I
suspect he has stolen this horse. He is a man of notoriously bad
character, who can never have obtained such an animal by honest
means."

"No, I didn't steal him, I vow and swear," cried the ruffian, in a
piteous tone; for bullies are almost always cravens; "he was lent to
me by Johny Groves--some call him another name; but that don't
signify.--He lent him to me, to come up here, to stop your gab with
the old woman, Mother Danty; and mayhap to give you a good basting
into the bargain. But I didn't steal the horse no how; and there he
is, running away over the hill-side, and I shall never catch him; for
this cursed fellow has well nigh broken my back."

"Served you quite right, my friend," replied the stranger, still
keeping him tightly down with his foot. "How came you to use a cudgel
to a man who had none? Take my advice, another time, and know your man
before you meddle with him."

In the mean time Sir Philip Hastings had fallen into a profound
reverie, only repeating to himself the words "John Groves." Now the
train of thought which was awakened in his mind, though not quite new,
was unpleasant to him; for the time when he first became familiar with
that name was immediately subsequent to the opening of his father's
will, in which had been found a clause ordering the payment of a
considerable sum of money to some very respectable trustees, for the
purpose of purchasing an annuity in favor of one John Groves, then a
minor.

There had been something about the clause altogether which the son and
heir of Sir John Hastings could not understand, and did not like.
However, the will enjoined him generally to make no inquiry whatsoever
into the motives of any of the bequests, and with his usual stern
rigidity in what he conceived right, he had not only asked no
questions, but had stopped bluntly one of the trustees, who was about
to enter into some explanations. The money was paid according to
directions received, and he had never heard the name of John Groves
from that moment till it issued from the lips of the ruffian upon the
present occasion.

"What the man says may be true," said Sir Philip Hastings, at length;
"there is a person of the name he mentions. I know not how I can have
offended him. It may be as well to let him rise and catch his horse if
he can; but remember, Master Cutter, my eye is upon you; two competent
witnesses have seen you in possession of that horse, and if you
attempt to sell him, you will hang for it."

"I know better than to do that," said the bruiser, rising stiffly from
the ground as the stranger withdrew his foot; "but I can tell you, Sir
Philip, others have their eyes upon you, so you had better look to
yourself. You hold your head mightily top high, just now: but it may
chance to come down."

Sir Philip Hastings did not condescend to reply, even by a look; but
turning to the stranger, as if the man's words had never reached his
ear, he said, "I think we had better ride on, sir. You seem to be
going my way. Night is falling fast, and in this part of the country
two is sometimes a safer number to travel with than one."

The other bowed his head gravely, and remounting their horses they
proceeded on the way before them, while Tom Cutter, after giving up
some five minutes to the condemnation of the eyes, limbs, blood, and
soul of himself and several other persons, proceeded to catch the
horse which he had been riding as fast as he could. But the task
proved a difficult one.




CHAPTER X.


The two horsemen rode on their way. Neither spoke for several minutes.
Sir Philip Hastings pondering sternly on all that had passed, and his
younger companion gazing upon the scene around flooded with the
delicious rays of sunset, as if nothing had passed at all.

Sir Philip, as I have shown the reader, had a habit of brooding over
any thing which excited much interest in his breast--nay more, of
extracting from it, by a curious sort of alchemy, essence very
different from its apparent nature, sometimes bright, fine, and
beneficial, and others dark and maleficent. The whole of the
transaction just past disturbed him much; it puzzled him; it set his
imagination running upon a thousand tracks, and most of them wrong
ones; and thought was not willing to be called from her vagaries to
deal with any other subject than that which preoccupied her.

The young stranger, on the other hand, seemed one of those characters
which take all things much more lightly. In the moment of action, he
had shown skill, resolution, and energy enough, but as he sat there on
his horse's back, looking round at every point of any interest to an
admirer of nature with an easy, calm and unconcerned air, no one who
saw him could have conceived that he had been engaged the moment
before in so fierce though short a struggle. There was none of the
heat of the combatant or the triumph of the victor in his air or
countenance, and his placid and equable expression of face contrasted
strongly with the cloud which sat upon the brow of his companion.

"I beg your pardon, sir, for my gloomy silence," said Sir Philip
Hastings, at length, conscious that his demeanor was not very
courteous, "but this affair troubles me. Besides certain relations
which it bears to matters of private concernment, I am not satisfied
as to how I should deal with the ruffian we have suffered to depart so
easily. His assault upon myself I do not choose to treat harshly; but
the man is a terror to the country round, committing many an act to
which the law awards a very insufficient punishment, but with cunning
sufficient to keep within that line, the passage beyond which would
enable society to purge itself of such a stain upon it; how to deal
with him, I say, embarrasses me greatly. I have committed him two or
three times to prison already; and I am inclined to regret that I did
not, on this occasion, when he was in the very act of breaking the
law, send my sword through him, and I should have been well justified
in doing so."

"Nay, sir, methinks that would have been too much," replied his
companion; "he has had a fall, which, if I judge rightly, will be a
sufficient punishment for his assault upon you. According to the very
_lex talionis_, he has had what he deserves. If he has nearly broke
your arm, I think I have nearly broken his back."

"It is not his punishment for any offence to myself, sir, I seek,"
replied the baronet; "it is a duty to society to free it from the load
of such a man whenever he himself affords the opportunity of doing so.
Herein the law would have justified me, but even had it not been so, I
can conceive many cases where it may be necessary for the benefit of
our country and society to go beyond what the law will justify, and to
make the law for the necessity."

"Brutus, and a few of his friends, did so," replied the young stranger
with a smile, "and we admire them very much for so doing, but I am
afraid we should hang them, nevertheless, if they were in a position
to try the thing over again. The illustration of the gibbet and the
statue might have more applications than one, for I sincerely believe,
if we could revive historical characters, we should almost in all
cases erect a gallows for those to whom we now raise a monument."

Sir Philip Hastings turned and looked at him attentively, and saw his
face was gay and smiling. "You take all these things very lightly
sir," he said.

"With a safe lightness," replied the stranger.

"Nay, with something more," rejoined his companion; "in your short
struggle with that ruffian, you sprang upon him, and overthrew him
like a lion, with a fierce activity which I can hardly imagine really
calmed down so soon."

"O yes it is, my dear sir," replied the stranger, "I am somewhat of a
stoic in all things. It is not necessary that rapidity of thought and
action, in a moment of emergency, should go one line beyond the
occasion, or sink one line deeper than the mere reason. The man who
suffers his heart to be fluttered, or his passions to be roused, by
any just action he is called upon to do, is not a philosopher.
Understand me, however; I do not at all pretend to be quite perfect in
my philosophy; but, at all events, I trust I schooled myself well
enough not to suffer a wrestling match with a contemptible animal like
that, to make my pulse beat a stroke quicker after the momentary
effort is over."

Sir Philip Hastings was charmed with the reply; for though it was a
view of philosophy which he could not and did not follow, however much
he might agree to it, yet the course of reasoning and the sources of
argument were so much akin to those he usually sought, that he fancied
he had at length found a man quite after his own heart. He chose to
express no farther opinion upon the subject, however, till he had seen
more of his young companion; but that more he determined to see. In
the mean time he easily changed the conversation, saying, "You seemed
to be a very skilful and practised wrestler, sir."

"I was brought up in Cornwall," replied the other, "though not a
Cornish man, and having no affinity even with the Terse and the
Tees--an Anglo Saxon, I am proud to believe, for I look upon that race
as the greatest which the world has yet produced."

"What, superior to the Roman?" asked Sir Philip.

"Ay, even so," answered the stranger, "with as much energy, as much
resolution, less mobility, more perseverance, with many a quality
which the Roman did not possess. The Romans have left us many a fine
lesson which we are capable of practising as well as they, while we
can add much of which they had no notion."

"I should like much to discuss the subject with you more at large,"
said Sir Philip Hastings, in reply; "but I know not whether we have
time sufficient to render it worth while to begin."

"I really hardly know, either," answered the young stranger; "for, in
the first place, I am unacquainted with the country, and in the next
place, I know not how far you are going. My course tends towards a
small town called Hartwell--or, as I suspect it ought to be Hartswell,
probably from some fountain a which hart and hind used to come and
drink."

"I am going a little beyond it," replied Sir Philip Hastings, "so that
our journey will be for the next ten miles together;" and with this
good space of time before him, the baronet endeavored to bring his
young companion back to the subject which had been started, a very
favorite one with him at all times.

But the stranger seemed to have his hobbies as well as Sir Philip, and
having dashed into etymology in regard to Hartwell, he pursued it with
an avidity which excluded all other topics.

"I believe," he said, not in the least noticing Sir Philip's
dissertation on Roman virtues--"my own belief is, that there is not a
proper name in England, except a few intruded upon us by the Normans,
which might not easily be traced to accidental circumstances in the
history of the family or the place. Thus, in the case of Aylesbury, or
Eaglestown, from which it is derived, depend upon it the place has
been noted as a resort for eagles in old times, coming thither
probably for the ducks peculiar to that place. Bristol, in Anglo
Saxon, meaning the place of a bridge, is very easily traceable; and
Costa, or Costaford, meaning in Anglo Saxon the tempter's ford,
evidently derives its name from monk or maiden having met the enemy of
man or womankind at that place, and having had cause to rue the
encounter. All the Hams, all the Tons, and all the Sons, lead us at
once to the origin of the name, to say nothing of all the points of
the compass, all the colors of the rainbow, and every trade that the
ingenuity of man has contrived to invent."

In vain Sir Philip Hastings for the next half hour endeavored to bring
him back to what he considered more important questions. He had
evidently had enough of the Romans for the time being, and indulged
himself in a thousand fanciful speculations upon every other subject
but that, till Sir Philip, who at one time had rated his intellect
very highly, began to think him little better than a fool. Suddenly,
however, as if from a sense of courtesy rather than inclination, the
young man let his older companion have his way in the choice of
subject, and in his replies showed such depth of thought, such a
thorough acquaintance with history, and such precise and definite
views, that once more the baronet changed his opinion, and said to
himself, "This is a fine and noble intellect indeed, nearly spoiled by
the infection of a corrupt and frivolous world, but which might be
reclaimed, if fortune would throw him in the way of those whose
principles have been fixed and tried."

He pondered upon the matter for some short time. It was now completely
dark, and the town to which the stranger was going distant not a
quarter of a mile. The little stars were looking out in the heavens,
peering at man's actions like bright-eyed spies at night; but the moon
had not risen, and the only light upon the path was reflected from the
flashing, dancing stream that ran along beside the road, seeming to
gather up all the strong rays from the air, and give them back again
with interest.

"You are coming very near Hartwell," said Sir Philip, at length; "but
it is somewhat difficult to find from this road, and being, but little
out of my way, I will accompany you thither, and follow the high road
onwards."

The stranger was about to express his thanks, but the Baronet stopped
him, saying, "Not in the least, my young friend. I am pleased with
your conversation, and should be glad to cultivate your acquaintance
if opportunity should serve. I am called Sir Philip Hastings, and
shall be glad to see you at any time, if you are passing near my
house."

"I shall certainly wait upon you, Sir Philip, if I stay any time in
this county," replied the other. "That, however, is uncertain, for I
come here merely on a matter of business, which may be settled in a
few hours--indeed it ought to be so, for it seems to me very simple.
However, it may detain me much longer, and then I shall not fail to
take advantage of your kind permission."

He spoke gravely, and little more was said till they entered the small
town of Hartwell, about half through which a large gibbet-like bar was
seen projecting from the front of a house, suspending a large board,
upon which was painted a star. The light shining from the windows of
an opposite house fell upon the symbol, and the stranger, drawing in
his rein, said, "Here is my inn, and I will now wish you good night,
with many thanks, Sir Philip."

"Methinks it is I should thank you," replied the Baronet, "both for a
pleasant journey, and for the punishment you inflicted on the ruffian
Cutter."

"As for the first," said the stranger, "that has been more than
repaid, if indeed it deserved thanks at all; and as for the other,
that was a pleasure in itself. There is a great satisfaction to me in
breaking down the self-confidence of one of these burly bruisers."

As he spoke, he dismounted, again wishing Sir Philip good night, and
the latter rode on upon his way. His meditations, as he went, were
altogether upon the subject of the young stranger; for, as I have
shown, Sir Philip rarely suffered two ideas to get any strong grasp of
his mind at the same time. He revolved, and weighed, and dissected
every thing the young man had said, and the conclusion that he came to
was even more favorable than at first. He seemed a man after his own
heart, with just sufficient differences of opinion and diversities of
character to make the Baronet feel a hankering for some opportunity of
moulding and modelling him to his own standard of perfection. Who he
could be, he could not by any means divine. That he was a gentleman in
manners and character, there could be no doubt. That he was not rich,
Sir Philip argued from the fact of his not having chosen the best inn
in the little town, and he might also conclude that he was of no very
distinguished family, as he had not thought fit to mention his own
name in return for the Baronet's frank invitation.

Busy with these thoughts Sir Philip rode on but slowly, and took
nearly half an hour to reach the gates of Mrs. Hazleton's park, though
they stood only two miles' distance from the town. He arrived before
them at length, however, and rang the bell. The lodge-keeper opened
them but slowly, and putting his horse to a quicker pace, Sir Philip
trotted up the avenue towards the house. He had not reached it,
however, when he heard the sound of horses feet behind him, and, as he
was dismounting at the door, his companion of the way rode quickly up
and sprang to the ground, saying, with a laugh--

"I find, Sir Philip, that we are both to enjoy the same quarters
to-night, for, on my arrival at Hartwell, I did not expect to visit
this house till to-morrow morning. Mrs. Hazleton, however, has very
kindly had my baggage brought up from the inn, and therefore I have no
choice but to intrude upon her to-night."

As he spoke the doors of the house were thrown open, servants came
forth to take the horses, and the two gentlemen were ushered at once
into Mrs. Hazleton's receiving-room.




CHAPTER XI.


Mrs. Hazleton was looking as beautiful as she had been at
twenty--perhaps more so; for the few last years before the process of
decay commences, sometimes adds rather than detracts from woman's
loveliness. She was dressed with great skill and taste too; nay, even
with peculiar care. The hair, which had not yet even one silver thread
in its wavy mass, was so arranged as to hide, in some degree, that
height and width of forehead which gave almost too intellectual an
expression to her countenance--which, upon some occasions, rendered
the expression (for the features were all feminine) more that of a man
than that of a woman. Her dress was very simple in appearance though
costly in material; but it had been chosen and fitted by the nicest
art, of colors which best harmonized with her complexion, and in forms
rather to indicate beauties than to display them.

Thus attired, with grace and dignity in every motion, she advanced to
meet Sir Philip Hastings, frankly holding out her hand to him, and
beaming on him one of her most lustrous smiles. It was all thrown away
upon him indeed; but that did not matter. It had its effect in another
quarter. She then turned to the younger gentleman with a greater
degree of reserve in manner, but yet, as she spoke to him and welcomed
him to her house, the color deepened on her cheek with a blush that
would not have been lost to Sir Philip if he had been at all in the
custom of making use of them. They had evidently met before, but not
often and her words, "Good evening, Mr. Marlow, I am glad to see you
at my house at length," were said in the tone if one who was really
glad, but did not wish to show it too plainly.

"You have come with my friend, Sir Philip Hastings," she added; "I did
not know you were acquainted."

"Nor were we, my dear madam, till this evening," replied the Baronet,
speaking for himself and his companion of the road, "till we met by
accident on the hill-side on our way hither. We had a somewhat
unpleasant encounter with a notorious personage of the name of Tom
Cutter, which brought us first into acquaintance; though, till you
uttered it, my young friend's name was unknown to me."

"Tom Cutter! is that the man who poaches all my game?" said the lady,
in a musing tone.

Nor was she musing of Tom Cutter, or the lost game, or of the sins and
iniquities of poaching; neither one or the other. The exclamation and
inquiry taken together were only one of those little half-unconscious
stratagems of human nature, by which we often seek to amuse the other
parties in conversation--and sometimes amuse our own outward man
too--while the little spirit within is busily occupied with some
question which we do not wish our interlocutors to have any thing to
do with. She was asking herself, in fact, what had been the
conversation with which Sir Philip Hastings and Mr. Marlow had
beguiled the way--whether they had talked of her--whether they had
talked of her affairs--and how she could best get some information on
the subject without seeming to seek it.

She soon had an opportunity of considering the matter more at leisure,
for Sir Philip Hastings, with some remark as to "dusty dresses not
being fit for ladies' drawing-rooms," retired for a time to the
chamber prepared for him. The fair lady of the house detained Mr.
Marlow indeed for a few minutes, talking with him in a pleasant and
gentle tone, and making her bright eyes do their best in the way of
captivating. She expressed regret that she had not seen him more
frequently, and expressed a hope, in very graceful terms, that even
the painful question, which those troublesome men of law had started
between them, might be a means of ripening their acquaintance into
friendship.

The young gentleman replied with all gallantry, but with due
discretion, and then retired to his room to change his dress. He
certainly was a very good-looking young man; finely formed, and with a
pleasing though not regularly handsome countenance; and perhaps he
left Mrs. Hazleton other matters to meditate of than the topics of his
conversation with Sir Philip Hastings. Certain it is, that when the
baronet returned very shortly after, he found his beautiful hostess in
a profound reverie, from which his sudden entrance made her start with
a bewildered look not common to her.

"I am very glad to talk to you for a few moments alone, my dear
friend," said Mrs. Hazleton, after a moment's pause. "This Mr. Marlow
is the gentleman who claims the very property on which you now stand;"
and she proceeded to give her hearer, partly by spontaneous
explanations, partly by answers to his questions, her own view of the
case between herself and Mr. Marlow; laboring hard and skilfully to
prepossess the mind of Sir Philip Hastings with a conviction of her
rights as opposed to that of her young guest.

"Do you mean to say, my dear madam," asked Sir Philip, "that he claims
the whole of this large property? That would be a heavy blow indeed."

"Oh, dear, no," replied the lady; "the great bulk of the property is
mine beyond all doubt, but the land on which this house stands, and
rather more than a thousand acres round it, was bought by my poor
father before I was born, I believe, as affording the most eligible
site for a mansion. He never liked the old house near your place, and
built this for himself. Mr. Marlow's lawyers now declare that his
grand-uncle, who sold the land to my father, had no power to sell it;
that the property was strictly entailed."

"That will be easily ascertained," said Sir Philip Hastings; "and I am
afraid, my dear madam, if that should prove the case, you will have no
remedy but to give up the property."

"But is not that very hard?" asked Mrs. Hazleton, "the Marlows
certainly had the money."

"That will make no difference," replied Sir Philip, musing; "this
young man's grand-uncle may have wronged your father; but he is not
responsible for the act, and I am very much afraid, moreover, that his
claim may not be limited to the property itself. Back rents, I
suspect, might be claimed."

"Ay, that is what my lawyer, Mr. Shanks, says," replied Mrs. Hazleton,
with a bewildered look; "he tells me that if Mr. Marlow is successful
in the suit, I shall have to pay the whole of the rents of the land.
But Shanks added that he was quite certain of beating him if we could
retain for our counsel Sargeant Tutham and Mr. Doubledo."

"Shanks is a rogue," said Sir Philip Hastings, in a calm, equable
tone; "and the two lawyers you have named bear the reputation of being
learned and unscrupulous men. The first point, my dear madam, is to
ascertain whether this young gentleman's claim is just, and then to
deal with him equitably, which, in the sense I affix to the term, may
be somewhat different from legal."

"I really do not know what to do," cried Mrs. Hazleton, with a slight
laugh, as if at her own perplexity. "I Was never in such a situation
in my life;" and then she added, very rapidly and in a jocular tone,
as if she were afraid of pausing upon or giving force to any one word,
"if my poor father had been alive, he would have settled it all after
his own way soon enough. He was a great match-maker you know, Sir
Philip, and he would have proposed, in spite of all obstacles, a
marriage between the two parties, to settle the affair by matrimony
instead of by law," and she laughed again as if the very idea was
ridiculous.

Unlearned Sir Philip thought so too, and most improperly replied, "The
difference of age would of course put that out of the question;" nor
when he had committed the indiscretion, did he perceive the red spot
which came upon Mrs. Hazleton's fair brow, and indicated sufficiently
enough the effect his words had produced. There was an ominous silent
pause, however, for a minute, and then the Baronet was the person to
resume the discourse in his usual calm, argumentative tone. "I do not
think," he said, "from Mr. Marlow's demeanor or conversation, that he
is likely to be very exacting in this matter. His claim, however, must
be looked to in the first place, before we admit any thing on your
part. If the property was really entailed, he has undoubtedly a right
to it, both in honesty and in law; but methinks there he might limit
his claim if his sense of real equity be strong; but the entail must
be made perfectly clear before you can admit so much as that."

"Well, well, sir," said Mrs. Hazleton, hastily, for she heard a step
on the outer stairs, "I will leave it entirely to you, Sir Philip, I
am sure you will take good care of my interests."

Sir Philip did not altogether like the word interests, and bowing his
head somewhat stiffly, he added, "and of your honor, my dear madam."

Mrs. Hazleton liked his words as little as he did hers, and she
colored highly. She made no reply, indeed, but his words that night
were never forgotten.

The next moment Mr. Marlow entered the room with a quiet, easy air,
evidently quite unconscious of having been the subject of
conversation. During the evening he paid every sort of polite
attention to his fair hostess, and undoubtedly showed signs and
symptoms of thinking her a very beautiful and charming woman. Whatever
was her game, take my word for it, reader, she played it skilfully,
and the very fact of her retiring early, at the very moment when she
had made the most favorable impression, leaving Sir Philip Hastings to
entertain Mr. Marlow at supper, was not without its calculation.

As soon as the lady was gone, Sir Philip turned to the topic of Mrs.
Hazleton's business with his young companion, and managed the matter
more skilfully than might have been expected. He simply told him that
Mrs. Hazleton had mentioned a claim made upon her estate by his
lawyers, and had thought it better to leave the investigation of the
affair to her friend, rather than to professional persons.

A frank good-humored smile came upon Mr. Marlow's face at once. "I am
not a rich man, Sir Philip," he said, "and make no professions of
generosity, but, at the same time, as my grand-uncle undoubtedly had
this money from Mrs. Hazleton's father, I should most likely never
have troubled her on the subject, but that this very estate is the
original seat of our family, on which we can trace our ancestors back
through many centuries. The property was undoubtedly entailed, my
father and my uncle were still living when it was sold, and performed
no disentailing act whatever. This is perfectly susceptible of proof,
and though my claim may put Mrs. Hazleton to some inconvenience, I am
anxious to avoid putting her to any pain. Now I have come down with a
proposal which I confidently trust you will think reasonable. Indeed,
I expected to find her lawyer here rather than an independent friend,
and I was assured that my proposal would be accepted immediately, by
persons who judged of my rights more sanely perhaps than I could."

"May I hear what the proposal is?" asked Sir Philip.

"Assuredly," replied Mr. Marlow, "it is this: that in the first place
Mrs. Hazleton should appoint some gentleman of honor, either at the
bar or not, as she may think fit, to investigate my claim, with myself
or some other gentleman on my part, with right to call in a third as
umpire between them. I then propose that if my claim should be
distinctly proved, Mrs. Hazleton should surrender to me the lands in
question, I repaying her the sum which my grand-uncle received, and--"

"Stay," said Sir Philip Hastings, "are you aware that the law would
not oblige you to do that?"

"Perfectly," replied Mr. Marlow, "and indeed I am not very sure that
equity would require it either, for I do not know that my father ever
received any benefit from the money paid to his uncle. He may have
received a part however, without my knowing it, for I would rather err
on the right side than on the wrong. I then propose that the rents of
the estate, as shown by the leases, and fair interest upon the value
of the ground surrounding this house, should be computed during the
time that it has been out of our possession, while on the other hand
the legal interest of the money paid for the property should be
calculated for the same period, the smaller sum deducted from the
larger, and the balance paid by me to Mrs. Hazleton or by Mrs.
Hazleton to me, so as to replace every thing in the same state as if
this unfortunate sale had never taken place."

Sir Philip Hastings mused without reply for more than one minute. That
is a long time to muse, and many may be the thoughts and feelings
which pass through the breast of man during that space. They were many
in the present instance, and it would not be very easy to separate or
define them. Sir Philip thought of all the law would have granted to
the young claimant under the circumstances of the case: the whole
property, all the back rents, every improvement that had been made,
the splendid mansion in which they were then standing, without the
payment on his part of a penny: he compared these legal rights with
what he now proposed, and he saw that he had indeed gone a great way
on the generous side of equity. There was something very fine and
noble in this conduct, something that harmonized well with his own
heart and feelings. There was no exaggeration, no romance about it: he
spoke in the tone of a man of business doing a right thing well
considered, and the Baronet was satisfied in every respect but one.
Mrs. Hazleton's words I must not say had created a suspicion, but had
suggested the idea that other feelings might be acting between her and
his young companion, notwithstanding the difference of age which he
had so bluntly pointed out, and he resolved to inquire farther.

In the mean time, however, Mr. Marlow somewhat misinterpreted his
silence, and he added, after waiting longer than was pleasant, "Of
course you understand, Sir Philip, that if two or three honest men
decide that my case is unfounded--although I know that cannot be the
case--I agree to drop it at once and renounce it for ever. My
solicitors and counsel in London judged the offer a fair one at
least."

"And so do I," said Sir Philip Hastings, emphatically; "however, I
must speak with Mrs. Hazleton upon the subject, and express my opinion
to her. Pray, have you the papers regarding your claim with you?"

"I have attested copies," replied Mr. Marlow, "and I can bring them to
you in a moment. They are so unusually clear, and seem to put the
matter so completely beyond all doubt, that I brought them down to
satisfy Mrs. Hazleton and her solicitor, without farther trouble, that
my demand at least had some foundation in justice."

The papers were immediately brought, and sitting down deliberately,
Sir Philip Hastings went through them with his young friend, carefully
weighing every word. They left not even a doubt on his mind; they
seemed not to leave a chance even for the chicanery of the law, they
were clear, precise, and definite. And the generosity of the young
man's offer stood out even more conspicuously than before.

"For my part, I am completely satisfied," said Sir Philip Hastings,
when he had done the examination, "and I have no doubt that Mrs.
Hazleton will be so likewise. She is an excellent and amiable person,
as well as a very beautiful woman. Have you known her long? have you
seen her often?"

"Only once, and that about a year ago," replied Mr. Marlow; "she is
indeed very beautiful as you say--for a woman of her period of life
remarkably so; she puts me very much in mind of my mother, whom I in
the confidence of youthful affection used to call 'my everlasting.' I
recollect doing so only three days before the hand of death wrote upon
her brow the vanity of all such earthly thoughts."

Sir Philip Hastings was satisfied. There was nothing like passion
there. Unobservant as he was in most things, he was more clear-sighted
in regard to matters of love, than any other affection of the human
mind. He had himself loved deeply and intensely, and he had not
forgotten it.

It was necessary, before any thing could be concluded, to wait for
Mrs. Hazleton's rising on the following morning; and, bidding Mr.
Marlow good night with a warm grasp of the hand, Sir Philip Hastings
retired to his room and passed nearly an hour in thought, pondering
the character of his new acquaintance, recalling every trait he had
remarked, and every word he had heard. It was a very satisfactory
contemplation. He never remembered to have met with one who seemed so
entirely a being after his own heart. There might be little flaws,
little weaknesses perhaps, but the confirming power of time and
experience would, he thought, strengthen all that was good, and
counsel and example remedy all that was weak or light.

"At all events," thought the Baronet, "his conduct on this occasion
shows a noble and equitable spirit. We shall see how Mrs. Hazleton
meets it to-morrow."

When that morrow came, he had to see the reverse of the picture, but
it must be reserved for another chapter.




CHAPTER XII.


Mrs. Hazleton was up in the morning early. She was at all times an
early riser, for she well knew what a special conservator of beauty is
the morning dew, but on this occasion certain feelings of impatience
made her a little earlier than usual. Besides, she knew that Sir
Philip Hastings was always a matutinal man, and would certainly be in
the library before she was down. Nor was she disappointed. There she
found the Baronet reaching up his hand to take down Livy, after having
just replaced Tacitus.

"It is a most extraordinary thing, my dear madam," said Sir Philip,
after the salutation of the morning, "and puzzles me more than I can
explain."

Mrs. Hazleton fancied that her friend had discovered some very knotty
point in the case with Mr. Marlow, and she rejoiced, for her object
was not, to emulate but to entangle. Sir Philip, however, went on to
put her out of all patience by saying, "How the Romans, so sublimely
virtuous at one period of their history, could fall into so debased
and corrupt a state as we find described even by Sallust, and depicted
in more frightful colors still by the latter historians of the
empire."

Mrs. Hazleton, as I have said, was out of all patience, and ladies in
that state sometimes have recourse to homely illustration. "Their
virtue got addled, I suppose," she replied, "by too long keeping.
Virtue is an egg that won't bear sitting upon--but now do tell me, Sir
Philip, had you any conversation with Mr. Marlow last night upon this
troublesome affair of mine?"

"I had, my dear madam," replied Sir Philip, with a very faint smile,
for Sir Philip could not well bear any jesting on the Romans. "I did
not only converse with Mr. Marlow on the subject, but I examined
carefully the papers he brought down with him, and perceived at once
that you have not the shadow of a title to the property in question."

Mrs. Hazleton's brow grew dark, and she replied in a somewhat sullen
tone, "You decided against me very rapidly, Sir Philip. I hope you did
not let Mr. Marlow see your strong prepossession--opinion I mean to
say--in his favor."

"Entirely," replied Sir Philip Hastings.

Mrs. Hazleton was silent, and gazed down upon the carpet as if she
were counting the threads of which it was composed, and finding the
calculation by no means satisfactory.

Sir Philip let her gaze on for some time, for he was not very easily
moved to compassion in cases where he saw dishonesty of purpose as
well as suffering. At length, however, he said, "My judgment is not
binding upon you in the least; I tell you simply, my dear madam, what
is my conclusion, and the law will tell you the same."

"We shall see," muttered Mrs. Hazleton between her teeth; but then
putting on a softer air she asked, "Tell me, Sir Philip, would you, if
you were in my situation, tamely give up a property which was honestly
bought and paid for, without making one struggle to retain it?"

"The moment I was convinced I had no legal right to it," replied Sir
Philip. "However, the law is still open to you, if you think it better
to resist; but before you take your determination, you had better hear
what Mr. Marlow proposes, and you will pardon me for expressing to you
what I did not express to him: an opinion that his proposal is founded
upon the noblest view of equity."

"Indeed," said Mrs. Hazleton, with her eyes brightening, "pray let me
hear this proposal."

Sir Philip explained it to her most distinctly, expecting that she
would be both surprised and pleased, and never doubted that she would
accept it instantly. Whether she was surprised or not, did not appear,
but pleased she certainly was not to any great extent, for she did not
wish the matter to be so soon concluded. She began to make objections
immediately. "The enormous expense of building this house has not been
taken into consideration at all, and it will be very necessary to have
the original papers examined before any thing is decided. There are
two sides to every question, my dear Sir Philip, and we cannot tell
that other papers may not be found, disentailing this estate before
the sale took place."

"This is impossible," answered Sir Philip Hastings, "if the papers
exhibited to me are genuine, for this young gentleman, on whom, as his
father's eldest son, the estate devolved by the entail, was not born
when the sale took place. By his act only could it be disentailed, and
as he was not born, he could perform no such act."

He pressed her hard in his cold way, and it galled her sorely.

"Perhaps they are not genuine," she said at length.

"They are all attested," replied Sir Philip, "and he himself proposes
that the originals should be examined as the basis of the whole
transaction."

"That is absolutely necessary," said Mrs. Hazleton, well satisfied to
put off decision even for a time. But Sir Philip would not leave her
even that advantage.

"I think," he said; "you must at once decide whether you accept his
proposal, on condition that the examination of the papers proves the
justice of his claim to the satisfaction of those you may appoint to
examine it. If there are any doubts and difficulties to be raised
afterwards, he might as well proceed by law at once."

"Then let him go to law," exclaimed Mrs. Hazleton with a flashing eye.
"If he do, I will defend every step to the utmost of my power."

"Incur enormous expense, give yourself infinite pain and
mortification, and ruin a fine estate by a spirit of unnecessary and
unjust resistance," added Sir Philip, in a calm and somewhat
contemptuous tone.

"Really, Sir Philip, you press me too hard," exclaimed Mrs. Hazleton
in a tone of angry mortification, and, sitting down to the table, she
actually wept.

"I only press you for your own good," answered the Baronet, not at all
moved, "you are perhaps not aware that if this gentleman's claim is,
just, and you resist it, the whole costs will fall upon you. All that
could be expected of him was to submit his claim to arbitration, but
he now does more; he proposes, if arbitration pronounce it just, to
make sacrifices of his legal rights to the amount of many thousand
pounds. He is not bound to refund one penny paid for this estate, he
is entitled to back rents for a considerable number of years, and yet
he offers to repay the money, and far from demanding the back rents,
to make compensation for any loss of interest that may have been
sustained by this investment. There are few men in England, let me
tell you, who would have made such a proposal, and if you refuse it
you will never have such another."

"Do not you think, Sir Philip," asked Mrs. Hazleton sharply, "that he
never would have made such a proposal if he had not known there was
something wrong about his title?"

Now there was something in this question which doubly provoked Sir
Philip Hastings. He never could endure a habit which some ladies have
of recurring continually to points previously disposed of, and
covering the reiteration by merely putting objections in a new form.
Now the question as to the validity of Mr. Marlow's title, he looked
upon as entirely disposed of by the proposal of investigation and
arbitration. But there was something more than this; the very question
which the lady put showed an incapacity for conceiving any generous
motive, which thoroughly disgusted him, and, turning with a quiet step
to the window, he looked down upon the lawn which spread far away
between two ranges of tall fine wood, glowing in the yellow sunshine
of a dewy autumnal morning. It was the most favorable thing he could
have done for Mrs. Hazleton. Even the finest and the strongest and the
stoutest minds are more frequently affected unconsciously by external
things than any one is aware of. The sweet influences or the
irritating effects of fine or bad weather, of beautiful or tame
scenery, of small cares and petty disappointments, of pleasant
associations or unpleasant memories, nay of a thousand accidental
circumstances, and even fancies themselves, will affect considerations
totally distinct and apart, as the blue or yellow panes of a stained
glass window cast a melancholy hue or a yellow splendor upon the
statue and carvings of the cold gray stone.

As Sir Philip gazed forth upon the fair scene before his eyes, and
thought what a lovely spot it was, how calm, how peaceful, how
refreshing in its influence, he said to himself, "No wonder she is
unwilling to part with it."

Then again, there was a hare gambolling upon the lawn, at a distance
of about a hundred yards from the house, now scampering along and
beating up the dew from the morning grass, now crouched nearly flat so
as hardly to be seen among the tall green blades, then hopping quietly
along with an awkward, shuffling gait, or sitting up on its hind legs,
with raised ears, listening to some distant sound; but still as it
resumed its gambols, again going round and round, tracing upon the
green sward a labyrinth of meandering lines. Sir Philip watched it for
several moments with a faint smile, and then said to himself, "It is
the beast's nature--why not a woman's?"

Turning himself round he saw Mrs. Hazleton, sitting at the table with
her head leaning in a melancholy attitude upon her hand, and he
replied to her last words, though he had before fully made up his mind
to give them no answer whatever.

"The question in regard to title, my dear madam," he said, "is one
which is to be decided by others. Employ a competent person, and he
will insure, by full investigation, that your rights are maintained
entire. Your acceptance of Mr. Marlow's proposals contingent on the
full recognition of his claim, will be far from prejudicing your case,
should any flaw in your title be discovered. On the contrary, should
the decision of a point Of law be required, it will put you well with
the court. By frankly doing so, you also meet him in the same spirit
in which I am sure he comes to you; and as I am certain he has a very
high sense of equity, I think he will be well inclined to enter into
any arrangement which may be for your convenience. From what he has
said himself, I do not believe he can afford to keep such an
establishment as is necessary for this house, and if you cling to it,
as you may well do, doubtless it may remain your habitation as long as
you please at a very moderate rent. Every other particular I think may
be settled in the same manner, if you will but show a spirit of
conciliation, and--"

"I am sure I have done that," said Mrs. Hazleton, interrupting him.
"However, Sir Philip, I will leave it all to you. You must act for me
in this business. If you think it right, I will accept the proposal
conditionally as you mention, and the title can be examined fully
whenever we can fix upon the time and the person. All this is very
hard upon me, I do think; but I suppose I must submit with a good
grace."

"It is certainly the best plan," replied Sir Philip; and while Mrs.
Hazleton retired to efface the traces of tears from her eyelids, the
Baronet walked into the drawing-room, where he was soon after joined
by Mr. Marlow. He merely told him, however, that he had conversed with
the lady of the house, and that she would give him her answer in
person. Now, whatever were Mrs. Hazleton's wishes or intentions, she
certainly was not well satisfied with the precise and rapid manner in
which Sir Philip brought matters of business to an end. His last
words, however, had afforded her a glimmering prospect of somewhat
lengthy and frequent communication between herself and Mr. Marlow, and
one thing is certain, that she did not at all desire the transaction
between them to be concluded too briefly. At the same time, it was not
her object to appear otherwise than in the most favorable light to his
eyes; and consequently, when she entered the drawing-room she held out
her hand to him with a gracious though somewhat melancholy smile,
saying, "I have had a long conversation with Sir Philip this morning,
Mr. Marlow, concerning the very painful business which brought you
here. I agree at once to your proposal in regard to the arbitration
and the rest;" and she then went on to speak of the whole business as
if she had made not the slightest resistance whatever, but had been
struck at once by the liberality of his proposals, and by the sense of
equity which they displayed. Sir Philip took little notice of all
this; for he had fallen into one of his fits of musing, and Mr. Marlow
had quitted the room to bring some of the papers for the purpose of
showing them to Mrs. Hazleton, before the Baronet awoke out of his
reverie. The younger gentleman returned a moment after, and he and Sir
Philip and Mrs. Hazleton were busily looking at a long list of
certificates of births, deaths and marriages, when the door opened,
and Mr. Shanks, the attorney, entered the room, booted, spurred, and
dusty as if from a long ride. He was a man to whom Sir Philip had a
great objection; but he said nothing, and the attorney with a tripping
step advanced towards Mrs. Hazleton.

The lady looked confused and annoyed, and in a hasty manner put back
the papers into Mr. Marlow's hand. But Mr. Shanks was one of the keen
and observing men of the world. He saw every thing about him as if he
had been one of those insects which have I do not know how many
thousand pair of lenses in each eye. He had no scruples or hesitation
either; he was all sight and all remark, and a lady of any kind was
not at all the person to inspire him with reverence.

He was, in short, all law, and loved nothing, respected nothing, but
law.

"Dear me, Mrs. Hazleton," he exclaimed, "I did not expect to find you
so engaged. These seem to be law papers--very dangerous, indeed,
madam, for unprofessional persons to meddle with such things. Permit
me to look at them;" and he held out his hand towards Mr. Marlow, as
if expecting to receive the papers without a word of remonstrance. But
Mr. Marlow held them back, saying, in a very calm, civil tone, "Excuse
me, sir! We are conversing over the matter in a friendly manner; and I
shall show them to a lawyer only at Mrs. Hazleton's request."

"Very improper--that is, I mean to say very unprofessional!" exclaimed
Mr. Shanks, "and let me say very hazardous too," rejoined the lawyer
abruptly; but Mrs. Hazleton herself interposed, saying in a marked
tone and with an air of dignity which did not always characterize her
demeanor towards her "right hand man," as she was accustomed sometimes
to designate Mr. Shanks, "We do not desire any interference at this
moment, my good sir. I appointed you at twelve o'clock. It is not yet
nine."

"O I can see, I can see," replied Mr. Shanks, while Sir Philip
Hastings advanced a step or two, "his worship here never was a friend
of mine, and has no objection to take a job or two out of my hands at
any time."

"We have nothing to do with jobs, sir," said Sir Philip Hastings, in
his usual dry tone, "but at all events we do not wish you to make a
job where there is none."

"I must take the liberty, however, of warning that lady, sir," said
Mr. Shanks, with the pertinacity of a parrot, which he so greatly
resembled, "as her legal adviser, sir, that if----"

"That if she sends for an attorney, she wants him at the time she
appoints," interposed Sir Philip; "that was what you were about to
say, I suppose."

"Not at all, sir, not at all," exclaimed the lawyer; for very shrewd
and very oily lawyers will occasionally forget their caution and their
coolness when they see the prospect of a loss of fees before them. "I
was going to say no such thing. I was going to warn her not to meddle
with matters of business of which she can understand nothing, by the
advice of those who know less, and who may have jobs of their own to
settle while they are meddling with hers."

"And I warn you to quit this room, sir," said Sir Philip Hastings, a
bright spot coming into his usually pale cheek; "the lady has already
expressed her opinion upon your intrusion, and depend upon it, I will
enforce mine."

"I shall do no such thing, sir, till I have fully----"

He said no more, for before he could conclude the sentence, the hand
of Sir Philip Hastings was upon his collar with the grasp of a giant,
and although he was a tall and somewhat powerful man, the Baronet
dragged him to the door in despite of his half-choking struggles, as a
nurse would haul along a baby, pulled him across the stone hall, and
opening the outer door with his left hand, shot him down the steps
without any ceremony; leaving him with his hands and knees upon the
terrace.

This done, the Baronet returned into the house again, closing the door
behind him. He then paused in the hall for an instant, reproaching
himself for certain over-quick beatings of the heart, tranquillized
his whole look and demeanor, and then returning to the drawing-room,
resumed the conversation with Mrs. Hazleton, as if nothing had ever
occurred to interrupt it.




CHAPTER XIII.


Mrs. Hazleton was or affected to be a good deal flustered by the event
which had just taken place, but after a number of certain graceful
attitudes, assumed without the slightest appearance of affectation,
she recovered her calmness, and proceeded with the business in hand.
That business was soon terminated, so far as the full and entire
acceptance of Mr. Marlow's proposal went, and immediately after the
conclusion of breakfast, Sir Philip Hastings ordered his horses to
depart. Mrs. Hazleton fain would have detained him, for she foresaw
that his going might be a signal for Mr. Marlow's going also, and it
was not a part of her policy to assume the matronly character so
distinctly as to invite him to remain in her house alone. Sir Philip
however was inexorable, and returned to his own dwelling, renewing his
invitation to his new acquaintance.

Mrs. Hazleton bade him adieu, with the greatest appearance of
cordiality; but I am very much afraid, if one had possessed the power
of looking into her heart, one would have a picture very different
from that presented by her face. Sir Philip Hastings had said and done
things since he had entered her dwelling the night before, which Mrs.
Hazleton was not a woman to forget or forgive. He had thwarted her
schemes, he had mortified her vanity, he had wounded her pride; and
she was one of those women who bide their time, but have a strong
tenacity of resentments.

When he was gone, however, she played a new game with Mr. Marlow. She
insisted upon his remaining for the day, but with a fine sense of
external proprieties, she informed him that she expected a charming
elderly lady of her acquaintance to pass a few days with her, to whom
she should particularly like to introduce him.

This was false, be it remarked; but she immediately took measures to
make it true. Now, there is in every neighborhood more than one of
that class called good creatures. For this office, an abundant store
of real or assumed soft stupidity is required; but it is a somewhat
difficult part to play, for with this stupidity there must also be a
considerable portion of fine tact, to guard the performer against any
of those blunders into which good-natured people are continually
plunging. Drill and discipline are also necessary, in order to be
always on the look out for hints, to appreciate them properly, to
comprehend that friends may say one thing and mean another, and to ask
no questions of any kind. There were no less than three of these good
creatures in this Mrs. Hazleton's immediate neighborhood; and during a
few moments' retreat to her own little writing-room, she laid her
finger upon her fair temple, and thought them well over. Mrs. Winifred
Edgeby was the first who suggested herself to the mind of the fair
lady. She had many of the requisites. She dressed well, talked well,
and had an air of style and fashion about her; was perfectly
innocuous, and skilful in divining the purposes and wishes of a friend
or patron; but there was an occasional touch of subacrid humor about
her which Mrs. Hazleton did not half like. It gave an impression of
seeing too clearly, of perceiving much more than she pretended to
perceive.

The second was Mrs. Warmington, a widow, not very rich, and not indeed
very refined; gay, talkative, somewhat boisterous, yet full of a sound
discretion in never committing herself or a friend. She had also much
experience, for she had been twice married, and twice a widow, and
thus had had her misfortunes. The third was a Miss Goodenough, the
most silent, quiet, stilly person in the world, moving about the house
with the step of a cat, and a face of infinite good nature to the
whole human race. She was to all appearance the pink of gentleness and
weak good nature; but her silence was invaluable.

After some consideration Mrs. Hazleton decided upon the widow, and
instantly dispatched a note with her own carriage, begging Mrs.
Warmington to come over immediately and spend a few days with her, as
a young gentleman had arrived upon a visit, and it would be indecorous
to entertain him alone.

Mrs. Warmington understood it all in an instant. She said to her. If,
"Ho, ho! a young gentleman come to stay--wanted a duenna! Matrimony in
the wind! Heigho! she must be six and thirty--six and thirty from two
and fifty leave sixteen points against me, and long odds. Well,
well,--I have had my share;" and Mrs. Warmington laughed aloud.
However, she would neither keep Mrs. Hazleton's carriage waiting, nor
Mrs. Hazleton herself in suspense, for there were various little
comforts and conveniences in the good will of that lady which Mrs.
Warmington was eager to cultivate. She had, too, a shrewd suspicion
that the enmity of Mrs. Hazleton might become a thing to be seriously
dreaded; and therefore, whichever side of the question she looked at,
she saw reasons for seeking the beautiful widow's good graces. Her
maid was called, her clothes packed up, and she entered the carriage
and drove away, while in the mean time Mrs. Hazleton had been
expatiating to Mr. Marlow upon all the high qualities and points of
excellence in her friend Mrs. Warmington. She was too skilful,
moreover, to bring her good taste and judgment into question with her
young friend, by raising expectations which might be disappointed. She
therefore threw in insinuations of a few faults and failings in dear
Madam Warmington's manner and demeanor. But then she said she was such
a good creature at heart, that although the very fastidious affected
to censure, she herself forgot all little blemishes in the inherent
excellence of the person.

Moreover, upon the plea of looking at the ground which was the subject
of Mr. Marlow's claim, she led him out for a long, pleasant ramble
through the park. She took him amongst old hawthorn trees, through
groves of chestnuts by the banks of the stream, and along paths where
the warm sunshine played through the brown and yellow leaves above,
gilding their companions which had fallen earlier than themselves to
the sward below. It was a very lover-like walk indeed--one where
nature speaks to the heart, wakening sweet influences, and charming
the spirit up from hard and cold indifference. Mrs. Hazleton felt sure
that Mr. Marlow would not forget that walk, and she took care to
impress it as deeply as possible upon his memory. Nor did she want any
of the means to do so. Her mind was highly cultivated for the age in
which she lived, her taste fine, her information extensive. She could
discourse of foreign lands, of objects and scenes of deep interest,
great beauty, and rich associations,--of courts and cities far away,
of music, painting, flowers in other lands, of climates rich in
sunshine and of genial warmth; and through the whole she had the art
to throw a sort of magic glow from her own mind which brightened all
she spoke of.

She was very charming that day, indeed, and Mr. Marlow felt the spell,
but he did not fall in love.

Now what was the object of using all these powers upon him? Was Mrs.
Hazleton a person very susceptible, or very covetous of the tender
passion? Since her return to England she had refused some half-dozen
very eligible offers from handsome, agreeable, estimable men, and the
world in general had set her down for a person as cold as a stone. It
might be so, but there are some stones, which, when you heat them,
acquire intense fervor, and retain it longer than any other substance.
Every body in the world has his peculiarities, his whims, caprices,
crochets if you will. Mrs. Hazleton had gazed over the handsome, the
glittering and the gay, with the most perfect indifference. She had
listened to professions of love with a tranquil, easy balance power,
which weighed to a grain the advantages of matrimony and widowhood,
without suffering the dust of passion to give even a shake to the
scale. Before the preceding night she had only seen Mr. Marlow once,
but the moment she set eyes upon him--the moment she heard his voice,
she had said to herself, "If ever I marry again, that is the man."
There is no explaining these sympathetic attractions, impulses, or
whatever they may be called; but I think, from some observation of
human nature, it will be found that in those persons where they are
the least frequent, they are the most powerful and persevering when
they do exist.

Not long after their first meeting, some intimation occurred
of a claim on the part of Mr. Marlow to a portion of the lady's
property--that portion that she loved best. The very idea of parting
with it at all, of being forced to give it up, was most painful and
distressing to her. Yet that made no difference whatever in her
feelings towards Mr. Marlow. Communications of various kinds took
place between lawyers, and the opposite counsel were as firm as a
rock. Mrs. Hazleton thought it very hard, very unjust, very wrong; but
that changed not in the least her feelings towards Mr. Marlow. Nay
more, with that delicate art of combination in which ladies are formed
to excel, she conceived and manipulated with great dexterity a scheme
for bringing herself and Mr. Marlow into frequent personal
communication, and for causing somebody to suggest to him a marriage
with her own beautiful self, as the best mode of settling the disputed
claim.

O those fine and delicate threads of intrigue, how frail they are, and
how much depends upon every one of them, be it in the warp or the woof
of a scheme! We have seen that in this case, one of them gave way
under the rough handling of Sir Philip Hastings, and the whole fabric
was in imminent danger of running down and becoming nothing but a
raveled skein. Mrs. Hazleton was resolved that it should not be so,
and now she was busily engaged in the attempt to knot together the
broken thread, and to lay all the others straight and in right order
again. This was the secret of the whole matter.

She exerted all her charms, and could Waller but have seen her we
should have had such an account of the artillery of her eyes, the
insidious attack of her smile, and the whole host of powerful
adversaries brought to bear against the object of her assault in her
gracefully moving form and heaving bosom, that Saccharissa would have
melted away like a wet lump of sugar in the comparison.

Then again when she had produced an effect, and saw clear and
distinctly that he thought her lovely, and very charming too, she
seemed to fall into a pleasant sort of languid melancholy, which was
even more charming still. The brook was bubbling and murmuring at
their feet, dashing clear and bright over its stony bed, and changing
the brown rock, the water weed, or the leaf beneath, into gems by the
magic of its own brightness. The boughs were waving over head, covered
with many-colored foliage, and the sun, glancing through, not only
enriched the tints above, but checkered the mossy path along which
they wandered like a chess-board of brown and gold. Some of the late
autumn birds uttered their short sweet songs from the copse hard by,
and the musical wind came sighing up from the valley, as if nature had
furnished Eolus with a harp. It was in short quite a scene, and a
moment for a widow to make love to a young man. They were silent for
some little time, and then Mrs. Hazleton said, with her soft, sweet,
round voice, "Is not all this very charming, Mr. Marlow?"

Her tone was quite a sad one, but not with that sort of pleasant
sadness which often mingles with our happiest moments, giving them
even a higher zest, like the flattened notes when a fine piece of
music passes gently from the major into the minor key, but really sad,
profoundly sad.

"Very charming, indeed," replied her young companion, looking round to
her face with some surprise.

"And what am I to do without it, when you turn me out of my house!"
said the lady, answering his glance with a melancholy smile.

"Turn you out of your house!" exclaimed Mr. Marlow; "I hope you do not
suppose, my dear madam, that I could dream of such a thing. Oh, no! I
would not for the world deprive such a scene of its brightest
ornament. Some arrangement can be easily effected, even if my claim
should prove satisfactory to those you appoint to investigate it, by
which the neighborhood will not be deprived of the happiness of your
presence."

Mrs. Hazleton felt that she had made a great step, and as she well
knew that there was no chance of his proposing then and there, she
resolved not to risk losing ground by any farther advance, even while
she secured some present benefits from that which was gained. "Well,
well," she said, "Mr. Marlow, I am quite sure you are very kind and
very generous, and we can talk of that matter hereafter. Only there is
one thing you must promise me, which is, that in regard to any
arrangements respecting the house you will not leave them to be
settled by cold lawyers or colder friends, who cannot enter into my
feelings in regard to this place, or your own liberal and kindly
feelings either. Let us settle it some day between ourselves," she
added, with a light laugh, "in a tête-à-tête like this. I do not
suppose you are afraid of being overreached by me in a bargain. But
now let us turn our steps back towards the house, for I expect Mrs.
Warmington early, and I must not be absent when she arrives."

Mrs. Warmington was there already; for the tête-à-tête had lasted
longer than Mrs. Hazleton knew. However, Mrs. Hazleton's first task
was to inform her fair friend and counsellor of the cause of Mr.
Marlow's being there; her next to tell her that all had been settled
as to the claim, by that tiresome man Sir Philip Hastings, without
what she considered due deliberation, and that the only thing which
remained to be arranged was in regard to the house, respecting which
Mrs. Hazleton communicated a certain portion of her own inclinations,
and of Mr. Marlow's kind view of the matter.

Now, strange to say, this was the turning point of fate for Mrs.
Hazleton, Mr. Marlow, and most of the persons mentioned in this
history. It was then that Mrs. Warmington suggested a scheme which she
thought would suit her friend well.

"Why do you not offer him in exchange--for the time at all
events--your fine old house on the side of Hartwell--Hartwell Place?
It is only seven miles off. It is ready furnished to his hand, and
must be worth a great deal more than the bare walls of this. Besides
it would be pleasant to have him in the neighborhood."

Pause, Mrs. Hazleton! pause and meditate over all the consequences;
for be assured much depends upon these few simple words.

Mrs. Hazleton did pause--Mrs. Hazleton did meditate. She ran over in
her head the list of all the families in the neighborhood. In none of
them could she see a probable rival. There were plenty of married
women, old maids, young girls; but she saw nobody to fear, and with a
proud consciousness of her own beauty and worth; she took her
resolution. That very evening she proposed to Mr. Marlow what her
friend had suggested. It was accepted.

Mrs. Hazleton had made one miscalculation, and her fate and Mr.
Marlow's were decided.




CHAPTER XIV.


Occasionally in the life of man, as in the life of the
world--History--or in the course of a stream towards the sea, come
quiet lapses, sunny and calm, reflecting nothing but the still
motionless objects around, or the blue sky and moving clouds above.
Often too we find that this tranquil expanse of silent water follows
quickly after some more rapid movement, comes close upon some spot
where a dashing rapid has diversified the scene, or a cataract, in
roar and confusion and sparkling terror, has broken the course of the
stream.

Such a still pause, silent of action--if I may use the term--followed
the events which I have related in the last chapter, extending over a
period of nearly six months. Nothing happened worthy of any minute
detail. Peace and tranquillity dwelt in the various households which I
have noticed in the course of this story, enlivened in that of Sir
Philip Hastings by the gay spirit of Emily Hastings, although somewhat
shadowed by the sterner character of her father; and in the household
of Mrs. Hazleton brightened by the light of hope, and the fair
prospect of success in all her schemes which for a certain time
continued to open before her.

Mr. Marlow only spent two days at her house, and then went away to
London, but whatever effect her beauty might have produced upon him,
his society, brief as it was, served but to confirm her feelings
towards him, and before he left her, she had made up her mind fully
and entirely, with her characteristic vigor and strength of
resolution, that her marriage with Mr. Marlow was an event which must
and should be. There was under this conviction, but not the less
strong, not the less energetic, not the less vehement, for being
concealed even from herself--a resolution that no sacrifice, no fear,
no hesitation at any course, should stand in the way of her purpose.
She did not anticipate many difficulties certainly; for Mr. Marlow
clearly admired her; but the resolution was, that if difficulties
should arise, she would overcome them at all cost. Hers was one of
those characters of which the world makes its tragedies, having within
itself passions too strong and deep to be frequently excited--as the
more profound waters which rise into mountains when once in motion
require a hurricane to still them--together with that energetic will,
that fixed unbending determination, which like the outburst of a
torrent from the hills, sweeps away all before it. But let it be ever
remembered that her energies were exerted upon herself as well as upon
others, not in checking passion, not in limiting desire, but in
guarding scrupulously every external appearance, guiding every thought
and act with careful art towards its destined object. Mrs. Hazleton
suffered Mr. Marlow to be in London more than a month before she
followed to conclude the mere matters of business between them. It
cost her a great struggle with herself, but in that struggle she was
successful, and when at length she went, she had several interviews
with him. Circumstances--that great enemy of schemes, was against her.
Sometimes lawyers were present at their interviews, sometimes
impertinent friends; but Mrs. Hazleton did not much care: she trusted
to the time he was speedily about to pass in the country, for the full
effect, and in the mean time took care that nothing but the golden
side of the shield should be presented to her knight.

The continent was at that time open to Englishmen for a short period,
and Mr. Marlow expressed his determination of going to the Court of
Versailles for a month or six weeks before he came down to take
possession of Hartwell place, everything now having been settled
between them in regard to business.

Mrs. Hazleton did not like his determination, yet she did not much
fear the result; for Mr. Marlow was preeminently English, and never
likely to wed a French woman. Still she resolved that he should see
her under another aspect before he went. She was a great favorite of
the Court of those days; her station, her wealth, her beauty, and her
grace rendered her a brightness and an ornament wherever she came. She
was invited to one of the more private though not less splendid
assemblies at the Palace, and she contrived that Mr. Marlow should be
invited also, though neither by nature or habit a courtier. She
obtained the invitation for him skilfully, saying to the Royal
Personage of whom she asked it, that as he won a lawsuit against her,
she wished to show him that she bore no malice. He went, and found her
the brightest in the brilliant scene; the great and the proud, the
handsome and the gay, all bending down and worshipping, all striving.
for a smile, and obtaining it but scantily. She smiled upon him,
however, not sufficiently to attract remark from others, but quite
sufficiently to mark a strong distinction for his own eyes, if he had
chosen to use them. He went away to France, and Mrs. Hazleton,
returned to the country; the winter passed with her in arranging his
house for him; and, in so doing, she often had to write to him. His
replies were always prompt, kind, and grateful; and at length came the
spring, and the pleasant tidings that he was on his way back to his
beloved England.

Alas for human expectation! Alas for the gay day-dream of
youth--maturity--middle age--old age--for they have all their
day-dreams! Every passion which besets man from the cradle to the
grave has its own visionary expectations. Each creature, each animal,
from the tiger to the beetle, has its besetting insect, which preys
upon it, gnaws it, irritates it, and so have all the ages of the soul
and of the heart. Alas for human speculation of all kinds! Alas for
every hope and aspiration! for those that are pure and high, but,
growing out of earth, bear within themselves the bitter seeds of
disappointment; and those that are dark or low produce the germ of
the most poisonous hybrid, where disappointment is united with
remorse.

Happy is the man that expecteth nothing, for verily he shall not be
disappointed! It is a quaint old saying; and could philosophy ever
stem the course of God's will, it would be one which, well followed,
might secure to man some greater portion of mortal peace than he
possesses. But to aspire was the ordinance of God; and, viewed
rightly, the withering of the flowers upon each footstep we have taken
upwards, is no discouragement; for if we shape our path aright, there
is a wreath of bright blossoms crowning each craggy peak before us, as
we ascend to snatch the garland of immortal glory, placed just beyond
the last awful leap of death.

Mrs. Hazleton's aspirations, however, were all earthly. She thought of
little beyond this life. She had never been taught so to think. There
are some who are led astray from the path of noble daring, to others
as difficult and more intricate, by some loud shout of passion on the
right or on the left--and seek in vain to return; some who, misled by
an apparent similarity in the course of two paths, although the finger
post says, "Thus shalt thou go!" think that the way so plainly beaten,
and so seemingly easy, must surely lead them to the same point. Others
again never learn to read the right path from the wrong (and she was
one), while others shut their eyes to all direction, fix their gaze
upon the summit, and strain up, now amidst flowers and now amidst
thorns, till they are cast back from the face of some steep precipice,
to perish in the descent or at the foot.

Mrs. Hazleton's aspirations were all earthly; and that was the secret
of her only want in beauty. That divine form, that resplendent face,
beamed with every earthly grace, sparkled forth mind and intellect in
every glance, but they were wanting in soul, in spirit, and in heart.
Life was there, but the life of life, the intense flame of immortal,
over-earthly intelligence, was wanting. She might be the grandest
animal that ever was seen, the most bright and capable intellect that
ever dealt with mortal things; but the fine golden chain which leads
on the electric fire from intellectual eminence to spiritual
preeminence, from mind to soul, from earth to heaven, was wanting, or
had been broken. Her loveliness none could doubt, her charm of manner
none could deny, her intellectual superiority all admitted, her
womanly softness added a grace beyond them all; but there was one
grace wanting--the grace of a high, holy soul, which, in those who
have it, be they fair, be they ugly, pours forth as an emanation from
every look and every action, and surrounds them with a cloud of
radiance, faintly imaged by the artist's glory round a saint.

Alas for human aspirations! Alas for the expectations of this fair
frail creature! How eagerly she thought of Mr. Marlow's return how she
had anticipated their meeting again! How she had calculated upon all
that would be said and done during the next few weeks! The first news
she received was that he had arrived, and with a few servants had
taken possession of his new dwelling. She remained all day in her own
house; she ordered no carriage; she took no walk: she tried to read;
she played upon various instruments of music; she thought each instant
he would come, at least for a few minutes, to thank her for all the
care she had bestowed to make his habitation comfortable. The sun
gilded the west; the melancholy moon rose up in solemn splendor; the
hours passed by, and he came not.

The next morning, she heard that he had ridden over to the house of
Sir Philip Hastings, and indignation warred with love in her bosom.
She thought he must certainly come that day, and she resolved angrily
to upbraid him for his want of courtesy. Luckily, however, for her, he
did not come that day; and a sort of melancholy took possession of
her. Luckily, I say; for when passion takes hold of a scheme it is
generally sure to shake it to pieces, and that melancholy loosens the
grasp of passion for a time. The next day he did come, and with an air
so easy and unconscious of offence as almost to provoke her into
vehemence again. He knew not what she felt--he had no idea of how he
had been looked for. He was as ignorant that she had ever thought of
him as a husband, as she was that he had ever compared her in his mind
to his own mother.

He talked quietly, indifferently, of his having been over to the house
of Sir Philip Hastings, adding merely--not as an excuse, but as a
simple fact--that he had been unable to call there as he had promised
before leaving the country. He dilated upon the kind reception he had
met with from Lady Hastings, for Sir Philip was absent upon business;
and he went on to dwell rather largely upon the exceeding beauty and
great grace of Emily Hastings.

Oh how Mrs. Hazleton hated her! It requires but a few drops of poison
to envenom a whole well.

He did worse: he proceeded to descant upon her character--upon the
blended brightness and deep thought--upon the high-souled emotions and
childlike sparkle of her disposition--upon the simplicity and
complexity, upon the many-sided splendor of her character, which, like
the cut diamond, reflected each ray of light in a thousand varied and
dazzling hues. Oh how Mrs. Hazleton hated her--hated, because for the
first time she began to fear. He had spoken to her in praise of
another woman--with loud encomiums too, with a brightened eye, and a
look which told her more than his words. These were signs not to be
mistaken. They did not show in the least that he loved Emily Hastings,
and that she knew right well; but they showed that he did not love
her; and there was the poison in the cup.

So painful, so terrible was the sensation, that, with all her mastery
over herself, she could not conceal the agony under which she writhed.
She became silent, grave, fell into fits of thought, which clouded the
broad brow, and made the fine-cut lip quiver. Mr. Marlow was surprised
and grieved. He asked himself what could be the matter. Something had
evidently made her sorrowful, and he could not trace the sorrow to its
source; for she carefully avoided uttering one word in depreciation of
Emily Hastings. In this she showed no woman's spirit. She could have
stabbed her, had the girl been there in her presence; but she would
not scratch her. Petty spite was too low for her, too small for the
character of her mind. Hers was a heart capable of revenge, and would
be satisfied with nothing less.

Mr. Marlow soothed her, spoke to her kindly, tenderly, tried to lead
her mind away, to amuse, to entertain her. Oh, it was all gall and
bitterness to her. He might have cursed, abused, insulted her,
without, perhaps, diminishing her love--certainly without inflicting
half the anguish that was caused by his gentle words. It is impossible
to tell all the varied emotions that went on in her heart--at least
for me. Shakspeare could have done it, but none less than Shakspeare.
For a moment she knew not whether she loved or hated him; but she soon
felt and knew it was love; and the hate, like lightning striking a
rock, and glancing from the solid stone to rend a sapling, all turned
away from him, to fall upon the head of poor unconscious Emily
Hastings.

Though she could not recover from the blow she had received, yet she
soon regained command over herself, conversed, smiled, banished
absorbing thoughts, answered calmly, pertinently, even spoke in her
own bright, brilliant way, with a few more figures and ornaments of
speech than usual; for figures are things rather of the head than of
the heart, and it was from the head that she was now speaking.

At length Mr. Marlow took his leave, and for the first time in life
she was glad he was gone.

Mrs. Hazleton gave way to no burst of passion: she shed not a tear;
she uttered no exclamation. That which was within her heart, was too
intense for any such ordinary expression. She seated herself at a
table, leaned her head upon her hand, and fixed her eyes upon one
bright spot in the marquetry. There she sat for more than an entire
hour, without a motion, and in the meantime what were the thoughts
that passed through her brain? We have shown the feelings of her heart
enough.

She formed plans; she determined her course; she looked around for
means. Various persons suggested themselves to her mind as
instruments. The three women, I have mentioned in a preceding
chapter--the good sort of friends. But it was an agent she wanted, not
a confidant. No, no, Mrs. Hazleton knew better than to have a
confidant. She was her own best council-keeper, and she knew it.
Nevertheless, these good ladies might serve to act in subordinate
parts, and she assigned to each of them their position in her scheme
with wonderful accuracy and skill. As she did so, however, she
remembered that it was by the advice of Mrs. Warmington that she had
brought Mr. Marlow to Hartwell Place; and in her heart's secret
chamber she gave her fair friend a goodly benediction. She resolved to
use her nevertheless--to use her as far as she could be serviceable;
and she forgot not that she herself had been art and part in the
scheme that had failed. She was not one to shelter herself from blame
by casting the whole storm of disappointment upon another, She took
her own full share. "If she was a fool so to advise," said Mrs.
Hazleton, "'twas a greater fool to follow her advice."

She then turned to seek for the agent. No name presented itself but
that of Shanks, the attorney; and she smiled bitterly when she thought
of him. She recollected that Sir Philip Hastings had thrown him
head-foremost down the steps of the terrace, and that was very
satisfactory to her; for, although Mr. Shanks was a man who sometimes
bore injuries very meekly, he never forgot them.

Nevertheless, she had somewhat a difficult part to play, for most
agents have a desire of becoming confidants also, and that Mrs.
Hazleton determined her attorney should not be. The task was to
insinuate her purposes rather than to speak them--to act, without
betraying the motive of action--to make another act, without
committing herself by giving directions.

Nevertheless, Mrs. Hazleton arranged it all to her own satisfaction;
and as she did so, amongst the apparently extinct ashes of former
schemes, one small spark of hope began to glow, giving promise for the
time to come. What did she propose? At first, nothing more than to
drive Sir Philip Hastings and his family from the country, mingling
the gratification of personal hatred with efforts for the
accomplishment of her own purposes. It was a bold attempt, but Mrs.
Hazleton had her plan, and she sat down and wrote for Mr. Shanks, the
attorney.




CHAPTER XV.


Decorum came in with the house of Hanover. I know not whether men and
women in England were more virtuous before--I think not--but they
certainly were more frank in both their virtues and their vices. There
were fewer of those vices of conventionality thrown around the human
heart--fewer I mean to say of those cold restraints, those gilded
chains of society, which, like the ornaments that ladies wear upon
their necks and arms, seem like fetters; but, I fear me, restrain but
little human action, curb not passion, and are to the strong will but
as the green rushes round the limbs of the Hebrew giant. Decorum came
into England with the house of Hanover; but I am speaking of a period
before that, when ladies were less fearful of the tongue of scandal,
when scandal itself was fearful of assailing virtue, when honesty of
purpose and purity of heart could walk free in the broad day, and men
did not venture to suppose evil acts perpetrated whenever, by a
possibility, they could be committed.

Emily Hastings walked quietly along by the side of Mr. Marlow, through
her father's park. There was no one with him, no keen matron's ear to
listen to and weigh their words, no brother to pretend to accompany
them, and either feel himself weary with the task or lighten it by
seeking his own amusement apart. They were alone together, and they
talked without restraint. Ye gods, how they did talk! The dear girl
was in one of her brightest, gayest moods. There was nothing that did
not move her fancy or become a servant to it. The clouds as they shot
across the sky, the blue fixed hills in the distance, the red and
yellow and green coloring of the young budding oaks, the dancing of
the stream, the song of the bird, the whisper of the wind, the misty
spring light which spread over the morning distance, all had
illustrations for her thoughts. It seemed that day as if she could not
speak without a figure--as if she revelled in the flowers of
imagination, like a child tossing about the new mown grass in a
hay-field. And he, with joyous sport, took pleasure in furnishing her
at every moment with new material for the bounding joy of fancy.

They had not known each other long; but there was something in the
young man's manner--nay, let me go farther--in his character, which
invited confidence, which besought the hearts around to throw off all
strange disguise, and promised that he would take no base advantage of
their openness. That something was perhaps his earnestness: one felt
that he was true in all he said or did or looked: that his words were
but his spoken feelings: his countenance a paper on which the heart at
once recorded its sensations. But let me not be mistaken. Do not let
it be supposed that when I say he was earnest, I mean that he was even
grave. Oh no! Earnestness can exist as well in the merriest as in the
soberest heart. One can be as earnest, as truthful, even as eager in
joy or sport, as in sorrow or sternness. But he was earnest in all
things, and it was this earnestness which probably found a way for him
to so many dissimilar hearts.

Emily knew not at all what it was doing with hers; but she felt that
he was one before whom she had no need to hide a thought: that if she
were gay, she might be gay in safety: that if she were inclined to
muse, she might muse on in peace.

Onward they walked, talking of every thing on earth but love. It was
in the thoughts of neither. Emily knew nothing about it: the tranquil
expanse of life had never for her been even rippled by the wing of
passion. Marlow might know more; but for the time he was lost in the
enjoyment of the moment. The little enemy might be carrying on the war
against the fortress of each unconscious bosom; but if so, it was by
the silent sap and mine, more potent far than the fierce assault or
thundering cannonade--at least in this sort of warfare.

They were wending their way towards a gate, at the very extreme limit
of the park, which opened upon a path leading by a much shorter way to
Mr. Marlow's own dwelling than the road he usually pursued. He had
that morning come to spend but an hour at the house of Sir Philip
Hastings, and he had an engagement at his own house at noon. He had
spent two hours instead of one with Emily and her mother, and
therefore short paths were preferable to long ones for his purpose.
Emily had offered to show him the way to the gate, and her company was
sure to shorten the road, though it might lengthen the time it took to
travel.

Now in describing the park of Sir Philip Hastings, I have said that
there was a wide open space around the mansion; but I have also said,
that at some distance the trees gathered thick and sombre. Those
nearest the house gathered together in clumps, confusing the eye in a
wilderness of hawthorns, and bushes, and evergreen oaks, while beyond
appeared a dense mass of wood; and, through the scattered tufts of
trees and thick woodland at the extreme of the park ran several paths
traced by deer, and park-keepers, and country folk. Thus for various
reasons some guidance was needful to Marlow on his way, and for more
reasons still he was well pleased that the guide should be Emily
Hastings. In the course of their walk, amongst many other subjects
they spoke of Mrs. Hazleton, and Marlow expatiated warmly on her
beauty, and grace, and kindness of heart. How different was the effect
of all this upon Emily Hastings from that which his words in her
praise had produced upon her of whom he spoke! Emily's heart was free.
Emily had no schemes, no plans, no purposes. She knew not that there
was one feeling in her bosom with which praise of Mrs. Hazleton could
ever jar. She loved her well. Such eyes as hers are not practised in
seeing into darkness. She had divined the Italian singer--perhaps by
instinct, perhaps by some distinct trait, which occasionally will
betray the most wily. But Mrs. Hazleton was a fellow-woman--a woman of
great brightness and many fine qualities. Neither had she any
superficial defects to indicate a baser metal or a harder within. If
she was not all gold, she was doubly gilt.

Emily praised her too, warmed with the theme; and eagerly exclaimed,
"She always seems to me like one of those dames of fairy tales, upon
whom some enchanter has bestowed a charm that no one can resist. It is
not her beauty; for I feel the same when I hear her voice and shut my
eyes. It is not her conversation; for I feel the same when I look at
her and she is silent. It seems to breathe from her presence like the
odor of a flower. It is the same when she is grave as when she is
gay."

"Aye, and when she is melancholy," replied Marlow. "I never felt it
more powerfully than a few days ago when I spent an hour with her, and
she was not only grave but sad."

"Melancholy!" exclaimed Emily. "I never saw her so. Grave I have seen
her--thoughtful, silent--but never sad; and I do not know that she has
not seemed more charming to me in those grave, stiller moods, than in
more cheerful ones. Do you know that in looking at the beautiful
statues which I have seen in London, I have often thought they might
lose half their charm if they would move and speak? Thus, too, with
Mrs. Hazleton; she seems to me even more lovely, more full of grace,
in perfect stillness than at any other time. My father," she added,
after a moment's pause, "is the only one who in her presence seems
spell-proof."

Her words threw Marlow into a momentary fit of thought. "Why," he
asked himself, "was Sir Philip Hastings spell-proof when all others
were charmed?"

Men have a habit of depending much upon men's judgment, whether justly
or unjustly I will not stop to inquire. They rely less upon woman's
judgment in such matters; and yet women are amongst the keenest
discerners--when they are unbiassed by passion. But are they often so?
Perhaps it is from a conviction that men judge less frequently from
impulse, decide more generally from cause, that this presumption of
their accuracy exists. Woman--perhaps from seclusion, perhaps from
nature--is more a creature of instincts than man, They are given her
for defence where reason would act too slowly; and where they do act
strongly, they are almost invariably right. Man goes through the
slower process, and naturally relies more firmly on the result; for
reason demonstrates where instinct leads blindfold. Marlow judged Sir
Philip Hastings by himself, and fancied that he must have some cause
for being spell-proof against the fascinations of Mrs. Hazleton. This
roused the first doubt in his mind as to her being all that she
seemed. He repelled the doubt as injurious, but it returned from time
to time in after days, and at length gave him a clue to an intricate
labyrinth.

The walk came to an end, too soon he thought. Emily pointed out the
gate as soon as it appeared in sight, shook hands with him and
returned homeward. He thought more of her after they had parted, than
when she was with him. There are times when the most thoughtful do not
think--when they enjoy. But now, every word, every look of her who
had just left him, came back to memory. Not that he would admit to
himself that there was the least touch of love in his feelings. Oh
no! He had known her too short a time for such a serious passion as
love to have any thing to do with his sensations. He only thought of
her--mused--pondered--recalled all she had said and done, because she
was so unlike any thing he had seen or heard of before--a something
new--a something to be studied.

She was but a girl--a mere child, he said; and yet there was something
more than childish grace in that light, but rounded form, where beauty
was more than budding, but not quite blossomed, like a moss-rose in
its loveliest state of loveliness. And her mind too; there was nothing
childish in her thoughts except their playfulness. The morning
dew-drops had not yet exhaled; but the day-star of the mind was well
up in the sky.

She was one of those, on whom it is dangerous for a man afraid of love
to meditate too long. She was one the effect of whose looks and words
is not evanescent. That of mere beauty passes away. How many a face do
we see and think it the loveliest in the world; yet shut the eyes an
hour after, and try to recall the features--to paint them to the
mind's eye. You cannot. But there are others that link themselves with
every feeling of the heart, that twine themselves with constantly
recurring thoughts, that never can be effaced--never forgotten--on
which age or time, disease or death, may do its work without effecting
one change in the reality embalmed in memory. Destroy the die, break
the mould, you may; but the medal and the cast remain. Had Marlow
lived a hundred years--had he never seen Emily Hastings again, not one
line of her bright face, not one speaking look, would have passed from
his memory. He could have painted a portrait of her had he been an
artist. Did you ever gaze long at the sun, trying your eyes against
the eagle's? If so, you have had the bright orb floating before your
eyes the whole day after. And so it was with Marlow: throughout the
long hours that followed, he had Emily Hastings ever before him. But
yet he did not love her. Oh dear no, not in the least. Love he thought
was very different from mere admiration. It was a plant of slower
growth. He was no believer in love at first sight. He was an infidel
as to Romeo and Juliet, and he had firmly resolved if ever he did fall
in love, it should be done cautiously.

Poor man! he little knew how deep he was in already.

In the meanwhile, Emily walked onward. She was heart-whole at least.
She had never dreamed of love. It had not been one of her studies. Her
father had never presented the idea to her. Her mother had often
talked of marriage, and marriages good and bad; but always put them in
the light of alliances--compacts--negotiated treaties. Although Lady
Hastings knew what love is as well as any one, and had felt it as
deeply, yet she did not wish her daughter to be as romantic as she had
been, and therefore the subject was avoided. Emily thought a good deal
of Mr. Marlow, it is true. She thought him handsome, graceful,
winning--one of the pleasantest companions she had ever known. She
liked him better than any one she had ever seen; and his words rang in
her ears long after they were spoken. But even imagination, wicked
spinner of golden threads as she is, never drew one link between his
fate and hers. The time had not yet come, if it was to come.

She walked on, however, through the wood; and just when she was
emerging from the thicker part into the clumps and scattered trees,
she saw a stranger before her, leaning against the stump of an old
hawthorn, and seeming to suffer pain. He was young, handsome,
well-dressed, and there was a gun lying at his feet. But as Emily drew
nearer, she saw blood slowly trickling from his arm, and falling on
the gray sand of the path.

She was not one to suffer shyness to curb humanity; and she exclaimed
at once, with a look of alarm, "I am afraid you are hurt, sir. Had you
not better come up to the house?"

The young man looked at her, fainted, and answered in a low tone, "The
gun has gone off, caught by a branch, and has shattered my arm. I
thought I could reach the cottage by the park gates, but I feel
faint."

"Stay, stay a moment," cried Emily, "I will run to the hall and bring
assistance--people to assist you upon a carriage."

"No, no!" answered the stranger quickly, "I cannot go there--I will
not go there! The cottage is nearer," he continued more calmly. "I
think with a little help I could reach it, if I could staunch the
blood.

"Let me try," exclaimed Emily; and with ready zeal, she tied her
handkerchief round his arm, not without a shaking hand indeed, but
with firmness and some skill.

"Now lean upon me," she said, when she had done; "the cottage is
indeed nearer, but you would have better tendance if you could reach
the hall."

"No, no, the cottage," replied the stranger, "I shall do well there."

The cottage was perhaps two hundred yards nearer to the spot on which
they stood than the hall; but there was an eagerness about the young
man's refusal to go to the latter, which Emily remarked. Suspicion
indeed was alive to her mind; but those were days when laws concerning
game, which have very year been becoming less and less strict, were
hardly less severe than in the time of William Rufus. Every day, in
the country life which she led, she heard some tale of poaching or its
punishment. The stranger had a gun with him; she had found him in her
father's park; he was unwilling even in suffering and need of help to
go up to the hall for succor; and she could not but fancy that for
some frolic, perhaps some jest, or some wild whim, he had been
trespassing upon the manor in pursuit of game. That he was an ordinary
poacher she could not suppose; his dress, his appearance forbade such
a supposition.

But there was something more.

In the young man's face--more in its expression than its features
perhaps--more in certain marking lines and sudden glances than in the
general whole--there was something familiar to her--something that
seemed akin to her. He was handsomer than her father; of a more
perfect though less lofty character of beauty; and yet there was a
strange likeness, not constant, but flashing occasionally upon her
brow, in what, when, she could hardly determine.

It roused another sort of sympathy from any she had felt before; and
once more she asked him to go up to the hall.

"If you have been taking your sport," she said, "where perhaps you
ought not, I am sure my father will look over it without a word, when
he sees how you are hurt. Although people sometimes think he is stern
and severe, that is all a mistake. He is kind and gentle, I assure
you, when he does not feel that duty requires him to be rigid."

The stranger gave a quick start, and replied in a tone which would
have been haughty and fierce, had not weakness subdued it, "I have
been shooting only where I have a right to shoot. But I will not go up
to the hall, till--but I dare say I can get down to the cottage
without help, Mistress Emily. I have been accustomed to do without
help in the world;" and he withdrew his arm from that which supported
him. The next moment, however, he tottered, and seemed ready to fall,
and Emily again hurried to help him. There were no more words spoken.
She thought his manner somewhat uncivil; she would not leave him, and
the necessity for her kindness was soon apparent. Ere they were within
a hundred yards of the cottage, he sunk slowly down. His face grew
pale and death-like, and his eyes closed faintly as he lay upon the
turf. Emily ran on like lightning to the cottage, and called out the
old man who lived there. The old man called his son from the little
garden, and with his and other help, carried the fainting man in.

"Ay, master John, master John," exclaimed the old cottager, as he laid
him in his own bed; "one of your wild pranks, I warrant!"

His wife, his son, and he himself tended the young man with care; and
a young boy was sent off for a surgeon.

Emily did not know what to do; but compassion kept her in the cottage
till the stranger recovered his consciousness, and then after
inquiring how he felt, she was about to withdraw, intending to send
down further aid from the hall. But the stranger beckoned her faintly
to come nearer, and said in tones of real gratitude, "Thank you a
thousand times, Mistress Emily; I never thought to need such kindness
at your hands. But now do me another, and say not a word to any one at
the mansion of what has happened. It will be better for me, for you,
for your father, that you should not speak of this business."

"Do not! do not! Mistress Emily!" cried the old man, who was standing
near. "It will only make mischief and bring about evil."

He spoke evidently under strong apprehension, and Emily was much
surprised, both to find that one quite a stranger to her knew her at
once, and to find the old cottager, a long dependant upon her family,
second so eagerly his strange injunction.

"I will say nothing unless questions are asked me," she replied; "then
of course I must tell the truth."

"Better not," replied the young man gloomily.

"I cannot speak falsely," replied the beautiful girl "I cannot deal
doubly with my parents or any one," and she was turning away.

But the stranger besought her to stop one moment, and said, "I have
not strength to explain all now; but I shall see you again, and then I
will tell you why I have spoken as you think strangely. I shall see
you again. In common charity you will come to ask if I am alive or
dead. If you knew how near we are to each other, I am sure you would
promise!"

"I can make no such promise," replied Emily; but the old cottager
seemed eager to end the interview; and speaking for her, he exclaimed,
"Oh, she will come, I am sure, Mistress Emily will come;" and hurried
her away, seeing her back to the little gate in the park wall.




CHAPTER XVI.


Mrs. Hazleton found Mr. Shanks, the attorney, the most difficult
person to deal with whom she had ever met in her life. She had
remarked that he was keen, active, intelligent, unscrupulous,
confident in his own powers, bold as a lion in the wars of quill,
parchment, and red tape; without fear, without hesitation, without
remorse. There was nothing that he scrupled to do, nothing that he
ever repented having done. She had fancied that the only difficulty
which she could have to encounter was that of concealing from him, at
least in a degree, the ultimate objects and designs which she herself
had in view.

So shrewd people often deceive themselves as to the character of other
shrewd people. The difficulty was quite different. It was a peculiar
sort of stolidity on the part of Mr. Shanks, for which she was utterly
unprepared.

Now the attorney was ready to do any thing on earth which his fair
patroness wished. He would have perilled his name on the roll in her
service; and was only eager to understand what were her desires, even
without giving her the trouble of explaining them. Moreover, there was
no point of law or equity, no manner of roguery or chicanery, no
object of avarice, covetousness, or ambition, which he could not have
comprehended at once. They were things within his own ken and scope,
to which the intellect and resources of his mind were always open. But
to other passions, to deeper, more remote motives and emotions, Mr.
Shanks was as stolid as a door-post. It required to hew a way as it
were to his perceptions, to tunnel his mind for the passage of a new
conception.

The only passion which afforded the slightest cranny of an opening was
revenge; and after having tried a dozen other ways of making him
comprehend what she wished without committing herself, Mrs. Hazleton
got him to  understand that she thought Sir Philip Hastings had
injured--at all events, that he had offended--her, and that she sought
vengeance. From that moment all was easy. Mr. Shanks could understand
the feeling, though not its extent. He would himself have given ten
pounds out of his own pocket--the largest sum he had ever given in
life for any thing but an advantage--to be revenged upon the same man
for the insult he had received; and he could perceive that Mrs.
Hazleton would go much further, without, indeed, being able to
conceive, or even dream of, the extent to which she was prepared to
go.

However, when he had once got the clue, he was prepared to run along
the road with all celerity; and now she found him every thing she had
expected. He was a man copious in resources, prolific of schemes. His
imagination had exercised itself through life, in devising crooked
paths; but in this instance the road was straight-forward before him.
He would rather it had been tortuous, it is true; but for the sake of
his dear lady he was ready to follow even a plain path, and he
explained to her that Sir Philip Hastings stood in a somewhat
dangerous position.

He was proceeding to enter into the details, but Mrs. Hazleton
interrupted him, and, to his surprise, not only told him, but showed
him, that she knew all the particulars.

"The only question is, Mr. Shanks," she said, "can you prove the
marriage of his elder brother to this woman before the birth of the
child?"

"We think we can, madam," replied the attorney, "we think we can.
There is a very strong letter, and there has been evidently--"

He paused and hesitated, and Mrs. Hazleton demanded, "There has been
what, Mr. Shanks?"

"There has been evidently a leaf torn out of the register," replied
the lawyer.

There was something in his manner which made the lady gaze keenly in
his face; but she would ask no questions on that subject, and she
merely said, "Then why has not the case gone on, as it was put in your
hands six months ago?"

"Why, you see, my dear madam," replied Shanks, "law is at best
uncertain. One wants two or three great lawyers to make a case. Money
was short; John and his mother had spent all last year's annuity.
Barristers won't plead without fees, and besides--"

He paused again, but an impatient gesture from the lady urged him on.
"Besides," he said, "I had devised a little scheme, which, of course,
I shall abandon now, for marrying him to Mistress Emily Hastings. He
is a very handsome young fellow, and--"

"I have seen him," said Mrs. Hazleton, thoughtfully, "but why should
you abandon this scheme, Mr. Shanks? It seems to me by no means a bad
one."

The poor lawyer was now all at sea again, and fancied himself as wide
of the lady's aim as ever.

Mrs. Hazleton suffered him to remain in this dull suspense for some
time. Wrapped up in her own thoughts, and busy with her own
calculations, she suffered several minutes to elapse without adding a
word to that which had so much surprised the attorney. Then, however,
she said, in a meditative tone, "There is only one way by which it can
be accomplished. If you allow it to be conducted in a formal manner,
you will fail utterly. Sir Philip will never consent. She will never
even yield."

"But if Sir Philip is made to see that it will save him a tremendous
lawsuit, and perhaps his whole estate," suggested Mr. Shanks.

"He will resist the more firmly," answered the lady; "if it saved his
life, he would reject it with scorn--no! But there is a way. If you
can persuade her--if you can show her that her father's safety, his
position in life, depends upon her conduct, perhaps you may bring her
by degrees to consent to a private marriage. She is young,
inexperienced, enthusiastic, romantic. She loves her father devotedly,
and would make any sacrifice for him."

"No great sacrifice, I should think, madam," replied Mr. Shanks, "to
marry a handsome young man who has a just claim to a large fortune."

"That is as people may judge," replied the lady; "but at all events
this claim gives us a hold upon her which we must not fail to use, and
that directly. I will contrive means of bringing them together. I will
make opportunity for the lad, but you must instruct him how to use it
properly. All I can do is to co-operate without appearing."

"But, my dear madam, I really do not fully understand," said Mr.
Shanks. "I had a fancy--a sort of imagination like, that you
wished--that you desired--"

He hesitated; but Mrs. Hazleton would not help him by a single word,
and at last he added, "I had a fancy that you wished this suit
to go on against Sir Philip Hastings, and now--but that does not
matter--only do you really wish to bring it all to an end, to settle
it by a marriage between John and Mistress Emily?"

"That will be the pleasantest, the easiest way of settling it, sir,"
replied Mrs. Hazleton, coolly; "and I do not at all desire to injure,
but rather to serve Sir Philip and his family."

That was false, for though to marry Emily Hastings to any one but Mr.
Marlow was what the lady did very sincerely desire; yet there was a
long account to be settled with Sir Philip Hastings which could not
well be discharged without a certain amount of injury to him and his.
The lady was well aware, too, that she had told a lie, and moreover
that it was one which Mr. Shanks was not at all likely to believe.
Perhaps even she did not quite wish him to believe it, and at all
events she knew that her actions must soon give it contradiction. But
men make strange distinctions between speech and action, not to be
accounted for without long investigation and disquisition. There are
cases where people shrink from defining in words their purposes, or
giving voice to their feelings, even when they are prepared by acts to
stamp them for eternity. There are cases where men do acts which they
dare not cover by a lie.

Mrs. Hazleton sought for no less than the ruin of Sir Philip Hastings;
she had determined it in her own heart, and yet she would not own it
to her agent--perhaps she would not own it to herself. There is a dark
secret chamber in the breast of every one, at the door of which the
eyes of the spirit are blindfolded, that it may not see the things to
which it is consenting. Conscience records them silently, and sooner
or later her book is to be opened; it may be in this world: it may be
in the next: but for the time that book is in the keeping of passion,
who rarely suffers the pages to be seen till purpose has been ratified
by act, and remorse stands ready to pronounce the doom.

There was a pause after Mrs. Hazleton had spoken, for the attorney was
busy also with thoughts he wished to utter, yet dared not speak. The
first prospect of a lawsuit--the only sort of the picturesque in which
he could find pleasure--a long, intricate, expensive lawsuit, was
fading before his eyes as if a mist were coming over the scene. Where
were his consultations, his letters, his briefs, his pleas, its
rejoinders, his demurrers, his appeals? Where were the fees, the
bright golden fees? True, in the hopelessness of his young client's
fortunes, he had urged the marriage with a proviso, that if it took
place by his skilful management, a handsome bonus was to be his share
of the spoil. But then Mrs. Hazleton's first communication had raised
brighter hopes, had put him more in his own element, had opened to him
a scene of achievements as glorious to his notions as those of the
listed field to knights of old; and now all was vanishing away. Yet he
did not venture to tell her how much he was disappointed, still less
to show her why and how.

It was the lady who spoke first; and she did so in as calm,
deliberate, passionless a tone as if she had been devising the fashion
of a new Mantua.

"It may be as well, Mr. Shanks," she said, "in order to produce the
effect we wish upon dear Emily's mind"--dear Emily!--"to commence the
suit against Sir Philip--I mean to take those first steps which may
create some alarm. I cannot of course judge what they ought to be, but
you must know; and if not, you must seek advice from counsel learned
in the law. You understand what I mean, doubtless."

"Oh, certainly, madam, certainly," replied Mr. Shanks, with a profound
sigh of relief. "First steps commit us to nothing: but they must be
devised cautiously, and I am very much afraid that--that--"

"Afraid of what, sir?" asked Mrs. Hazleton, in a tone somewhat stern.

"Only that the expense will be greater than my young client can
afford," answered the lawyer, seeing that he must come to the point.

"Let not that stand in the way," said Mrs. Hazleton at once; "I will
supply the means. What will be the expense?"

"Would you object to say five hundred pounds?" asked the lawyer,
cautiously.

"A thousand," replied the lady, with a slight inclination of the head;
and then, weary of circumlocution, she added in a bolder tone than she
had yet used, "only remember, sir, that what is done must be done
effectually; no mistakes, no errors, no flaws! See that you use all
your eyes--see that you bend every nerve to the task. I will have no
procrastination for the sake of fresh fees--nothing omitted one day to
be remembered the next--no blunders to be corrected after long delays
and longer correspondence. I know you lawyers and your ways right
well; and if I find that for the sake of swelling a bill to the
bursting, you attempt to procrastinate, the cause will be taken at
once from your hands and placed in those who will do their work more
speedily. You can practise those tricks upon those who are more or
less in your power; but you shall not play them upon me."

"I declare, my dear madam, I can assure you," said Mr. Shanks; but
Mrs. Hazleton cut him short. "There, there," she said, waving her fair
hand, "do not declare--do not assure me of any thing. Let your actions
speak, Mr. Shanks. I am too much accustomed to declarations and
assurances to set much value upon them. Now tell me, but in as few
words and with as few cant terms as possible, what are the chances of
success in this suit? How does the young man's case really stand?"

Mr. Shanks would gladly have been excused such explanations. He never
liked to speak clearly upon such delicate questions, but he would not
venture to refuse any demand of Mrs. Hazleton's, and therefore he
began with a circumlocution in regard to the uncertainty of law, and
to the impossibility of giving any exact assurances of success.

The lady would not be driven from her point, however. "That is not
what I sought to know," she said. "I am as well aware of the law's
uncertainty--of its iniquity, as you. But I ask you what grounds you
have to go upon? Were they ever really married? Is this son
legitimate?"

"The lady says they were married," replied Mr. Shanks cautiously, "and
I have good hope we can prove the legitimacy. There is a letter in
which the late Mr. John Hastings calls her 'my dear little wife;' and
then there is clearly a leaf torn out of the marriage register about
that very time."

Mr. Shanks spoke the last words slowly and with some hesitation; but
after a pause he went on more boldly and rapidly. "Then we have a
deposition of the old woman Danby that they were married. This is
clear and precise," he continued with a grin: "she wanted to put in
something about 'in the eyes of God,' but I left that out as beside
the question; and she did the swearing very well. She might have
broken down under cross-examination, it is true; and therefore it was
well to put off the trial till she was gone. We can prove, moreover,
that the late Sir John always paid an annuity to both mother and
child, in order to make them keep secret--nay more, that he bribed the
old woman Danby. This is our strong point; but it is beyond doubt--I
can prove it, madam--I can prove it. All I fear is the mother; she is
weak--very weak; I wish to heaven she were out of the way till the
trial is over."

"Send her out of the way," cried Mrs. Hazleton, decidedly; "send her
to France;" and then she added, with a bitter smile, "she may still
figure amongst the beauties of Versailles.

"But she will not go," replied Mr. Shanks. "Madam, she will not go. I
hinted at such a step--mentioned Cornwall or Ireland--any where she
could be concealed."

"Cornwall or Ireland!" exclaimed Mrs. Hazleton, "of course she would
not go. Why did not you propose Africa or the plantations? She shall
go, Mr. Shanks. Leave her to me. She shall go. And now, set to work at
once--immediately, I say--this very day. Send the youth to-morrow, and
let him bring me word that some step is taken. I will instruct him how
to act, while you deal with the law."

Mr. Shanks promised to obey, and retired overawed by all he had seen
and heard. There had, it is true, been no vehement demonstration of
passion; no fierce blaze; no violent flash; but there had been
indications enough to show the man of law all that was raging within.
It had been for him like gazing at a fine building on fire at that
period of the conflagration where dense smoke and heavy darkness brood
over the fearful scene, while dull, suddenly-smothered flashes break
across the gloom, and tell how terrible will be the flame when it does
burst freely forth.

He had never known Mrs. Hazleton before--he had never comprehended her
fully. But now he knew her--now, though perhaps the depths were still
unfathomable to his eyes, he felt that there was a strong commanding
will within that beautiful form which would bear no trifling. He had
often treated her with easy lightness--with no want of apparent
respect indeed--but with the persuasions and arguments such as men of
business often address to women as beings inferior to themselves
either in intellect or experience. Now Mr. Shanks wondered how he had
escaped so long and so well, and he resolved that for the future his
conduct should be very different.

Mrs. Hazleton, when he left her, sat down to rest--yes, to rest; for
she was very weary. There had been the fatiguing strife of strong
passions in the heart--hopes--expectations--schemes--contrivances;
and, above all, there had been a wrestling with herself to deal calmly
and softly where she felt fiercely. It had exhausted her; and for some
minutes she sat listlessly, with her eyes half shut, like one utterly
tired out. Ere a quarter of an hour had passed, wheels rolled up to
the door; a carriage-step was let down, and there was a footfall in
the hall.

"Dear Mrs. Warmington, delighted to see you!" said Mrs. Hazleton, with
a smile sweet and gentle as the dawn of a summer morning.




CHAPTER XVII.

Circumstance will always have its finger in the pie with the best-laid
schemes; but it does not always happen that thereby the pie is
spoiled. On the contrary, circumstance is sometimes a very powerful
auxiliary, and it happened so in the present instance with the
arrangements of Mrs. Hazleton. Before that lady could bring any part
of her scheme for introducing Emily to the man whom she intended to
drive her into taking as a husband, to bear, the introduction had
already taken place, as we have seen, by an accident.

It was likely, indeed, to go no further; for Emily thought over what
had occurred, before she gave way to her native kindness of heart. She
remembered how tenacious all country gentlemen of that day were of
their sporting rights, and especially of what she had often heard her
father declare, that he looked upon any body who took his game off his
property, according to every principle of equity and justice, as no
better than a common robber.

"If the only excuse be that it is more exposed to depredation than
other property," said Sir Philip, "it only shows that the plunderer of
it is a coward as well as a villain, and should be punished the more
severely." Such, and many such speeches she had heard from her father
at various times, and it became a case of conscience, which puzzled
the poor girl much, whether she ought or ought not to have promised
not to mention what had occurred in the park. She loved no
concealment, and nothing would have induced her to tell a falsehood;
but she knew that if she mentioned the facts, especially while the
young man whom she had seen crossing the park with a gun lay wounded
at the cottage, great evil might have resulted; and though she
somewhat reproached herself for rashly giving her word, she would not
break it when given.

As to seeing him again, however--as to visiting him at the cottage,
even to inquire after his health, when he had refused all aid from her
father's house, that was an act she never dreamed of. His last words,
indeed, had puzzled her; and there was something in his face, too,
which set her fancy wandering. It was not exactly what she liked; but
yet there was a resemblance, she thought, to some one she knew and was
attached to. It could not be to her father, she said to herself, and
yet her father's face recurred to her mind more frequently than any
other when she thought of that of the young man she had seen; and from
that fact a sort of prepossession in the youth's favor took possession
of her, making her long to know who he really was.

For some days Emily did not go near the cottage, but at length she
ventured on the road which passed it--not without a hope, indeed, that
she might meet one of the old people who tenanted it, and have an
opportunity of inquiring after his health--but certainly not, as some
good-natured reader may suppose, with any expectation of seeing him
herself. As she approached, however, she perceived him sitting on a
bench at the cottage-door, and, by a natural impulse, she turned at
once into another path, which led back by a way nearly as short to the
hall. The young man instantly rose, and followed her, addressing her
by name, in a voice still weak, in truth, but too loud for her not to
hear, or to affect not to hear.

She paused, rather provoked than otherwise, and slightly inclined her
head, while the young man approached, with every appearance of
respect, and thanked her for the assistance she had rendered him.

He had had his lesson in the mean time, and he played his part not
amiss. All coarse swagger, all vulgar assumption was gone from his
manner; and referring himself to some words he had spoken when last
they had met, he said: "Pardon me, Miss Hastings, for what I said some
days ago, which might seem both strange and mysterious, and for
pressing to see you again; but at that time I was faint with loss of
blood, and knew not how this might end. I wished to tell you something
I thought you ought to hear; but now I am better; and I will find a
more fitting opportunity ere long."

"It will be better to say any thing you think fit to my father,"
replied Emily. "I am not accustomed to deal with any matters of
importance; and any thing of so much moment as you seem to think this
is, would, of course, be told by me to him."

"I think not," replied the other, with a mysterious smile; "but of
that you will judge when you have heard all I have to say. Your father
is the last person to whom I would mention it myself, because I
believe, notwithstanding all his ability, he is the last person who
would judge sanely of it, as he would of most other matters; but, of
course, you will speak of it or not, as you think proper. At present,"
he added, "I am too weak to attempt the detail, even if I could
venture to detain you here. I only wished to return you my best
thanks, and assure you of my gratitude;" and bowing low, he left her
to pursue her way homeward.

Emily went on musing. No woman's breast is without curiosity--nor any
man's, either--and she asked herself what could be the meaning of the
stranger's words, at least a dozen times. What could he have to tell
her, and why was there so much mystery? She did not like mystery,
however; and though she felt interested in the young man--felt pity,
in fact--yet it was by no means the interest that leads to, nor the
pity which is akin to love. On the contrary, she liked him less than
the first time she saw him. There was a certain degree of cunning in
his mysterious smile, a look of self-confidence, almost of triumph in
his face, which, in spite of his respectful demeanor, did not please
her.

Emily's father was absent from home at this time; but he returned two
or three days after this last interview, and remarked that his
daughter was unusually grave. To her, and to all that affected her in
any way, his eyes were always open, though he often failed to
comprehend that which he observed. Lady Hastings, too, had noticed
Emily's unusual gravity, and as she had no clue to that which made her
thoughtful, she concluded that the solitude of the country had a
depressing influence upon her spirits, as it frequently had upon her
own and she determined to speak to her husband upon the matter. To him
she represented that the place was very dull; that they had but few
visitors; that even Mr. Marlow had not called for a week; and that
Emily really required some variety of scene and amusement.

She reasoned well according to her notions, and though Sir Philip
could not quite comprehend them, though he abhorred great cities, and
loved the country, she had made some impression at least by
reiteration, when suddenly a letter arrived from Mrs. Hazleton,
petitioning that Emily might be permitted to spend a few days with
her.

"I am quite alone," she said, "and not very well (she never was better
in her life), and I propose next week to make some excursions to all
the beautiful and interesting spots in the neighborhood. But you know,
dear Lady Hastings, there is but small pleasure in such expeditions
when they must be solitary; but with such a mind as that of your dear
Emily for my companion, every object will possess a double interest."

The reader has perceived that the letter was addressed to Lady
Hastings; but it was written for the eye of Sir Philip, and to him it
was shown. Lady Hastings observed, as she put the note into her
husband's hand, that it would be much better to go to London. The
change from their own house to Mrs. Hazleton's was not enough to do
Emily any good; and that, as to these expeditions to neighboring
places, she had always found them the dullest things imaginable.

Sir Philip thought differently, however. He had been brought to the
point of believing that Emily did want change, but not to the
conviction that London would afford the best change for her. He
inquired of Emily, however, which she would like best, a visit of a
week to Mrs. Hazleton's, or a short visit to the metropolis. Much to
his satisfaction, Emily decided at once in favor of the former, and
Mrs. Hazleton's letter was answered, accepting her invitation.

The day before Emily went, Mr. Marlow spent nearly two hours with her
and her father in the sort of musy, wandering conversation which is so
delightful to imaginative minds. He paid Emily herself no marked or
particular attention; but he never suffered her to doubt that even
while talking with her father, he was fully conscious of her presence,
and pleased with it. Sometimes his conversation was addressed to her
directly, and when it was not, by a word or look he would invite her
to join in, and listened to her words as if they were very sweet to
his ear.

She loved to listen to him, however, better than to speak herself, and
he contrived to please and interest her in all he said, gently moving
all sorts of various feelings, sometimes making her smile gayly,
sometimes muse thoughtfully, and sometimes rendering her almost sad.
If he had been the most practiced love-maker in the world, he could
not have done better with a mind like that of Emily Hastings.

He heard of her proposed visit to Mrs. Hazleton with pleasure, and
expressed it. "I am very glad to hear you are to be with her," he
said, "for I do not think Mrs. Hazleton is well. She has lost her
usual spirits, and has been very grave and thoughtful when I have seen
her lately."

"Oh, if I can cheer and soothe her," cried Emily eagerly, "how
delightful my visit will be to me. Mrs. Hazleton says in her letter
that she is unwell; and that decided me to go to her, rather than to
London."

"To London!" exclaimed Mr. Marlow, "I had no idea that you proposed
such a journey. Oh, Sir Philip, do not take your daughter to London.
Friends of mine there are often in the habit of bringing in fresh and
beautiful flowers from the country; but I always see that first they
become dull and dingy with the smoke and heavy air, and then wither
away and perish; and often in gay parties, I have thought that I saw
in the young and beautiful around me the same dulling influence, the
same withering, both of the body and the heart."

Sir Philip Hastings smiled pleasantly, and assured his young friend
that he had no desire or intention of going to the capital except for
one month in the winter, and Emily looked up brightly, saying, "For my
part, I only wish that even then I could be left behind. When last I
was there, I was so tired of the blue velvet lining of the gilt
_vis-a-vis_, that I used to try and paint fancy pictures of the
country upon it as I drove through the streets with mamma."

At length Emily set out in the heavy family coach, with her maid and
Sir Philip for her escort. Progression was slow in those days compared
with our own, when a man can get as much event into fifty years as
Methuselah did into a thousand. The journey took three hours at the
least; but it seemed short to Emily, for at the end of the first hour
they were overtaken by Mr. Marlow on horseback, and he rode along with
them to the gate of Mrs. Hazleton's house. He was an admirable
horseman, for he had not only a good but a graceful seat, and his
handsome figure and fine gentlemanly carriage never appeared to
greater advantage than when he did his best to be a centaur. The slow
progress of the lumbering vehicle might have been of some
inconvenience, but his horse was trained to canter to a walk when he
pleased, and, leaning to the window of the carriage, and sometimes
resting his hand upon it, he contrived to carry on the conversation
with those within almost as easily as in a drawing-room.

Just as the carriage was approaching the gate, Marlow said: "I think I
shall not go in with you Sir Philip for I have a little business
farther on, and I have ridden more slowly than I thought;" but before
the sentence was well concluded, the gates of the park were opened by
the porter, and Mrs. Hazleton herself appeared within, leaning on the
arm of her maid. She had calculated well the period of Emily's
arrival, and had gone out to the gate for the purpose of giving her an
extremely hospitable welcome. Probably, had she not hated her as
warmly and sincerely as she did, she would have stayed at home; our
attention is ever doubtful.

But what were Mrs. Hazleton's feelings when she saw Mr. Marlow riding
by the side of the carriage? I will not attempt to describe them; but
for one instant a strange dark cloud passed over her beautiful face.
It was banished in an instant; but not before Marlow had remarked both
the expression itself and the sudden glance of the lady's eyes from
him to Emily. For the first time a doubt, a suspicion, a something he
did not like to fathom, came over his mind; and he resolved to watch.
Neither Emily nor her father perceived that look, and as the next
moment the beautiful face was once more as bright as ever, they felt
pleased with her kind eagerness to meet them; and alighting from the
carriage, walked on with her to the house, while Marlow, dismounted,
accompanied them, leading his horse.

"I am glad to see you, Mr. Marlow," said Mrs. Hazleton, in a tone from
which she could not do what she would--banish all bitterness. "I
suppose I owe the pleasure of your visit to that which you yourself
feel in escorting a fair lady."

"I must not, I fear, pretend to such gallantry," replied Marlow. "I
overtook the carriage accidentally as I was riding to Mr. Cornelius
Brown's; and to say the truth, I did not intend to come in, for I am
somewhat late."

"Cold comfort for my vanity," replied the lady, "that you would not
have paid me a visit unless you had met me at the gate."

She spoke in a tone rather of sadness than of anger; but Marlow did
not choose to perceive any thing serious in her words, and he replied,
laughing: "Nay, dear Mrs. Hazleton, you do not read the riddle aright.
It shows, when rightly interpreted, that your society is so charming
that I cannot resist its influence when once within the spell, even
for the sake of the Englishman's god--Business."

"A man always succeeds in drawing some flattery for woman's ear out of
the least flattering conduct," answered Mrs. Hazleton.

The conversation then took another turn; and after walking with the
rest of the party up to the house, Marlow again mounted and rode away.
As soon as the horses had obtained some food and repose, Sir Philip
also returned, and Emily was left with a woman who felt at her heart
that she could have poniarded her not an hour before.

But Mrs. Hazleton was all gentle sweetness, and calm, thoughtful,
dignified ease. She did not suffer her attention to to diverted for
one moment from her fair guest: there were no reveries, no absence of
mind; and Emily--poor Emily--thought her more charming than ever.
Nevertheless, while speaking upon many subjects, and brightly and
intelligently upon all, there was an under-current of thought going on
unceasingly in Mrs. Hazleton's mind, different from that upon the
surface. She was trying to read Marlow's conduct towards Emily--to
judge whether he loved her or not. She asked herself whether his
having escorted her to that house was in reality purely accidental,
and she wished that she could have seen them together but for a few
moments longer, though every moment had been a dagger to her heart.
Nay, she did more: she strove by many a dexterous turn of the
conversation, to lure out her fair unconscious guest's inmost
thoughts--to induce her, not to tell all, for that she knew was
hopeless, but to betray all. Emily, however, happily for herself, was
unconscious; she knew not that there was any thing to betray.
Fortunately, most fortunately, she knew not what was in her own
breast; or perhaps I should say, knew not what it meant. Her answers
were all simple, natural and true; and plain candor, as often happens,
disappointed art.

Mrs. Hazleton retired for the night with the conviction that whatever
might be Marlow's feelings towards Emily, Emily was not in love with
Marlow; and that was something gained.

"No, no," she said, with a pride in her own discernment, "a woman who
knows something of the world can never be long deceived in regard to
another woman's heart." She should have added, "except by its
simplicity."

"Now," she continued, mentally, "to-morrow for the first great step.
If this youth can but demean himself wisely, and will follow the
advice I have given him, he has a fair field to act in. He seems
prompt and ready enough: he is assuredly handsome, and what between
his good looks, kind persuasion by others, and her father's dangerous
position, this girl methinks may be easily driven--or led into his
arms; and that stumbling-block removed. He will punish her enough
hereafter, or I am mistaken."

Punish her for what, Mrs. Hazleton?




CHAPTER XVIII.


It was long ere Emily Hastings slept. There was a bright moonlight;
but she sat not up by the window, looking out at the moon in love-lorn
guise. No, she laid her down in bed, as soon as the toilet of the
night was concluded, and having left the window-shutters open, the
light of the sweet, calm brightener of the night poured in a long,
tranquil ray across the floor. She watched it, with her head resting
on her hand for a long time. Her fancy was very busy with it, as by
slow degrees it moved its place, now lying like a silver carpet by her
bedside, now crossing the floor far away, and painting the opposite
wall. Her thoughts then returned to other things, and whether she
would or not, Marlow took a share in them. She remembered things that
he had said, his looks came back to her mind, she seemed to converse
with him again, running over in thought all that had passed in the
morning.

She was no castle-builder; there were no schemes, plans, designs, in
her mind; no airy structures of future happiness employed fancy as
their architect. She was happy in her own heart; and imagination, like
a bee, extracted sweetness from the flowers of the present.

Sweet Emily, how beautiful she looked, as she lay there, and made a
night-life for herself in the world of her own thoughts!

She could not sleep, she knew not why. Indeed, she did not wish or try
to sleep. She never did when sleep did not come naturally; but always
remained calmly waiting for the soother, till slumber dropped uncalled
and stilly upon her eyelids.

One hour--two hours--the moonbeam had retired far into a corner of the
room, the household was all still; there was no sound but the barking
of a distant farm-dog, such a long way off; that it reached the ear
more like an echo than a sound, and the crowing of a cock, not much
more near.

Suddenly, her door opened, and a figure entered, bearing a small
night-lamp. Emily started, and gazed. She was pot much given to fear,
and she uttered not a sound; for which command over herself she was
very thankful, when, in the tall, graceful form before her, she
recognized Mrs. Hazleton. She was dressed merely as she had risen from
her bed: her rich black hair bound up under her snowy cap, her long
night-gown trailing on the ground, and her feet bare. Yet she looked
perhaps more beautiful than in jewels and ermine. Her eyes were not
fixed and motionless, though there was a certain sort of deadness in
them. Neither were her movements stiff and mechanical, as we often see
in the representations of somnambulism on the stage. On the contrary,
they were free and graceful. She looked neither like Mrs. Siddons nor
any other who ever acted what she really was. Those who have seen the
state know better. She was walking in her sleep, however: that strange
act of a life apart from waking life--that mystery of mysteries, when
the soul seems severed from all things on earth but the body which it
inhabits--when the mind sleeps, but the spirit wakes--when the animal
and the spiritual live together, yet the intellectual lies dead for
the time.

Emily comprehended her condition at once, and waited and watched,
having heard that it is dangerous to wake suddenly a person in such a
state. Mrs. Hazleton walked on past her bed towards a door at the
other side of the room, but stopped opposite the toilet-table, took up
a ribbon that was lying on it, and held it in her hand for a moment.

"I hate him!" she said aloud; "but strangle him--oh, no! That would
not do. It would leave a blue mark. I hate him, and her too! They
can't help it--they must fall into the trap."

Emily rose quietly from her bed, and advancing with a soft step, took
Mrs. Hazleton's hand gently. She made no resistance, only gazing at
her with a look not utterly devoid of meaning. "A strange world!" she
said, "where people must live with those they hate!" and suffered
Emily to lead her towards the door. She showed some reluctance to pass
it, however, and turned slowly towards the other door. Her beautiful
young guide led her thither, and opened it; then went on through the
neighboring room, which was vacant, Mrs. Hazleton saying, as they
passed the large bed canopied with velvet, "My mother died there--ah,
me!" The next door opened into the corridor; but Emily knew not where
her hostess slept, till perceiving a light streaming out upon the
floor from a room near the end, she guided Mrs. Hazleton's steps
thither, rightly judging that it must be the chamber she had just
left. There she quietly induced her to go to bed again, taking the
lamp from her hand, and bending down her sweet, innocent face, gave
her a gentle kiss.

"Asp!" said Mrs. Hazleton, turning away; but Emily remained with her
for several minutes, till the eyes closed, the breathing became calm
and regular, and natural sleep succeeded to the strange state into
which she had fallen.

Then returning to her own room, Emily once more sought her bed; but
though the moonlight had now departed, she was farther from sleep than
ever.

Mrs. Hazleton's words still rang in her ears. She thought them very
strange; but yet she had heard--it was indeed a common superstition in
those days--that people talking in their sleep expressed feelings
exactly the reverse of those which they really entertained; and her
good, bright heart was glad to believe. She would not for the world
have thought that the fair form, and gentle, dignified manners of her
friend could shroud feelings so fierce and vindictive as those which
had breathed forth in the utterance of that one word, "hate." It
seemed to her impossible that Mrs. Hazleton could hate any thing, and
she resolved to believe so still. But yet the words rang in her ears,
as I have said. She had been somewhat agitated and alarmed, too,
though less than many might have been, and more than an hour passed
before her sweet eyes closed.

On the morning of the following day, Emily was somewhat late at
breakfast; and she found Mrs. Hazleton down, and looking bright and
beautiful as the morning. It was evident that she had not even the
faintest recollection of what had occurred in the night--that it was a
portion of her life apart, between which and waking existence there
was no communication open. Emily determined to take no notice of her
sleep-walking; and she was wise, for I have always found, that to be
informed of their strange peculiarity leaves an awful and painful
impression on the real somnambulists--a feeling of being unlike the
rest of human beings, of having a sort of preternatural existence,
over which their human reason can hold no control. They fear
themselves--they fear their own acts--perhaps their own words, when
the power is gone from that familiar mind, which is more or less the
servant, if not the slave, of will, and when the whole mixed being,
flesh, and mind, and spirit, is under the sole government of that
darkest, least known, most mysterious personage of the three--the
soul.

Mrs. Hazleton scolded her jestingly for late rising, and asked if she
was always such a lie-abed. Emily replied that she was not, but
usually very matutinal in her habits. "But the truth is, dear Mrs.
Hazleton," she added, "I did not sleep well last night."

"Indeed," said her fair hostess, with a gay smile; "who were you
thinking of to keep your young eyes open?"

"Of you," answered Emily, simply; and Mrs. Hazleton asked no more
questions; for, perhaps, she did not wish Emily to think of her too
much. Immediately after breakfast the carriage was ordered for a long
drive.

"I will give you so large a dose of mountain air," said Mrs. Hazleton,
"that it shall insure you a better night's rest than any narcotic
could procure, Emily. We will go and visit Ellendon Castle, far in the
wilds, some sixteen miles hence."

Emily was well pleased with the prospect, and they set out together,
both apparently equally prepared to enjoy every thing they met with.
The drive was a long one in point of time, for not only were the
carriages more cumbrous and heavy in those days, but the road
continued ascending nearly the whole way. Sometimes, indeed, a short
run down into a gentle valley released the horses from the continual
tug on the collar, but it was very brief, and the ascent commenced
almost immediately. Beautiful views over the scenery round presented
themselves at every turn; and Emily, who had all the spirit of a
painter in her heart, looked forth from the window enchanted.

Mrs. Hazleton marked her enjoyment with great satisfaction; for either
by study or intuition she had a deep knowledge of the springs and
sources of human emotions, and she knew well that one enthusiasm
always disposes to another. Nay, more, she knew that whatever is
associated in the mind with pleasant scenes is usually pleasing, and
she had plotted the meeting between Emily and him she intended to be
her lover with considerable pains to produce that effect. Nature
seemed to have been a sharer in her schemes. The day could not have
been better chosen. There was the light fresh air, the few floating
clouds, the merry dancing gleams upon hill and dale, a light,
momentary shower of large, jewel-like drops, the fragment of a broken
rainbow painting the distant verge of heaven.

At length the summit of the hills was reached; and Mrs. Hazleton told
her sweet companion to look out there, ordering the carriage at the
same time to stop. It was indeed a scene well worthy of the gaze. Far
spreading out beneath the eye lay a wide basin in the hills, walled
in, as it were, by those tall summits, here and there broken by a
crag. The ground sloped gently down from the spot at which the
carriage paused, so that the whole expanse was open to the eye, and
over the short brown herbage, through which a purple gleam from the
yet unblossomed heath shone out, the lights and shades seemed sporting
in mad glee. All was indeed solitary, uncultivated, and even barren,
except where, in the very centre of the wide hollow, appeared a number
of trees, not grouped together in a wood, but scattered over a
considerable space of ground, as if the remnants of some old
deer-park, and over their tall tops rose up the ruined keep of some
ancient stronghold of races passed away, with here and there another
tower or pinnacle appearing, and long lines of grassy mounds, greener
than the rest of the landscape, glancing between the stems of the
older trees, or bearing up in picturesque confusion their own growth
of wild, fantastic, seedling ashes.

By the name of the spot, Ellendon, which means strong-hill, I believe
it is more than probable that the Anglo-Saxons had here some forts
before the conquest; but the ruin which now presented itself to the
eyes of Emily and Mrs. Hazleton was evidently of a later date and of
Norman construction.

Here, probably, some proud baron of the times of Henry, Stephen, or
Matilda, had built his nest on high, perchance to overawe the Saxon
churls around him, perhaps to set at defiance the royal power itself.
Here the merry chase had swept the hills; here revelry and pageantry
had checkered a life of fierce strife and haughty oppression. Such
scenes, at least such thoughts, presented themselves to the
imaginative mind of Emily, like the dreamy gleams that skimmed in gold
and purple before her eyes; but the effect of any strong feeling,
whether of enjoyment or of grief, was always to make her silent; and
she gazed without uttering a word.

Mrs. Hazleton, however, understood some points in her character, and
by the long fixed look from beneath the dark sweeping lashes of her
eye, by the faint sweet smile that gently curled her young, beautiful
lip, and by the sort of gasping sigh after she had gazed breathless
for some moments, she knew how intense was that gentle creature's
delight in a scene, which to many an eye would have offered no
peculiar charm.

She would not suffer it to lose any of its first effect, and after a
brief pause ordered the carriage to drive on. Still Emily continued to
look onwards out of carriage-window, and as the road turned in the
descent, the castle and the ancient trees grouped themselves
differently every minute. At length, as they came nearer, she said,
turning to Mrs. Hazleton, "There seems to be a man standing at the
very highest point of the old keep."

"He must be bold indeed," replied her companion, looking out also.
"When you come close to it, dear Emily, you will see that it requires
the foot of a goat and the heart of a lion to climb up there over the
rough, disjointed, tottering stones. Good Heaven, I hope he will not
fall!"

Emily closed her eyes. "It is very foolish," she said.

"Oh, men have pleasure in such feats of daring," answered Mrs.
Hazleton, "which we women cannot understand. He is coming down again
as steadily as if he were treading a ball-room. I wish that tree were
out of the way."

In two or three minutes the carriage passed between two rows of old
and somewhat decayed oaks, and stopped between the fine gate of the
castle, covered with ivy, and rugged with the work of Time's too
artistic hand, and a building which, if it did not detract from the
picturesque beauty of the scene, certainly deprived it of all romance.
There, just opposite the entrance, stood a small house, built
apparently of stones stolen from the ruins, and bearing on a pole
projecting from the front a large blue sign-board, on which was rudely
painted in yellow, the figure of what we now call a French horn, while
underneath appeared a long inscription to the following effect:

"John Buttercross, at the sign of the Bugle Horn, sells wine and aqua
vitæ, and good lodgings to man and horse. N. B. Donkeys to be found
within."

Emily laughed, and in an instant came down to common earth.

Mrs. Hazleton wished both John Buttercross and his sign in one fire or
another; though she could not help owning that such a house in so
remote a place might be a great convenience to visitors like herself.
She took the matter quietly, however, returning Emily's gay look with
one somewhat rueful, and saying, "Ah, dear girl, all very mundane and
unromantic, but depend upon it the house has proved a blessing often
to poor wanderers in bleak weather over these wild hills; and we
ourselves may find it not so unpleasant by and by when Paul has spread
our luncheon in the parlor, and we look out of its little casement at
the old ruin there."

Thus saying, she alighted from the carriage, gave some orders to her
servants, and to an hostler who was walking up and down a remarkably
beautiful horse, which seemed to have been ridden hard, and then
leaning on Emily's arm, walked up the slope towards the gate.

Barbican and outer walls were gone--fallen long ago into the ditch,
and covered with the all-receiving earth and a green coat of turf. You
could but tell were they lay, by the undulations of the ground, and
the grassy hillock here and there. The great gate still stood firm,
however, with its two tall towers, standing like giant wardens to
guard the entrance. There were the machicolated parapets, the long
loopholes mantled with ivy, the outsloping basement, against which the
battering ram might have long played in vain, the family escutcheon
with the arms crumbled from it, the portcullis itself showing its iron
teeth above the traveller's head. It was the most perfect part of the
building; and when the two ladies entered the great court the scene of
ruin was more complete. Many a tower had fallen, leaving large gaps in
the inner wall; the chapel with only one beautiful window left, and
the fragments of two others, showing where the fine line had run, lay
mouldering on the right, and at some distance in front appeared the
tall majestic keep, the lower rooms of which were in tolerable
preservation, though the roof had fallen in to the second story, and
the airy summit had lost its symmetry by the destruction of two entire
sides. Short green turf covered the whole court, except where some
mass of stone, more recently fallen than others, still stood out bare
and gray; but a crop of brambles and nettles bristled up near the
chapel, and here and there a tree had planted itself on the tottering
ruins of the walls.

Mrs. Hazleton walked straight towards the entrance of the keep along a
little path sufficiently well worn to show that the castle had
frequent visitors, and was within a few steps of the doorway, when a
figure issued forth which to say sooth did not at all surprise her to
behold. She gave a little start, however, saying in a low tone to
Emily, "That must be our climbing friend whose neck we thought in such
peril a short time since."

The gentleman--for such estate was indicated by his dress, which was
dark and sober, but well made and costly--took a step or two slowly
forward, verging a little to the side as if to let two ladies pass
whom he did not know; but then suddenly he stopped, gazed for an
instant with a well assumed look of surprise and inquiry, and then
hurried rapidly towards them, raising hie hat not ungracefully, while
Mrs. Hazleton exclaimed, "Ah, how fortunate! Here is a friend who
doubtless can tell us all about the ruins."

At the same moment Emily recognized the young man whom she had found
accidentally wounded in her father's park.




CHAPTER XIX.


"Let me introduce Mr. Ayliffe to you, Emily," said Mrs. Hazleton; "but
you seem to know each other already. Is it so?"

"I have seen this gentleman before," replied her young companion, "but
did not know his name. I hope you have quite recovered from your
wound?"

"Quite, I thank you, Miss Hastings," replied John Ayliffe, in a quiet
and respectful tone; but then he added, "the interest you kindly
showed on the occasion, I believe did much to cure me."

"Too much, and too soon!" thought Mrs. Hazleton, as she remarked a
slight flush pass over Emily's cheek, to which her reply gave
interpretation.

"Every one, I suppose, would feel the same interest," answered the
beautiful girl, "in suffering such as you seemed to endure when I
accidentally met you in the park. Shall we go on into the Castle?"

The last words were addressed to Mrs. Hazleton, who immediately
assented, but asked Mr. Ayliffe to act as their guide, and, at the
very first opportunity, whispered to him, "not too quick."

He seemed to comprehend in a moment what she meant; and during the
rest of the ramble round the ruins behaved himself with a good deal of
discretion. His conversation could not be said to be agreeable to
Emily; for there was little in it either to amuse or interest. His
stores of information were very limited--at least upon subjects which
she herself was conversant; and although he endeavored to give it,
every now and then, a poetical turn, the attempt was not very
successful. On the whole, however, he did tolerably well till after
the luncheon at the inn, to which Mrs. Hazleton invited him, when he
began to entertain his two fair companions with an account of a rat
hunt, which surprised Emily not a little, and drew, almost instantly,
from Mrs. Hazleton a monitory gesture.

The young man looked confused, and broke off, suddenly, with an
embarrassed laugh, saying, "Oh! I forgot, such exploits are not very
fit for ladies' ears; and, to say the truth, I do not much like them
myself when there is any thing better to do."

"I should think that something better might always be found," replied
Mrs. Hazleton, gravely, taking to her own lips the reproof which she
knew was in Emily's heart; "but, I dare say, you were a boy when this
happened?"

"Oh, quite a boy," he said, "quite a boy. I have other things to think
of now."

But the impression was made, and it was not favorable. With keen
acuteness Mrs. Hazleton watched every look, and every turn of the
conversation; and seeing that the course of things had begun ill for
her purposes, she very soon proposed to order the carriage and return;
resolving to take, as it were, a fresh start on the following day. She
did not then ask young Ayliffe to dine at her house, as she had, at
first, intended; but was well pleased, notwithstanding, to see him
mount his horse in order to accompany them on the way back; for she
had remarked that his horsemanship was excellent, and well knew that
skill in manly exercises is always a strong recommendation in a
woman's eyes. Nor was this all: decidedly handsome in person, John
Ayliffe had, nevertheless, a certain common--not exactly vulgar--air,
when on his feet, which was lost as soon as he was in the saddle.
There, with a perfect seat, and upright, dashing carriage, managing a
fierce, wild horse with complete mastery, he appeared to the greatest
advantage. All his horsemanship was thrown away upon Emily. If she had
been asked by any one, she would have admitted, at once, that he was a
very handsome man, and a good and graceful rider; but she never asked
herself whether he was or not; and, indeed, did not think about it at
all.

One thing, however, she did think, and that was not what Mrs. Hazleton
desired. She thought him a coarse and vulgar-minded young man; and she
wondered how a woman of such refinement as Mrs. Hazleton could be
pleased with his society. There was at the end of that day only one
impression in his favor, which was produced by an undefinable
resemblance to her father, evanescent, but ever returning. There was
no one feature like: the coloring was different: the hair, eyes,
beard, all dissimilar. He was much handsomer than Sir Philip Hastings
ever had been; but ever and anon there came a glance of the eye, or a
curl of the lip; a family expression which was familiar and pleasant
to her. John Ayliffe accompanied the carriage to the gate of Mrs.
Hazleton's park; and there the lady beckoned him up, and in a kind,
half jesting tone, bade him keep himself disengaged the next day, as
she might want him.

He promised to obey, and rode away; but Mrs. Hazleton never mentioned
his name again during the evening, which passed over in quiet
conversation, with little reference to the events of the morning.

Before she went to bed, however, Mrs. Hazleton wrote a somewhat long
epistle to John Ayliffe, full of very important hints for his conduct
the next day, and ending with an injunction to burn the letter as soon
as he had read it. This done, she retired to rest; and that night,
what with free mountain air and exercise, she and Emily both slept
soundly. The next morning, however, she felt, or affected to feel,
fatigue; and put off another expedition which had been proposed.

Noon had hardly arrived, when Mr. Ayliffe presented himself, to
receive her commands he said, and there he remained, invited to stay
to dinner, not much to Emily's satisfaction; but, at length, she
remembered that she had letters to write, and, seated at a table in
the window, went on covering sheets of paper, with a rapid hand, for
more than an hour; while John Ayliffe seated himself by Emily's
embroidery frame, and labored to efface the bad impression of the day
before, by a very different strain of conversation. He spoke of many
things more suited to her tastes and habits than those which he had
previously noticed, and spoke not altogether amiss. But yet, there was
something forced in it all. It was as if he were reading sentences out
of a book, and, in truth, it is probable he was repeating a lesson.

Emily did not know what to do. She would have given the world to be
freed from his society; to have gone out and enjoyed her own thoughts
amongst woods and flowers; or even to have sat quietly in her own room
alone, feeling the summer air, and looking at the glorious sky. To
seek that refuge, however, she thought would be rude; and to go out to
walk in the park would, she doubted not, induce him to follow. She sat
still, therefore, with marvellous patience, answering briefly when an
answer was required; but never speaking in reply with any of that free
pouring forth of heart and mind which can only take place where
sympathy is strong.

She was rewarded for her endurance, for when it had lasted well nigh
as long as she could bear it, the drawing-room door opened, and Mr.
Marlow appeared. His eyes instantly fixed upon Emily with that young
man sitting by her side; and a feeling, strange and painful, came
upon him. But the next instant the bright, glad, natural, unchecked
look, of satisfaction, with which she rose to greet him, swept every
doubt-making jealousy away.

Very different was the look of Mrs. Hazleton. For an instant--a single
instant--the same black shadow, which I have mentioned once before,
came across her brow, the same lightning flashed from her eye. But
both passed away in a moment; and the feelings which produced them
were again hidden in her heart. They were bitter enough; for she
had read, with the clear eyesight of jealousy, all that Marlow's
look of surprise and annoyance--all that Emily's look of joy and
relief--betrayed.

They might not yet call themselves lovers--they might not even be
conscious that they were so; but that they were and would be, from
that moment, Mrs. Hazleton had no doubt. The conviction had come upon
her, not exactly gradually, but by fits, as it were--first a doubt,
and then a fear, and then a certainty that one, and then that both
loved.

If it were so, she knew that her present plans must fail; but yet she
pursued them with an eagerness very different than before--a wild,
rash, almost frantic eagerness. There was a chance, she thought, of
driving Emily into the arms of John Ayliffe, with no love for him, and
love for another; and there was a bitter sort of satisfaction in the
very idea. Fears for her father she always hoped might operate, where
no other inducement could have power, and such means she resolved to
bring into play at once, without waiting for the dull, long process of
drilling Ayliffe into gentlemanly carriage, or winning for him some
way in Emily's regard. To force her to marry him, hating rather than
loving him, would be a mighty gratification, and for it Mrs. Hazleton
resolved at once to strike; but she knew that hypocrisy was needed
more than ever; and therefore it was that the brow was smoothed, the
eye calmed in a moment.

To Marlow, during his visit, she was courteous and civil enough, but
still so far cold as to give him no encouragement to stay long. She
kept watch too upon all that passed, not only between him and Emily,
but between him and John Ayliffe; for a quarrel between them, which
she thought likely, was not what she desired. But there was no danger
of such a result. Marlow treated the young man with a cold and distant
politeness--a proud civility, which left him no pretence for offence,
and yet silenced and abashed him completely. During the whole visit,
till towards its close, the contrast between the two men was so marked
and strong, so disadvantageous to him whom Mrs. Hazleton sought to
favor, that she would have given much to have had Ayliffe away from
such a damaging companion. At length she could endure it no longer,
and contrived to send him to seek for some flowers which she pretended
to want, and which she knew he would not readily find in her gardens.

Before he returned, Marlow was gone; and Emily, soon after, retired to
her own room, leaving the youth and Mrs. Hazleton together.

The three met again at dinner, and, for once, a subject was brought
up, by accident, or design--which, I know not--that gave John Ayliffe
an opportunity of setting himself in a somewhat better light. Every
one has some amenity--some sweeter, gentler spot in the character. He
had a great love for flowers--a passion for them; and it brought forth
the small, very small portion of the poetry of the heart which had
been assigned to him by nature. It was flowers then that Mrs. Hazleton
talked of, and he soon joined in discussing their beauties, with a
thorough knowledge of, and feeling for his subject. Emily was somewhat
surprised, and, with natural kindness, felt glad to find some topic
where she could converse with him at ease. The change of her manner
encouraged him, and he went on, for once, wisely keeping to a subject
on which he was at home, and which seemed so well to please. Mrs.
Hazleton helped him greatly with a skill and rapidity which few could
have displayed, always guiding the conversation back to the well
chosen theme, whenever it was lost for an instant.

At length, when the impression was most favorable, John Ayliffe rose
to go--I know not whether he did so at a sign from Mrs. Hazleton; but
I think he did. Few men quit a room gracefully--it is a difficult
evolution--and he, certainly, did not. But Emily's eyes were in a
different direction, and to say the truth, although he had seemed to
her more agreeable that evening than he had been before, she thought
too little of him at all to remark how he quitted the room, even if
her eyes had been upon him.

From time to time, indeed, some of the strange vague words which he
had used when she had seen him in the park, had recurred to her mind
with an unpleasant impression, and she had puzzled herself with the
question of what could be their meaning; but she soon dismissed the
subject, resolving to seek some information from Mrs. Hazleton, who
seemed to know the young man so well.

On the preceding night, that lady had avoided all mention of him; but
that was not the case now. She spoke of him, almost as soon as he was
gone, in a tone of some compassion, alluding vaguely and mysteriously
to misfortunes and disadvantages under which he had labored, and
saying, that it was marvellous to see how much strength of mind, and
natural high qualities, could effect against adverse circumstances.
This called forth from Emily the inquiry which she had meditated, and
although she could not recollect exactly the words John Ayliffe had
used, she detailed, with sufficient accuracy, all that had taken place
between herself and him; and the strange allusion he had made to Sir
Philip Hastings.

Mrs. Hazleton gazed at her for a moment or two after she had done
speaking, with a look expressive of anxious concern.

"I trust, my dear Emily," she said, at length, "that you did not repel
him at all harshly. I have had much sad experience of the world, and I
know that in youth we are too apt to touch hardly and rashly, things
that for our own best interests, as well as for good feeling's sake,
we ought to deal with tenderly."

"I do not think that I spoke harshly," replied Emily, thoughtfully; "I
told him that any thing he had to say must be said to my father; but I
do not believe I spoke even that unkindly."

"I am glad to hear it--very glad;" replied Mrs. Hazleton, with much
emphasis; and then, after a short pause, she added, "Yet I do not know
that your father--excellent, noble-minded, just and generous as he
is--was the person best fitted to judge and act in the matter which
John Ayliffe might have to speak of."

"Indeed!" exclaimed Emily, becoming more and more surprised, and in
some degree alarmed, "this is very strange, dear Mrs. Hazleton. You
seem to know more of this matter; pray explain it all to me. I may
well hear from you, what would be improper for me to listen to from
him."

"He has a kindly heart," said Mrs. Hazleton, thoughtfully, "and more
forbearance than I ever knew in one so young; but it cannot last for
ever; and when he is of age, which will be in a few days, he must act;
and I trust will act kindly and gently--I am sure he will, if nothing
occurs to irritate a bold and decided character."

"But act how?" inquired Emily, eagerly; "you forget, dear Mrs.
Hazleton, that I am quite in the dark in this matter. I dare say that
he is all that you say; but I will own that neither his manners
generally, nor his demeanor on that occasion, led me to think very
well of him, or to believe that he was of a forbearing or gentle
nature."

"He has faults," said Mrs. Hazleton, dryly; "oh yes, he has faults,
but they are those of manner, more than heart or character--faults
produced by circumstances may be changed by circumstances--which would
never have existed, had he had, earlier, one judicious, kind, and
experienced friend to counsel and direct him. They are disappearing
rapidly, and, if ever he should fall under the influences of a
generous and noble spirit, will vanish altogether."

She was preparing the way, skilfully exciting, as she saw, some
interest in Emily, and yet producing some alarm.

"But still you do not explain," said the beautiful girl, anxiously;
"do not, dear Mrs. Hazleton, keep me longer in suspense."

"I cannot--I ought not, Emily, to explain all to you," replied the
lady, "it would be a long and painful story; but this I may tell you,
and after that, ask me no more. That young man has your father's
fortunes and his fate entirely in his hands. He has forborne long.
Heaven grant that his forbearance may still endure."

She ceased, and after one glance at Emily's face, she cast down her
eyes, and seemed to fall into thought.

Emily gazed up towards the sky, as if seeking counsel there, and then,
bursting into tears, hurriedly quitted the room.




CHAPTER XX.


Emily's night was not peaceful. The very idea that her father's fate
was in the power of any other man, was, in itself, trouble enough; but
in the present case there was more. Why, or wherefore, she knew not;
but there was something told her that, in spite of all Mrs. Hazleton's
commendations, and the fair portrait she had so elaborately drawn,
John Ayliffe was not a man to use power mercifully. She tried eagerly
to discover what had created this impression: she thought of every
look and every word which she had seen upon the young man's
countenance, or heard from his lips; and she fixed at length more upon
the menacing scowl which she had marked upon his brow in the cottage,
than even upon the menacing language which he had held when her
father's name was mentioned.

Sleep visited not her eyes for many an hour, and when at length her
eyes closed through fatigue, it was restless and dreamful. She fancied
she saw John Ayliffe holding Sir Philip on the ground, trying to
strangle him. She strove to scream for help, but her lips seemed
paralyzed, and there was no sound. That strange anguish of sleep--the
anguish of impotent strong will--of powerless passion--of effort
without effect, was upon her, and soon burst the bonds of slumber. It
would have been impossible to endure it long. All must have felt that
it is greater than any mortal agony; and that if he could endure more
than a moment, like a treacherous enemy it would slay us in our sleep.

She awoke unrefreshed, and rose pale and sad. I cannot say that Mrs.
Hazleton, when she beheld Emily's changed look, felt any great
compunction. If she had no great desire to torture, which I will not
pretend to say, she did not at all object to see her victim suffer;
but Emily's pale cheek and distressed look afforded indications still
more satisfactory; which Mrs. Hazleton remarked with the satisfaction
of a philosopher watching a successful experiment. They showed that
the preparation she had made for what was coming, was even more
effectual than she had expected, and so the abstract pleasure of
inflicting pain on one she hated, was increased by the certainty of
success.

Emily said little--referred not at all to the subject of her thoughts,
but dwelt upon it--pondered in silence. To one who knew her she might
have seemed sullen, sulky; but it was merely that one of those fits of
deep intense communion with the inner things of the heart--those
abstracted rambles through the mazy wilderness of thought, which
sometimes fell upon her, was upon her now. At these times it was very
difficult to draw her spirit forth into the waking world again--to
rouse her to the things about her life. It seemed as if her soul was
absent far away, and that the mere animal life of the body remained.
Great events might have passed before her eyes, without her knowing
aught of them.

On all former occasions but one, these reveries--for so I must call
them--had been of a lighter and more pleasant nature. In them it
had seemed as if her young spirit had been tempted away from the
household paths of thought, far into tangled wilds where it had lost
itself--tempted, like other children, by the mere pleasure of the
ramble--led on to catch a butterfly, or chase the rainbow.
Feeling--passion, had not mingled with the dream at all, and
consequently there had been no suffering. I am not sure that on other
occasions, when such absent fits fell upon her, Emily Hastings was not
more joyous, more full of pure delight, than when, in a gay and
sparkling mood, she moved her father's wonder at what he thought light
frivolity. But now it was all bitter: the labyrinth was dark as well
as intricate, and the thorns tore her as she groped for some path
across the wilderness.

Before it had lasted very long--before it had at all reached its
conclusion--and as she had sat at the window of the drawing-room,
gazing out upon the sky without seeing either white cloud or blue, Sir
Philip Hastings himself, on a short journey for some magisterial
purpose, entered the room, spoke a few words to Mrs. Hazleton, and
then turned to his daughter. Had he been half an hour later, Emily
would have cast her arms round his neck and told him all; but as it
was, she remained self-involved, even in his presence--answered indeed
mechanically--spoke words of affection with an absent air, and let the
mind still run on upon the path which it had chosen.

Sir Philip had no time to stay till this fit was past, and Mrs.
Hazleton was glad to get rid of him civilly before any other act of
the drama began.

But his daughter's mood did not escape Sir Philip's eyes. I have said
that for her he was full of observation, though he often read the
results wrongly; and now he marked Emily's mood with doubt, and not
with pleasure. "What can this mean?" he asked himself, "can any thing
have gone wrong? It is strange, very strange. Perhaps her mother was
right after all, and it might have been better to take her to the
capital."

Thus thinking, Sir Philip himself fell into a reverie, not at all
unlike that in which he had found his daughter. Yet he understood not
hers, and pondered upon it as something strange and inextricable.

In the mean time, Emily thought on, till at length Mrs. Hazleton
reminded her that they were to go that day to the Waterfall. She rose
mechanically, sought her room, dressed, and gazed from the window.

It is wonderful, however, how small a thing will sometimes take the
mind, as it were, by the hand, and lead it back out of shadow into
sunshine. From the lawn below the window a light bird sprang up into
the air, quivered upon its twinkling wings, uttered a note or two, and
then soared higher, and each moment as it rose up, up, into the sky,
the song, like a spirit heavenward bound, grew stronger and more
strong, and flooded the air with melody.

Emily watched it as it rose, listened to it as it sang. Its upward
flight seemed to carry her spirit above the dark things on which it
brooded; its thrilling voice to waken her to cheerful life again.
There is a high holiness in a lark's song; and hard must be the heart,
and strong and corrupt, that does not raise the voice and join with it
in its praise to God.

When she went down again into the drawing-room, she was quite a
different being, and Mrs. Hazleton marvelled what could have happened
so to change her. Had she been told that it was a lark's song, she
would have laughed the speaker to scorn. She was not one to feel it.

I will not pause upon the journey of the morning, nor describe the
beautiful fall of the river that they visited, or tell how it fell
rushing over the precipice, or how the rocks dashed it into diamond
sparkles, or how rainbows bannered the conflict of the waters, and
boughs waved over the struggling stream like plumes. It was a sweet
and pleasant sight, and full of meditation; and Mrs. Hazleton, judging
perhaps of others by herself, imagined that it would produce in the
mind of Emily those softening influences which teach the heart to
yield readily to the harder things of life.

There is, perhaps, not a more beautiful, nor a more frequently
applicable allegory than that of the famous Amreeta Cup--I know not
whether devised by Southey, or borrowed by him from the rich store of
instructive fable hidden in oriental tradition. It is long, long,
since I read it; but yet every word is remembered whenever I see the
different effect which scenes, circumstances, and events produce upon
different characters. It is shown by the poet that the cup of divine
wine gave life and immortality, and excellence superhuman, and bliss
beyond belief, to the pure heart; but to the lark, earthly, and evil,
brought death, destruction, and despair. We may extend the lesson a
little, and see in the Amreeta wine, the spirit of God pervading all
his works, but producing in those who see and taste an effect, for
good or evil, according to the nature of the recipient. The strong,
powerful, self-willed, passionate character of Mrs. Hazleton, found,
in the calm meditative fall of the cataract, in the ever shifting play
of the wild waters, and in the watchful stillness of the air around, a
softening, enfeebling influence. The gentle character of Emily turned
from the scene with a heart raised rather than depressed, a spirit
better prepared to combat with evil and with sorrow, full of love and
trust in God, and a confidence strong beyond the strength of this
world. There is a voice of prophecy in waterfalls, and mountains, and
lakes, and streams, and sunny lands, and clouds, and storms, and
bright sunsets, and the face of nature every where, which tells the
destiny, not of one, but of many, and at all events, foreshows the
unutterable mercy reserved for those who trust. It is a prophecy--and
an exhortation too. The words are, "Be holy, and be happy!" The God
who speaks is true and glorious. Be true and inherit glory.

Emily had been cheerful as they went. As they returned she was calm
and firm. Readily she joined in any conversation. Seldom did she fall
into any absent fit of thought, and the effect of that day's drive was
any thing but what Mrs. Hazleton expected or wished.

When they returned to the house, a letter was delivered to Emily
Hastings, with which, the seal unbroken, she retired to her own room.
The hand was unknown to her, but with a sort of prescience something
more than natural, she divined at once from whom it came, and saw that
the difficult struggle had commenced. An hour or two before, the very
thought would have dismayed her. Now the effect was but small.

She had no suspicion of the plans against her; no idea whatever that
people might be using her as a tool--that there was any interest
contrary to her own, in the conduct or management of others. But yet
she turned the key in the door before she commenced the perusal of the
letter, which was to the following effect:

"I know not," said the writer, in a happier style than perhaps might
have been expected, "how to prevail upon your goodness to pardon all I
am going to say, knowing that nothing short of the circumstances in
which I am placed, could excuse my approaching you even in thought. I
have long known you, though you have known me only for a few short
hours. I have watched you often from childhood up to womanhood, and
there has been growing upon me from very early years a strong
attachment, a deep affection, a powerful--overpowering--ardent love,
which nothing can ever extinguish. Need I tell you that the last few
days would have increased that love had increase been possible.

"All this, however, I know is no justification of my venturing to
raise my thoughts to you--still less of my venturing to express these
feelings boldly; but it has been an excuse to myself, and in some
degree to others, for abstaining hitherto from that which my best
interests, a mother's fame, and my own rights, required. The time has
now come when I can no longer remain silent; when I must throw upon
you the responsibility of an important choice; when I am forced to
tell you how deeply, how devotedly, I love you, in order that you may
say whether you will take the only means of saving me from the most
painful task I ever undertook, by conferring on me the greatest
blessing that woman ever gave to man; or, on the other hand, will
drive me to a task repugnant to all my feelings, but just, necessary,
inevitable, in case of your refusal. Let me explain, however, that I
am your cousin--the son of your father's elder brother by a private
marriage with a peasant girl of this county. The whole case is
perfectly clear, and I have proof positive of the marriage in my
hands. From fear of a lawsuit, and from the pressure of great poverty,
my mother was induced to sacrifice her rights after her husband's
early death, still to conceal her marriage, to bear even sneers and
shame, and to live upon a pittance allowed to her by her husband's
father, and secured to her by him after his own death, when she was
entitled to honor, and birth, and distinction by the law of the land.

"One of her objects, doubtless, was to secure to herself and her son a
moderate competence, as the late Sir John Hastings, my grandfather and
yours, had the power of leaving all his estates to any one he pleased,
the entail having ended with himself. For this she sacrificed her
rights, her name, her fame, and you will find, if you look into your
grandfather's will, that he took especial care that no infraction of
the contract between him and her father should give cause for the
assertion of her rights. Two or three mysterious clauses in that will
will show you at once, if you read them, that the whole tale I tell
you is correct, and that Sir John Hastings, on the one hand, paid
largely, and on the other threatened sternly, in order to conceal the
marriage of his eldest son, and transmit the title to the second. But
my mother could not bar me of my rights: she could endure unmerited
shame for pecuniary advantages, if she pleased; but she could not
entail shame upon me; and were it in the power of any one to deprive
me of that which Sir John Hastings left me, or to shut me out from the
succession to his whole estates, to which--from the fear of disclosing
his great secret--he did not put any bar in his will that would have
been at once an acknowledgment of my legitimacy, I would still
sacrifice all, and stand alone, friendless and portionless in the
world, rather than leave my mother's fame and my own birth
unvindicated. This is one of the strongest desires, the most
overpowering impulses of my heart; and neither you nor any one could
expect me to resist it. But there is yet a stronger still--not an
impulse, but a passion, and to that every thing must yield. It is
love; and whatever may be the difference which you see between
yourself and me, however inferior I may feel myself to you in all
those qualities which I myself the most admire, still, I feel myself
justified in placing the case clearly before you--in telling you how
truly, how sincerely, how ardently I love you, and in asking you
whether you will deign to favor my suit even now as I stand, to save
me the pain and grief of contending with the father of her I love, the
anguish of stripping him of the property he so well uses, and of the
rank which he adorns; or will leave me to establish my rights, to take
my just name and station, and then, when no longer appearing humble
and unknown, to plead my cause with no less humility than I do at
present.

"That I shall do so then, as now, rest assured--that I would do so if
the rank and station to which I have a right were a principality, do
not doubt; but I would fain, if it were possible, avoid inflicting any
pain upon your father. I know not how he may bear the loss of station
and of fortune--I know not what effect the struggles of a court of
law, and inevitable defeat may produce. Only acquainted with him by
general repute, I cannot tell what may be the effect of mortification
and the loss of all he has hitherto enjoyed. He has the reputation of
a good, a just, and a wise man, somewhat vehement in feeling, somewhat
proud of his position. You must judge him, rather than I; but, I
beseech you, consider him in this matter.

"At any time, and at all times, my love will be the same--nothing can
change me--nothing can alter or affect the deep love I bear you. When
casting from me the cloud which had hung upon my birth, when assuming
the rank and taking possession of the property that is my own, I shall
still love you as devotedly as ever--still as earnestly seek your
hand. But oh! how I long to avoid all the pangs, the mischances, the
anxieties to every one, the ill feeling, the contention, the
animosity, which must ever follow such a struggle as that between your
father and myself--oh, how I long to owe every thing to you, even the
station, even the property, even the fair name that is my own by right
Nay, more, far more, to owe you guidance and direction--to owe you
support and instruction--to owe you all that may improve, and purify,
and elevate me.

"Oh, Emily, dear cousin, let me be your debtor in all things. You who
first gave me the thought of rising above fate, and making myself
worthy of the high fortunes which I have long known awaited me,
perfect your work, redeem me for ever from all that is unworthy, save
me from bitter regrets, and your father from disappointment, sorrow,
and poverty, and render me all that I long to be.

"Yours, and forever,

"JOHN HASTINGS."


Very well done, Mrs. Hazleton!--but somewhat too well done. There was
a difference, a difference so striking, so unaccountable, between the
style of this letter, both in thought and composition, and the
ordinary style and manners of John Ayliffe, that it could not fail to
strike the eyes of Emily. For a moment she felt a little confused--not
undecided. There was no hesitation, no doubt, as to her own conduct.
For an instant it crossed her mind that this young man had deeper,
finer feelings in his nature than appeared upon the surface--that his
manner might be more in fault than his nature. But there were things
in the letter itself which she did not like--that, without any labored
analysis or deep-searching criticism, brought to her mind the
conviction that the words, the arguments, the inducements employed
were those of art rather than of feeling--that the mingling of threats
towards her father, however veiled, with professions of love towards
herself, was in itself ungenerous--that the objects and the means were
not so high-toned as the professions--that there was something sordid,
base, ignoble in the whole proceeding. It required no careful thought
to arrive at such a conclusion--no second reading--and her mind was
made up at once.

The deep reverie into which she had fallen in the morning had done her
good--it had disentangled thought, and left the heart and judgment
clear. The fair, natural scene she had passed through since, the
intercourse with God's works, had done her still more good--refreshed,
and strengthened, and elevated the spirit; and after a very brief
pause she drew the table towards her, sat down, and wrote. As she did
write, she thought of her father, and she believed from her heart that
the words she used were those which he would wish her to employ. They
were to the following effect:

"Sir: Your letter, as you may suppose, has occasioned me great pain,
and the more so, as I am compelled to say, not only that I cannot
return your affection now, but can hold out no hope to you of ever
returning it. I am obliged to speak decidedly, as I should consider
myself most base if I could for one moment trifle with feelings such
as those which you express.

"In regard to your claims upon my father's estates, and to the rank
which he believes himself to hold by just right, I can form no
judgment; and could have wished that they had never been mentioned to
me before they had been made known to him.

"I never in my life knew my father do an unjust or ungenerous thing,
and I am quite sure that if convinced another had a just title to all
that he possesses on earth, he would strip himself of it as readily as
he would of a soiled garment. My father would disdain to hold for an
hour the rightful property of another. You have therefore only to lay
your reasons before him, and you may be sure that they will have just
consideration and yourself full justice. I trust that you will do so
soon, as to give the first intelligence of such claims would be too
painful a task for

"Your faithful servant,

"EMILY HASTINGS."


She read her letter over twice, and was satisfied with it. Sealing it
carefully, she gave it to her own maid for despatch, and then paused
for a moment, giving way to some temporary curiosity as to who could
have aided in the composition of the letter she had received, for John
Ayliffe's alone she could not and would not believe it to be. She cast
such thoughts from her very speedily, however, and, strange to say,
her heart seemed lightened now that the moment of trial had come and
gone, now that a turning-point in her fate seemed to have passed.

Mrs. Hazleton was surprised to see her re-enter the drawing-room with
a look of relief. She saw that the matter was decided, but she was too
wise to conclude that it was decided according to her wishes.




CHAPTER XXI.


Marlow reasoned with his own heart. For the first time in his life it
had proved rebellious. It would have its own way. It would give no
account of its conduct,--why it had beat so, why it had thrilled so,
why it had experienced so many changes of feeling when he saw John
Ayliffe sitting beside Emily Hastings, and when Emily Hastings had
risen with so joyous a smile to greet him--it would not explain at
all. And now he argued the point with it systematically, with a
determination to get to the bottom of the matter one way or another.
He asked it, as if it had been a separate individual, if it was in
love with Emily Hastings. The question was too direct, and the heart
said it "rather thought not."

Was it quite sure? he asked again. The heart was silent, and seemed to
be considering. Was it jealous? he inquired. "Oh dear no, not in the
least."

Then why did it go on in such a strange, capricious, unaccountable
way, when a good-looking, vulgar young man was seen sitting beside
Emily?

The heart said it "could not tell; that it was its nature to do so."

Marlow was not to be put off. He was determined to know more, and he
argued, "If it be your nature to do so, you of course do the same when
you see other young men sitting by other young women." The heart was
puzzled, and did not reply; and then Marlow begged a definite answer
to this question. "If you were to hear to-morrow that Emily Hastings
is going to be married to this youth, or to any other man, young or
old, what would you do then?"

"Break!" said the heart, and Marlow asked no more questions. Knowing
how dangerous it is to enter into such interrogations on horseback,
when the pulse is accelerated and the nervous system all in a flutter,
he had waited till he got into his own dwelling, and seated himself in
his chair, that he might deal with the rebellious spirit in his breast
stately, and calmly likewise; but as he came to the end of the
conversation, he rose up, resolving to order a fresh horse, and ride
instantly away, to confer with Sir Philip Hastings. In so doing he
looked round the room. It was not very well or very fully furnished.
The last proprietor before Mrs. Hazleton had not been very fond of
books, and had never thought of a library. When Marlow brought his own
books down he had ordered some cases to be made by a country
carpenter, which fitted but did not much ornament the room. They gave
it a raw, desolate aspect, and made him, by a natural projection of
thought, think ill of the accommodation of the whole house, as soon as
he began to entertain the idea of Emily Hastings ever becoming its
mistress. Then he went on to ask himself, "What have I to offer for
the treasure of her hand? What have I to offer but the hand of a very
simple, undistinguished country gentleman--quite, quite unworthy of
her? What have I to offer Sir Philip Hastings as an alliance worthy of
even his consideration?--A good, unstained name; but no rank, and a
fortune not above mediocrity. Marry! a fitting match for the heiress
of the Hastings and Marshall families."

He gazed around him, and his heart fell.

A little boy, with a pair of wings on his shoulders, and the end of a
bow peeping up near his neck, stood close behind Marlow, and whispered
in his ear, "Never mind all that--only try."

And Marlow resolved he would try; but yet he hesitated how to do so.
Should he go himself to Sir Philip? But he feared a rebuff. Should he
write? No, that was cowardly. Should he tell his love to Emily first,
and strive to win her affections, ere he breathed to her father? No,
that would be dishonest, if he had a doubt of her father's consent. At
length he made up his mind to go in person to Sir Philip, but the
discussion and the consideration had been so long that it was too late
to ride over that night, and the journey was put off till the
following day. That day, as early as possible, he set out. He called
it as early as possible, and it was early for a visit; but the moment
one fears a rebuff from any lady one grows marvellously punctilious.
When his horse was brought round he began to fancy that he should be
too soon for Sir Philip, and he had the horse walked up and down for
half an hour.

What would he have given for that half hour, when, on reaching Sir
Philip's door, he found that Emily's father had gone out, and was not
expected back till late in the day. Angry with himself, and a good
deal disappointed, he returned to his home, which, somehow, looked far
less cheerful than usual. He could take no pleasure in his books, or
in his pictures, and even thought was unpleasant to him, for under the
influence of expectation it became but a calculation of chances, for
which he had but scanty data. One thing, indeed, he learned from the
passing of that evening, which was, that home and home happiness was
lost to him henceforth without Emily Hastings.

The following day saw him early in the saddle, and riding away as if
some beast of the chase were before him. Indeed, man's love, when it
is worth any thing, has always a smack of the hunter in it. He cared
not for highlands or bypaths--hedges and ditches offered small
impediments. Straight across the country he went, till he approached
the end of his journey; but then he suddenly pulled in his rein, and
began to ask himself if he was a madman. He was passing over the
Marshall property at the time, the inheritance of Emily's mother, and
the thought of all that she was heir to cooled his ardor with doubt
and apprehension. He would have given one half of all that he
possessed that she had been a peasant-girl, that he might have lived
with her upon the other.

Then he began to think of all that he should say to Sir Philip
Hastings, and how he should say it; and he felt very uneasy in his
mind. Then he was angry with himself for his own sensations, and tried
philosophy and scolded his own heart. But philosophy and scolding had
no effect; and then cantering easily through the park, he stopped at
the gate of the house and dismounted.

Sir Philip was in this time; and Marlow was ushered into the little
room where he sat in the morning, with the library hard by, that he
might have his books at hand. But Sir Philip was not reading now; on
the contrary, he was in a fit of thought; and, if one might judge by
the contraction of his brow, and the drawing down of the corners of
his lips, it was not a very pleasant one.

Marlow fancied that he had come at an inauspicious moment, and the
first words of Sir Philip, though kind and friendly, were not at all
harmonious with the feeling of love in his young visitor's heart.

"Welcome, my young friend," he said, looking up. "I have been thinking
this morning over the laws and habits of different nations, ancient
and modern; and would fain satisfy myself if I am right in the
conclusion that we, in this land, leave too little free action to
individual judgment. No man, we say, must take law in his own hands;
yet how often do we break this rule--how often are we compelled to
break it. If you, with a gun in your hand, saw a man at fifty or sixty
paces about to murder a child or a woman, without any means of
stopping the blow except by using your weapon, what would you do?"

"Shoot him on the spot," replied Marlow at once, and then added, "if I
were quite certain of his intention."

"Of course--of course," replied Sir Philip. "And yet, my good friend,
if you did so, without witnesses---supposing the child too young to
testify, or the woman sleeping at whom the blow was aimed--you would
be hung for your just, wise, charitable act."

"Perhaps so," said Marlow, abruptly; "but I would do it,
nevertheless."

"Right, right," replied Sir Philip, rising and shaking his hand;
"right, and like yourself! There are cases when, with a clear
consciousness of the rectitude of our purpose, and a strong confidence
in the justice of our judgment, we must step over all human laws, be
the result to ourselves what it may. Do you remember a man--one
Cutter--to whom you taught a severe lesson on the very first day I had
the pleasure of knowing you? I should have been undoubtedly justified,
morally, and perhaps even legally also, in sending my sword through
his body, when he attacked me that day. Had I done so I should have
saved a valuable human life, spared the world the spectacle of a great
crime, and preserved an excellent husband and father to his wife and
children. That very man has murdered the game-keeper of the Earl of
Selby; and being called to the spot yesterday, I had to commit him for
that crime, upon evidence which left not a doubt of his guilt. I
spared him when he assaulted me from a weak and unworthy feeling of
compassion, although I knew the man's character, and dimly foresaw his
career. I have regretted it since; but never so much as yesterday.
This, of course, is no parallel case to that which I just now
proposed; but the one led my mind to the other."

"Did the wretched man admit his guilt?" asked Marlow.

"He did not, and could not deny it," answered Sir Philip; "during the
examination he maintained a hard, sullen silence; and only said, when
I ordered his committal, that I ought not to be so hard upon him for
that offence, as it was the best service he could have done me; for
that he had silenced a man whose word could strip me of all I
possessed."

"What could he mean?" asked Marlow, eagerly.

"Nay, I know not," replied Sir Philip, in an indifferent tone;
"crushed vipers often turn to bite. The man he killed was the son of
the former sexton here--an honest, good creature too, for whom I
obtained his place; his murderer a reckless villain, on whose word
there is no dependence. Let us give no thought to it. He has held some
such language before; but it never produced a fear that my property
would be lost, or even diminished. We do not hold our fee simples on
the tenure of a rogue's good pleasure--why do you smile?"

"For what will seem at first sight a strange, unnatural reason for a
friend to give, Sir Philip," replied Marlow, determined not to lose
the opportunity; "for your own sake and for your country's, I am bound
to hope that your property may never be lost or diminished; but every
selfish feeling would induce me to wish it were less than it is."

Sir Philip Hastings was no reader of riddles, and he looked puzzled;
but Marlow walked frankly round and took him by the hand, saying, "I
have not judged it right, Sir Philip, to remain one day after I
discovered what are my feelings towards your daughter, without
informing you fully of their nature, that you may at once decide upon
your future demeanor towards one to whom you have hitherto shown much
kindness, and who would on no account abuse it. I was not at all aware
of how this passion had grown upon me, till the day before yesterday,
when I saw your daughter at Mrs. Hazleton's, and some accidental
circumstance revealed to me the state of my own heart."

Sir Philip looked as if surprised; but after a moment's thought, he
inquired, "And what says Emily, my young friend?"

"She says nothing, Sir Philip," replied Marlow; "for neither by word
nor look, as far as I know, have I betrayed my own feelings towards
her. I would not, between us, do so, till I had given you an
opportunity of deciding, unfettered by any consideration for her,
whether you would permit me to pursue my suit or not."

Sir Philip was in a reasoning mood that day, and he tortured Marlow by
asking, "And would you always think it necessary, Marlow, to obtain a
parent's consent, before you endeavored to gain the affection of a
girl you loved?"

"Not always," replied the young man; "but I should think it always
necessary to violate no confidence, Sir Philip. You have been kind to
me--trusted me--had no doubt of me; and to say one word to Emily which
might thwart your plans or meet your disapproval, would be to show
myself unworthy of your esteem or her affection."

Sir Philip mused, and then said, as if speaking to himself, "I had
some idea this might turn out so, but not so soon. I fancy, however,"
he continued, addressing Marlow, "that you must have betrayed your
feelings more than you thought, my young friend; for yesterday I found
Emily in a strange, thoughtful, abstracted mood, showing that some
strong feelings were busy at her heart."

"Some other cause," said Marlow quickly; "I cannot even flatter myself
that she was thinking of me. When I saw her the day before, there was
a young man sitting with her and Mrs. Hazleton--John Ayliffe, I think,
is his name--and I will own I thought his presence seemed to annoy
her."

"John Ayliffe at Mrs. Hazleton's!" exclaimed Sir Philip, his brow
growing very dark; "John Ayliffe in my daughter's society! Well might
the poor child look thoughtful--and yet why should she? She knows
nothing of his history. What is he like, Marlow--how does he bear
himself?"

"He is certainly handsome, with fine features and a good figure,"
replied Marlow; "indeed, it struck me that there was some resemblance
between him and yourself; but there is a want I cannot well define in
his appearance, Sir Philip--in his air--in his carriage, whether still
or in motion, which fixes upon him what I am accustomed to call a
class-mark, and that not of the best. Depend upon it, however, that it
was annoyance at being brought into society which she disliked that
affected your daughter as you have mentioned. My love for her she is,
and must be, ignorant of; for I stayed there but a few minutes; and
before that day, I saw it not myself. And now, Sir Philip, what say
you to my suit? May I--as some of your words lead me to hope--may I
pursue that suit and strive to win your dear daughter's love?"

"Of course," replied Sir Philip, "of course. A vague fancy has long
been floating in my brain, that it might be so some day. She is too
young to marry yet; and it will be sad to part with her when the time
does come; but you have my consent to seek her affection if she can
give it you. She must herself decide."

"Have you considered fully," asked Marlow, "that I have neither
fortune nor rank to offer her, that I am by no means--"

Sir Philip waved his hand almost impatiently. "What skills it talking
of rank or wealth?" he said. "You are a gentleman by birth, education,
manners. You have easy competence. My Emily will desire no more for
herself, and I can desire no more for her. You will endeavor, I know,
to make her happy, and will succeed, because you love her. As for
myself, were I to choose out of all the men I know, you would be the
man. Fortune is a good adjunct; but it is no essential. I do not
promise her to you. That she must do; but if she says she will give
you her hand, it shall be yours."

Marlow thanked him, with joy such as may be conceived; but Sir
Philip's thoughts reverted at once to his daughter's situation at Mrs.
Hazleton's. "She must stay there no longer, Marlow," he said; "I will
send for her home without delay. Then you will have plenty of
opportunity for the telling of your own tale to her ear, and seeing
how you may speed with her; but, at all events, she must stay no
longer in a house where she can meet with John Ayliffe. Mrs. Hazleton
makes me marvel--a woman so proud--so refined!"

"It is but justice to say," replied Marlow, thoughtfully, "that I have
some vague recollection of Mrs. Hazleton having intimated that they
met that young gentleman by chance upon some expedition of pleasure.
But had I not better communicate my hopes and wishes to Lady Hastings,
my dear sir?"

"That is not needful," replied Emily's father, somewhat sternly; "I
promise her to you, if she herself consents. My good wife will not
oppose my wishes or my daughter's happiness; for do I suffer
opposition upon occasions of importance. I will tell Lady Hastings my
determination myself."

Marlow was too wise to say another word, but agreed to come on the
following day to dine and sleep at the hall, and took his leave for
the time. It was not, indeed, without some satisfaction that he heard
Sir Philip order a horse to be saddled and a man to prepare to carry a
letter to Mrs. Hazleton; for doubts were rapidly possessing themselves
of his mind--not in regard to Emily--but in reference to Mrs. Hazleton
herself.

The letter was dispatched immediately after his departure, recalling
Emily to her father's house, and announcing that the carriage would be
sent for her early on the following morning. That done, Sir Philip
repaired to his wife's drawing-room, and informed her that he had
given his consent to his young friend Marlow's suit to their daughter.
His tone was one that admitted no reply, and Lady Hastings made none;
but she entered her protest quite as well, by falling into a violent
fit of hysterics.




CHAPTER XXII.


In a very gaudily furnished parlor, and in a very gaudy dress, sat a
lady of some eight or nine and thirty years of age, with many traces
of beauty still to be perceived in a face of no very intellectual
expression. Few persons perhaps would have recognized in her the fair
and faulty girl whom we have depicted weeping bitterly over the fate
of Sir Philip Hastings' elder brother, and over the terrible situation
in which he left her. Her features had much changed: the girlish
expression--the fresh bloom of youth was gone. The light graceful
figure was lost; but the mind had changed as greatly as the person,
though, like it, the heart yet retained some traces of the original.
When first she appeared before the reader's eyes, though weak and
yielding, she was by no means ill disposed. She had committed an
error--a great and fatal one; but at heart she was innocent and
honest. She was, however, like all weak people, of that plastic clay
moulded easily by circumstances into any form; and, in her,
circumstances had shaped her gradually into a much worse form than
nature had originally given her. To defraud, to cheat, to wrong, had
at one time been most abhorrent to her nature. She had taken no active
part in her father's dealings with old Sir John Hastings, and had she
known all that he had said and sworn, would have shrunk with horror
from the deceit. But during her father's short life, she had been
often told by himself, and after his death had been often assured by
the old woman Denby, that she was rightly and truly the widow of John
Hastings, although because it would be difficult to prove, her father
had consented to take an annuity for himself and her son, rather than
enter into a lawsuit with a powerful man; and she had gradually
brought herself to believe that she had been her lover's wife, because
in one of his ardent letters he had called her so to stifle the voice
of remorse in her bosom. The conviction had grown upon her, till now,
after a lapse of more than twenty years, she had forgotten all her
former doubts and scruples, believed herself and her son to be injured
and deprived of their just rights, and was ready to assert her
marriage boldly, though she had at one time felt and acknowledged that
there was no marriage at all, and that the words her seducer had used
were but intended to soothe her regret and terror. There was a point
however beyond which she was not prepared to go. She still shrunk from
giving false details, from perjuring herself in regard to particular
facts. The marriage, she thought, might be good in the sight of
heaven, of herself, and of her lover; but to render it good in the
eyes of the law, she had found would require proofs that she could not
give--oaths that she dared not take.

Another course, however, had been proposed for her; and now she sat in
that small parlor gaudily dressed, as I have said, but dressed
evidently for a journey. There were tears indeed in her eyes; and as
her son stood by her side she looked up in his face with a beseeching
look as if she would fain have said, "Pray do not drive me to this!"

But young John Ayliffe had no remorse, and if he spoke tenderly to her
who had spoiled his youth, it was only because his object was to
persuade and cajole.

"Indeed, mother," he said, "it is absolutely necessary or I would not
ask you to go. You know quite well that I would rather have you here:
and it will only be for a short time till the trial is over. Lawyer
Shanks told you himself that if you stayed, they would have you into
court and cross-examine you to death; and you know quite well you
could not keep in one story if they browbeat and puzzled you."

"I would say any where that my marriage was a good one," replied his
mother, "but I could not swear all that Shanks would have had me,
John--No, I could not swear that, for Dr. Paulding had nothing to do
with it, and if he were to repeat it all over to me a thousand times,
I am sure that I should make a blunder, even if I consented to tell
such a falsehood. My father and good Mrs. Danby used always to say
that the mutual consent made a marriage, and a good one too. Now your
father's own letter shows that he consented to it, and God knows I
did. But these lawyers will not let well alone, and by trying to mend
things make them worse, I think. However, I suppose you have gone too
far to go back; and so I must go to a strange out of the way country
and hide myself and live quite lonely. Well, I am ready--I am ready to
make any sacrifice for you, my boy--though it is very hard, I must
say."

As she spoke, she rose with her eyes running over, and her son kissed
her and assured her that her absence should not be long. But just as
she was moving towards the door, he put a paper--a somewhat long
one--on the table, where a pen was already in the inkstand, saying,
"just sign this before you go, dear mother."

"Oh, I cannot sign any thing," cried the lady, wiping her eyes; "how
can you be so cruel, John, as to ask me to sign any thing just now
when I am parting with you? What is it you want?

"It is only a declaration that you are truly my father's widow," said
John Ayliffe; "see here, the declaration, &c., you need not read it,
but only just sign here."

She hesitated an instant; but his power over her was complete; and,
though, she much doubted the contents, she signed the paper with a
trembling hand. Then came a parting full of real tenderness on her
part, and assumed affection and regret on his. The post-chaise, which
had been standing for an hour at the door, rolled away, and John
Ayliffe walked back into the house.

When there, he walked up and down the room for some time, with an
impatient thoughtfulness, if I may use the term, in his looks, which
had little to do with his mother's departure. He was glad that she was
gone--still gladder that she had signed the paper; and now he seemed
waiting for something eagerly expected.

At length there came a sound of a quick trotting horse, and John
Ayliffe took the paper from the table hastily, and put it in his
pocket But the visitor was not the one he expected. It was but a
servant with a letter; and as the young man took it from the hand of
the maid who brought it in, and gazed at the address, his cheek
flushed a little, and then turned somewhat pale. He muttered to
himself, "she has not taken long to consider!"

As soon as the slipshod girl had gone out of the room, he broke the
seal and read the brief answer which Emily had returned to his
declaration.

It would not be easy for an artist to paint, and it is impossible for
a writer to describe, the expression which came upon his face as he
perused the words of decided rejection which were written on that
sheet; but certainly, had poor Emily heard how he cursed her, how he
vowed to have revenge, and to humble her pride, as he called it, she
would have rejoiced rather than grieved that such a man had obtained
no hold upon her affection, no command of her fate. He was still in
the midst of his tempest of passion, when, without John Ayliffe being
prepared for his appearance, Mr. Shanks entered the room. His face
wore a dark and somewhat anxious expression which even habitual
cunning could not banish; but the state in which he found his young
client, seemed to take him quite by surprise.

"Why what is the matter, John?" he cried, "What in the name of fortune
has happened here?"

"What has happened!" exclaimed John Ayliffe, "look there," and he
handed Mr. Shanks the letter. The attorney took it, and with his keen
weazel eyes read it as deliberately as he would have read an ordinary
law paper. He then handed it back to his young client, saying, "The
respondent does not put in a bad answer."

"Damn the respondent," said John Ayliffe, "but she shall smart for
it."

"Well, well, this cannot be helped," rejoined Mr. Shanks; "no need of
putting yourself in a passion. You don't care two straws about her,
and if you get the property without the girl so much the better. You
can then have the pick of all the pretty women in the country."

John Ayliffe mused gloomily; for Mr. Shanks was not altogether right
in his conclusion as to the young man's feelings towards Emily.
Perhaps when he began the pursuit he cared little about its success,
but like other beasts of prey, he had become eager as he ran--desire
had arisen in the chase--and, though mortified vanity had the greatest
share in his actual feelings, he felt something beyond that.

While he mused, Mr. Shanks was musing also, calculating results
and combinations; but at length he said, in a low tone, "Is she
gone?--Have you got that accomplished?"

"Gone?--Yes.--Do you mean my mother?--Damn it, yes!--She is gone, to
be sure.--Didn't you meet her?"

"No," said Mr. Shanks; "I came the other way. That is lucky, however.
But harkee, John--something very unpleasant has happened, and we must
take some steps about it directly; for if they work him well, that
fellow is likely to peach."

"Who?--what the devil are you talking about?" asked John Ayliffe, with
his passion still unsubdued.

"Why, that blackguard whom you would employ--Master Tom Cutter,"
answered Mr. Shanks. "You know I always set my face against it, John;
and now--"

"Peach!" cried John Ayliffe, "Tom Cutter will no more peach than he'll
fly in the air. He's not of the peaching sort."

"Perhaps not, where a few months' imprisonment are concerned,"
answered Mr. Shanks; "but the matter here is his neck, and that makes
a mighty difference, let me tell you. Now listen to me, John, and
don't interrupt me till I've done; for be sure that we have got into a
very unpleasant mess, which we may have some difficulty in getting out
of. You sent over Tom Cutter, to see if he could not persuade young
Scantling, Lord Selby's gamekeeper, to remember something about the
marriage, when he was with his old father the sexton. Now, how he and
Tom manage their matters, I don't know; but Tom gave him a lick on the
head with a stick, which killed him on the spot. As the devil would
have it, all this was seen by two people, a laborer working in a ditch
hard by, and Scantling's son, a boy of ten years old. The end of it
is, Tom was instantly pursued, and apprehended; your good uncle, Sir
John, was called to take the depositions, and without any remand
whatever, committed our good friend for trial. Tom's only chance is to
prove that it was a case of chance-medley, or to bring it under
manslaughter, as a thing done in a passion, and if he thinks that
being employed by you will be any defence, or will show that it was a
sudden burst of rage, without premeditation, he will tell the whole
story as soon as he would eat his dinner."

"I'll go over to him directly, and tell him to hold his tongue," cried
John Ayliffe, now fully awakened to the perils of the case.

"Pooh, pooh! don't be a fool," said Mr. Shanks, contemptuously. "Are
you going to let the man see that you are afraid of him--that he has
got you in his power? Besides, they will not let you in. No, the way
must be this. I must go over to him as his legal adviser, and I can
dress you up as my clerk. That will please him, to find that we do not
abandon him; and we must contrive to turn his defence quite another
way, whether he hang for it or not. We must make it out that Scantling
swore he had been poaching, when he had done nothing of the kind, and
that in the quarrel that followed, he struck the blow accidentally. We
can persuade him that this is his best defence, which perhaps it is
after all, for nobody can prove that he was poaching, inasmuch as he
really was not; whereas, if he were to show that he killed a man while
attempting to suborn evidence, he would speedily find himself under a
crossbeam."

"Suborn evidence," muttered John Ayliffe to himself; for though ready
to do any act that might advance his purpose, he did not like to hear
it called by its right name.

However that might be, he agreed to the course proposed by the
attorney, and it was determined that, waiting for the fall of night,
they should both go over to the prison together, and demand admittance
to the felon's cell. The conversation then reverted to Emily's
distinct rejection of the young man's suit, and long did the two
ponder over it, considering what might be the effect upon the plans
they were pursuing.

"It may hurry us desperately," said Mr. Shanks, at length, "unless we
can get her to hold her tongue; for depend upon it, as soon as Sir
Philip hears what we are doing, he will take his measures accordingly.
Don't you think you and Mrs. Hazleton together can manage to frighten
her into silence? If I were you, I would get upon my horse's back
directly, ride over, and see what can be done. Your fair friend there
will give you every help, depend upon it."

John Ayliffe smiled. "I will see," he said. "Mrs. Hazleton is very
kind about it, and I dare say will help, for I am quite sure she has
got some purpose of her own to serve."

The attorney grinned, but made no answer, and in the space of a
quarter of an hour, John Ayliffe was on the road to Mrs. Hazleton's
dwelling.

After quarter of an hour's private conversation with the lady of the
house, he was admitted to the room in which Emily sat, unconscious of
his being there. She was displeased and alarmed at seeing him, but his
words and his conduct after he entered, frightened and displeased her
still more. He demanded secrecy in a stern and peremptory tone, and
threatened with vague, but not ill-devised menaces, to be the ruin of
her father and his whole house, if she breathed one word of what had
taken place between them. He sought, moreover, to obtain from her a
promise of secrecy; but that Emily would on no account give, although
he terrified her greatly; and he left her still in doubt as to whether
his secret was safe or not.

With Mrs. Hazleton he held another conference, but from her he
received better assurances. "Do not be afraid," she said; "I will
manage it for you. She shall not betray you--at least for a time.
However, you had better proceed as rapidly as possible, and if the
means of pursuing your claim be necessary--I mean in point of
money--have no scruple in applying to me."

Putting on an air of queenly dignity, Mrs. Hazleton proceeded in
search of Emily, as soon as the young man was gone. She found her in
tears; and sitting down by her side, she took her hand in a kindly
manner, saying, "My dear child, I am very sorry for all this, but it
is really in some degree your own fault. Nay, you need not explain any
thing. I have just had young Ayliffe with me. He has told me all, and
I have dismissed him with a sharp rebuke. If you had confided to me
last night that he had proposed to you, and you had rejected him, I
would have taken care that he should not have admittance to you.
Indeed, I am surprised that he should presume to propose at all,
without longer acquaintance. But he seems to have agitated and
terrified you much. What did he want?"

"He endeavored to make me promise," replied Emily, "that I would not
tell my father, or any one, of what had occurred."

"Foolish boy! he might have taken that for granted," replied Mrs.
Hazleton, forgetting for an instant what she had just said. "No woman
of any delicacy ever speaks of a matter of this kind, when once she
has taken upon herself to reject a proposal unconditionally. If she
wishes for advice," continued the lady, recollecting herself, "or
thinks that the suit may be pressed improperly, of course she's free
to ask counsel and assistance of some female friend, on whom she can
depend. But the moment the thing is decided, of course, she is silent
for ever; for nothing can be more a matter of honorable confidence
than an avowal of honorable love. I will write him a note, and tell
him he is in no danger, but warn him not to present himself here
again, so long as you are with me."

Emily made no answer, trying to decide in her own mind whether Mrs.
Hazleton's reasoning was right; and that lady, choosing to take her
assent for granted, from her silence, hurried away, to give her no
opportunity for retracting.




CHAPTER XXIII.


Before the door of a large brick building, with no windows towards the
street, and tall walls rising up till they overtopped the neighboring
houses, stood two men, about an hour after night had fallen, waiting
for admittance. The great large iron bar which formed the knocker of
the door, had descended twice with a heavy thump, but yet no one
appeared in answer to the summons. It was again in the hand of Mr.
Shanks and ready to descend, when the rattling of keys was heard
inside; bolts were withdrawn and bars cast down, and one half of the
door opened, displaying a man with a lantern, which he held up to gaze
at his visitors. His face was fat and bloated, covered with a good
number of spots, and his swollen eyelids made his little keen black
eyes look smaller than they even naturally were, while his nose, much
in the shape of a horse-chestnut, blushed with the hues of the early
morning.

"How are you, Cram, how are you?" asked the attorney. "I haven't been
here for a long time, but you know me, I suppose."

"Oh, yes, I know you, Master Shanks," replied the jailer, winking one
of his small black eyes; "who have you come to see? Betty Diaper, I'll
warrant, who prigged the gentleman's purse at the bottom of the hill.
She's as slink a diver as any on the lay; but she's got the shiners
and so must have counsel to defend her before the beak, I'll bet a
gallon."

"No, no," answered Mr. Shanks, "our old friend Tom Cutter wants to see
me on this little affair of his."

"You'll make no hand of that, as sure a my name's Dionysius Cram,"
replied the jailer. "Can't prove an _alibi_ there, Master Shanks, for
I saw him do the job; besides he can't pay. What's the use of meddling
with him? He must swing some time you know, and one day's as good as
another. But come in, Master Shanks, come in. But who's this here
other chap?"

"That's my clerk," replied Mr. Shanks, "I may want him to take
instructions."

The man laughed, but demurred, but a crown piece was in those days the
key to all jailers' hearts, and after a show of hesitation, Shanks and
his young companion were both admitted within the gates. They now
found themselves in a small square space, guarded on two sides by tall
iron railings, which bent overhead, and were let into the wall
somewhat after the manner of a birdcage. On the left-hand side,
however, was another brick wall, with a door and some steps leading up
to it. By this entrance Mr. Dionysius Cram led them into a small
jailer's lodge, with a table and some wooden chairs, in the side of
which, opposite to the entrance, was a strong movable grate, between
the bars of which might be seen a yawning sort of chasm leading into
the heart of the prison.

Again Mr. Cram's great keys were put in motion, and he opened the
grate to let them pass, eyeing John Ayliffe with considerable
attention as he did so. Locking the grate carefully behind him, he
lighted them on with his lantern, muttering as he went in the peculiar
prison slang of those days, various sentences not very complimentary
to the tastes and habits of young John Ayliffe. "Ay, ay," he said,
"clerk be damned! One of Tom's pals, for a pint and a boiled
bone--droll I don't know him. He must be twenty, and ought to have
been in the stone pitcher often enough before now. Dare say he's been
sent to Mill Dol, for some minor. That's not in my department. I shall
have the darbies on him some day. He'd look handsome under the tree."

John Ayliffe had a strong inclination to knock him down, but he
restrained himself, and at length a large plated iron door admitted
the two gentlemen into the penetralia of the temple.

A powerful smell of aqua vitæ and other kinds of strong waters now
pervaded the atmosphere, mingled with that close sickly odor which is
felt where great numbers of uncleanly human beings are closely packed
together; and from some distance was heard the sounds of riotous
merriment, ribald song, and hoarse, unfeeling laugh, with curses and
execrations not a few. It was a time when the abominations of the
prison system were at their height.

"Here, you step in here," said Mr. Cram to the attorney and his
companion, "and I'll bring Tom to you in a minute. He's having a lush
with some of his pals; though I thought we were going to have a mill,
for Jack Perkins, who is to be hanged o' Monday, roused out his slack
jaw at him for some quarrel about a gal, and Tom don't bear such like
easily. Howsumdever, they made it up and clubbed a gallon. Stay, I'll
get you a candle end;" and leaving them in the dark, not much, if the
truth must be told, to the satisfaction of John Ayliffe, he rolled
away along the passage and remained absent several minutes.

When he returned, a clanking step followed him, as heavy irons were
dragged slowly on by unaccustomed limbs, and the moment after, Tom
Cutter stood in the presence of his two friends.

The jailer brought them in a piece of candle about two inches long,
which he stuck into a sort of socket attached to an iron bar
projecting straight from the wall; and having done this he left the
three together, taking care to close and lock the door behind him.

Chair or stool in the room there was none, and the only seat, except
the floor, which the place afforded was the edge of a small wooden
bedstead or trough, as it might be called, scantily furnished with
straw.

Both Mr. Shanks and John Ayliffe shook hands with the felon, whose
face, though somewhat flushed with drinking, bore traces of deeper and
sterner feelings than he chose to show. He seemed glad to see them,
however, and said it was very kind of them to come, adding with an
inquiring look at Mr. Shanks, "I can't pay you, you know, Master
lawyer; for what between my garnish and lush, I shall have just enough
to keep me till the 'sizes; I shan't need much after that I fancy."

"Pooh, pooh," cried the attorney, "don't be downhearted, Tom, and as
to pay, never mind that. John here will pay all that's needful, and
we'll have down counsellor Twistem to work the witnesses. We can't
make out an _alibi_, for the folks saw you, but we'll get you up a
character, if money can make a reputation, and I never knew the time
in England when it could not. We have come to consult with you at once
as to what's the best defence to be made, that we may have the story
all pat and right from the beginning, and no shifting and turning
afterwards."

"I wish I hadn't killed the man," said Tom Cutter, gloomily; "I shan't
forget his face in a hurry as he fell over and cried out 'Oh, my
poor--!' but the last word choked him. He couldn't get it out; but I
fancy he was thinking of his wife--or maybe his children. But what
could I do? He gave me a sight of bad names, and swore he would peach
about what I wanted him to do. He called me a villain, and a
scoundrel, and a cheat, and a great deal more besides, till my blood
got up, and having got the stick by the small end, I hit him with the
knob on the temple. I didn't know I hit so hard; but I was in a rage."

"That's just what I thought--just what I thought," said Mr. Shanks.
"You struck him without premeditation in a fit of passion. Now if we
can make out that he provoked you beyond bearing--"

"That he did," said Tom Cutter.

"That's what I say," continued Mr. Shanks, "if we can make out that he
provoked you beyond bearing while you were doing nothing unlawful and
wrong, that isn't murder, Tom."

"Hum," said Tom Cutter, "but how will you get that up, Mr. Shanks?
I've a notion that what I went to him about was devilish unlawful."

"Ay, but nobody knew any thing of that but you and he, and John
Ayliffe and I. We must keep that quite close, and get up a likely
story about the quarrel. You will have to tell it yourself, you know,
Tom, though we'll make counsellor Twistem let the jury see it
beforehand in his examinations."

A gleam of hope seemed to lighten the man's face, and Mr. Shanks
continued, "We can prove, I dare say, that this fellow Scantling had a
great hatred for you."

"No, no, he had not," said Tom Cutter, "he was more civil to me than
most, for we had been boys together."

"That doesn't matter," said Mr. Shanks, "we must prove it; for that's
your only chance, Tom. If we can prove that you always spoke well of
him, so much the better; but we must show that he was accustomed to
abuse you, and to call you a damned ruffian and a poacher. We'll do
it--we'll do it; and then if you stick tight to your story, we'll get
you off."

"But what's the story to be, master Shanks?" asked Tom Cutter, "I
can't learn a long one; I never was good at learning by heart."

"Oh, no; it shall be as short and simple as possible," replied Shanks;
"you must admit having gone over to see him, and that you struck the
blow that killed him. We can't get over that, Tom; but then you must
say you're exceedingly sorry, and was so the very moment after."

"So I was," replied Tom Cutter.

"And your story must refer," continued Mr. Shanks, "to nothing but
what took place just before the blow was struck. You must say that you
heard he accused you of putting wires in Lord Selby's woods, and that
you went over to clear yourself; but that he abused you so violently,
and insulted you so grossly, your blood got up and you struck him,
only intending to knock him down. Do you understand me?"

"Quite well--quite well," replied Tom Cutter, his face brightening; "I
do think that may do, 'specially if you can make out that I was
accustomed to speak well of him, and he to abuse me. It's an accident
that might happen to any man."

"To be sure," replied Mr. Shanks; "we will take care to corroborate
your story, only you get it quite right. Now let us hear what you will
say."

Tom Cutter repeated the tale he had been taught very accurately; for
it was just suited to his comprehension, and Shanks rubbed his hands,
saying, "That will do--that will do."

John Ayliffe, however, was still not without his anxieties, and after
a little hesitation as to how he should put the question which he
meditated, he said, "Of course, Tom, I suppose you have not told any
of the fellows here what you came over for?"

The ruffian knew him better than he thought, and understood his object
at once.

"No, no, John," he said, "I have'nt peached, and shall not; be you
sure of that. If I am to die, I'll die game, depend upon it; but I do
think there's a chance now, and we may as well make the best of it."

"To be sure--to be sure," answered the more prudent Shanks; "you don't
think, Mr. Ayliffe, that he would be fool enough to go and cut his own
throat by telling any one what would be sure to hang him. That is a
very green notion."

"Oh, no, nor would I say a word that could serve that Sir Philip
Hastings," said Tom Cutter; "he's been my enemy for the last ten
years, and I could see he would be as glad to twist my neck as I have
been to twist his hares. Perhaps I may live to pay him yet."

"I'm not sure you might not give him a gentle rub in your defence,"
said John Ayliffe; "he would not like to hear that his pretty proud
daughter Emily came down to see me, as I'm sure she did, let her say
what she will, when I was ill at the cottage by the park gates. You
were in the house, don't you recollect, getting a jug of beer, while I
was sitting at the door when she came down?"

"I remember, I remember," replied Tom Cutter, with a malicious smile;
"I gave him one rub which he didn't like when he committed me, and
I'll do this too."

"Take care," said Mr. Shanks, "you had better not mix up other things
with your defence."

"Oh, I can do it quite easily," replied the other with a triumphant
look; "I could tell what happened then, and how I heard there that
people suspected me of poaching still, though I had quite given it up,
and how I determined to find out from that minute who it was accused
me."

"That can do no harm," said Shanks, who had not the least objection to
see Sir Philip Hastings mortified; and after about half an hour's
farther conversation, having supplied Tom Cutter with a small sum of
money, the lawyer and his young companion prepared to withdraw. Shanks
whistled through the keyhole of the door, producing a shrill loud
sound as if he were blowing over the top of a key; and Dionysius Cram
understanding the signal, hastened to let them out.

Before we proceed farther, however, with any other personage, we may
as well trace the fate of Mr. Thomas Cutter.

The assizes were approaching near at this time, and about a fortnight
after, he was brought to trial; not all the skill of counsellor
Twistem, however, nor the excellent character which Mr. Shanks tried
to procure for him, had any effect; his reputation was too well
established to be affected by any scandalous reports of his being a
peaceable and orderly man. His violence and irregular life were too
well known for the jury to come to any other conclusion than that it
would be a good thing to rid the country of him, and whether very
legally or not, I cannot say, they brought in a verdict of wilful
murder without quitting the box. His defence, however, established for
him the name of a very clever fellow, and one portion of it certainly
sent Sir Philip Hastings from the Court thoughtful and gloomy.
Nevertheless, no recommendation to mercy having issued from the Judge,
Tom Cutter was hanged in due form of law, and to use his own words,
"died game."




CHAPTER XXIV.


We must go back a little, for we have somewhat anticipated our tale.
Never did summons strike more joyfully on the ear of mortal than came
that of her recall home to Emily Hastings. As so often happens to all
in life, the expected pleasure had turned to ashes on the lip, and her
visit to Mrs. Hazleton offered hardly one point on which memory could
rest happily. Nay, more, without being able definitely to say why,
when she questioned her own heart, the character of her beautiful
hostess had suffered by close inspection. She was not the same in
Emily's esteem as she had been before. She could not point out what
Mrs. Hazleton had said or done to produce such an impression; but she
was less amiable,--less reverenced. It was not alone that the
trappings in which a young imagination had decked her were stripped
off; but it was that a baser metal beneath had here and there shown
doubtfully through the gilding with which she concealed her real
character.

If the summons was joyful to Emily, it was a surprise and an
unpleasant one to Mrs. Hazleton. Not that she wished to keep her young
guest with her long; for she was too keen and shrewd not to perceive
that Emily would not be worked upon so easily as she had imagined; and
that under her very youthfulness there was a strength of character
which must render one part of the plans against her certainly
abortive. But Mrs. Hazleton was taken by surprise. She could have
wished to guard against construction of some parts of her conduct
which must be the more unpleasant, because the more just. She had
fancied she would have time to give what gloss she chose to her
conduct in Emily's eyes, and to prevent dangerous explanations between
the father and the daughter. Moreover, the suddenness of the call
alarmed her and raised doubts. Wherever there is something to be
concealed there is something to be feared, and Mrs. Hazleton asked
herself if Emily had found means to communicate to Sir Philip Hastings
what had occurred with John Ayliffe.

That, however, she soon concluded was impossible. Some knowledge of
the facts, nevertheless, might have reached him from other sources,
and Mrs. Hazleton grew uneasy. Sir Philip's letter to his daughter,
which Emily at once suffered her hostess to see, threw no light upon
the subject. It was brief, unexplicit, and though perfectly kind and
tender, peremptory. It merely required her to return to the Hall, as
some business rendered her presence at home necessary.

Little did Mrs. Hazleton divine the business to which Sir Philip
alluded. Had she known it, what might have happened who can say? There
were terribly strong passions within that fair bosom, and there were
moments when those strong passions mastered even strong worldly sense
and habitual self-control.

There was not much time, however, for even thought, and less for
preparation. Emily departed, after having received a few words of
affectionate caution from Mrs. Hazleton, delicately and skilfully put,
in such a manner as to produce the impression that she was speaking of
subjects personally indifferent to herself--except in so much as her
young friend's own happiness was concerned.

Shall we say the truth? Emily attended but little. Her thoughts were
full of her father's letter, and of the joy of returning to a home
where days passed peacefully in an even quiet course, very different
from that in which the stream of time had flowed at Mrs. Hazleton's.
The love of strong emotions--the brandy-drinking of the mind--is an
acquired taste. Few, very few have it from nature. Poor Emily, she
little knew how many strong emotions were preparing for her.

Gladly she saw the carriage roll onward through scenes more and more
familiar at every step. Gladly she saw the forked gates appear, and
marked the old well-known hawthorns as they flitted by her; and the
look of joy with which she sprang into her fathers arms, might have
convinced any heart that there was but one home she loved.

"Now go and dress for dinner at once, my child," said Sir Philip, "we
have delayed two hours for you. Be not long."

Nor was Emily long; she could not have been more rapid had she known
that Marlow was waiting eagerly for her appearance. Well pleased,
indeed, was she to see him, when she entered the drawing-room; but for
the first time since she had known him--from some cause or other--a
momentary feeling of embarrassment--of timidity, came upon her; and
the color rose slightly in her cheek. Her eyes spoke, however, more
than her lips could say, and Marlow must have been satisfied, if
lovers ever could be satisfied.

Lady Hastings was lying languidly on a couch, not knowing how to
intimate to her daughter her disapproval of a suit yet unknown to
Emily herself. She could not venture to utter openly one word in
opposition; for Sir Philip Hastings had desired her not to do so, and
she had given a promise to forbear, but she thought it would be
perfectly consistent with that promise, and perfectly fair and right
to show in other ways than by words, that Mr. Marlow was not the man
she would have chosen for her daughter's husband, and even to
insinuate objections which she dare not state directly.

In her manner to Marlow therefore, Lady Hastings, though perfectly
courteous and polite--for such was Sir Philip's pleasure--was as cold
as ice, always added "Sir" to her replies, and never forgot herself so
far as to call him by his name.

Emily remarked this demeanor; but she knew--I should rather have said
she was aware; for it was a matter more of sensation than thought,--a
conviction that had grown up in her mind without reflection--she was
aware that her mother was somewhat capricious in her friendships. She
had seen it in the case of servants and of some of the governesses she
had had when she was quite young. One day they would be all that was
estimable and charming in Lady Hastings' eyes, and another, from some
slight offence--some point of demeanor which she did not like--or some
moody turn of her own mind, they would be all that was detestable. It,
had often been the same, too, with persons of a higher station; and
therefore it did not in the least surprise her to find that Mr.
Marlow, who had been ever received by Lady Hastings before as a
familiar friend, should now be treated almost as a stranger.

It grieved her, nevertheless, and she thought that Marlow must feel
her mother's conduct painfully. She would fain have made up for it by
any means in her power, and thus the demeanor of Lady Hastings had an
effect the direct reverse of that which she intended. Nor did her
innuendos produce any better results, for she soon saw that they
grieved and offended her husband, while her daughter showed marvellous
stupidity, as she thought, in not comprehending them.

Full of love, and now full of hope likewise, Marlow, it must be
confessed, thought very little of Lady Hastings at all. He was one of
those men upon whom love sits well--they are but few in the world--and
whatever agitation he might feel at heart, there was none apparent in
his manner. His attention to Emily was decided, pointed, not to be
mistaken by any one well acquainted with such matters; but he was
quite calm and quiet about it; there was no flutter about it--no
forgetfulness of proprieties; and his conversation had never seemed to
Emily so agreeable as that night, although the poor girl knew not what
was the additional charm. Delightful to her, however, it was; and in
enjoying it she forgot altogether that she had been sent for about
business--nay, even forgot to wonder what that business could be.

Thus passed the evening; and when the usual time for retiring came,
Emily was a little surprised that there was no announcement of Mr.
Marlow's horse, or Mr. Marlow's carriage, as had ever been the case
before, but that Mr. Marlow was going to spend some days at the hall.

When Lady Hastings rose to go to rest, and her daughter rose to go
with her, another thing struck Emily as strange. Sir Philip, as his
wife passed him, addressed to her the single word "Beware!" with a
very marked emphasis. Lady Hastings merely bowed her head, in reply;
but when she and Emily arrived at her dressing-room, where the
daughter had generally stayed to spend a few minutes with her mother
alone, Lady Hastings kissed her, and wished her good night, declaring
that she felt much fatigue, and would ring for her maid at once.

Lady Hastings was a very good woman, and wished to obey her husband's
injunctions to the letter, but she felt afraid of herself, and would
not trust herself with Emily alone.

Dear Emily lay awake for half an hour after she had sought her pillow,
but not more, and then she fell into a sleep as soft and calm as that
of childhood, and the next morning rose as blooming as the flower of
June. Sir Philip was up when she went down stairs, and walking on the
terrace with Marlow. Lady Hastings sent word that she would breakfast
in her own room, when she had obtained a few hours' rest, as she had
not slept all night. Thus Emily had to attend to the breakfast-table
in her mother's place; but in those days the lady's functions at the
morning meal were not so various and important as at present; and the
breakfast passed lightly and pleasantly. Still there was no mention of
the business which had caused Emily to be summoned so suddenly, and
when the breakfast was over, Sir Philip retired to his library,
without asking Emily to follow, and merely saying, "You had better not
disturb your mother, my dear child. If you take a walk I will join you
ere long."

For the first time, a doubt, a notion--for I must not call it a
suspicion--came across the mind of Emily, that the business for which
she had been sent might have something to do with Mr. Marlow. How her
little heart beat! She sat quite still for a minute or two, for she
did not know, if she rose, what would become of her.

At length the voice of Marlow roused her from her gently-troubled
reverie, as he said. "Will you not come out to take a walk?"

She consented at once, and went away to prepare. Nor was she long, for
in less than ten minutes, she and Marlow were crossing the park,
towards the older and thicker trees amidst which they had rambled once
before. But it was Marlow who now led her on a path which he chose
himself. I know not whether it was some memory of his walk with Mrs.
Hazleton, or whether it was that instinct which leads love to seek
shady places, or whether, like a skilful general, he had previously
reconnoitred the ground; but something or other in his own breast
induced him to deviate from the more direct track which they had
followed on their previous walk, and guide his fair companion across
the short dry turf towards the thickest part of the wood, through
which there penetrated, winding in and out amongst the trees, a small
path, just wide enough for two, bowered overhead by crossing branches,
and gaining sweet woodland scenes of light and shade at every step, as
the eye dived into the deep green stillness between the large old
trunks, carefully freed from underwood, and with their feet carpeted
with moss, and flowers, and fern. It was called the deer's track, from
the fact that along it, morning and evening, all the bucks and does
which had herded on that side of the park might be seen walking
stately down to or from a bright, clear-running trout-stream, that
wandered along about a quarter of a mile farther on; and often, in the
hot weather, a person standing half way down the walk might see a tall
antlered fellow standing with his forefeet in the water and his
hind-quarters raised upon the bank, gazing at himself in the liquid
mirror below, with all his graceful beauties displayed to the
uttermost by a burst of yellow light, which towards noon always poured
upon the stream at that place.

Marlow and Emily, however, were quite alone upon the walk. Not even a
hind or hart was there; and after the first two or three steps, Marlow
asked his fair companion to take his arm. She did so, readily; for she
needed it, not so much because the long gnarled roots of the trees
crossed the path from time to time, and offered slight impediments,
for usually her foot was light as air, but because she felt an
unaccountable languor upon her, a tremulous, agitated sort of unknown
happiness unlike any thing else she had ever before experienced.

Marlow drew her little hand through his arm then, and she rested upon
it, not with the light touch of a mere acquaintance, but with a gentle
confiding pressure which was very pleasant to him, and yet the
capricious man must needs every two or three minutes, change that
kindly position as the trees and irregularities of the walk afforded
an excuse. Now he placed Emily on the one side, now on the other, and
if she had thought at all (but by this time she was far past thought,)
she might have fancied that he did so solely for the purpose of once
more taking her hand in his to draw it through his arm again.

At the spot where the walk struck the stream, and before it proceeded
onward by the bank, there was a little irregular open space not twenty
yards broad in any direction, canopied over by the tall branches of an
oak, and beneath the shade about twelve yards from the margin of the
stream, was a pure, clear, shallow well of exceedingly cold water,
which as it quietly flowed over the brink went on to join the rivulet
below. The well was taken care of, kept clean, and basined in plain
flat stones; but there was, no temple over it, Gothic or Greek. On the
side farthest from the stream was a plain wooden bench placed for the
convenience of persons who came to drink the waters which were
supposed to have some salutary influence, and there by tacit consent
Marlow and Emily seated themselves side by side.

They gazed into the clear little well at their feet, seeing all the
round variegated pebbles at the bottom glistening like jewels as the
branches above, moved by a fresh wind that was stirring in the sky,
made the checkered light dance over the surface. There was a green
leaf broken by some chance from a bough above which floated about upon
the water as the air fanned it gently, now hither, now thither, now
gilded by the sunshine, now covered with dim shadow. After pausing in
silence for a moment or two, Marlow pointed to the leaf with a light
and seemingly careless smile, saying, "See how it floats about, Emily.
That leaf is like a young heart full of love."

"Indeed," said Emily, looking full in his face with a look of inquiry,
for perhaps she thought that in his smile she might find an
interpretation of what was going on in her own bosom. "Indeed! How
so?"

"Do you not see," said Marlow, "how it is blown about by the softest
breath, which stirs not the less sensitive things around, how it is
carried by any passing air now into bright hopeful light, now into dim
melancholy shadow?"

"And is that like love?" asked Emily. "I should have thought it was
all brightness."

"Ay, happy love--love returned," replied Marlow, "but where there is
uncertainty, a doubt, there hope and fear make alternately the light
and shade of love, and the lightest breath will bear the heart from
the one extreme to the other--I know it from the experience of the
last three days, Emily; for since last we met I too have fluctuated
between the light and shade. Your father's consent has given a
momentary gleam of hope, but it is only you who can make the light
permanent."

Emily shook, and her eyes were bent down upon the water; but she
remained silent so long that Marlow became even more agitated than
herself. "I know not what I feel," she murmured at length,--"it is
very strange."

"But hear me, Emily," said Marlow, taking her unresisting hand, "I do
not ask an immediate answer to my suit. If you regard me with any
favor--if I am not perfectly indifferent to you, let me try to improve
any kindly feelings in your heart towards me in the bright hope of
winning you at last for my own, my wife. The uncertainty may be
painful--must be painful; but--"

"No, no, Marlow," cried Emily, raising her eyes to his face for an
instant with her cheek all glowing, "there must be no uncertainty. Do
you think I would keep you--you, in such a painful state as you have
mentioned? Heaven forbid!"

"Then what am I to think?" asked Marlow pressing closer to her side
and gliding his arm round her. "I am almost mad to dream of such
happiness, and yet your tone, your look, my Emily, make me so rash.
Tell me then--tell me at once, am I to hope or to despair?--Will you
be mine?"

"Of course," she answered, "can you doubt it?"

"I can almost doubt my senses," said Marlow; but he had no occasion to
doubt them.

They sat there for nearly half an hour; they then wandered on, with
marvellous meanderings in their course, for more than an hour and a
half more, and when they returned, Emily knew more of love than ever
could be learned from books. Marlow drew her feelings forth and gave
them definite form and consistency. He presented them to her by
telling what he himself felt in a plain and tangible shape, which
required no long reverie--none of their deep fits of thoughtfulness to
investigate and comprehend. From the rich store of his own
imagination, and the treasury of deep feeling in his breast, he poured
forth illustrations that brightened as if with sunshine every
sensation which had been dark and mysterious in her bosom before;
and ere they turned their steps back towards the house, Emily
believed--nay, she felt; and that is much more--that without knowing
it, she had loved him long.




CHAPTER XXV.


This must be a chapter of rapid action, comprising in its brief space
the events of many months--events which might not much interest the
reader in minute detail, but which produced important results to all
the persons concerned, and drew on the coming catastrophe.

The news that Mr. Marlow was about to be married to Emily, the
beautiful heiress of Sir Philip Hastings, spread far and wide over the
country; and if joy and satisfaction reigned in the breasts of three
persons in Emily's dwelling, discontent and annoyance were felt more
and more strongly every hour by Lady Hastings. A Duke, she thought,
would not have been too high a match for her daughter, with all the
large estates she was to inherit; and the idea of her marrying a
simple commoner was in itself very bitter. She was not a woman to bear
a disappointment gracefully; and Emily soon had the pain of
discovering that her engagement to Marlow was much disapproved by her
mother. She consoled herself, however, by the full approval of her
father, who was somewhat more than satisfied.

Sir Philip for his part, considering his daughter's youth, required
that the marriage should be delayed at least two years, and, in his
theoretical way, he soon built up a scheme, which was not quite so
successful as he could have wished. Marlow's character was, in most
respects, one after his own heart; but as I have shown, he had thought
from the first, that there were weak points in it,--or rather points
rendered weak by faults of education and much mingling with the world.
He wanted, in short, some of that firmness--may I not say hardness of
the old Roman, which Sir Philip so peculiarly admired; and the scheme
now was, to re-educate Marlow, if I may use the term, during the next
two years, to mould him in short after Sir Philip's own idea of
perfection. How this succeeded, or failed, we shall have occasion
hereafter to show.

Tidings of Emily's engagement were communicated to Mrs. Hazleton,
first by rumor, and immediately after by more certain information in a
letter from Lady Hastings. I will not dwell upon the effect produced
in her. I will not lift up the curtain with which she covered her own
breast, and show all the dark and terrible war of passions within. For
three days Mrs. Hazleton was really ill, remained shut up in her room,
had the windows darkened, admitted no one but the maid and the
physician: and well for her was it, perhaps, that the bitter anguish
she endured overpowered her corporeal powers, and forced seclusion
upon her. During those three days she could not have concealed her
feelings from all eyes had she been forced to mingle with society; but
in her sickness she had time for thought--space to fight the battle
in, and she came forth triumphant.

When she at length appeared in her own drawing-room no one could have
imagined that the illness was of the heart. She was a little paler
than before, there was a soft and pleasing languor about her carriage,
but she was, to all appearance, as calm and cheerful as ever.

Nevertheless she thought it better to go to London for a short time.
She did not yet dare to meet Emily Hastings. She feared _herself_.

Yet the letter of Lady Hastings was a treasure to her, for it gave her
hopes of vengeance. In it the mother showed but too strongly her
dislike of her daughter's choice, and Mrs. Hazleton resolved to
cultivate the friendship of Lady Hastings, whom she had always
despised, and to use her weakness for her own purposes.

She was destined, moreover, to have other sources of consolation, and
that more rapidly than she expected. It was shortly before her return
to the country that the trial of Tom Cutter took place; and not long
after she came back that he was executed. Many persons at the trial
had remarked the effect which some parts of the evidence had produced
on Sir Philip Hastings. He was not skilful in concealing the emotions
that he felt, and although it was sometimes difficult, from the
peculiarities of his character, to discover what was their precise
nature, they always left some trace by which it might be seen that he
was greatly moved.

Information of the facts was given to Mrs. Hazleton by Shanks the
attorney, and young John Ayliffe, who dwelt with pleasure upon the
pain his successful artifice had inflicted; and Mrs. Hazleton was well
pleased too.

But the wound was deeper than they thought. It was like that produced
by the bite of a snake--insignificant in itself, but carrying poison
into every vein.

Could his child deceive him? Sir Philip Hastings asked himself. Could
Emily have long known this vulgar youth--gone secretly down to see him
at a distant cottage--conferred with him unknown to either father or
mother? It seemed monstrous to suppose such a thing; and yet what
could he believe? She had never named John Ayliffe since her return
from Mrs. Hazleton's; and yet it was certain from Marlow's own
account, that she had seen him there. Did not that show that she was
desirous of concealing the acquaintance from her parents?

Sir Philip had asked no questions, leaving her to speak if she thought
fit. He was now sorry for it, and resolved to inquire; as the fact of
her having seen the young man, for whom he felt an inexpressible
dislike, had been openly mentioned in a court of justice. But as he
rode home he began to argue on the other side of the question. The man
who had made the assertion was a notorious liar--a convicted felon.
Besides, he knew him to be malicious; he had twice before thrown out
insinuations which Sir Philip believed to be baseless, and could only
be intended to produce uneasiness. Might not these last words of his
be traced to the same motive? He would inquire in the first place, he
thought, what was the connection between the convict and John Ayliffe,
and stopping on the way for that purpose, he, soon satisfied himself
that the two were boon companions.

When he reached his own dwelling, he found Emily seated by Marlow in
one of her brightest, happiest moods. There was frank candor, graceful
innocence, bright open-hearted truth in every look and every word. It
was impossible to doubt her; and Sir Philip cast the suspicion from
him, but, alas! not for ever. They would return from time to time to
grieve and perplex him; and he would often brood for hours over his
daughter's character, puzzling himself more and more. Yet he would not
say a word--he blamed himself for even thinking of the matter; and he
would not show a suspicion. Yet he continued to think and to doubt,
while poor unconscious Emily would have been ready, if asked, to solve
the whole mystery in a moment. She had been silent from an
unwillingness to begin a painful subject herself; and though she had
yielded no assent to Mrs. Hazleton's arguments, they had made her
doubt whether she ought to mention, unquestioned, John Ayliffe's
proposal and conduct. She had made up her mind to tell all, if her
father showed the slightest desire to know any thing regarding her
late visit; but there was something in the effects which that visit
had produced on her mind, which she could not explain to herself.

Why did she love Mrs. Hazleton less? Why had she lost so greatly her
esteem for her? What had that lady done or said which justified so
great a change of feeling towards her? Emily could not tell. She could
fix upon no word, no act, she could entirely blame--but yet there had
been a general tone in her whole demeanor which had opened the poor
girl's eyes too much. She puzzled herself sadly with her own thoughts;
and probably would have fallen into more than one of her deep
self-absorbed reveries, had not sweet new feelings, Marlow's frequent
presence, kept her awake to a brighter, happier world of thought.

She was indeed very happy; and, could she have seen her mother look
brighter and smile upon her, she would have been perfectly so. Her
father's occasional moodiness she did not heed; for he often seemed
gloomy merely from intense thought. Emily had got a key to such dark
reveries in her own heart, and she knew well that they were no true
indications either of discontent or grief, for very often when to the
eyes of others she seemed the most dull and melancholy, she was
enjoying intense delight in the activity of her own mind. She judged
her father from herself, and held not the slightest idea that any
word, deed or thought of hers had given him the slightest uneasiness.

Notwithstanding the various contending feelings and passions which
were going on in the little circle on which our eyes are fixed, the
course of life had gone on with tolerable smoothness as far as Emily
and Marlow were concerned, for about two months, when, one morning,
Sir Philip Hastings received a letter in a hand which he did not know.
It reached him at the breakfast table, and evidently affected him
considerably with some sort of emotion. His daughters instantly caught
the change of his countenance, but Sir Philip did not choose that any
one should know he could be moved by any thing on earth, and he
instantly repressed all agitation, quietly folded up the letter again,
concluded his breakfast, and then retired to his own study.

Emily was not deceived, however. There were moments in Sir Philip's
life when he was unable to conceal altogether the strong feelings of
his heart under the veil of stoicism--or as he would have termed
it--to curb and restrain them by the power of philosophy. Emily had
seen such moments, and knew, that whatever were the emotions produced
by that letter, whether of anger or grief or apprehension--her father
was greatly moved.

In his own study, Sir Philip Hastings seated himself, spread the
letter before him, and read it over attentively. But now it did not
seem to affect him in the least. He was, in fact, ashamed of the
feelings he had experienced and partly shown. "How completely," said
he to himself, "does a false and fictitious system of society render
us the mere slaves of passion, infecting even those who tutor
themselves from early years to resist its influence. Here an insolent
young man lays claim to my name, and my inheritance, and coolly
assumes not only that he has a title to do so, but that I know it; and
this instead of producing calm contempt, makes my heart beat and my
blood boil, as if I were the veriest schoolboy."

The letter was all that Sir Philip stated, but it was something more.
It was a very artful epistle, drawn up by the joint shrewdness of Mr.
Shanks, Mr. John Ayliffe, and Mrs. Hazleton. It concisely stated the
claims of the young man who signed it, to all the property of the late
Sir John Hastings and to the baronetcy. It made no parade of proofs,
but assumed that those in the writer's possession were indisputable,
and also that Sir Philip Hastings was well aware that John Ayliffe was
his elder brother's legitimate son. The annuity which had been bought
for himself and his mother was broadly stated to have been the
purchase-money of her silence, negotiated by her father, who had no
means to carry on a suit at law. As long as his mother lived, the
writer said, he had been silent out of deference to her wishes, but
now that she was dead in France, he did not feel himself bound to
abide by an arrangement which deprived him at once of fortune and
station, and which had been entered into without his knowledge or
consent. He then went on to call upon Sir Philip Hastings in the
coolest terms to give up possession and acknowledge his right without
what the writer called "the painful ceremony of a lawsuit;" and in two
parts of the letter allusion was made to secret information which the
writer had obtained by the kind confidence of a friend whom he would
not name.

It was probably intended to give point to this insinuation at an after
period, but if it was aimed at poor Emily, it fell harmless for the
time, as no one knew better than Sir Philip that she had never been
informed of any thing which could affect the case in question.

Indeed, the subject of the annuity was one which he had never
mentioned to any one since the transaction had been completed many
years before; and the name of John Ayliffe had never passed his lips
till Marlow mentioned having seen that young man at Mrs. Hazleton's
house.

When he had read the letter, and as soon as he thought he had mastered
the last struggle of passion, he dipped the pen in the ink and wrote
the few following words:

"Sir Philip Hastings has received the letter signed John Ayliffe
Hastings. He knows no person of that name, but has heard of a young
man of the name of John Ayliffe. If that person thinks he has any just
claim on Sir Philip Hastings, or his estate, he had better pursue it
in the legal and ordinary course, as Sir Philip Hastings begs to
disclaim all private communication with him."

He addressed the letter to "Mr. John Ayliffe," and sent it to the
post. This done, he rejoined Marlow and Emily, and to all appearance
was more cheerful and conversable than he had been for many a previous
day. Perhaps it cost him an effort to be cheerful at all, and the
effort went a little beyond its mark. Emily was not altogether
satisfied, but Lady Hastings, when she came down, which, as usual, was
rather late in the day, remarked how gay her husband was.

Sir Philip said nothing to any one at the time regarding the contents
of the letter he had received. He consulted no lawyer even, and tried
to treat the subject with contemptuous forgetfulness; but his was a
brooding and tenacious mind, and he often thought of the epistle, and
the menaces it implied, against his own will. Nor could he or any one
connected with him long remain unattentive or ignorant of the matter,
for in a few weeks the first steps were taken in a suit against him,
and, spreading from attorneys' offices in every direction, the news of
such proceedings travelled far and wide, till the great Hastings case
became the talk of the whole country round.

In the mean time, Sir Philip's reply was very speedily shown to Mrs.
Hazleton, and that lady triumphed a good deal. Sir Philip was now in
the same position with John Ayliffe, she thought, that she had been in
some time before with Mr. Marlow; and already he began to show, in her
opinion, a disposition to treat the case very differently in his own
instance and in hers.

There he had strongly supported private negotiation; here he rejected
it altogether; and she chose to forget that circumstances, though
broadly the same, were in detail very different.

"We shall see," she said to herself, "we shall see whether, when the
proofs are brought forward, he will act with that rigid sense of
justice, which he assumed here."

When the first processes had been issued, however, and common rumor
justified a knowledge of the transaction, without private information,
Mrs. Hazleton set out at once to visit "poor dear Lady Hastings," and
condole with her on the probable loss of fortune. How pleasant it is
to condole with friends on such occasions. What an accession of
importance we get in our own eyes, especially if the poor people we
comfort have been a little bit above us in the world.

But Mrs. Hazleton had higher objects in view; she wanted no accession
of importance. She was quite satisfied with her own position in
society. She sought to see and prompt Lady Hastings--to sow dissension
where she knew there must already be trouble; and she found Sir
Philip's wife just in the fit frame of mind for her purpose. Sir
Philip himself and Emily had ridden out together; and though Mrs.
Hazleton would willingly have found an opportunity of giving Sir
Philip a sly friendly kick, and of just reminding him of his doctrines
announced in the case between herself and Mr. Marlow, she was not
sorry to have Lady Hastings alone for an hour or two. They remained
long in conference, and I need not detail all that passed. Lady
Hastings poured forth all her grief and indignation at Emily's
engagement to Mr. Marlow; and Mrs. Hazleton did nothing to diminish
either. She agreed that it was a very unequal match, that Emily with
her beauty and talents, and even with her mother's fortune alone,
might well marry into the highest family of the land. Nay, she said,
could the match be broken off, she might still take her rank among the
peeresses. She did not advise, indeed, actual resistance on the part
of her friend; she feared Lady Hastings' discretion; but she
insinuated that a mother and a wife by unwavering and constant
opposition, often obtained her own way, even in very difficult
circumstances.

From that hour Mrs. Hazleton was Lady Hastings' best friend.




CHAPTER XXVI.


There are seasons in the life of man, as well as in the course of the
year; and well, unhappily, have many poets painted them in all their
various aspects. But these seasons are subject to variations with
different men, as with different years. The summer of one man is all
bright and calm--a lapse of tranquil sunshine, and soft airs, and
gentle dews. With another, the same season passes in the thunder-storm
of passion--the tempests of war or ambition--and often, the gloomy
days of autumn or of winter overshadowed the rich land, and spoiled
the promised harvest.

It was an autumn-like period during the next three or four months of
the family of Sir Philip Hastings. For the first time, uncertainty and
doubt fell upon the family generally. There had been differences of
temper and of character. There had been slight inconveniences. There
had been occasional sickness and anxiety. There had been all those
things which in the usual course of events diminished the sum of human
happiness even to the most happy. But there had been nothing the least
like uncertainty of position. There had been no wavering anxiety from
day to day as to what the morrow was to bring forth. There had been
none of that poison-drop in which the keenest shafts of fate are
dipped, "the looking for of evil."

Now, every day brought some new intelligence, and some new
expectation, and the mass was altogether unfavorable. Had the blow
fallen at once--had any one been in power to say, "Sir Philip
Hastings, you must resign all your paternal estates, and pay back at
once the rents for nearly twenty years--you must give up the rank and
station which you have hitherto held, and occupy a totally different
position in society!" Sir Philip would have submitted at once, and
with less discomfort than most of my readers can imagine. But it was
the wearing, irritating, exciting, yet stupefying progress of a
lawsuit which had a painful and distressing effect upon his mind. One
day, he thought he saw the case quite clearly--could track the tricks
of his adversary, and expose the insecure foundation of his claim; and
then would come two or three days of doubt and discussion, and then
disappointment, and a new turn where every thing had to begin again.
But gradually proofs swelled up, first giving some show of justice to
the pretence that John Ayliffe had some claim, then amounting to a
probability in his favor, then seeming, to unlearned eyes, very
powerful as to his right.

I am no lawyer, and therefore cannot pursue all the stages of the
proceeding; but John Ayliffe had for his assistants unscrupulous men,
whose only aims were to succeed, and to shield themselves from danger
in case of detection; and their turns, and twists, and new points,
were manifold.

Sir Philip Hastings was tortured. It affected his spirits and his
temper. He became more gloomy--occasionally irritable, often
suspicious. He learned to pore over law papers, to seek out flaws and
errors, to look for any thing that might convey a double meaning, to
track the tortuous and narrow paths by which that power which bears
the name of Justice reaches the clear light of truth, or falls into
the thorny deep of error.

All this disturbed and changed him; and these daily anxieties and
discomforts affected his family too--Emily, indeed, but little, except
inasmuch as she was grieved to see her father grieve. But Lady
Hastings was not only pained and mortified herself--she contrived
to communicate a share of all she felt to others. She became
sad--somewhat sullen--and fancied all the time while she was
depressing her husband's spirits, and aggravating all he felt by
despondency and murmurs, instead of cheering and supporting him by
making light of the threatened evils, that she was but participating
sympathetically in his anxieties, and feeling a due share of his
sorrows. She had no idea of the duty of cheerfulness, in a wife, and
how often it may prove the very blessing that God intended in giving
man a helpmate.

Sickness, it is true, had diminished somewhat the light spirits of her
youth, but she had assuredly become a creature of repinings--a
murmurer by habit--fit to double rather than divide any load of
misfortune which fate might cast upon a husband's shoulders.

Lady Hastings strove rather to look sad, Emily Hastings to be gay and
cheerful, and both did it perhaps a little too much for the mood and
circumstances in which Sir Philip then was. He wondered when he came
home, after an anxious day, that Lady Hastings did nothing to cheer
him--that every word was gloomy and sad--that she seemed far more
affected at the thought of loss of fortune and station than himself.
He wondered also that Emily could be so light and playful, so joyous
and seemingly unconcerned, when he was suffering such anxiety.

Poor Emily! she was forcing spirits in vain, and playing the kindliest
of hypocrites--fashioning every word, and every look, to win him away
from painful thought, only to be misunderstood.

But the misunderstanding was heightened and pointed by the hand of
malice. The emotion which Sir Philip had displayed in the court had
not been forgotten by some whom a spirit of revenge rendered keen and
clear-sighted.

It seemed impossible to mingle Emily's name directly with the law
proceedings which were taking place; but more than once in accidental
correspondence it was insinuated that secret information, which had
led to the development of John Ayliffe's claim, had been obtained from
some near relation of Sir Philip Hastings, and it became generally
rumored and credited in the county, that Emily had indiscreetly
betrayed some secrets of her father's. Of course these rumors did not
reach her ears, but they reached Sir Philip Hastings, and he thought
it strange, and more strange, that Emily had never mentioned to him
her several interviews with John Ayliffe, which he had by this time
learned were more than one.

Some strange feelings, disguised doubtless by one of those veils which
vanity or selfishness are ever ready to cast over the naked emotions
of the human heart, withheld him from speaking to his child on the
subject which caused him so much pain. Doubtless it was pride--for
pride of a peculiar kind was at the bottom of many of his actions. He
would not condescend to inquire, he thought, into that which she did
not choose to explain herself, and he went on in reality barring the
way against confidence, when, in truth, nothing would have given Emily
more relief than to open her whole heart to her father.

With Marlow, Sir Philip Hastings was more free and communicative than
with any one else. The young man's clear perceptions, and rapid
comprehensions on any point in the course of the proceedings going on,
his zeal, his anxiety, his thoughtfulness, and his keen sense of what
was just and equitable, raised him every day higher in the opinion of
Sir Philip Hastings, and he would consult with him for hours, talk the
whole matter over in all its bearings, and leave him to solve various
questions of conscience in which he found it difficult himself to come
to a decision. Only on one point Sir Philip Hastings never spoke to
him; and that was Emily's conduct with regard to young Ayliffe. That,
the father could not do; and yet, more than once, he longed to do it.

One day, however, towards the end of six months after the first
processes had been issued, Sir Philip Hastings, in one of his morning
consultations with Marlow, recapitulated succinctly all the proofs
which young John Ayliffe had brought forward to establish a valid
marriage between his mother and the elder brother of the baronet.

"The case is very nearly complete," said Sir Philip. "But two or three
links in the chain of evidence are wanting, and as soon as I become
myself convinced that this young man is, beyond all reasonable doubt,
the legitimate son of my brother John, my course will be soon taken.
It behooves us in the first instance, Marlow, to consider how this may
affect you. You have sought the hand of a rich man's daughter, and now
I shall be a poor man; for although considerable sums have accumulated
since my father's death, they will not more than suffice to pay off
the sums due to this young man if his claim be established, and the
expenses of this suit must be saved by hard economy. The property of
Lady Hastings will still descend to our child, but neither she nor I
have the power to alienate even a part of it for our daughter's dowry.
It is right, therefore, Marlow, that you should be set free from all
engagements."

"When I first asked your daughter's hand, Sir Philip," replied
Marlow, "I heartily wished that our fortunes were more equal. Fate has
granted that wish, apparently, in making them so; and believe me, I
rejoice rather than regret that it is so, as far as I myself am
concerned. We shall have enough for comfort, Sir Philip, and not too
much for happiness. What need we more? But I cannot help thinking," he
continued, "that this suit may turn out differently from that which
you expect. I believe that the mind has its instincts, which, though
dangerous to trust to, guide us nevertheless, sometimes, more surely
than reason. There is an impression on my mind, which all the evidence
hitherto brought forward has been unable to shake, that this claim of
John Ayliffe is utterly without foundation--that it is, in fact, a
trumped up case, supported by proofs which will fall to pieces under
close examination."

Sir Philip Hastings shook his head. "But one thing more," he said,
"and I am myself convinced. I will not struggle against conviction,
Marlow; but the moment I feel morally sure that I am defending a bad
cause, that instant I will yield, be the sacrifice what it may.
Nothing on earth," he continued, in a stern abstracted tone, "shall
ever prevent my doing that which I believe right, and which justice
and honor require me to do. Life itself and all that makes life dear
were but a poor sacrifice in the eyes of an honest man; what then a
few thousand acres, and an empty designation?"

"But, my dear Sir Philip," replied Marlow, "let us suppose for one
moment that this claim is a fictitious one, and that it is supported
by fraud and forgery, you will allow that more than a few months are
required to investigate all the particulars thoroughly, and to detect
the knavery which may have been committed?"

"My dear Marlow," replied Sir Philip, "conviction comes to each mind
accordingly as it is naturally constituted or habitually regulated. I
trust I have studied the nature of evidence well--well enough to be
satisfied with much less than mere law will require. In regard to all
questions which come under the decision of the law, there are, in
fact, two juries who decide upon the merits of the evidence--one,
selected from our fellow men--the other in the bosom of the parties
before which each man shall scrupulously try the justice of his own
cause, and if the verdict be against him, should look upon himself but
as an officer to carry the verdict into execution. I will never act
against conviction. I will always act with it. My mind will try the
cause itself; and the moment its decision is pronounced, that instant
I will act upon it."

Marlow knew that it was in vain to argue farther, and could only trust
that something would occur speedily to restore Sir Philip's confidence
in his own rights.

Sir Philip, however, was now absent very frequently from home. The
unpleasant business in which he was engaged, called him continually to
the county town, and many a long and happy hour might Marlow and Emily
have passed together had not Lady Hastings at this time assumed a
somewhat new character--apparently so only--for it was, in fact,
merely a phase of the old one. She became--as far as health and
indolence would admit--the most prudent and careful mother in the
world. She insinuated that it was highly improper for Emily to walk or
ride alone with her acknowledged lover, and broadly asserted that
their previous rambles had been permitted without her knowledge, and
from inadvertence. During all Marlow's afternoon visits, she took
especial care to sit with them the whole time, and thus she sought to
deprive them of all means of free and unconstrained communication.
Such would have been the result, too, indeed, had it not been for a
few morning hours snatched now and then; partly from a habit of
indulgence, and partly from very delicate health, Lady Hastings was
rarely, if ever, down to breakfast, and generally remained in her
drawing-room till the hour of noon was past.

The hours of Sir Philip's absence were generally tedious enough to
himself. Sometimes a day of weary and laborious business occupied the
time; but that was a relief rather than otherwise. In general the day
was spent in a visit to the office of his lawyer, in finding the
information he wanted, or the case he had desired to be prepared, not
ready for him, in waiting for it hour after hour, in tedious gloomy
meditation, and very often riding home without it, reflecting on the
evils of a dilatory system which often, by the refusal of speedy
justice, renders ultimate justice unavailable for any thing but the
assertion of an abstract principle. He got tired of this mode of
proceeding: he felt that it irritated and disordered him, and after a
while, whenever he found that he should be detained in suspense, he
mounted his horse again, and rode away to amuse his mind with other
things.

The house of Mrs. Hazleton being so near, he more than once paid her a
visit during such intervals. His coming frequently was not altogether
convenient to her; for John Ayliffe was not an unfrequent visitor at
her house, and Mrs. Hazleton had to give the young men a hint to let
her see him early in the morning or late in the evening. Nevertheless,
Mrs. Hazleton was not at all displeased to cultivate the friendship of
Sir Philip Hastings. She had her objects, her purposes, to serve, and
with her when she put on her most friendly looks towards the baronet
she was not moved merely by that every-day instinctive hypocrisy which
leads man to cover the passions he is conscious of, with a veil of the
most opposite appearances, but it was a definite hypocrisy, with
objects distinctly seen by herself, and full of purpose.

Thus, and for these reasons, she received Sir Philip Hastings on all
occasions with the highest distinction--assumed, with a certain
chameleon quality which some persons have, the color and tone of his
mind to a considerable degree, while yet the general features of her
own character were preserved sufficiently to shield her from the
charge of affectation. She was easy, graceful, dignified as ever, with
a certain languid air, and serious quietness which was very engaging.
She never referred in her conversations with Sir Philip to the suit
that was going on against him, and when he spoke of it himself, though
she assumed considerable interest, and seemed to have a personal
feeling in the matter, exclaiming, "If this goes on, nobody's estates
will be secure soon!" she soon suffered the subject to drop, and did
not recur to it again.

One day after the conversation between Sir Philip and Marlow, part of
which has been already detailed, Sir Philip turned his horse's head
towards Mrs. Hazleton's at a somewhat earlier hour than usual. It was
just half past ten when he dismounted at the door, but he knew her
matutinal habits and did not expect to find her occupied. The servant,
however, instead of showing him into the small room where she usually
sat, took him to the great drawing-room, and as he went, Sir Philip
heard the voices of Mrs. Hazleton and another person in quick and
apparently eager conversation. There was nothing extraordinary in
this, however, and he turned to the window and gazed out into the
park. He heard the servant go into the morning room, and then
immediately all sound of voices ceased. Shortly after, a horse's feet,
beating the ground rapidly, caught the baronet's ear, but the rider
must have mounted in the courtyard and taken the back way out of the
park; for he came not within Sir Philip's sight. A moment or two
after, Mrs. Hazleton appeared, and there was an air of eagerness and
excitement about her which was not at all usual. She seated Sir Philip
beside her, however, with one of her blandest looks, and then laying
her hand on his, said, in a kind and sisterly tone, "Do tell me, Sir
Philip--I am not apt to be curious, or meddle with other people's
affairs; but in this I am deeply interested. A rumor has just reached
me from Hartwell, that you have signified your intention of abandoning
your defence against this ridiculous claim upon your property. Do tell
me if this is true?"

"Partly, and partly false," replied Sir Philip, "as all rumors are.
Who gave you this information?"

"Oh, some of the people from Hartwell," she replied, "who came over
upon business."

"The tidings must have spread fast," replied Sir Philip; "I announced
to my own legal advisers this morning, and told them to announce to
the opposite party, that if they could satisfy me upon one particular
point, I would not protract the suit, putting them to loss and
inconvenience and myself also."

"A noble and generous proceeding, indeed," said Mrs. Hazleton  with an
enthusiastic burst of admiration. "Ah, dear Emily, I can see your
mediation in this."

Sir Philip started as if a knife had been plunged into him, and with a
profound internal satisfaction, Mrs. Hazleton saw the emotion she had
produced.

"May I ask," he said, in a dry cold tone, after he had recovered
himself a little, "May I ask what my daughter can have to do with this
affair?"

"Oh, really--in truth I don't know," said Mrs. Hazleton, stammering
and hesitating, "I only thought--but I dare say it is all nonsense.
Women are always the peacemakers, you know, Sir Philip, and as Emily
knew both parties well, it seemed natural she should mediate between
them."

"Well?--" said Sir Philip Hastings to himself, slowly and
thoughtfully, but he only replied to Mrs. Hazleton, "No, my dear
Madam, Emily has had nothing to do with this. It has never formed a
subject of conversation between us, and I trust that she has
sufficient respect for me, and for herself, not to interfere unasked
in my affairs."

The serpent had done its work; the venom was busy in the veins of Sir
Philip Hastings, corrupting the purest sources of the heart's
feelings, and Mrs. Hazleton saw it and triumphed.




CHAPTER XXVII.


Emily was as gay as a lark. The light of love and happiness was in her
eyes, the hue of health was upon her cheek, and a new spirit of hope
and joy seemed to pervade all her fair form. So Sir Philip Hastings
found her on the terrace with Marlow when he returned from Hartwell.
She was dressed in a riding habit, and one word would have explained
all the gaiety of her mood. Lady Hastings, never very consequent in
her actions, had wished for some one of those things which ladies wish
for, and which ladies only can choose. She had felt too unwell to go
for it herself; and although she had not a fortnight before expressed
her strong disapprobation of her daughter and Mr. Marlow even walking
out alone in the park, she had now sent them on horseback to procure
what she wanted. They had enjoyed one of those glorious rides over the
downs, which seem to pour into the heart fresh feelings of delight at
every step, flooding the sense with images of beauty, and making the
blood dance freely in the veins. It seemed also, both to her and
Marlow, that a part of the prohibition was removed, and though they
might not perhaps be permitted to walk out together, Lady Hastings
could hardly for the future forbid them to ride. Thus they had come
back very well pleased, with light hearts within, and gay hopes
fluttering round them.

Sir Philip Hastings, on the other hand, had passed a day of
bitterness, and hard, painful thought. On his first visit to the
county town, he had, as I have shown, been obliged once more to put
off decision. Then came his conference with Mrs. Hazleton. Then he had
returned to his lawyer's office, and found that the wanting evidence
had been supplied by his opponents. All that he had demanded was
there; and no apparent flaw in the case of his adversary. He had
always announced his attention of withdrawing opposition if such
proofs were afforded, and he did so now, with stern, rigid, and
somewhat hasty determination--but not without bitterness and regret.
His ride home, too, was troubled with dull and grievous thoughts, and
his whole mind was out of tune, and unfit to harmonize with gaiety of
any kind. He forgot that poor Emily could not see what had been
passing in his bosom, could not know all that had occurred to disturb
and annoy him, and her light and cheerful spirits seemed an offence to
him.

Sir Philip passed on, after he had spoken a few words to Marlow, and
sought Lady Hastings in the room below, where she usually sat after
she came down. Sir Philip, as I have shown, had not been nurtured in a
tender school, and he was not very apt by gentle preparation to soothe
the communication of any bad tidings. Without any circumlocution,
then, or prefatory remarks of any kind, he addressed his wife in the
following words: "This matter is decided, my dear Rachel. I am no
longer Sir Philip Hastings, and it is necessary that we should remove
from this house within a month, to your old home--the Court. It will
be necessary, moreover, that, we should look with some degree of
accuracy into the state of our future income, and our expenditure.
With your property, and the estate which I inherit from my mother,
which being settled on the younger children, no one can take from me,
we shall still have more than enough for happiness, but the style of
our living must be altered. We shall have plenty of time to think of
that, however, and to do what we have to do methodically."

Lady Hastings, or as we should rather call her now, Mistress Hastings,
seemed at first hardly to comprehend her husband's meaning, and she
replied, "You do not mean to say, Philip, that this horrible cause is
decided?"

"As far as I am concerned, entirely," replied Sir Philip Hastings. "I
shall offer no farther defence."

Lady Hastings fell into a fit of hysterics, and her husband knowing
that it was useless to argue with her in such circumstances, called
her maid, and left her.

There was but a dull dinner-party at the Hall that day. Sir Philip was
gloomy and reserved, and the news which had spread over the house, as
to the great loss of property which he had sustained, soon robbed his
daughter of her cheerfulness.

Marlow, too, was very grave; for he thought his friend had acted, not
only hastily, but imprudently. Lady Hastings did not come down to
dinner, and as soon as the meal was over Emily retired to her mother's
dressing-room, leaving Marlow and her father with their wine. Sir
Philip avoided the subject of his late loss, however, and when Marlow
himself alluded to it, replied very briefly.

"It is done," he said, "and I will cast the matter entirely from my
mind, Marlow. I will endeavor, as far as possible, to do in all
circumstances what is right, whatever be the anguish it costs me.
Having done what is right, my next effort shall be to crush every
thing like regret or repining. There is only one thing in life which
could give me any permanent pain, and that would be to have an
unworthy child."

Marlow did not seem to remark the peculiar tone in which the last
words were uttered, and he replied, "There, at least, you are most
happy, Sir Philip; for surely Emily is a blessing which may well
compensate for any misfortunes."

"I trust so--I think so," said Sir Philip, in a dry and hasty manner,
and then changing the subject, he added, "Call me merely Philip
Hastings, my good friend. I say with Lord Verulam, 'The Chancellor is
gone.'  I mean I am no longer a baronet. That will not distress me,
however, and as to the loss of fortune, I can bear it with the most
perfect indifference."

Mr. Hastings reckoned in some degree without his host, however. He
knew not all the petty annoyances that were in store for him. The
costs he had to pay, the back-rents which were claimed, the long and
complicated accounts that were to be passed, the eager struggle which
was made to deprive him of many things undoubtedly his own; all were
matters of almost daily trouble and irritation during the next six
months. He had greatly miscalculated the whole amount of expenses.
Having lived always considerably within his income, he had imagined
that he had quite a sufficient amount in ready money to pay all the
demands that could be made upon him. But such was far from being the
case. Before all the debts were paid, and the accounts closed, he was
obliged to raise money upon his life-interest in his mother's
property, and to remain dependent, as it were, upon his wife's income
for his whole means. These daily annoyances had a much greater effect
upon Mr. Hastings than any great and serious misfortune could have
had. He became morose, impatient, gloomy. His mind brooded over all
that had occurred, and all that was occurring. He took perverted views
of many things, and adhered to them with an obstinacy that nothing
could shake.

In the mean time all the neighbors and friends of the family
endeavored to show their sympathy and kindness by every means in their
power. Even before the family quitted the Hall, the visitors were more
numerous than they had ever been before, and this was some consolation
to Mistress Hastings, though quite the contrary to her husband, who
did not indeed appear very frequently amongst the guests, but remained
in his own study as much as possible.

It was a very painful day for every one, and for Emily especially,
when they passed the door of the old Hall for the last time, and took
their way through the park towards the Court. The furniture in great
part, the books, the plate, had gone before; the rooms looked vacant
and desolate, and as Emily passed through them one by one, ere she
went down to the carriage, there was certainly nothing very attractive
in their aspect. But there were spots there associated with many dear
memories--feelings--fancies--thoughts--all the bright things of early,
happy youth; and it was very bitter for her to leave them all, and
know that she was never to visit them again.

She might, and probably would, have fallen into one of her deep
reveries, but she struggled against it, knowing that both her father
and her mother would require comfort and consolation in the coming
hours. She exerted herself, then, steadily and courageously to bear up
without a show of grief, and she succeeded even too well to satisfy
her father. He thought her somewhat light and frivolous, and judged it
very strange that his daughter could quit her birth-place, and her
early home, without, apparently, one regretful sigh. He himself sat
stern, and gloomy, and silent, in the carriage, as it rolled away.
Mistress Hastings leaned back, with her handkerchief over her eyes,
weeping bitterly. Emily alone was calmly cheerful, and she maintained
this demeanor all the way along till they reached the Court, and
separated till dinner-time. Then, however, she wept bitterly and long.

Before she had descended to meet her parents at dinner, she did her
best to efface all traces of her sad employment for the last hour. She
did not succeed completely, and when she entered the drawing-room, and
spoke cheerfully to her father, he raised his eyes to her face, and
detected, at once, the marks of recent tears on her swollen eyelids.

"She has been weeping," said Mr. Hastings to himself; "can I have been
mistaken?"

A gleam of the truth shot through his mind, and comforted him much,
but alas, it was soon to be lost again.

From feelings of delicacy, Marlow had absented himself that day, but
on the following morning he was there early, and thenceforward was a
daily visitor at the Court. He applied himself particularly to cheer
Emily's father, and often spent many hours with him, withdrawing Mr.
Hastings' mind from all that was painful in his own situation, by
leading it into those discussions of abstract propositions of which he
was so fond. But Marlow was not the only frequent visitor at the
Court. Mrs. Hazleton was there two or three times in the week, and was
all kindness, gentleness, and sympathy. She had tutored herself well,
and she met Mr. Marlow as Emily's affianced husband, with an ease and
indifference which was marvellously well assumed. To Mrs. Hastings she
proved the greatest comfort, although it is not be asserted that the
counsels which she gave her, proved at all comfortable to the rest of
the household, and yet Mrs. Hazleton never committed herself. Mrs.
Hastings could not have repeated one word that she said, that any one
on earth could have found fault with. She had a mode of insinuating
advice without speaking it--of eking out her words by looks and
gestures full of significance to the person who beheld them, but
perfectly indescribable to others.

She was not satisfied, however, with being merely the friend and
confidante of Mrs. Hastings. She must win Emily's father also, and she
succeeded so well that Mr. Hastings quite forgot all doubts and
suspicions, and causes of offence, and learned to look upon Mrs.
Hazleton as a really kind and amiable person, and as consistent as
could be expected of any woman.

Not one word, however, did Mrs. Hazleton say in the hearing of Emily's
father which could tend in any degree to depreciate the character of
Mr. Marlow, or be construed into a disapproval of the proposed
marriage. She was a great deal too wise for that, knowing the
character of Mr. Hastings sufficiently to see that she could effect no
object, and only injure herself by such a course.

To Emily she was all that was kind and delightful. She was completely
the Mrs. Hazleton of former days; but with the young girl she was less
successful than with her parents. Emily could never forget the visit
to her house, and what had there occurred, and the feelings which she
entertained towards Mrs. Hazleton were always those of doubt. Her
character was a riddle to Emily, as well it might be. There was
nothing upon which she could definitely fix as an indication of a bad
heart, or of duplicity of nature, and yet she doubted; nor did Marlow
at all assist in clearing her mind; for although they often spoke of
Mrs. Hazleton, and Marlow admitted all her bright and shining
qualities, yet he became very taciturn when Emily entered more deeply
into that lady's character. Marlow likewise had his doubts, and to say
sooth, he was not at all well pleased to see Mrs. Hazleton so
frequently with Mrs. Hastings. He did not well know what it was he
feared, but yet there was a something which instinctively told him
that his interests in Emily's family would not find the most favorable
advocate in Mrs. Hazleton.

Such was the state of things when one evening there was assembled at
the house of Mr. Hastings, a small dinner party--the first which had
been given since his loss of property. The summer had returned, the
weather was beautiful, the guests were cheerful and intellectual, and
the dinner passed off happily enough. There were several gentlemen and
several ladies present, and amongst the latter was Mrs. Hazleton.
Politics at that time ran high: the people were not satisfied
altogether with the King whom they had themselves chosen, and several
acts of intolerance had proved that promises made before the
attainment of power are not always very strictly maintained when power
has been reached. Mr. Hastings had never meddled in the strife of
party. He had a thorough contempt for policy and politicians, but he
did not at all object to argue upon the general principles of
government, in an abstract manner, and very frequently startled his
hearers by opinions, not only unconstitutional, and wide and far from
any of the received notions of the day, but sometimes also, very
violent, and sometimes, at first sight, irreconcilable with each
other. On the present occasion the conversation after dinner took a
political turn, and straying away from their wine, the gentlemen
walked out into the gardens, which were still beautifully kept up, and
prolonged their discussion in the open air. The ladies too--as all
pictures show they were fond of doing in those days--were walking
amongst the flowers, not in groups, but scattered here and there.
Marlow was naturally making his way to the side of Emily, who was
tying up a shrub at no great distance from the door, but Mrs. Hazleton
unkindly called him to her, to tell her the name of a flower which she
did not know. In the mean time Mr. Hastings took his daughter by the
arm, leaning gently upon her, and walking up and down the terrace,
while he continued his discussion with a Northumberland gentleman
known in history as Sir John Fenwick. "The case seems to be this,"
said Mr. Hastings, in reply to some question or the other; "all must
depend upon the necessity. Violent means are bad as a remedy for any
thing but violent evils, but the greatness of the evil will often
justify any degree of vigor in the means. Will any one tell me that
Brutus was not justified in stabbing Cæsar? Will any one tell me that
William Tell was not justified in all that he did against the tyrant
of his country? I will not pretend to justify the English regicides,
not only because they condemned a man by a process unknown to our
laws, and repugnant to all justice, but because they committed an act
for which there was no absolute necessity. Where an absolute necessity
is shown, indeed--where no other means can be found of obtaining
freedom, justice and security, I see no reason why a King should not
be put to death as well as any other man. Nay more, he who does the
deed with a full appreciation of its importance, a conscience clear of
any private motives, and a reasoning sense of all the bearings of the
act he commits, merits a monument rather than a gibbet, though in
these days he is sure to obtain the one and not the other."

"Hush, hush, do not speak so loud, my dear sir," said Sir John
Fenwick; "less than those words brought Sidney's head to the block."

"I am not afraid of mine," replied Mr. Hastings, with a faint smile;
"mine are mere abstract notions with regard to such things; very
little dangerous to any crowned heads, and if they thought fit to put
down such opinions, they would have to burn more than one half of all
the books we have derived from Rome."

Sir John Fenwick would not pursue the subject, however, and turned the
conversation in another course. He thought indeed that it had gone far
enough, especially when a young lady was present; for he was one of
those men who have no confidence in any woman's discretion, and he
knew well, though he did not profit much by his knowledge, that things
very slight, when taken abstractedly, may become very dangerous if
forced into connection with events. Philip Hastings would have said
what he did say, before any ears in Europe, without the slightest
fear, but as it proved, he had said too much for his own safety. No
one indeed seemed to have noticed the very strong opinions he had
expressed except Sir John Fenwick himself, and shortly after the party
gathered together again, and the conversation became general and not
very interesting.




CHAPTER XXVIII.


Men have lived and died in the pursuit of two objects the least
worthy, on which the high mind of man could ever fix, out of all the
vain illusions that lead us forward through existence from youth to
old age: the philosopher's stone, and the elixir of life. Gold, gold,
sordid gold--not competence--not independence, but wealth--profuse,
inexhaustible wealth--the hard food of Cr[oe]sus; strange that it
should ever form the one great object of an immortal spirit! But
stranger still, that a being born to higher destinies should seek to
pin itself down to this dull earth forever--to dwell in a clay hut,
when a palace gates are open--to linger in a prison, when freedom may
be had--to outlive affections, friendships, hope and happiness--to
remain desolate in a garden where every flower has withered. To seek
the philosopher's stone--even could it have been found--was a madness:
but to desire the elixir of life was a worse insanity.

There was once, however, in the world's history a search--an eager
search, for that which at first sight may seem nearly the same as the
great elixir; but which was in reality very, very different.

We are told by the historians of America, that a tradition prevailed
amongst the Indians of Puerto Rico, that in one of the islands on the
coast, there was a fountain which possessed the marvellous power of
restoring, to any one who bathed in its waters, all the vigor and
freshness of youth, and that some of the Spanish adventurers sought it
anxiously, but sought in vain. Here indeed was an object worthy of
desire--here, what the heart might well yearn for, and mourn to find
impossible.

Oh, that fountain of youth, what might it not give back! The easy
pliancy of limb: the light activity of body: the calm, sweet sleep:
the power of enjoyment and acquisition: the freshness of the heart:
the brightness of the fancy: the brilliant dreams: the glorious
aspirations: the beauty and the gentleness: the innocence: the love.
We, who stand upon the shoal of memory, and look back in our faint
dreams, to the brighter land left far behind, may well long for that
sweet fountain which could renew--not life--but youth.

Oh youth--youth! Give me but one year of youth again. And it shall
come. I see it there, beyond the skies, that fountain of youth, in the
land where all flowers are immortal.

It is very strange, however, that with some men, when youth is gone,
its very memories die also. They can so little recollect the feelings
of that brighter time, that they cannot comprehend them in others:
that they become a mystery--a tale written in a tongue they have
forgotten.

It was so with Philip Hastings, and so also with his wife. Neither
seemed to comprehend the feelings of Marlow and Emily; but her father
understood them least. He had consented to their union: he approved of
her choice; but yet it seemed strange and unpleasant to him, that her
thoughts should be so completely given to her lover. He could hardly
believe that the intense affection she felt for another, was
compatible with love towards her parent. He knew not, or seemed to
have forgotten that the ordinance to leave all and cleave unto her
husband, is written in woman's heart as plainly as in the Book.

Nevertheless, that which he felt was not the least like
jealousy--although I have seen such a thing even in a parent towards a
child. It was a part of the problem of Emily's character, which he was
always trying to solve without success.

"Here," he thought, "she has known this young man, but a short
time--no years--not very many months; and yet, it is clear, that in
that short space, she has learned to love him better than those to
whom she is bound by every tie of long enduring affection and
tenderness."

Had he thought of comparing at all, her conduct and feelings with
those of his own youth, he would still have marvelled; for he would
have said, "I had no tenderness shown me in my young days--I was not
the companion, the friend, the idol, the peculiar loved one of father
or mother, so long as my elder brother lived. I loved her who first
really loved me. From _my parents_, I had met small affection, and but
little kindness. It was therefore natural that I should fix my love
elsewhere, as they had fixed theirs. But with my child, the case is
very different."

Yet he loved Marlow well--was fond of his society--was well pleased
that he was to be his daughter's husband; but even in his case, Mr.
Hastings was surprised in a certain degree; for Marlow did not, and
could not conceal that he loved Emily's society better than her
father's--that he would rather a great deal be with her than with
Brutus himself or Cato.

This desire on the part of Marlow to be ever by her side, was a great
stumbling-block in the way of Mr. Hastings' schemes for re-educating
Marlow, and giving that strength and vigor to his character of which
his future father-in-law had thought it susceptible. He made very
little progress, and perhaps Marlow's society might even have had some
influence upon him--might have softened--mitigated his character; but
that there were counteracting influences continually at work.

All that had lately happened--the loss of fortune and of station--the
dark and irritating suspicions which had been instilled into his mind
in regard to his child's conduct--the doubts which had been produced
of her frankness and candor--the fact before his eyes, that she loved
another better, far better, than himself, with a kind word, now and
then, from Mrs. Hazleton, spoken to drive the dart deeper into his
heart, had rendered him somewhat morose and gloomy,--apt to take a bad
view of other people's actions, and to judge less fairly than he
always wished to judge. When Marlow hastened away from him to rejoin
Emily, and paint, with her, in all the brightest colors of
imagination, a picture of the glowing future, her father would walk
solitary and thoughtful, giving himself up to dark and unprofitable
reveries.

Mrs. Hastings in the mean time would take counsel with Mrs. Hazleton,
and they would settle between them that the father was already
dissatisfied with the engagement he had aided to bring about, and that
a little persevering opposition on the part of the mother, would
ultimately bring that engagement to an end.

Mrs. Hastings, too, thought--or rather seemed to feel, for she did not
reduce it to thought--that she had now a greater right to exercise
some authority in regard to her daughter's marriage, as Emily's whole
fortune must proceed from her own property. She ventured to oppose
more boldly, and to express her opinion against the marriage, both to
her husband and her child. It was against the advice of Mrs. Hazleton
that she did so; for that lady knew Mr. Hastings far better than his
own wife knew him; and while Emily's cheek burned, and her eye swam in
tears, Mr. Hastings replied in so stern and bitter a tone that Mrs.
Hastings shrunk back alarmed at what she herself had done.

But the word had been spoken: the truth revealed. Both Mr. Hastings
and Emily were thenceforth aware that she wished the engagement
between her daughter and Marlow broken off--she was opposed to the
marriage; and would oppose it.

The effect of this revelation of her views upon her child and her
husband, was very different. Emily had colored with surprise and
grief--not, as her father thought, with anger; and she resolved
thenceforth to endeavor to soften her mother's feelings towards him
she loved, and to win her consent to that upon which all her own
happiness depended; but in which her own happiness could not be
complete without a mother's approbation.

Mr. Hastings, on the contrary, entertained no expectation that his
wife would ever change her views, even if she changed her course. Some
knowledge--some comprehension of her character had been forced upon
him during the many years of their union; and he believed that, if all
open remonstrance, and declared opposition had been crushed by his
sharp and resolute answer, there would nevertheless be continual or
ever recurring efforts on Mrs. Hastings' part, to have her own way,
and thwart both his purposes and Emily's affection. He prepared to
encounter that sort of irritating guerrilla warfare of last words, and
sneers, and innuendoes, by which a wife sometimes endeavors to
overcome a husband's resolutions; and he hardened himself to resist.
He knew that she could not conquer in the strife; but he determined to
put an end to the warfare, either by some decided expression of his
anger at such proceedings, or by uniting Emily to Marlow, much sooner
than he had at first proposed.

The latter seemed the easiest method, and there was a great chance of
the marriage, which it had been agreed should be delayed till Emily
was nineteen, taking place much earlier, when events occurred which
produced even a longer delay.

One of the first steps taken by Mr. Hastings to show his wife that her
unreasonable opposition would have no effect upon him, was not only to
remove the prohibition of those lovers' rambles which Mrs. Hastings
had forbidden, but to send his daughter and her promised husband forth
together on any pretext that presented itself. He took the opportunity
of doing so, first, when his wife was present, and on the impulse of
the moment, she ventured to object. One look--one word from her
husband, however, silenced her; for they were a look and word too
stern to be trifled with, and Emily went to dress for her walk; but
she went with the tears in her eyes. She was grieved to find that all
that appertained to her happiness was likely to become a cause of
dissension between her father and her mother. Had Marlow not been
concerned--had his happiness not been also at stake--she would have
sacrificed any thing--every thing--to avoid such a result; but she
felt she had no right to yield to caprice, where he was to suffer as
well as herself.

The walk took place, and it might have been very sweet to both, had
not the scene which had immediately preceded poured a drop of
bitterness into their little cup of joy. Such walks were often renewed
during the month that followed; but Emily was not so happy as she
might have been; for she saw that her father assumed a sterner, colder
tone towards his wife, and believed that she might be the unwilling
cause of this painful alienation. She knew not that it proceeded
partly from another source--that Mr. Hastings had discovered, or
divined, that his wife had some feeling of increased power and
authority from the fact of his having lost his large estates, and of
her property being all that remained to them both.

Poor Emily! Marlow's love, that dream of joy, seemed destined to
produce, for a time at least, nothing but grief and anxiety. Her
reveries became more frequent, and more deep, and though her lover
could call her from them in a moment, no one else had the power.

One day, Marlow and his Emily--for whom every day his love increased;
for he knew and comprehended her perfectly, and he was the only
one--had enjoyed a more happy and peaceful ramble than usual, through
green lanes, and up the hill, and amidst the bright scenery which lay
on the confines of the two counties, and they returned slowly towards
the house, not anticipating much comfort there. As they approached,
they saw from the road a carriage standing before the door, dusty, as
if from a long journey, but with the horses still attached. There were
three men, too, with the carriage, besides the driver, and they were
walking their horses up and down the terrace, as if their stay was to
be but short. It was an unusual number of attendants, even in those
days, to accompany a carriage in the country, except upon some visit
of great ceremony; and the vehicle itself--a large, old, rumbling
coach, which had seen better days--gave no indication of any great
state or dignity on the part of its owner.

Why, she knew not, but a feeling of fear, or at least anxiety, came
over Emily as she gazed, and turning to Marlow, she said, "Who can
these visitors be?"

"I know not, indeed, dear love," he answered, "but the equipage is
somewhat strange. Were we in France," he added, with a laugh, "I
should think it belonged to an exempt, bearing a _lettre de cachet_."

Emily smiled also, for the idea of her, father having incurred the
anger of any government or violated any law seemed to her quite out of
the question.

When they approached the door, however, they were met by a servant,
with a grave and anxious countenance, who told her that her father
wished to see her immediately in the dining hall.

"Is there any one with him?" asked Emily, in some surprise.

"Yes, Mistress Emily," replied the man, "there is a strange gentleman
with him. But you had better go in at once; for I am afraid things are
not going well."

Marlow drew her arm through his, and pressed it gently to make her
feel support; and then went into the eating-room, as it was usually
called, by her side.

When they entered they found the scene a strange and painful one. Mr.
Hastings was seated near a window, with his hat on, and his cloak cast
down on a chair beside him. His wife was placed near him, weeping
bitterly; and at the large table in the middle of the room was a
coarse-looking man, in the garb of a gentleman, but with no other
indication but that of dress of belonging to a superior class. He was
very corpulent, and his face, though shadowed by an enormous wig, was
large and bloated. There was food and wine before him, and to both he
seemed to be doing ample justice, without taking any notice of the
master of the house or his weeping lady.

Mr. Hastings, however, rose and advanced towards his daughter, as soon
as she entered, and in an instant the eye of the gormandizing guest
was raised from his plate and turned towards the party, with a look of
eager suspicion.

"Oh, my dear father, what is this?" exclaimed Emily, running towards
him.

"One of those accidents of life, my child," replied Mr. Hastings, "from
which I had hoped to be exempt--most foolishly. But it seems," he
continued, "no conduct, however reserved, can shield one from the
unjust suspicions of princes and governments."

"Very good cause for suspicion, sir," said the man at the table,
quaffing a large glass of wine. "Mr. Secretary would not have signed a
warrant without strong evidence. Vernon is a cautious man, sir, a very
cautious man."

"And who is this person?" asked Marlow pointing to the personage who
spoke.

"A messenger of the powers that be," replied Mr. Hastings; "it seems
that because Sir John Fenwick dined here a short time ago, and has
since been accused of some practices against the state, his Majesty's
advisers have thought fit to connect me with his doings, or their own
suspicions, though they might as well have sent down to arrest my
butler or my footman, and I am now to have the benefit of a journey to
the Tower of London under arrest."

"Or to Newgate," said the messenger, significantly.

"To London, at all events," replied Mr. Hastings.

"I will go with you," said Marlow, at once; but before the prisoner
could answer, the messenger interfered, saying, "That I cannot allow."

"I am afraid you must allow it," replied Marlow, "whether it pleases
you or not."

"I will have no one in the carriage with my prisoner," said the
messenger, striking the table gently with the haft of his knife.

"That may be," answered Marlow; "but you will not, I presume, pretend
to prevent my going where I please in my own carriage; and when once
in London, I shall find no difficulty, knowing Mr. Vernon well."

The latter announcement made a great change in the messenger's
demeanor, and he became much more tame and docile from the moment it
struck his ear.

Mr. Hastings indeed would fain have persuaded his young friend to
remain where he was, and looked at Emily with some of that tenderer
feeling of a parent which so often prompts to every sacrifice for a
child's sake. But Emily thanked Marlow eagerly for proposing to go;
and Mrs. Hastings, even, expressed some gratitude.

The arrangements were soon made. There being no time to send for
Marlow's own carriage and horses, it was agreed that he should take a
carriage belonging to Mr. Hastings, with his horses, for the first
stage; the prisoner's valet was to accompany his friend, and immediate
orders were given for the necessary preparations.

When all was ready, Emily asked some question of her father, in a low
tone, to which he replied, "On no account, my child. I will send for
you and your mother should need be; but do not stir before I do. This
is a mere cloud--a passing shower, which will soon be gone, and leave
the sky as bright as ever. We do not live in an age when kings of
England can play at foot-ball with the heads of innocent men, and I,
as you all know, am innocent."

He then embraced his wife and child with more tenderness than he was
wont to show, and entering the carriage first, was followed by the
messenger. The other men mounted their horses, and Marlow did not
linger long behind the sad cavalcade.




CHAPTER XXIX.


Philip Hastings had calculated much upon his Roman firmness; and he
could have borne death, or any great and sudden calamity, with
fortitude; but small evils often affect us more than great ones. He
knew not what it is to suffer long imprisonment, to undergo the
wearing, grinding process of life within a prison's walls. He knew not
the effect of long suspense either, of the fretful impatience for some
turn in our fate, of the dull monotony of long continued expectation
and protracted disappointment, of the creeping on of leaden despair,
which craves nothing in the end but some change, be it for better or
for worse.

They took him to Newgate--the prison of common felons, and there, in a
small room, strictly guarded, he remained for more than two months. At
first he would send for no lawyer, for he fancied that there must
either be some error on the part of the government, or that the
suspicion against him must be so slight as to be easily removable. But
day went by on day, and hour followed hour, without any appearance of
a change in his fate. There came a great alteration, however, in his
character. He became morose, gloomy, irritable. Every dark point in
his own fate and history--every painful event which had occurred for
many years--every doubt or suspicion which had spread gloom and
anxiety through his mind, was now magnified a thousand-fold by long,
brooding, solitary meditation. He pondered such things daily, hourly,
in the broad day, in the dead, still night, when want of exercise
deprived him of sleep, till his brain seemed to turn, and his whole
heart was filled with stern bitterness.

Marlow, who visited him every day by permission of the Secretary of
State, found him each day much changed, both in appearance and
manner; and even his conversation gave but small relief. He heard with
small emotion the news of the day, or of his own family. He read the
letters of his wife and daughter coldly. He heard even the
intelligence that Sir John Fenwick was condemned for high treason, and
to die on a scaffold, without any appearance of interest. He remained
self-involved and thoughtful.

At length, after a long interval--for the government was undecided how
to proceed in his and several other cases connected with that famous
conspiracy--a day was appointed for his first examination by the
Secretary of State; for matters were then conducted in a very
different manner from that in which they are treated at present; and
he was carried under guard to Whitehall.

Vernon was a calm and not unamiable man; and treating the prisoner
with unaffected gentleness, he told him that the government was very
anxious to avoid the effusion of any more blood, and expressed a hope
that Mr. Hastings would afford such explanations of his conduct as
would save the pain of proceeding against him. He did not wish by any
means, he said, to induce him to criminate himself; but merely to give
such explanations as he might think fit.

Philip Hastings replied, with stern bitterness, that before he could
give any explanations, he must learn what there was in his conduct to
explain. "It has ever been open, plain, and straightforward," he said.
"I have taken no part in conspiracies, very little part in politics. I
have nothing to fear from any thing I myself can utter; for I have
nothing to conceal. Tell me what is the charge against me, and I will
answer it boldly. Ask what questions you please; and I will reply at
once to those to which I can find a reply in my own knowledge."

"I thought the nature of the charge had been made fully known to you,"
replied Vernon. "However, it is soon stated. You are charged, Mr.
Hastings, with having taken a most decided part in the criminal
designs, if not in the criminal acts, of that unfortunate man Sir John
Fenwick. Nay, of having first suggested to him the darkest of all his
designs, namely, the assassination of his Majesty."

"I suggest the assassination of the King!" exclaimed Mr. Hastings. "I
propose such an act! Sir, the charge is ridiculous. Has not the only
share I ever took in politics been to aid in placing King William upon
the throne, and consistently to support his government since? What the
ministers of the crown can seek by bringing such a charge against me,
I know not; but it is evidently fictitious, and of course has an
object."

Vernon's cheek grew somewhat red, and he replied warmly, "That is an
over-bold assertion, sir. But I will soon satisfy you that it is
unjust, and that the crown has not acted without cause. Allow me,
then, to tell you, that no sooner had the conspiracy of Sir John
Fenwick been detected, and his apprehension been made known, than
information was privately given--from your own part of the country--to
the following effect;" and he proceeded try to read from a paper,
which had evidently been folded in the form of a letter, the ensuing
words: "That on the ---- day of May last, when walking in the gardens
of his own house, called 'The Court,' he--that is yourself, sir--used
the following language to Sir John Fenwick: 'When no other means can
be found of obtaining justice, freedom, and security, I see no reason
why a king should not be put to death as well as any other man. He who
does the deed merits a monument rather than a gibbet.' Such was the
information, sir, on which government first acted in causing your
apprehension."

The Secretary paused, and for a few moments Mr. Hastings remained
gazing down in silence, like a man utterly confounded. Vernon thought
he had touched him home; but the emotions in the prisoner's bosom,
though very violent, were very different from those which the
Secretary attributed to him. He remembered the conversation well, but
he remembered also that the only one who, besides Sir John Fenwick,
was with him at the moment, was his own child. I will not dwell upon
his feelings, but they absorbed him entirely, till the Secretary went
on, saying--"Not satisfied with such slender information, Mr.
Hastings, the government caused that unhappy criminal, Sir John
Fenwick, to be asked, after his fate was fixed, if he recollected your
having used those words to him, and he replied, something very like
them.'"

"And I reply the same," exclaimed Philip Hastings, sternly. "I did use
those words, or words very like them. But, sir, they were in
connection with others, which, had they been repeated likewise, would
have taken all criminal application from them. May I be permitted to
look at that letter in your hand, to see how much was really told, how
much suppressed?"

"I have read it all to you," said Mr. Vernon, "but you may look at it
if you please," and he handed it to him across the table. Philip
Hastings spread it out before him, trembling violently, and then drew
another letter from his pocket, and laid them aide by side. He ran his
eye from one to the other for a moment or two, and then sunk slowly
down, fainting upon the floor.

While a turnkey and one of the messengers raised him, and some efforts
were made to bring him back to consciousness, Mr. Vernon walked round
the table and looked at the two letters which were still lying on it.
He compared them eagerly, anxiously. The handwriting of the one was
very similar to that of the other, and in the beginning of that which
Mr. Hastings had taken from his pocket, the Secretary found the words,
"My dear father." It was signed, "Emily Hastings;" and Vernon
instantly comprehended the nature of the terrible emotion he had
witnessed.

He was really, as I have said, a kind and humane man, and he felt very
much for the prisoner, who was speedily brought to himself again, and
seated in a chair before the table.

"Perhaps, Mr. Hastings," said Vernon, "we had better not protract this
conversation today. I will see you again to-morrow, at this hour, if
you would prefer that arrangement."

"Not at all, sir," answered the prisoner, "I will answer now, for
though the body be weak, the spirit is strong. Remember, however, that
I am not pleading for life. Life is valueless to me. The block and axe
would be a relief. I am only pleading to prevent my own character from
being stained, and to frustrate this horrible design. I used the words
imputed to me; but if I recollect right, with several qualifications,
even in the sentence which has been extracted. But before that, many
other words had passed which entirely altered the whole bearing of the
question. The conversation began about the regicides of the great
rebellion, and although my father was of the party in arms against the
King, I expressed my unqualified disapprobation of their conduct in
putting their sovereign to death. I then approached as a mere matter
of abstract reasoning, in which, perhaps, I am too apt to indulge, the
subject of man's right to resist by any means an unendurable tyranny,
and I quoted the example of Brutus and William Tell; and it was in the
course of these abstract remarks, that I used the words which have
been cited. I give you my word, however, and pledge my honor, that I
entertained no thought, and had no cause whatever to believe that Sir
John Fenwick who was dining with me as an old acquaintance,
entertained hostile designs against the government of his native
land."

"Your admitted opinions, Mr. Hastings," said Vernon, "seem to me to be
very dangerous ones."

"That may be," replied the prisoner, "but in this country at least,
sir, you cannot kill a man for opinions."

"No; but those opinions, expressed in conversation with others who
proceed to acts," replied Vernon, "place a man in a very dangerous
position, Mr. Hastings. I will not conceal from you that you are in
some peril; but at the same time I am inclined to think that the
evidence, without your admissions this day, might prove insufficient,
and it is not my intention to take advantage of any thing you have
said. I shall report to his Majesty accordingly; but the proceedings
of the government will be guided by the opinion of the law officers of
the crown, and not by mine. I therefore can assure you of nothing
except my sincere grief at the situation in which you are placed."

"I little heed the result of your report, sir," replied Mr. Hastings;
"life, I say, is valueless to me, and if I am brought to trial for
words very innocently spoken, I shall only make the same defence I
have done this day, and I shall call no witness; the only witness of
the whole," he added with stern, concentrated bitterness, "is probably
on the side of the crown."

Mr. Hastings was then removed to Newgate, leaving the two letters on
the table behind him, and as soon as he was gone, Mr. Vernon sent a
messenger to an inn near Charing Cross, to say he should be glad to
speak for a few moments with Mr. Marlow. In about half an hour Marlow
was there, and was received by Vernon as an old acquaintance. The door
was immediately closed, and Marlow seated himself near the table,
turning his eyes away, however, as an honorable man from the papers
which lay on it.

"I have had an interview with your friend, Mr. Marlow," said the
Secretary, "and the scene has been a very gainful one. Mr. Hastings
has been more affected than I expected, and actually fainted."

Marlow's face expressed unutterable astonishment, for the idea of
Philip Hastings fainting under any apprehension whatever, could never
enter into the mind of any one who knew him.

"Good God!" he exclaimed, "what could be the cause of that! Not fear,
I am sure."

"Something more painful than even fear, I believe," replied Mr.
Vernon; "Mr. Hastings has a daughter, I believe?"

"Yes, sir, he has," replied Marlow, somewhat stiffly.

"Do you know her handwriting?" asked the Secretary.

"Yes, perfectly well," answered Marlow.

"Then be so good as to take up that letter next you," said Vernon,
"and tell me if it is in her hand."

Marlow took up the paper, glanced at it, and at once said, "Yes;" but
the next instant he corrected himself, saying, "No, no--it is very
like Emily's hand--very, very like; but more constrained."

"May not that proceed from an attempt to disguise her hand?" asked
Vernon.

"Or from an attempt on the part of some other to imitate it," rejoined
Marlow; "but this is very strange, Mr. Vernon; may I read this
through?"

"Certainly," replied the Secretary, and Marlow read every word three
or four times over with eager attention. They seemed to affect him
very much, for notwithstanding the Secretary's presence, he started up
and paced the room for a minute or two in thought.

"I must unravel this dark mystery," he said at length. "Mr. Vernon,
there have been strange things taking place lately in the family of
Mr. Hastings. Things which have created in my mind a suspicion that
some secret and external agency is at work to destroy his peace as
well as to ruin his happiness, and still more, I fear, to ruin the
happiness of his daughter. This letter is but one link in a long chain
of suspicious facts, and I am resolved to sift the whole matter to the
bottom. The time allowed me to do so, must depend upon the course you
determine to pursue towards Mr. Hastings. If you resolve to proceed
against him I must lose no time--although I think I need hardly say,
there is small chance of your success upon such evidence as this;" and
he struck the letter with his fingers.

"We have more evidence, such as it is," replied Vernon, "and he
himself admits having used those words."

Marlow paused thoughtfully, and then replied, "He may have used
them--he is very likely to have used them; but it must have been quite
abstractedly, and with no reference to any existing circumstance. I
remember the occasion on which Sir John Fenwick dined with him,
perfectly. I was there myself. Now let me see if I can recall all the
facts. Yes, I can, distinctly. During the whole of dinner--during the
short time we sat after dinner, those words were never used; nor were
conspiracies and treason ever thought of. I remember, too, from a
particular circumstance, that when we went out into the gardens Mr.
Hastings took his daughter's arm, and walked up and down the terrace
with Sir John Fenwick at his side. That must have been the moment. But
I need hardly point out to you, Mr. Vernon, that such was not a time
when any man in his senses, and especially a shrewd, cunning, timid
man, like Sir John Fenwick, would have chosen for the development of
treasonable designs."

"Were any other persons near?" asked Vernon; "the young lady might
have been in the conspiracy as well as her father."

Marlow laughed. "There were a dozen near," he answered; "they were
subject to interruption at any moment--nay, they could not have gone
on for three minutes; for that space of time did not elapse after the
gentlemen entered the garden where the ladies were, before I was at
Emily's side, and not one word of this kind was spoken afterwards."

"Then what could have induced her to report those words to the
government?" asked Mr. Vernon.

"She never did so," replied Marlow, earnestly; "this is not her
handwriting, though the imitation is very good--and now, sir," he
continued, "if it be proper, will you explain to me what course you
intend to pursue, that I may act accordingly? For as I before said, I
am resolved to search this mystery out into its darkest recesses. It
has gone on too long already."

Vernon smiled. "You are asking a good deal," he said, "but yet my
views are so strong upon the subject, that I think I may venture to
state them, even if the case against Mr. Hastings should be carried a
step or two farther--which might be better, in order to insure his not
being troubled on an after occasion. I shall strongly advise that a
_nolle prosequi_ be entered, and I think I may add that my advice will
be taken."

"You think I have asked much already, Mr. Vernon," said Marlow, "but I
am now going to ask more. Will you allow me to have this letter? I
give you my word of honor that it shall only be used for the purposes
of justice. You have known me from my boyhood, my dear sir; you can
trust me."

"Perfectly, my young friend," replied Vernon, "but you must not take
the letter to-day. In two days the action of the government will be
determined, and if it be such as I anticipate you shall have the
paper, and I trust it will lead to some discovery of the motives and
circumstances of this strange transaction. Most mysterious it
certainly is; for one can hardly suppose any one but a fiend thus
seeking to bring a father's life into peril."

"A fiend!" exclaimed Marlow, with a scoff, "much more like an angel,
my dear sir."

"You seem to think so," said Vernon, smiling, "and I trust, though
love is blind, he may have left you clear-sighted in this instance."

"I think he has," answered Marlow, "and as this young lady's fate is
soon to be united to mine, it is very necessary I should see clearly.
I entertain no doubt, indeed, and I say boldly, that Emily never wrote
this letter. It will give me, however, a clue which perhaps may lead
me to the end of the labyrinth, though as yet I hardly see my way. But
a strong resolution often does much.

"Might it not be better for you," asked Vernon, "to express your
doubts in regard to this letter to Mr. Hastings himself? He was
terribly affected, as well he might be, when he saw this document, and
believed it to be his own child's writing."

Marlow mused for some time ere he replied. "I think not," he answered
at length; "he is a man of peculiar disposition; stern, somewhat
gloomy, but honorable, upright, and candid. Now what I am going to say
may make me appear as stern as himself, but if he is suffering from
doubts of that dear girl, knowing her as well as he does, he is
suffering from his own fault, and deserves it. However, my object is
not to punish him, but thoroughly, completely, and for ever to open
his eyes, and to show him so strongly that he has done his child
injustice, as to prevent his ever doing the like again. This can only
be done by bringing all the proofs upon him at once, and my task is
now to gather them together. To my mere opinion regarding the
handwriting, he would not give the slightest heed, but he will not
shut his eyes to proofs. May I calculate upon having the letter in two
days?"

"I think you may," replied Vernon.

"Then when will Mr. Hastings be set free?" asked Marlow; "I should
wish to have some start of him into the country."

"That will depend upon various circumstances," replied the Secretary;
"I think we shall take some steps towards the trial before we enter
the _nolle prosequi_. It is necessary to check in some way the
expression of such very dangerous opinions as he entertains."

Marlow made no reply but by a smile, and they soon after parted.




CHAPTER XXX.


Mrs. Hazleton was very consoling. She was with Mrs. Hastings two or
three times in the week, and poor Mrs. Hastings required a
considerable degree of consolation; for the arrest of her husband,
coming so close upon the bitter mortification of loss, and abatement
of dignity, and at the end of a long period of weak health, had made
her seriously ill. She now kept her bed the whole day long, and lay,
making herself worse by that sort of fretful anxiety which was
constitutional with her as well as with many other people. Mrs.
Hazleton's visits were a great comfort to her, and yet, strange to
say, Emily almost always found her more irritable after that lady had
left her.

Poor Emily seemed to shine under the cloud of misfortune. Her
character came out and acted nobly in the midst of disasters. She was
her mother's nurse and constant attendant; she kept her father
informed of every thing that passed--not an opportunity was missed of
sending him a letter; and although she would have made any sacrifice
to be with him in prison, to comfort and support him in the peril and
sorrow of his situation, she was well satisfied that he had not taken
her, when she found the state into which her mother had fallen.

Often, after Mrs. Hazleton had sat for an hour or two with her sick
friend, she would come down and walk upon the terrace for a while with
Emily, and comfort her much in the same way that she did Mrs.
Hastings. She would tell her not to despond about her mother: that
though she was certainly very ill, and in a dangerous state, yet
people had recovered who had been quite as ill as she was. Then she
would talk about lungs, and nerves, and humors, and all kinds of
painful and mortal diseases, as if she had studied medicine all her
life; and she did it, too, with a quiet, dignified gravity which made
it more impressive and alarming. Then again, she would turn to the
situation of Mr. Hastings, and wonder what they would do with him. She
would also bring every bit of news that she could collect, regarding
the case of Sir John Fenwick, especially when the intelligence was
painful and disastrous; but she hinted that, perhaps, after all, they
might not be able to prove any thing against Mr. Hastings, and that
even if they did--although the Government were inclined to be
severe--they might, perhaps, commute his sentence to transportation
for the colonies, or imprisonment in the Tower for five or six years.

It is thus our friends often console us; some of them, from a dark and
gloomy turn of mind, and some of them from the satisfaction many
people feel in meddling with the miseries of others. But it was
neither natural despondency of character, nor any general love of
sorrowful scenes or thoughts, that moved Mrs. Hazleton in the present
instance. She had a peculiar and especial pleasure in the wretchedness
of the Hastings family, and particularly in that of Emily. The
charming lady fancied that if Marlow were free from his engagement
with Emily the next day, and a suitor for her own hand, she would
never think of marrying him. I am not quite sure of that fact, but
that is no business of ours, dear reader, and one thing is certain,
that she would have very willingly sacrificed one half of her whole
fortune, nay more, to have placed an everlasting barrier between Emily
and Marlow.

She was thus walking with her dear Emily, as she called her, one day
on that terrace at the back of the house where the memorable
conversation had taken place between Mr. Hastings and Sir John
Fenwick, and was treating Emily to a minute and particular account of
the death of the latter, when Marlow suddenly arrived from London, and
entered the house by the large glass door in front. He found a servant
in the hall who informed him that Mrs. Hastings was still in bed, and
that Emily was walking on the terrace with Mrs. Hazleton. Marlow
paused, and considered for a moment. "Any thing not dishonorable," he
said to himself, "is justifiable to clear up such a mystery;" and
passing quietly through the house into the dining-room, which had one
window opening as a door upon the terrace, he saw his fair Emily and
her companion pass along towards the other end of the walk without
being himself perceived. He then approached the window, and
calculating the distances nicely, so as to be sure that Mrs. Hazelton
was fully as far distant from himself as she could have been from Sir
John Fenwick and Mr. Hastings on the evening when they walked there
together, he pronounced her name in an ordinary tone, somewhat lower
than that which Mr. Hastings usually employed.

Mrs. Hazleton instantly started, and looked round towards the spot
where Marlow was now emerging from the room.

The lady could not miss an occasion, and the moment she saw him she
exclaimed, "Dear me! there is Mr. Marlow; I am afraid he brings bad
tidings, Emily."

Emily paused not to consider, but with her own wild grace ran forward
and cast herself into his arms.

Fortunately Mrs. Hazleton had no dagger with her. Her face was
benevolent and smiling when she joined them; for the joy there was
upon Emily's countenance forbade any affectation of apprehension. It
said as plainly as possible, "All is well;" but she added the words
too, stretching forth her hand to her supposed friend, and saying,
"Dear Mrs. Hazleton, Charles brings me word that my father is
safe--that the Government have declared they will not prosecute."

"I congratulate you with my whole heart, Emily," replied the lady;
"and I do sincerely hope that ministers may keep their word better in
this instance than they have done in some others."

"There is not the slightest doubt of it, my dear madam," said Marlow;
"for I have the official announcement under the hand of the Secretary
of State."

"I must fly and tell my mother," said Emily, and without waiting for a
reply she darted away.

Mrs. Hazleton took a turn or two up and down the terrace with Marlow,
considering whether it was at all possible for her to be of any
further comfort to her friends at the Court. As she could not stay all
night, however, so as to prevent Emily and Marlow from having any
happy private conversation together, and as she judged that, in their
present joy, they would a good deal forget conventional restraints,
and give way to their lover-like feelings even in her presence, which
would be exceedingly disagreeable to her, she soon re-entered the
house, and ordered her carriage. It must be acknowledged that both
Emily and Marlow were well satisfied to see her depart, and it is not
to be wondered at if they gave themselves up for half an hour to the
pleasure of meeting again.

At the end of that time, however, Marlow drew forth a letter from his
pocket, carefully folded, so that a line or two only was apparent, and
placing it before Emily, inquired if she knew the hand.

"It is mine," said Emily, at first; but the moment after she exclaimed
"No!--it is not; it is Mrs. Hazleton's. I know it by the peculiar way
she forms the _g_ and the _y_.--Stay, let me see, Marlow. She has not
done so always; but that _g_, and that _y_, I am quite certain of. Why
do you ask, Marlow?"

"For reasons of the utmost importance, dear Emily," he answered, "have
you any letters or notes of Mrs. Hazleton's?"

"Yes, there is one which came yesterday," replied Emily; "it is lying
on my table upstairs."

"Bring it--bring it, dearest girl," he said; "I wish very much to see
it."

When he had got, he examined it with a well-pleased smile, and then
said, with a laugh, "I must impound this, my love. I am now on the
right track, and will not leave it till I have arrived at perfect
certainty."

"You are very strange and mysterious to-day, Marlow," said the
beautiful girl, "what does all this mean?"

"It means, my love," replied Marlow, "that I have very dark doubts and
suspicions of Mrs. Hazleton,--and all I have seen and heard to-day
confirms me. Now sit down here by me, dear Emily, and tell me if, to
your knowledge, you have ever given to Mrs. Hazleton cause of
offence."

"Never!" answered Emily, firmly and at once. "Never in my life."

Marlow mused, and then, with his arms round her waist, he continued,
"Bethink yourself, my love. Within the course of the last two or three
years, have you ever seen reason to believe that Mrs. Hazleton's
affection for you is not so great as it appears?--Has it ever
wavered?--Has it ever become doubtful to you from any stray word or
accidental circumstance?"

Emily was silent for a moment, and then replied, thoughtfully,
"Perhaps I did think so, once or twice, when I was staying at her
house, last year."

"Well, then, now, dear Emily," said Marlow, "tell me every thing down
to the most minute circumstance that occurred there."

Emily hesitated. "Perhaps I ought not," she said; "Mrs. Hazleton
showed me, very strongly, that I ought not, except under an absolute
necessity."

"That necessity is now, my love," replied Marlow; "love cannot exist
without confidence, Emily; and I tell you, upon my honor and my faith,
that your happiness, my happiness, and even your father's safety,
depends in a great degree upon your telling me all. Do you believe me,
Emily?"

"Fully," she answered; "and I will tell you all."

Thus seated together, she poured forth the whole tale to her lover's
ears, even to the circumstances which had occurred in her own room,
when Mrs. Hazleton had entered it, walking in her sleep. The whole
conduct of John Ayliffe, now calling himself Sir John Hastings, was
also displayed; and the dark and treacherous schemes which had been
going on, began gradually to evolve themselves to Marlow's mind.
Obscure and indistinct they still were; but the gloomy shadow was
apparent, and he could trace the outline though he could not fill up
the details.

"Base, treacherous woman!" he murmured to himself, and then, pressing
Emily more closely to his heart, he thanked her again and again for
her frankness. "I will never misuse it, my Emily," he said; "and no
one shall ever know what you have told me except your father: to him
it must be absolutely revealed."

"I would have told him myself," said Emily, "if he had ever asked me
any questions on the subject; but as he did not, and seemed very
gloomy just then, I thought it better to follow Mrs. Hazleton's
advice."

"The worst and the basest she could have given you," said Marlow; "I
have had doubts of her for a long time, Emily, but I have no doubts
now; and, moreover, I firmly believe that the whole case of this John
Ayliffe--his claim upon your father's estate and title--is all false
and factitious together, supported by fraud, forgery, and crime. Have
you preserved this young man's letter, or have you destroyed it,
Emily?"

"I kept it," she replied, "thinking that, some time or another, I
might have to show it to my father."

"Then one more mark of confidence, my love," said Marlow; "let me have
that letter. I do not wish to read it; therefore you had better fold
it up and seal it; but it may be necessary as a link in the chain of
evidence which I wish to bring forward for your father's
satisfaction."

"Read it, if you will, Marlow," she answered; "I have told you the
contents, but it may be as well that you should see the words: I will
bring it to you in a moment."

They read the letter over together, and when Marlow had concluded, he
laid his hand upon it, saying, "This is Mrs. Hazleton's composition."

"I'm almost inclined to fancy so, myself," answered Emily.

"He is incapable of writing this," replied her lover; "I have seen his
letters on matters of business, and he cannot write a plain sentence
in English to an end without making some gross mistake. This is Mrs.
Hazleton's doing, and there is some dark design underneath it. Would
to God that visit had never taken place!"

"There has been little happiness in the house since," said Emily,
"except what you and I have known together, Marlow; and that has been
sadly checkered by many a painful circumstance."

"The clouds are breaking, dear one," replied Marlow, rising; "but I
will not pause one moment in my course till all this is made
clear--no, not even for the delight of sitting here by you, my love. I
will go home at once, Emily; mount my horse, and ride over to Hartwell
before it be dark."

"What is your object there?" asked Emily.

"To unravel one part of this mystery," replied her lover. "I will
ascertain, by some means, from whom, or in what way, this young man
obtained sufficient money to commence and carry on a very expensive
suit at law. That he had it not himself, I am certain. That his
chances were not sufficiently good, when first he commenced, to induce
any lawyer to take the risk, I am equally certain. He must have had it
from some one, and my suspicions point to Mrs. Hazleton. Her bankers
are mine, and I will find means to know. So, now, farewell, my love; I
will see you again early to-morrow."

He lingered yet for a moment or two, and then left her.




CHAPTER XXXI.


Marlow was soon on horseback, and riding on to the country town. But
he had lingered longer with Emily than he imagined, and the day
declined visibly as he rode along.

"The business hours are over," he thought; "bankers and lawyers will
have abandoned the money-getting and mischief-making toils of the day;
and I must stay at the inn till to-morrow."

He had been riding fast; but he now drew in his rein, and suffered his
horse to walk. The sun was setting gloriously, and the rich, rosy
light, diffused through the air, gave every thing an aspect of warmth,
and richness, and cheerfulness. But Marlow's heart was any thing but
gay. Whether it was that the scenes which he had passed through in
London, his visits to a prison, his dealings with hard official men,
the toiling, moiling crowds that had surrounded him; the wearisome,
eternal, yet ever-changing struggle of life displayed in the streets
and houses of a capital, the infinite varieties of selfishness, and
folly, and vice, and crime, had depressed his spirits, or that his
health had somewhat suffered in consequence of anxious waiting for
events in the foul air of the metropolis, I cannot tell. But certain,
he was sadder than was usual with him. His was a spirit strong and
active, naturally disposed to bright views and happy hopes, too firm
to be easily depressed, too elastic to be long kept down. But yet, as
he rode along, there was a sort of feeling of apprehension upon his
mind that oppressed him mightily. He revolved all that had lately
passed. He compared the state of Mr. Hastings' family, as it actually
was, with what it had been when he first knew it, and there seemed to
be a strange mystery in the change. It had then been all happiness and
prosperity with that household; a calm, grave, thoughtful, but happy
father and husband; a bright, amiable, affectionate mother and wife; a
daughter, to his mind the image of every thing that was sweet, and
gentle, and tender--of every thing that was gay, and sparkling, and
cheerful; full of light and life, and fancy, and hope. Now, there was
a father in prison, deprived of his greatest share of worldly
prosperity, cast down from his station in society, gloomy, desponding,
suspicious, and, as it seemed to him, hardly sane: a mother,
irritable, capricious, peevish, yielding to calamity, and lying on a
bed of sickness, while the bright angel of his love remained to nurse,
and tend, and soothe the one parent, with a heart torn and bleeding
for the distresses of the other. "What have they done to merit all
this?" he asked himself. "What fault, what crime have they committed
to draw down such sorrows on their heads? None--none whatever. Their
lives had been spent in kindly acts and good deeds; they had followed
the precepts of the religion they professed; their lives had been
spent in doing service to their fellow-creatures, and making all happy
around them."

Then again, on the other hand, he saw the coarse, and the low, and the
base, and the licentious prosperous and successful, rising on the
ruins of the pure and the true. Wily schemes and villanous intrigues
obtaining every advantage, and honesty of purpose and rectitude of
action frustrated and cast down.

Marlow was no unbeliever--he was not even inclined to skepticism--but
his mind labored, not without humility and reverence, to see how it
could reconcile such facts with the goodness and providence of God.

"He makes the sun shine upon the just and the unjust, we are told,"
said Marlow to himself; "but here the sun seems to shine upon the
unjust alone, and clouds and tempests hang about the just. It is very
strange, and even discouraging; and yet, all that we see of these
strange, unaccountable dispensations may teach us lessons for
hereafter--may give us the grandest confirmation of the grandest
truth. There must be another world, in which these things will be made
equal--a world where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary
are at rest. We only see in part, and the part we do not see must be
the part which will reconcile all the seeming contradictions between
the justice and goodness of God and the course of this mortal life."

This train pursued him till he reached the town, and put up his horse
at the inn. By that time it was quite dark, and he had tasted nothing
since early in the morning. He therefore ordered supper, and the
landlord, by whom he was now well known--a good, old, honest, country
landlord of the olden time--brought in the meal himself, and waited on
his guest at table. It was so much the custom of gentlemen, in those
days, to order wine whenever they stopped at an inn--it was looked
upon so much as a matter of course that this should be done for the
good of the house--that the landlord, without any direct commands to
that effect, brought in a bottle of his very best old sherry, always a
favorite wine with the English people, though now hardly to be got,
and placed it by the side of his guest. Marlow was by habit no drinker
of much wine. He avoided, as much as in him lay, the deep potations
then almost universal in England; but, not without an object, he that
night gave in to a custom which was very common in England then, and
for many years afterwards, and requested the landlord, after the meal
was over, to sit down, and help him with his bottle.

"You'll need another bottle, if I once begin, Master Marlow," said the
jolly landlord, who was a wag in his way.

Marlow nodded his head significantly, as if he were prepared for the
infliction, replying quietly, "Under the influence of your good chat,
Mr. Cherrydew, I can bear it, I think."

"Well, that's hearty," said the landlord, drawing a chair sideways to
the table; for his vast rotundity prevented him from approaching it
full front. "Here's to your very good health, sir, and may you never
drink worse wine, sit in a colder room, or have a sadder companion."

Now I have said that Marlow did not invite the landlord to join him,
without an object. That object was to obtain information, and it had
struck him even while the trout, which formed the first dish at his
supper, was being placed on the table, that he might be able, if
willing, to afford it.

Landlords in England at that time--I mean, of course, in country
towns--were very different in many respects, and of a different class
from what they are at present. In the first place, they were not fine
gentlemen: in the next place, they were not discharged valets de
chambre, or butlers, who, having cheated their masters handsomely, and
perhaps laid them under contribution in many ways, retire to enjoy the
fat things at their ease in their native town. Then, again, they were
on terms of familiar intercourse with two or three classes, completely
separate and distinct from each other--a sort of connecting link
between them. At their door the justice of the peace, the knight of
the shire, the great man of the neighborhood, dismounted from his
horse, and had his chat with mine host. There came the village lawyer
when he had gained a cause, or won a large fee, or had been paid a
long bill, to indulge in his pint of sherry, and gossipped, as he
drank it, of all the affairs of his clients. There sneaked in the
Doctor to get his glass of eau de vie, or plague water, or aqua
mirabilis, or strong spirits, in short of any other denomination, and
tell little dirty anecdotes of his cases, and his patients. There the
alderman, the wealthy shop-keeper, and the small proprietor, or the
large farmer, came to take his cheerful cup on Saturdays or on
market-day. But, besides these, the inn was the resort, though
approached by another door, of a lower and a poorer class, with whom
the landlord was still upon as good terms as with the others. The
wagoner, the carter, the lawyer's and the banker's clerk, the shopman,
the porter even, all came there; and it mattered not to Mr. Cherrydew
or his confraternity, whether it was a bowl of punch, a draught of
ale, a glass of spirits, or a bottle of old wine that his guests
demanded; he was civil, and familiar, and chatty with them all.

Thus under the rosy and radiant face of Mr. Cherrydew, and in that
good, round, fat head, was probably accumulated a greater mass of
information, regarding the neighborhood in which he lived, and all
that went on therein, than in any other head, in the whole town, and
the only difficulty was to extract that part of the store which was
wanted.

Marlow knew that it would not do to approach the principal subject of
inquiry rashly; for Mr. Cherrydew, like most of his craft, was
somewhat cautious, and would have shut himself up in silent reserve,
or enveloped himself in intangible ambiguities, if he had known
that his guest had any distinct and important object in his
questions--having a notion that a landlord should be perfectly
cosmopolitan in all his feelings and his actions, and should never
commit himself in such a manner as to offend any one who was, had
been, or might be his guest. He was fond of gossip, it is true,
loved a jest, and was not at all blind to the ridiculous in the
actions of his neighbors; but habitual caution was in continual
struggle with his merry, tattling disposition, and he was generally
considered a very safe man.

Marlow, therefore, began at a great distance, saying, "I have just
come down from London, Mr. Cherrydew, and rode over, thinking that I
should arrive in time to catch my lawyer in his office."

"That is all over now, sir, for the night," replied the landlord. "In
this, two-legged foxes differ from others: they go to their holes at
sunset, just when other foxes go out to walk. They divide the world
between them, Master Marlow; the one preys by day, the other by
night.--Well, I should like to see Lunnun. It must be a grand place,
sir, though somewhat of a bad one. Why, what a number of executions I
have read of there lately, and then, this Sir John Fenwick's business.
Why, he changed horses here, going to dine with Sir Philip, as I shall
call him to the end of my days. Ah, poor gentleman, he has been in
great trouble! But I suppose, from what I hear, he'll get clear now?"

"Beyond all doubt," said Marlow; "the Government have no case against
him. But you say very true, Mr. Cherrydew, there has been a sad number
of executions in London--seven and twenty people hanged, at different
times, while I was there."

"And the town no better," said Mr. Cherrydew.

"By the way," said Marlow, "were you not one of the jury at the trial
of that fellow, Tom Cutter?--Fill your glass, Mr. Cherrydew."

"Thank you, sir.--Yes I was, to be sure," answered the landlord; "and
I'll tell you the funniest thing in the world that happened the second
day. Lord bless you, sir, I was foreman,--and on the first day the
judge suffered the case to go on till his dinner was quite cold, and
we were all half starved; but he saw that he could not hang him that
night, at all events--here's to your health, sir!--so he adjourned the
Court, and called for a constable, and ordered all of us, poor devils,
to be locked up tight in Jones's public-house till the next day; for
the jury room is so small, that there is not standing-room for more
than three such as me. Well, the other men did not much like it,
though I did not care,--for I had my boots full of ham, and a
brandy-bottle in my breeches-pocket. One of them asked the judge, for
all his great black eyebrows, if he could'nt go on that night; but his
lordship answered, with a snort like a cart horse, and told us to hold
our tongues, and mind our own business, and only to take care and keep
ourselves together. Well, sir, we had to walk up the hill, you know,
and there was the constable following us with his staff in his hand;
so I had compassion on my poor fellow-sufferers, and I whispered,
first to one, then to another, that this sort of jog would never do,
but I would manage to tell them how to have a good night's rest. You
see, says I, here's but one constable to thirteen people, so when you
get to the cross-roads, let every man take up his legs and run, each
his own way. He can but catch one, and the slowest runner will have
the chance. Now, I was the fattest of them all, you see, so that every
one of them thought that I should be the man. Well, sir, they followed
my advice; but it's a different thing to give advice, and take it. No
sooner did we get to the cross-roads, than they scattered like a heap
of dust in the wind, some down the roads and lanes, some over the
styles and gates, some through the hedges. Little Sninkum, the tailor,
stuck in the hedge by the way, and was the man caught, for he was
afraid of his broadcloth; but I stood stock still, with a look of
marvellous astonishment, crying out, 'For God's sake catch them,
constable, or what will my lord say to you and me?' Off the poor devil
set in a moment, one man to catch twelve, all over the face of the
country. He thought he was sure enough of me; but what did I do I why,
as soon as he was gone, I waddled home to my own house, and got my
wife to put me to bed up-stairs, and pass me for my grandfather. Well,
sir, that's not the best of it yet. We were all in Court next day at
the right hour, and snug in the jury-box before the judge came in; but
I have a notion he had heard something of the matter. He looked mighty
hard at Sninkum, whose face was all scratched to pieces, and opening
his mouth with a pop, like the drawing of a cork, he said, 'Why, man,
you look as if you and your brethren had been fighting!' and then he
looked as hard at me, and roared, 'I hope, gentlemen, you have kept
yourselves together?' Thereupon, I laid my two hands upon my stomach,
sir,--it weighs a hundred and a half, if it were cut off to-morrow, as
I know to my cost, who carry it--and I answered quite, respectful, 'I
can't answer for the other gentlemen, my lord, but I'll swear I've
kept myself together.' You should have heard how the Court rang with
the people laughing, while I remained as grave as a judge, and much
graver than the one who was there; for I thought he would have burst
before he was done, and a fine mess that would have made."

Serious as his thoughts were, Marlow could not refrain from smiling;
but he did not forget his object, and remarked, "There were efforts
made to save that scoundrel, and the present Sir John Hastings
certainly did his best for his friend."

"Call him John Ayliffe, sir, call him John Ayliffe," said the host.
"Here's to you, sir,--he's never called any thing else here."

"I wonder," said Marlow, musingly, "if there was any relationship
between this Tom Cutter and John Ayliffe's mother?"

"Not a pin's point of it, sir," replied the landlord. "They were just
two bad fellows together; that was the connection between them, and
nothing else."

"Well, John stood by his friend, at all events," said Marlow; "though
where he got the money to pay the lawyers in that case, or in his suit
against Sir Philip, is a marvel to me."

Mine host winked his eye knowingly, and gave a short laugh.

That did not entirely suit Marlow's purpose, and he added in a musing
tone, "I know that he wanted to borrow ten pounds two or three months
before, but was refused, because he had not repaid what he had
borrowed of the same party, previously."

"Ay, ay, sir," said the landlord; "there are secrets in all things. He
got money, and money enough, somehow, just about that time. He has not
repaid it yet, either, but he has given a mortgage, I hear, for the
amount; and if he don't mortgage his own carcase for it too, I am very
much mistaken, before he has done."

"Mortgage his own carcase! I do not understand what you mean," replied
Marlow. "I am sure I would not give a shilling for that piece of
earth."

"A pretty widow lady, not a hundred miles off, may think differently,"
replied the landlord, grinning again, and filling his glass once more.

"Ah, ha," said Marlow, trying to laugh likewise; "so you think she
advanced the money, do you?"

"I am quite sure of it, sir," said Mr. Cherrydew, nodding his head
profoundly. "I did not witness the mortgage, but I know one who did."

"What! Shanks' clerk, I suppose," said Marlow.

"No, sir, no," replied the landlord; "Shanks did not draw the
mortgage, either; for he was lawyer to both parties, and Mrs. Hazleton
didn't like that;--O, she's cute enough!"

"I think you must be mistaken," said Marlow, in a decided tone; "for
Mrs. Hazleton assured me, when there was a question between herself
and me, that she was not nearly as rich as she was supposed, and that
if the law should award me back rents, it would ruin her."

"Gammon, sir!" replied the landlord, who had now imbibed a sufficient
quantity of wine, in addition to sundry potations during the day. "I
should not have thought you a man to be so easily hooked, Mr. Marlow;
but if you will ask the clerk of Doubledoo and Kay, who was down here,
staying three or four days about business, you'll find that she
advanced every penny, and got a mortgage for upwards of five thousand
pounds;--but I think we had better have that other bottle, sir?"

"By all means," said Marlow, and Mr. Cherrydew rolled away to fetch
it.

"By the way, what was that clerk's name you mentioned?"

"Sims, sir, Sims," said the landlord, drawing the cork; and then
setting down the bottle on the table, he added, with a look of great
contempt, "he's the leetlest little man you ever saw, sir, not so tall
as my girl Dolly, and with no more stomach than a currycomb, a sort of
cross breed between a monkey and a penknife. He's as full of fun as
the one, too, and as sharp as the other. He will hold a prodigious
quantity of punch, though, small as he is. I could not fancy where he
put it all, it must have gone into his shoes."

"Come, come, Mr. Cherrydew," said Marlow, laughing, "do not speak
disrespectfully of thin people--I am not very fat myself."

"Lord bless you, sir, you are quite a fine, personable man; and in
time, with a few butts, you would be as fine a man as I am."

Marlow devoutly hoped not, but he begged Mr. Cherrydew to sit down
again, and do his best to help him through the wine he had brought;
and out of that bottle came a great many things which Marlow wanted
much more than the good sherry which it contained.




CHAPTER XXXII.


It was about ten o'clock in the day when Marlow returned to the Court,
as it was called. The butler informed him that Miss Emily was not
down--a very unusual thing with her, as she was exceedingly matutinal
in her habits; but he found, on inquiry, that she had sat up with her
mother during the greater part of the night. Marlow looked at his
watch, then at the gravelled space before the house, where his own
horse was being led up and down by his groom, and a stranger who had
come with him was sitting quietly on horseback, as if waiting for him.
"I fear," said Marlow, after a moment's musing, "I must disturb your
young lady. Will you tell her maid to go up and inform her that I am
here, and wish to speak with her immediately, as I have business which
calls me to London without delay." The man retired, and Marlow entered
what was then called the withdrawing room, walking up and down in
thought. He had not remained many minutes, however, when Emily herself
appeared, with her looks full of surprise and anxiety. "What is the
matter, Marlow?" she said. "Has any new evil happened?"

"Nay, nay, my love," said Marlow, embracing her tenderly. "You must
not let the few ills that have already befallen you, my Emily, produce
that apprehensiveness which long years of evil and mischance but too
often engender. Brighter days are coming, I trust, my love; so far
from new evils having arisen, I have been very fortunate in my
inquiries, and have got information which must lead to great results.
I must pursue the clue that has been afforded me without a moment's
delay or hesitation; for once the thread be broken I may have
difficulty in uniting it again. But if I judge rightly, my Emily, it
will lead me to the following results. To the complete exposure of a
base conspiracy; to the punishment of the offenders; to the
restoration of your father's property, and of his rank."

He held her hand in his while he spoke, and gazed into her beautiful
eyes; but Emily did not seem very much overjoyed. "For my own part,"
she said, "I care little as to the loss of property or station,
Marlow, and still less do I care to punish offenders; but I think my
father and mother will be very glad of the tidings you give me. May I
tell them what you say?"

Marlow mused for a moment or two. He was anxious to give any comfort
to Mrs. Hastings, but yet he doubted her discretion, and he replied,
"Not the whole, dear Emily, except in case of urgent need. You may
tell your mother that I think I have obtained information which will
lead to the restoration of your father's property, and you may assure
her that no effort shall be wanting on my part to attain that object.
Say that I am, even now, setting out for London for the purpose, and
that I am full of good hopes. I believe I can prove," he added, after
a moment's consideration, and in reality more to lead Mrs. Hastings
away from the right track than from any other consideration, although
the point he was about to state was a fact, "I believe I can prove
that the missing leaf of the marriage register, which was supposed to
have been torn out by your grandfather's orders, was there not two
years ago, and that I can show by whose hands it was torn out at a
much later date. Assure her, however, that I will do every thing in my
power, and bid her be of good hope."

"I do not understand the matter," answered Emily, "and never heard of
this register, but I dare say my mother has, and will comprehend your
meaning better than I do. I know the very hope will give her great
pleasure."

"Remember one thing, however, dear Emily," replied Marlow, "on no
account mention to her my suspicions of Mrs. Hazleton, nor show any
suspicions of that good lady yourself. It is absolutely necessary that
she should be kept in ignorance of our doubts, till those doubts,
become certainties. However, in case of any painful and unpleasant
circumstances occurring while I am absent, I must leave these papers
with you. They consist of the note sent you by Mrs. Hazleton which you
showed me, a paper which I feel confident is in her handwriting, but
which imitates your hand very exactly, and which has led to wrong
impressions, and the letter of young John Ayliffe--or at least that
which he wrote under Mrs. Hazleton's direction. I have added a few
words of my own, on a separate sheet of paper, stating the impression
which I have in regard to all these matters, and which I will justify
whenever it may be needful."

"But what am I to do with them?" asked Emily, simply.

"Keep them safely, and ever at hand, dear girl," replied Marlow, in a
grave tone. "You will find your father on his return a good deal
altered--moody and dissatisfied. It will be as well for you to take no
notice of such demeanor, unless he expresses plainly some cause of
discontent. If he do so--if he should venture upon any occasion to
reproach you, my Emily--"

"For what?" exclaimed Emily, in utter surprise.

"It would be too long and too painful to explain all just now, dear
one," answered her lover. "But such a thing may happen, my Emily.
Deceived, and in error, he may perhaps reproach you for things you
never dreamt of. He may also judge wrongly of your conduct in not
having told him of this young scoundrel's proposal to you. In either
case put that packet of papers in his hands, and tell him frankly and
candidly every thing."

"He is sometimes so reserved and grave," said Emily, "that I never
like to speak to him on any subject to which he does not lead the way.
I sometimes think he does not understand me, Marlow, and dread to open
my whole heart to him, as I would fain do, lest he should mistake me
still more."

"Let no dread stop you in this instance, my own dear girl," Marlow
answered. "That there have been dark plots against you, Emily, I am
certain. The only way to meet and frustrate them is to place full and
entire confidence in your father. I do not ask you to speak to him on
the subject unless he speaks to you till I have obtained the proofs
which will make all as clear as daylight. Then, every thing must be
told, and Sir Philip will find that had he been more frank himself he
would have met with no want of candor in his daughter. Now, one more
kiss, dear love, and then to my horse's back."

I will not pursue Marlow's journey across the fair face of merry
England, nor tell the few adventures that befell him on the way, nor
the eager considerations that pressed, troop after troop, upon his
mind, neither will I dwell long upon his proceedings in London, which
occupied but one brief day. He went to the house of his banker, sought
out the little clerk of Messrs. Doubledoo and Kay, and contrived from
both to obtain proof positive that Mrs. Hazleton had supplied a large
sum of money to young John Ayliffe to carry on his suit against Sir
Philip Hastings. He also obtained a passport for France, and one or
two letters for influential persons in Paris, and returning to the inn
where he had left the man who had accompanied him from the country,
set out for Calais, without pausing even to take rest himself. Another
man, a clerk from his own lawyer's house, accompanied him, and though
the passage was somewhat long and stormy, he reached Calais in safety.

Journeys to Paris were not then such easy things as now. Three days
passed ere Marlow reached the French capital, and then both his
companions were inclined to grumble not a little at the rapidity with
which he travelled, and the small portion of rest he allowed them or
himself. In the capital, however, they paused for two days, and,
furnished with an interpreter and guide, amused themselves mightily,
while Marlow passed his time in government offices, and principally
with the lieutenant of police, or one of his commissaries.

At length the young gentleman notified his two companions that they
must prepare to accompany him at nine o'clock in the morning to St.
Germain en Laye, where he intended to reside for some days. A carriage
was at the door to the moment, and they found in it a very decent and
respectable gentleman in black, with a jet-hilted sword by his side,
and a certain portion of not very uncorrupt English. The whole party
jogged on pleasantly up the steep ascent, and round the fine old
palace, to a small inn which was indicated to the driver by the
gentleman in black, for whom that driver seemed to entertain a
profound reverence. When comfortably fixed in the inn, Marlow left his
two English companions, and proceeded, as it was the hour of
promenade, to take a walk upon the terrace with his friend in black.
They passed a great number of groups, and a great number of single
figures, and Marlow might have remarked, if he had been so disposed,
that several of the persons whom they met seemed to eye his companion
with a suspicious and somewhat anxious glance. All Marlow's powers of
observation, however, were directed in a different way. He examined
every face that he saw, every group that he came near; but at length,
as they passed a somewhat gayly dressed woman of the middle age, who
was walking alone, the young Englishman touched the arm of the man in
black, saying, "According to the description I have had of her, that
must be very like the person."

"We will follow her, and see," said the man in black.

Without appearing to notice her particularly, they kept near the lady
who had attracted their attention, as long as she continued to walk
upon the terrace, and then followed her when she left it, through
several streets which led away in the direction of the forest. At
length she stopped at a small house, opened the door, and went in.

The man in black took out a little book from his pocket, closely
written with long lists of names.

"Monsieur et Madame Jervis," he said, after having turned over several
pages. "Here since three years ago."

"That cannot be she, then," answered Marlow.

"Stay, stay," said his companion, "that is _au premier_. On the second
floor lodges Monsieur Drummond. Old man of sixty-eight. He has been
here two years; and above Madame Dupont, an old French lady whom I
know quite well. You must be mistaken, Monsieur, but we will go into
this _charcutier's_ just opposite, and inquire whether that is Madame
Jervis who went in."

It proved to be so. The pork butcher had seen her as she passed the
window, and Marlow's search had to begin again. When he and his
companion returned to their inn, however, the man whom he had brought
up from the country met him eagerly, saying, "I have seen her, sir! I
have seen her! She passed by here not ten minutes ago, dressed in
weeds like a widow, and walking very fast. I would swear to her."

"Oh, he," said the man in black, "we will soon find her now," and
calling to the landlord, who was as profoundly deferential towards him
as the coachman had been, he said in the sweetest possible tone, "Will
you have the goodness to let Monsieur Martin know that the _bon homme
grivois_ wishes to speak with him for a moment?"

It was wonderful with what rapidity Monsieur St. Martin, a tall,
dashing looking personage, with an infinite wig, obeyed the summons of
the _bon homme grivois_.

"Ah, _bon jour_, St. Martin," said the man in black.

"_Bon jour, Monsieur_," replied the other with a profound obeisance.

"A lady of forty--has been handsome, fresh color, dark eyes, middle
height, hair brown, hardly gray," said the man in black. "Dressed like
an English widow, somewhat common air and manner, has come here within
a year. Where is she to be found, St. Martin?"

The other, who had remained standing, took out his little book, and
after consulting its pages diligently, gave a street and a number.

"What's her name?" asked the man in black.

"Mistress Brown," replied Monsieur St. Martin.

"Good," said the man in black, "but we must wait till to-morrow
morning, as it is now growing dark, and there must be no mistake;
first, lest we scare the real bird in endeavoring to catch one we
don't want, and next, lest we give annoyance to any of his Majesty's
guests, which would reduce the king to despair."

The next morning, at an early hour, the party of four proceeded to the
street which had been indicated, discovered the number, and then
entered a handsome hotel, inhabited by an old French nobleman. The man
in black seemed unknown to either the servants or their master, but a
very few words spoken in the ear of the latter, rendered him most
civil and accommodating. A room in the front of the house, just over
that of the porter, was put at the disposal of the visitors, and the
man who had accompanied Marlow from the country was placed at the
window to watch the opposite dwelling. It was a balmy morning, and the
house was near the outskirts of the town, so that the fresh air of the
country came pleasantly up the street. The windows of the opposite
house were, however, still closed, and it was not till Marlow and his
companions had been there near three quarters of an hour, that a
window on the first floor was opened, and a lady looked out for a
moment, and then drew in her head again.

"There she is!" cried the man who was watching, "there she is, sir."

"Are you quite certain?" asked the man in black.

"Beyond all possible doubt, sir," replied the other. "Lord bless you,
I know her as well as I know my own mother. I saw her almost every day
for ten years."

"Very well, then," said the man in black, "I wilt go over first alone,
and as soon as I have got in, you, Monsieur Marlow, with these two
gentlemen, follow me thither. She won't escape me when once I'm in,
but the house may have a back way, and therefore we will not scare her
by too many visitors at this early hour."

He accordingly took his departure, and Marlow and his companions saw
him ring the bell at the opposite house. But the suspicion of those
within fully justified the precautions he had taken. Before he
obtained admission, he was examined very narrowly by a maid-servant
from the window above. It is probable that he was quite conscious of
this scrutiny, but he continued quietly humming an opera air for a
minute or two, and then rang the bell again. The door was then opened.
He entered, and Marlow and his companions ran across, and got in
before the door was shut. The maid gave a little scream at the sudden
ingress of so many men, but the gentleman in black told her to be
silent, to which she replied, "Oh, Monsieur, you have cheated me. You
said you wanted lodgings."

"Very good, my child," replied the man, "but the lodgings which I want
are those of Madame Brown, and you will be good enough to recollect
that I command all persons, in the king's name, now in this house, to
remain in it, and not to go out on any pretence whatever till they
have my permission. Lock that door at the back, and then bring me the
key."

The maid, pale and trembling, did as she was commanded, and the French
gentleman then directed the man who had accompanied Marlow to precede
the rest up the stairs, and enter the front room of the first floor.
The others followed close, and as soon as the door of the room was
open, it was evident that the lady of the house had been alarmed by
the noise below; for she stood looking eagerly towards the top of the
stairs, with cheeks very pale indeed. At the same moment that this
sight was presented to them, they heard the man who had gone on
exclaim in English, "Ah, Mistress Ayliffe, how do you do? I am very
glad to see you. Do you know they said you were dead--ay, and swore to
it."

John Ayliffe's mother sank down in a seat, and hid her face with her
hands.




CHAPTER XXXIII.


Marlow could not be hard-hearted with a woman, and he felt for the
terrible state of agitation and alarm, to which John Ayliffe's mother
was reduced.

"We must be gentle with her," he said in French to the Commissary of
Police, who was with him, and whom we have hitherto called the man in
black.

"_Oui, monsieur_," replied the other, taking a pinch of snuff, and
perfectly indifferent whether he was gentle or not,--for the
Commissary had the honor, as he termed it, of assisting at the
breaking of several gentlemen on the wheel, to say nothing of sundry
decapitations, hangings, and the question, ordinary and extraordinary,
all of which have a certain tendency, when witnessed often, slightly
to harden the human heart, so that he was not tender.

Marlow was approaching to speak to the unfortunate woman, when
removing her hands from her eyes, she looked wildly round, exclaiming,
"Oh! have you come to take me, have you come to take me?"

"That must depend upon circumstances, madam," replied Marlow, in a
quiet tone. "I have obtained sufficient proofs of the conspiracy in
which your son has been engaged with yourself and Mr. Shanks, the
attorney, to justify me in applying to the Government of his most
Christian Majesty for your apprehension and removal to England. But I
am unwilling to deal at all harshly with you, if it can be avoided."

"Oh! pray don't, pray don't!" she exclaimed vehemently; "my son will
kill me, I do believe, if he knew that you had found me out; for he
has told me, and written to me so often to hide myself carefully, that
he would think it was my fault."

"It is his own fault in ordering your letters to him to be sent to the
Silver Cross at Hartwell," replied Marlow. "Every body in the house
knew the handwriting, and became aware that you were not dead, as had
been pretended. But your son will soon be in a situation to kill
nobody; for the very fact of your being found here, with the other
circumstances we know, is sufficient to convict him of perjury."

"Then he'll lose the property and the title, and not be Sir John any
more," said the unhappy woman.

"Beyond all doubt," replied Marlow. "But to return to the matter
before us; my conduct with regard to yourself must be regulated
entirely by what you yourself do. If you furnish me with full and
complete information in regard to this nefarious business, in which I
am afraid you have been a participator, as well as a victim, I will
consent to your remaining where you are, under the superintendence of
the police, of which this gentleman is a Commissary."

"O, I have been a victim, indeed," answered Mrs. Ayliffe, weeping. "I
declare I have not had a moment's peace, or a morsel fit to eat since
I have been in this outlandish country, and I can hardly get any body,
not even a servant girl, who understands a word of English, to speak
to."

Marlow thought that he saw an inclination to evade the point of his
questions, in order to gain time for consideration, and the Commissary
thought so too: though both of them were, I believe, mistaken; for
collaterality, if I may use such a word, was a habit of the poor
woman's mind.

The Commissary interrupted her somewhat sharply in her catalogue of
the miseries of France, by saying, "I will beg you to give me your
keys, madame, for we must have a visitation of your papers."

"My keys, my keys!" she said, putting her hands in the large pockets
then worn. "I am sure I do not know what I have done with them, or
where they are."

"O, we will soon find keys that will open any thing," replied the
Commissary. "There are plenty of hammers in St. Germain."

"Stay, stay a moment," said Marlow; "I think Mrs. Ayliffe will save us
the trouble of taking any harsh steps."

"O yes, don't; I will do any thing you please," she said, earnestly.

"Well then, madame," said Marlow, "will you have the goodness to state
to this gentleman, who will take down your words, and afterwards
authenticate the statement, what is your real name, and your ordinary
place of residence in England?"

She hesitated, and he added more sternly, "You may answer or not, as
you like, madame; we have proof by the evidence of Mr. Atkinson here,
who has known you so many years, that you are living now in France,
when your son made affidavit that you were dead. That is the principal
point; but at the same time I warn you, that if you do not frankly
state the truth in every particular, I must demand that you be removed
to England."

"I will indeed," she said, "I will indeed;" and raising her eyes to
the face of the Commissary, of whom she seemed to stand in great
dread, she stated truly her name and place of abode, adding, "I would
not, indeed I would not have taken a false name, or come here at all,
if my son had not told me that it was the only way for him to get the
estate, and promised that I should come back directly he had got it.
But now, he says I must remain here forever, and hide myself;" and she
wept bitterly.

In the mean while, the Commissary continued to write actively, putting
down all she said. She seemed to perceive that she was committing
herself, but, as is very common in such cases, she only rendered the
difficulties worse, adding, in a low tone, "After all, the estate
ought to have been his by right."

"If you think so, madame," replied Marlow, "you had better return to
England, and prove it; but I can hardly imagine that your son and his
sharp lawyer would have had recourse to fraud and perjury in order to
keep you concealed, if they judged that he had any right at all."

"Ay, he might have a right in the eyes of God," replied the unhappy
woman, "not in the eyes of the law. We were as much married before
heaven as any two people could be, though we might not be married
before men."

"That is to say, you and your husband," said the Commissary in an
insinuating tone.

"I and Mr. John Hastings, old Sir John's son," she answered; and the
Commissary drawing Marlow for a moment aside, conversed with him in a
whisper.

What they said she could not hear, and could not have understood had
she heard, for they spoke in French; but she grew alarmed as they went
on, evidently speaking about her, and turning their eyes towards her
from time to time. She thought they meditated at least sending her in
custody to England, and perhaps much worse. Tales of bastiles, and
dungeons, and wringing confessions from unwilling prisoners by all
sorts of tortures, presented themselves to her imagination, and before
they had concluded, she exclaimed in a tone of entreaty, "I will tell
all, indeed I will tell all, if you will not send me any where."

"The Commissary thinks, madame," said Marlow, "that the first thing we
ought to do is to examine your papers, and then to question you from
the evidence they afford. The keys must, therefore, be found, or the
locks must be broken open."

"Perhaps they may be in that drawer," said Mrs. Ayliffe, pointing
across to an escrutoire; and there they were accordingly found. No
great search for papers was necessary; for the house was but scantily
furnished, and the escrutoire itself contained a packet of six or
seven letters from John Ayliffe to his mother, with two from Mr.
Shanks, each of them ending with the words "_read and burn_;" an
injunction which she had religiously failed to comply with. These
letters formed a complete series from the time of her quitting England
up to that day. They gave her information of the progress of the suit
against Sir Philip Hastings, and of its successful termination by his
withdrawing from the defence. The first letters held out to her, every
day, the hope of a speedy return to England. The later ones mentioned
long fictitious consultations with lawyers in regard to her return,
and stated that it was found absolutely necessary that she should
remain abroad under an assumed name. The last letter, however,
evidently in answer to one of remonstrance and entreaty from her, was
the most important in Marlow's eyes. It was very peremptory in its
tone, asked if she wanted to ruin and destroy her son, and threatened
all manner of terrible things if she suffered her retreat to be
discovered. As some compensation, however, for her disappointment,
John Ayliffe promised to come and see her speedily, and secure her a
splendid income, which would enable her to keep carriages and horses,
and "live like a princess." He excused his not having done so earlier,
on the ground that his friend Mrs. Hazleton had advanced him a very
large sum of money to carry on the suit, which he was obliged to pay
immediately. The letter ended with these words, "She is as bitter
against all the Hastings' as ever; and nothing will satisfy her till
she has seen the last of them all, especially that saucy girl; but she
is cute after her money, and will be paid. As for my part, I don't
care what she does to Mistress Emily; for I now hate her as much as I
once liked her,--but you will see something there, I think, before
long."

"In the name of Heaven," exclaimed Marlow, as he read that letter,
"what can have possessed the woman with so much malice towards poor
Emily Hastings?"

"Why, John used always to think," said Mistress Ayliffe, with a weak
smile coming upon her face in the midst of her distress, "that it was
because Madame Hazleton wanted to marry a man about there, called
Marlow, and Mistress Emily carried him off from her."

The Commissary laughed, and held out his snuff-box to Marlow, who did
not take the snuff, but fell into a deep fit of thought, while the
Commissary continued his perquisitions.

Only two more papers of importance were found, and they were of a date
far back. The one fresh, and evidently a copy of some other letter,
the other yellow, and with the folds worn through in several places.
The former was a copy of a letter of young John Hastings to the
unfortunate girl whom he had seduced, soothing her under her distress
of mind, and calling her his "dear little wife." It was with the
greatest difficulty she could be induced to part with the original, it
would seem, and had obtained a copy before she consented to do so. The
latter was the antidote to the former. It was a letter from old Sir
John Hastings to her father, and was to the following effect:

"Sir:

"As you have thought fit distinctly to withdraw all vain and
fraudulent pretences of any thing but an illicit connection between
your daughter and my late son, and to express penitence for the
insolent threats you used, I will not withhold due support from my
child's offspring, nor from the unfortunate girl to whom he behaved
ill. I therefore write this to inform you that I will allow her the
sum of two hundred pounds per annum, as long as she demeans herself
with propriety and decorum. I will also leave directions in my will
for securing to her and her son, on their joint lives, a sum of an
equal amount, which may be rendered greater if her behavior for the
next few years is such as I can approve.

"I am, sir, your obedient servant,

"JOHN HASTINGS."

Marlow folded up the letter with a smile, and the Commissary
proceeded, with all due formalities, to mark and register the whole
correspondence as found in the possession of Mrs. Ayliffe.

When this was done, what may be called the examination of that good
lady was continued, but the sight of those letters in the hands of
Marlow, and the well-satisfied smile with which he read them, had
convinced her that all farther attempt at concealment would be vain.
Terror had with her a great effect in unloosing the tongue, and, as is
very common in such cases, she flew into the extreme of loquacity,
told every thing she knew, or thought, or imagined, and being, as is
common with very weak people, of a prying and inquisitive turn, she
could furnish ample information in regard to all the schemes and
contrivances by which her son had succeeded in convincing even Sir
Philip Hastings himself of his legitimacy.

Her statements involved Mr. Shanks the lawyer in the scheme of fraud
as a principal, but they compromised deeply Mrs. Hazleton herself as
cognizant of all that was going on, and aiding and abetting with her
personal advice. She detailed the whole particulars of the plan which
had been formed for bringing Emily Hastings to Mrs. Hazleton's house,
and frightening her into a marriage with John Ayliffe; and she dwelt
particularly on the tutoring he had received from that lady, and his
frantic rage when the scheme was frustrated. The transactions between
him and the unhappy man Tom Cutter she knew only in part; but she
admitted that her eon had laughed triumphantly at the thought of how
Sir Philip would be galled when he was made to believe that his
beloved Emily had been to visit her young reprobate son at the cottage
near the park, and that, too, at a time when he had been actually
engaged in poaching.

All, in fact, came forth with the greatest readiness, and indeed much
more was told than any questions tended to elicit. She seemed indeed
to have now lost all desire for concealment, and to found her hopes
and expectations on the freest discovery. Her only dread, apparently,
being that she might be taken to England, and confronted with her son.
On this point she dwelt much, and Marlow consented that she should
remain in France, under the supervision of the police, for a time at
least, though he would not promise her, notwithstanding all her
entreaties, that she should never be sent for. He endeavored, however,
to obviate the necessity of so doing, by taking every formal step that
could be devised to render the evidence he had obtained available in a
court of law, as documentary testimony. A magistrate was sent for, her
statements were read over to her in his presence by the commissary of
police, and though it cannot be asserted that either the style or the
orthography of the worthy commissary were peculiarly English, yet Mrs.
Ayliffe signed them, and swore to them in good set form, and in the
presence of four witnesses.

To Marlow, the scene was a very painful one; for he had a natural
repugnance to seeing the weakness and degradation of human nature so
painfully exhibited by any fellow-creature, and he left her with
feelings of pity, but still stronger feelings of contempt.

All such sensations, however, vanished when he reached the inn again,
and he found himself in possession of evidence which would clear his
beloved Emily of the suspicions which had been instilled into her
father's mind, and which he doubted not in the least would effect the
restoration of Sir Philip Hastings to his former opulence and to his
station in society.

The mind of man has a sun in its own sky, which pours forth its
sunshine, or is hidden by clouds, irrespective of the atmosphere
around. In fact we always see external objects through stained glass,
and the hues imparted are in our windows, not in the objects
themselves. It is wonderful how different the aspect of every thing
was to the eyes of Marlow as he returned towards Paris, from that
which the scene had presented as he went. All seemed sunshine and
brightness, from the happiness of his own heart. The gloomy images,
which, as I have shown, had haunted him on his way from his own house
to Hartwell--the doubts, if they can be so called--the questionings of
the unsatisfied heart in regard the ways of Providence--the cloudy
dreads which almost all men must have felt as to the real, constant,
minute superintendence of a Supreme Power being but a sweet vision,
the child of hope and veneration, were all dispelled. I do not mean to
say that they were dissipated by reason or by thought, for his was a
strong mind, and reason and thought with him were always on the side
of faith; but those clouds and mists were suddenly scattered by the
success which he had obtained, and the cheering expectation which
might be now well founded upon that success. Is was not enough for him
that he knew, and understood, and appreciated to the full the beauty
and excellence of his Emily's character. He could not be contented
unless every one connected with her understood and appreciated it
also. He cared little what the world thought of himself, but he would
have every one think well of her, and the deepest pang he had perhaps
ever felt in life had been experienced when he first found that Sir
Philip Hastings doubted and suspected his own child. Now, all must be
clear--all must be bright. The base and the fraudulent will be
punished and exposed, the noble and the good honored and justified. It
was his doing; and as he alighted from the carriage, and mounted the
stairs of the hotel in Paris, his step was as triumphant as if he had
won a great victory.

Fate will water our wine, however--I suppose lest we should become
intoxicated with the delicious draught of joy. Marlow longed and hoped
to fly back to England with the tidings without delay, but certain
formalities had to be gone through, official seals and signatures
affixed to the papers he had obtained, in order to leave no doubt of
their authenticity. Cold men of office could not be brought to
comprehend or sympathize with, his impetuous eagerness, and five whole
days elapsed before he was able to quit the French capital.




CHAPTER XXXIV.


John Ayliffe, as we may now once more very righteously call him, was
seated in the great hall of the old house of the Hastings family. Very
different indeed was the appearance of that large chamber now from
that which it had presented when Sir Philip Hastings was in
possession. All the old, solid, gloomy-looking furniture, which
formerly had given it an air of baronial dignity, and which Sir Philip
had guarded as preciously as if every antique chair and knotted table
had been an heir-loom, was now removed, and rich flaunting things of
gaudy colors substituted. Damask, and silk, and velvet, and gilt
ornaments in the style of France, were there in abundance, and had it
not been for the arches overhead, and the stone walls and narrow
windows around, the old hall might have passed for the saloon of some
newly-enriched financier of Paris.

The young man sat at table alone--not that he was by any means fond of
solitude, for on the contrary he would have fain filled his house with
company--but for some reason or another, which he could not divine, he
found the old country gentlemen in the neighborhood somewhat shy of
his society. His wealth, his ostentation, his luxury--for he had begun
his new career with tremendous vehemence--had no effect upon them.
They looked upon him as somewhat vulgar, and treated him with mere
cold, supercilious civility as an upstart. There was one gentleman of
good family, indeed, at some distance, who had hung a good deal about
courts, had withered and impoverished himself, and reduced both his
mind and his fortune in place-hunting, and who had a large family of
daughters, to whom the society of John Ayliffe was the more
acceptable, and who not unfrequently rode over and dined with
him--nay, took a bed at the Hall. But that day he had not been over,
and although upon the calculation of chances, one might have augured
two to one John Ayliffe would ultimately marry one of the daughters,
yet at this period he was not very much smitten with any of them, and
was contemplating seriously a visit to London, where he thought his
origin would be unknown, and his wealth would procure him every sort
of enjoyment.

Two servants were in the Hall, handing him the dishes. Well-cooked
viands were on the table, and rich wine. Every thing which John
Ayliffe in his sensual aspirations had anticipated from the possession
of riches was there--except happiness, and that was wanting. To sit
and feed, and feel one's self a scoundrel--to drink deep draughts,
were it of nectar, for the purpose of drowning the thought of our own
baseness--to lie upon the softest bed, and prop the head with the
downiest pillow, with the knowledge that all we possess is the fruit
of crime, can never give happiness--surely not, even to the most
depraved.

That eating and drinking, however, was now one of John Ayliffe's chief
resources--drinking especially. He did not actually get intoxicated
every night before he went to bed, but he always drank to a sufficient
excess to cloud his faculties, to obfuscate his mind. He rather liked
to feel himself in that sort of dizzy state where the outlines of all
objects become indistinct, and thought itself puts on the same hazy
aspect.

The servants had learned his habits already, and were very willing to
humor them; for they derived their own advantage therefrom. Thus, on
the present occasion, as soon as the meal was over, and the dishes
were removed, and the dessert put upon the table--a dessert consisting
principally of sweetmeats, for which he had a great fondness, with
stimulants to thirst. Added to these were two bottles of the most
potent wine in his cellar, with a store of clean glasses, and a jug of
water, destined to stand unmoved in the middle of the table.

After this process it was customary never to disturb him, till, with a
somewhat wavering step, he found his way up to his bedroom. But on the
night of which I am speaking, John Ayliffe had not finished his fourth
glass after dinner, and was in the unhappy stage, which, with some
men, precedes the exhilarating stage of drunkenness, when the butler
ventured to enter with a letter in his hand.

"I beg pardon for intruding, sir," he said, "but Mr. Cherrydew has
sent up a man on horseback from Hartwell with this letter, because
there is marked upon it, 'to be delivered with the greatest possible
haste.'"

"Curse him!" exclaimed John Ayliffe, "I wish he would obey the orders
I give him. Why the devil does he plague me with letters at this time
of night?--there, give it to me, and go away," and taking the letter
from the man's hand, he threw it down on the table beside him, as if
it were not his intention to read it that night. Probably, indeed, it
was not; for he muttered as he looked at the address, "She wants more
money, I dare say, to pay for some trash or another. How greedy these
women are. The parson preached the other day about the horse-leech's
daughter. By ---- I think I have got the horse-leech's mother!" and he
laughed stupidly, not perceiving that the point of his sarcasm touched
himself.

He drank another glass of wine, and then looked at the letter again;
but at length, after yet another glass, curiosity got the better of
his moodiness, and he opened the epistle.

The first sight of the contents dispelled not only his indifference
but the effects of the wine he had taken, and he read the letter with
an eager and a haggard eye. The substance was as follows:

"My dearest boy:

"All is lost and discovered. I can but write you a very short account
of the things that have been happening here, for I am under what these
people call the surveillance of the police. I have got a few minutes,
however, and I will pay the maid secretly to give this to the post.
Never was such a time as I have had this morning. Four men have been
here, and among them Atkinson, who lived just down below at the
cottage with the gray shutters. He knew me in a minute, and told
everybody who I was. But that is not the worst of it, for they have
got a commissioner of police with him--a terrible looking man, who
took as much snuff as Mr. Jenkins, the justice of peace. They had got
all sorts of information in England about me, and you, and every body,
and they came to me to give them more, and cross-questioned me in a
terrible manner; and that ugly old Commissioner, in his black coat and
great wig, took my keys, and opened all the drawers and places. What
could I do to stop them? So they got all your letters to me; because I
could not bear to burn my dear boy's letters, and that letter from old
Sir John to my poor father, which I once showed you. So when they got
all those, there was no use of trying to conceal it any more, and,
besides, they might have sent me to the Bastile or the Tower of
London. So every thing has come out, and the best thing you can do is
to take whatever money you have got, or can get, and run away as fast
as possible, and come over here and take me away. One of them was as
fine a man as ever I saw, and quite a gentleman, though very severe.

"Pray, my dear John, don't lose a moment's time, but run away before
they catch you; for they know every thing now, depend upon it, and
nothing will stop them from hanging you or sending you to the colonies
that you can do; for they have got all the proofs, and I could see by
their faces that they wanted nothing more; and if they do, my heart
will be quite broken, that is, if they hang you or send you to the
colonies, where you will have to work like a galley-slave, and a man
standing over you with a whip, beating your bare back very likely. So
run away, and come to your afflicted mother."

She did not seem to have been quite sure what name to sign, for she
first put "Brown," but then changed the word to "Hastings," and then
again to "Ayliffe." There were two or three postscripts, but they were
of no great importance, and John Ayliffe did not take the trouble of
reading them. The terms he bestowed upon his mother--not in the
secrecy of his heart, but aloud and fiercely--were any thing but
filial, and his burst of rage lasted full five minutes before it was
succeeded by the natural fear and trepidation which the intelligence
he had received might well excite. Then, however, his terror became
extreme. The color, usually high, and now heightened both by rage and
wine, left his cheeks, and, as he read over some parts of his mother's
letter again, he trembled violently.

"She has told all," he repeated to himself, "she has told all--and
most likely has added from his own fancy. They have got all my letters
too which the fool did not burn. What did say, I wonder? Too much--too
much, I am sure. Heaven and earth, what will come of it! Would to God
I had not listened to that rascal Shanks! Where should I go now for
advice? It must not be to him. He would only betray and ruin me--make
me the scape-goat--pretend that I had deceived him, I dare say. Oh, he
is a precious villain, and Mrs. Hazleton knows that too well to trust
him even with a pitiful mortgage--Mrs. Hazleton--I will go to her. She
is always kind to me, and she is devilish clever too--knows a good
deal more than Shanks if she did but understand the law--I will go to
her---she will tell me how to manage."

No time was to be lost. Ride as hard as he could it would take him
more than an hour to reach Mrs. Hazleton's house, and it was already
late. He ordered a horse to be saddled instantly, ran to his bedroom,
drew on his boots, and then, descending to the hall, stood swearing at
the slowness of the groom till the sound of hoofs made him run to the
door. In a moment he was in the saddle and away, much to the
astonishment of the servants, who puzzled themselves a little as to
what intelligence their young master could have received, and then
proceeded to console themselves according to the laws and ordinances
of the servants' hall in such cases made and provided. The wine he had
left upon the table disappeared with great celerity, and the butler,
who was a man of precision, arrayed a good number of small silver
articles and valuable trinkets in such a way as to be packed up and
removed with great facility and secrecy.

In the meanwhile John Ayliffe rode on at a furious pace, avoiding a
road which would have led him close by Mr. Shanks's dwelling, and
reached, Mrs. Hazleton's door about nine o'clock.

That lady was sitting in a small room behind the drawing-room, which I
have already mentioned, where John Ayliffe was announced once more as
Sir John Hastings. But Mrs. Hazleton, in personal appearance at least,
was much changed since she was first introduced to the reader. She was
still wonderfully handsome. She had still that indescribable air of
calm, high-bred dignity which we are often foolishly inclined to
ascribe to noble feelings and a high heart; but which--where it is not
an art, an acquirement--only indicates, I am inclined to believe, when
it has any moral reference at all, strength of character and great
self-reliance. But Mrs. Hazleton was older--looked older a good
deal--more so than the time which had passed would alone account for.
The passions of the last two or three years had worn her sadly, and
probably the struggle to conceal those passions had worn her as much.
Nevertheless, she had grown somewhat fat under their influence, and a
wrinkle here and there in the fair skin was contradicted by the
plumpness of her figure.

She rose with quiet, easy grace to meet her young guest, and held out
her hand to him, saying, "Really, my dear Sir John, you must not pay
me such late visits or I shall have scandal busying herself with my
good name."

But even as she spoke she perceived the traces of violent agitation
which had not yet departed from John Ayliffe's visage, and she added,
"What is the matter? Has any thing gone wrong?"

"Every thing is going to the devil, I believe," said John Ayliffe, as
soon as the servant had closed the door. "They have found out my
mother at St. Germain."

He paused there to see what effect this first intelligence would
produce, and it was very great; for Mrs. Hazleton well knew that upon
the concealment of his mother's existence had depended one of the
principal points in his suit against Sir Philip Hastings. What was
going on in her mind, however, appeared not in her countenance. She
paused in silence, indeed, for a moment or two, and then said in her
sweet musical voice, "Well, Sir John, is that all?"

"Enough too, dear Mrs. Hazleton!" replied the young man. "Why you
surely remember that it was judged absolutely necessary she should be
supposed dead--you yourself said, when we were talking of it, 'Send
her to France.' Don't you remember?"

"No I do not," answered Mrs. Hazleton, thoughtfully; "and if I did it
could only be intended to save the poor thing from all the torment of
being cross-examined in a court of justice."

"Ay, she has been cross-examined enough in France nevertheless," said
the young man bitterly, "and she has told every thing, Mrs.
Hazleton--all that she knew, and I dare say all that she guessed."

This news was somewhat more interesting than even the former; it
touched Mrs. Hazleton personally to a certain extent, for all that
Jane Ayliffe knew and all that she guessed might comprise a great deal
that Mrs. Hazleton would not have liked the world to know or guess
either. She retained all her presence of mind however, and replied
quite quietly "Really, Sir John, I cannot at all form a judgment of
these things, or give you either assistance or advice, as I am anxious
to do, unless you explain the whole matter fully and clearly. What has
your mother done which seems to have affected you so much? Let me hear
the whole details, then I can judge and speak with some show of
reason. But calm yourself, calm yourself, my dear sir. We often at the
first glance of any unpleasant intelligence take fright, and thinking
the danger ten times greater than it really is, run into worse dangers
in trying to avoid it. Let me hear all, I say, and then I will
consider what is to be done."

Now Mrs. Hazleton had already, from what she had just heard,
determined precisely and entirely what she would do. She had divined
in an instant that the artful game in which John Ayliffe had been
engaged, and in which she herself had taken a hand, was played out,
and that he was the loser; but it was a very important object with her
to ascertain if possible how far she herself had been compromised by
the revelations of Mrs. Ayliffe. This was the motive of her gentle
questions; for at heart she did not feel the least gentle.

On the other hand John Ayliffe was somewhat angry. All frightened
people are angry when they find others a great deal less frightened
than themselves. Drawing forth his mother's letter then, he thrust it
towards Mrs. Hazleton, almost rudely, saying, "Read that, madam, and
you'll soon see all the details, that you could wish for."

Mrs. Hazleton did read it from end to end, postscript and all, and she
saw with infinite satisfaction and delight, that her own name was
never once mentioned in the whole course of that delectable epistle.
As she read that part of the letter, however, in which Mrs. Ayliffe
referred to the very handsome gentlemanly man who had been one of her
unwished for visitors, Mrs. Hazleton said within herself, "This is
Marlow; Marlow has done this!" and tenfold bitterness took possession
of her heart. She folded up the letter with neat propriety, however,
and handed it back to John Ayliffe, saying, in her very sweetest
tones, "Well, I do not think this so very bad as you seem to imagine.
They have found out that your mother is still living, and that is all.
They cannot make much of that."

"Not much of that!" exclaimed John Ayliffe, now nearly driven to
frenzy, "what if they convict one of perjury for swearing she was
dead?"

"Did you swear she was dead?" exclaimed Mrs. Hazleton with an
exceedingly well assumed look of profound astonishment.

"To be sure I did," he answered. "Why you proposed that she should be
sent away yourself, and Shanks drew out the affidavit."

A mingled look of consternation and indignation came into Mrs.
Hazleton's beautiful face; but before she could make any reply he went
on, thinking he had frightened her; which was in itself a satisfaction
and a sort of triumph.

"Ay, that you did," he said, "and not only that, but you advanced me
all the money to carry on the suit, and I am told that that is
punishable by law. Besides, you knew quite well of the leaf being torn
out of the register, so we are in the same basket I can tell you, Mrs.
Hazleton."

"Sir, you insult me," said the lady, rising with an air of imperious
dignity. "The charity which induced me to advance you different sums
of money, without knowing what they were to be applied to--and I can
prove that some of them were applied to very different purposes than a
suit at law--has been misunderstood, I see. Had I advanced them to
carry on this suit, they would have been paid to your and my lawyer,
not to yourself. Not a word more, if you please! You have mistaken my
character as well as my motives, if you suppose that I will suffer you
to remain here one moment after you have insulted me by the very
thought that I was any sharer in your nefarious transactions." She
spoke in a loud shrill tone, knowing that the servants were in the
hall hard by, and then she added, "Save me the pain, sir, of ordering
some of the men to put you out of the house by quitting it directly."

"Oh, yes, I will go, I will go," cried John Ayliffe, now quite
maddened, "I will go to the devil, and you too, madam," and he burst
out of the room, leaving the door open behind him.

"I can compassionate misfortune," cried Mrs. Hazleton, raising her
voice to the very highest pitch for the benefit of others, "but I will
have nothing to do with roguery and fraud," and as she heard his
horse's feet clatter over the terrace, she heartily wished he might
break his neck before he passed the park gates. How far she was
satisfied, and how far she was not, must be shown in another chapter.




CHAPTER XXXV.


John Ayliffe got out of the park gates quite safely, though he rode
down the slope covered with loose stones, as if he had no
consideration for his own neck or his horse's knees. He was in a state
of desperation, however, and feared little at that moment what became
of himself or any thing else. With fierce and angry eagerness he
revolved in his own mind the circumstances of his situation, the
conduct of Mrs. Hazleton, the folly, as he was pleased to term it, of
his mother, the crimes which he had himself committed, and he found no
place of refuge in all the dreary waste of thought. Every thing around
looked menacing and terrible, and the world within was all dark and
stormy.

He pushed his horse some way on the road which he had come, but
suddenly a new thought struck him. He resolved to seek advice and aid
from one whom he had previously determined to avoid. "I will go to
Shanks," he said to himself, "he at least is in the same basket with
myself. He must work with me, for if my mother has been fool enough to
keep my letters, I have been wise enough to keep his--perhaps
something may be done after all. If not, he shall go along with me,
and we will try if we cannot bring that woman in too. He can prove all
her sayings and doings." Thus thinking, he turned his horse's head
towards the lawyer's house, and rode as hard as he could go till he
reached it.

Mr. Shanks was enjoying life over a quiet comfortable bowl of punch in
a little room which looked much more tidy and comfortable, than it had
done twelve or eighteen months before. Mr. Shanks had been well paid.
Mr. Shanks had taken care of himself. No small portion of back rents
and costs had gone into the pockets of Mr. Shanks. Mr. Shanks was all
that he had ever desired to be, an opulent man. Moreover, he was one
of those happily constituted mortals who know the true use of
wealth--to make it a means of enjoyment. He had no scruples of
conscience--not he. He little cared how the money came, so that it
found its way into his pocket. He was not a man to let his mind be
troubled by any unpleasant remembrances; for he had a maxim that every
man's duty was to do the very best he could for his client, and that
every man's first client was himself.

He heard a horse stop at his door, and having made up his mind to end
the night comfortably, to finish his punch and go to bed, he might
perhaps have been a little annoyed, had he not consoled himself with
the thought that the call must be upon business of importance, and he
had no idea of business of importance unconnected with that of a large
fee.

"To draw a will, I'll bet any money," said Mr. Shanks to himself; "it
is either old Sir Peter, dying of indigestion, and sent for me when
he's no longer able to speak, or John Ayliffe broken his neck leaping
over a five-barred gate--John Ayliffe, bless us all, Sir John Hastings
I should have said."

But the natural voice of John Ayliffe, asking for him in a loud
impatient tone, dispelled these visions of his fancy, and in another
moment the young man was in the room.

"Ah, Sir John, very glad to see you, very glad to see you," said Mr.
Shanks, shaking his visitor's hand, and knocking out the ashes of his
pipe upon the hob; "just come in pudding time, my dear sir--just in
time for a glass of punch--bring some more lemons and some sugar,
Betty. A glass of punch will do you good. It is rather cold to-night."

"As hot as h--l," answered John Ayliffe, sharply; "but I'll have the
punch notwithstanding," and he seated himself while the maid proceeded
to fulfil her master's orders.

Mr. Shanks evidently saw that something had gone wrong with his young
and distinguished client, but anticipating no evil, he was led to
consider whether it was any thing referring to a litter of puppies, a
favorite horse, a fire at the hall, a robbery, or a want of some more
ready money.

At length, however, the fresh lemons and sugar were brought, and the
door closed, before which, time John Ayliffe had helped himself to
almost all the punch which he had found remaining in the bowl. It was
not much, but it was strong, and Mr. Shanks applied himself to the
preparation of some more medicine of the same sort. John Ayliffe
suffered him to finish before he said any thing to disturb him, not
from any abstract reverence for the office which Mr. Shanks was
fulfilling, or for love of the beverage he was brewing, but simply
because John Ayliffe began to find that he might as well consider his
course a little. Consideration seldom served him very much, and in the
present instance, after he had labored hard to find out the best way
of breaking the matter, his impetuosity as usual got the better of
him, and he thrust his mother's letter into Mr. Shanks's hand, out of
which as a preliminary he took the ladle and helped himself to another
glass of punch.

The consternation of Mr. Shanks, as he read Mrs. Ayliffe's letter,
stood out in strong opposition to Mrs. Hazleton's sweet calmness. He
was evidently as much terrified as his client; for Mr. Shanks did not
forget that he had written Mrs. Ayliffe two letters since she was
abroad, and as she had kept her son's epistles, Mr. Shanks argued that
it was very likely she had kept his also. Their contents, taken alone,
might amount to very little, but looked at in conjunction with other
circumstances might amount to a great deal.

True, Mr. Shanks had avoided, as far as he could, any discussions in
regard to the more delicate secrets of his profession in the presence
of Mrs. Ayliffe, of whose discretion he was not as firmly convinced as
he could have desired; but it was not always possible to do so,
especially when he had been obliged to seek John Ayliffe in haste at
her house; and now the memories of many long and dangerous
conversations which had occurred in her presence, spread themselves
out before his eyes in a regular row, like items on the leaves of a
ledger.

"Good God!" he cried, "what has she done?"

"Every thing she ought not to have done, of course!" replied John
Ayliffe, replenishing his glass, "but the question now, is, Shanks,
what are we to do? That is the great question just now."

"It is indeed," answered Mr. Shanks, in great agitation; "this is very
awkward, very awkward indeed."

"I know that," answered John Ayliffe, laconically.

"Well but, sir, what is to be done?" asked Mr. Shanks, fidgeting
uneasily about the table.

"That is what I come to ask you, not to tell you," answered the young
man; "you see, Shanks, you and I are exactly in the same case, only I
have more to lose than you have. But whatever happens to me will
happen to you, depend upon it. I am not going to be the only one,
whatever Mrs. Hazleton may think."

Shanks caught at Mrs. Hazleton's name; "Ay, that's a good thought," he
said, "we had better go and consult her. Let us put our three heads
together, and we may beat them yet--perhaps."

"No use of going to her," answered John Ayliffe, bitterly; "I have
been to her, and she is a thorough vixen. She cried off having any
thing to do with me, and when I just told her quietly that, she ought
to help me out of the scrape because she had a hand in getting me into
it, she flew at my throat like a terrier bitch with a litter of
puppies, barked me out of the house as if I had been a beggar, and
called me almost rogue and swindler in the hearing of her own
servants."

Mr. Shanks smiled--he could not refrain from smiling with a feeling of
admiration and respect, even in that moment of bitter apprehension, at
the decision, skill, and wisdom of Mrs. Hazleton's conduct. He
approved of her highly; but he perceived quite plainly that it would
not do for him to play the same game. A hope--a feeble hope--light
through a loop-hole, came in upon him in regard to the future,
suggested by Mrs. Hazleton's conduct. He thought that if he could but
clear away some difficulties, he too might throw all blame upon John
Ayliffe, and shovel the load of infamy from his own shoulders to those
of his client; but to effect this, it was not only necessary that he
should soothe John Ayliffe, but that he should provide for his safety
and escape. Recriminations he was aware were very dangerous things,
and that unless a man takes care that it shall not be in the power or
for the interest of a fellow rogue to say _tu quoque_, the effort to
place the burden on his shoulders only injures him without making our
own case a bit better. It was therefore requisite for his purposes
that he should deprive John Ayliffe of all interest or object in
criminating him; but foolish knaves are very often difficult to deal
with, and he knew his young client to be eminent in that class.
Wishing for a little time to consider, he took occasion to ask one or
two meaningless questions, without at all attending to the replies.

"When did this letter arrive here?" he inquired.

"This very night," answered John Ayliffe, "not three hours ago."

"Do you think she has really told all?" asked Mr. Shanks.

"All, and a great deal more," replied the young man.

"How long has she been at St. Germain?" said the lawyer.

"What the devil does that signify?" said John Ayliffe, growing
impatient.

"A great deal, a great deal," replied Mr. Shanks, sagely. "Take some
more punch. You see perhaps we can prove that you and I really thought
her dead at the time the affidavit was made."

"Devilish difficult that," said John Ayliffe, taking the punch. "She
wrote to me about some more money just at that time, and I was obliged
to answer her letter and send it, so that if they have got the letters
that won't pass."

"We'll try at least," said Mr. Shanks in a bolder tone.

"Ay, but in trying we may burn our fingers worse than ever," said the
young man. "I do not want to be tried for perjury and conspiracy, and
sent to the colonies with the palm of my hand burnt out, whatever you
may do, Shanks."

"No, no, that would never do," replied the lawyer. "The first thing to
be done, my dear Sir John, is to provide for your safety, and that can
only be done by your getting out of the way for a time. It is very
natural that a young gentleman of fortune like yourself should go to
travel, and not at all unlikely that he should do so without letting
any one know where he is for a few months. That will be the best plan
for you you must go and travel. They can't well be on the look-out for
you yet, and you can get away quite safely to-morrow morning. You need
not say where you are going, and by that means you will save both
yourself and the property too; for they can't proceed against you in
any way when you are absent."

John Ayliffe was not sufficiently versed in the laws of the land to
perceive that Mr. Shanks was telling him a falsehood. "That's a good
thought," he said; "if I can live abroad and keep hold of the rents we
shall be safe enough."

"Certainly, certainly," said Mr. Shanks, "that is the only plan. Then
let them file their bills, or bring their actions or what not. They
cannot compel you to answer if you are not within the realm."

Mr. Shanks was calling him all the time, in his own mind, a
jolter-headed ass, but John Ayliffe did not perceive it, and replied
with a touch of good feeling, perhaps inspired by the punch, "But what
is to become of you, Shanks?"

"Oh, I will stay and face it out," replied the lawyer, "with a bold
front. If we do not peach of each other they cannot do much against
us. Mrs. Hazleton dare not commit us, for by so doing she would commit
herself; and your mother's story will not avail very much. As to the
letters, which is the worst part of the business, we must try and
explain those away; but clearly the first thing for you to do is to
get out of England as soon as possible. You can go and see your mother
secretly, and if you can but get her to prevaricate a little in her
testimony it will knock it all up."

"Oh, she'll prevaricate enough if they do but press her hard," said
John Ayliffe. "She gets so frightened at the least thing she doesn't
know what she says. But the worst of it is, Shanks, I have not got
money enough to go. I have not got above a hundred guineas in the
house."

Mr. Shanks paused and hesitated. It was a very great object with him
to get John Ayliffe out of the country, in order that he might say any
thing he liked of John Ayliffe when his back was turned, but it was
also a very great object with him to keep all the money he had got. He
did not like to part with one sixpence of it. After a few moments'
thought, however, he recollected that a thousand pounds' worth of
plate had come down from London for the young man within the last two
months, and he thought he might make a profitable arrangement.

"I have got three hundred pounds in the house," he said, "all in good
gold, but I can really hardly afford to part with it. However, rather
than injure you, Sir John, I will let you have it if you will give me
the custody of your plate till your return, just that I may have
something to show if any one presses me for money."

The predominant desire of John Ayliffe's mind, at that moment, was to
get out of England as fast as possible, and he was too much blinded by
fear and anxiety to perceive that the great desire of Mr. Shanks was
to get him out. But there was one impediment. The sum of four hundred
pounds thus placed at his command would, some years before, have
appeared the Indies to him, but now, with vastly expanded ideas with
regard to expense, it seemed a drop of water in the ocean. "Three
hundred pounds, Shanks," he said, "what's the use of three hundred
pounds? It would not keep me a month."

"God bless my soul!" said Mr. Shanks, horrified at such a notion, "why
it would keep me a whole year, and more too. Moreover, things are
cheaper there than they are here; and besides you have got all those
jewels, and knick-knacks, and things, which cost you at least a couple
of thousand pounds. They would sell for a great deal."

"Come, come, Shanks," said the young man, "you must make it five
hundred guineas. I know you've got them in your strong box here."

Shanks shook his head, and John Ayliffe added sullenly, "Then I'll
stay and fight it out too. I won't go and be a beggar in a foreign
land."

Shanks did not like the idea of his staying, and after some farther
discussion a compromise was effected. Mr. Shanks agreed to advance
four hundred pounds. John Ayliffe was to make over to him, as a
pledge, the whole of his plate, and not to object to a memorandum to
that effect being drawn up immediately, and dated a month before. The
young man was to set off the very next day, in the pleasant gray of
the morning, driving his own carriage and horses, which he was to sell
as soon as he got a convenient distance from his house, and Mr. Shanks
was to take the very best possible care of his interests during his
absence.

John Ayliffe's spirits rose at the conclusion of this transaction. He
calculated that with one thing or another he should have sufficient
money to last him a year, and that was quite as far as his thoughts or
expectations went. A long, long year! What does youth care for any
thing beyond a year? It seems the very end of life to pant in
expectation, and indeed, and in truth, it is very often too long for
fate.

"Next year I will"-- Pause, young man! there is a deep pitfall in the
way. Between you and another year may lie death. Next year thou wilt
do nothing--thou wilt be nothing.

His spirits rose. He put the money into his pocket, and, with more wit
than he thought, called it "light heaviness," and then he sat down and
smoked a pipe, while Mr. Shanks drew up the paper; and then he drank
punch, and made more, and drank that too, so that when the paper
giving Mr. Shanks a lien upon the silver was completed, and when a
dull neighbor had been called in to see him sign his name, it needed a
witness indeed to prove that that name was John Ayliffe's writing.

By this time he would very willingly have treated the company to a
song, so complete had been the change which punch and new prospects
had effected; but Mr. Shanks besought him to be quiet, hinting that
the neighbor, though as deaf as a post and blind as a mole, would
think him as the celebrated sow of the psalmist. Thereupon John
Ayliffe went forth and got his horse out of the stable, mounted upon
his back, and rode lolling at a sauntering pace through the end of the
town in which Mr. Shanks's house was situated. When he got more into
the Country he began to trot, then let the horse fall into a walk
again, and then he beat him for going slow. Thus alternately
galloping, walking, and trotting, he rode on till he was two or three
hundred yards past the gates of what was called the Court, where the
family of Sir Philip Hastings now lived. It was rather a dark part of
the road, and there was something white in the hedge--some linen
put out to dry, or a milestone. John Ayliffe was going at a quick
pace at that moment, and the horse suddenly shied at this white
apparition--not only shied, but started, wheeled round, and ran back.
John Ayliffe kept his seat, notwithstanding his tipsiness, but he
struck the furious horse over the head, and pulled the rein violently.
The annual plunged--reared--the young man gave the rein a furious tug,
and over went the horse upon the road, with his driver under him.




CHAPTER XXXVI.


There was a man lay upon the road in the darkness of the night for
some five or six minutes, and a horse galloped away snorting, with a
broken bridle hanging at his head, on the way towards the park of Sir
Philip Hastings. Had any carriage come along, the man who was lying
there must have been run over; for the night was exceedingly dark, and
the road narrow. All was still and silent, however. No one was seen
moving--not a sound was heard except the distant clack of a water-mill
which lay further down the valley. There was a candle in a cottage
window at about a hundred yards' distance, which shot a dim and feeble
ray athwart the road, but shed no light on the spot where the man lay.
At the end of about six minutes, a sort of convulsive movement showed
that life was not yet extinct in his frame--a sort of heave of the
chest, and a sudden twitch of the arm; and a minute or two after, John
Ayliffe raised himself on his elbow, at put his hand to his head.

"Curse the brute," he said, in a wandering sort of way, "I wonder,
Shanks, you don't--damn it, where am I?--what's the matter? My side
and leg are cursed sore, and my head all running round."

He remained in the same position for a moment or two more, and then
got upon his feet; but the instant he did so he fell to the ground
again with a deep groan, exclaiming, "By--, my leg's broken, and I
believe my ribs too. How the devil shall I get out of this scrape?
Here I may lie and die, without any body ever coming near me. That is
old Jenny Best's cottage, I believe. I wonder if I could make the old
canting wretch hear," and he raised his voice to shout, but the pain
was two great. His ribs were indeed broken, and pressing upon his
lungs, and all that he could do was to lie still and groan.

About a quarter of an hour after, however, a stunt, middle-aged
man--rather, perhaps, in the decline of life--came by, carrying a
hand-basket, plodding at a slow and weary pace as if he had had a long
walk.

"Who's that? Is any one there?" said a feeble voice, as he approached;
and he ran up, exclaiming, "Gracious me, what is the matter? Are you
hurt, sir? What has happened?"

"Is that you, Best?" said the feeble voice of John Ayliffe, "my horse
has reared and fallen over with me. My leg is broken, and the bone
poking through, and my ribs are broken too, I think."

"Stay a minute, Sir John," said the good countryman, "and I'll get
help, and we'll carry you up to the Hall."

"No, no," answered John Ayliffe, who had now had time for thought,
"get a mattress, or a door, or something, and carry me into your
cottage. If your son is at home, he and you can carry me. Don't send
for strangers."

"I dare say he is at home, sir," replied the man. "He's a good lad,
sir, and comes home as soon as his work's done. I will go and see. I
won't be a minute."

He was as good as his word, and in less than a minute returned with
his son, bringing a lantern and a straw mattress.

Not without inflicting great pain, and drawing forth many a heavy
groan, the old man and the young one placed John Ayliffe on the
paliasse, and carried him into the cottage, where he was laid upon
young Best's bed in the back room. Good Jenny Best, as John Ayliffe
had called her--an excellent creature as ever lived--was all kindness
and attention, although to say truth the suffering man had not shown
any great kindness to her and hers in his days of prosperity. She was
eager to send off her son immediately for the surgeon, and did so in
the end; but to the surprise of the whole of the little cottage party,
it was not without a great deal of reluctance and hesitation that John
Ayliffe suffered this to be done. They showed him, however, that he
must die or lose his limb if surgical assistance was not immediately
procured, and he ultimately consented, but told the young man
repeatedly not to mention his name even to the surgeon on any account,
but simply to say that a gentleman had been thrown by his horse, and
brought into the cottage with his thigh broken. He cautioned father
and mother too not to mention the accident to any one till he was well
again, alluding vaguely to reasons that he had for wishing to conceal
it.

"But, Sir John," replied Best himself, "your horse will go home,
depend upon it, and your servants will not know where you are, and
there will be a fuss about you all over the country."

"Well, then, let them make a fuss," said John Ayliffe, impatiently. "I
don't care--I will not have it mentioned."

All this seemed very strange to the good wan and his wife, but they
could only open their eyes and stare, without venturing farther to
oppose the wishes of their guest.

It seemed a very long time before the surgeon made his appearance, but
at length the sound of a horse's feet coming fast, could be
distinguished, and two minutes after the surgeon was in the room. He
was a very good man, though not the most skilful of his profession,
and he was really shocked and confounded when he saw the state of Sir
John Hastings, as he called him. Wanting confidence in himself, he
would fain have sent off immediately for farther assistance, but John
Ayliffe would not hear of such a thing, and the good man went to work
to set the broken limb as best he might, and relieve the anguish of
the sufferer. So severe, however, were the injuries which had been
received, that notwithstanding a strong constitution, as yet but
little impaired by debauchery, the patient was given over by the
surgeon in his own mind from the first. He remained with him, watching
him all night, which passed nearly without sleep on the part of John
Ayliffe; and in the course of the long waking hours he took an
opportunity of enjoining secrecy upon the surgeon as to the accident
which had happened to him, and the place where he was lying. Not less
surprised was the worthy man than the cottager and his wife had been
at the young gentleman's exceeding anxiety for concealment, and as his
licentious habits were no secret in the country round, they all
naturally concluded that the misfortune which had overtaken him had
occurred in the course of some adventure more dangerous and
disgraceful than usual.

Towards morning John Ayliffe fell into a sort of semi-sleep, restless
and perturbed, speaking often without reason having guidance of his
words, and uttering many things which, though disjointed and often
indistinct, showed the good man who had watched by him that the mind
was as much affected as the body. He woke confused and wandering about
eight o'clock, but speedily returned to consciousness of his
situation, and insisted, notwithstanding the pain he was suffering,
upon examining the money which was in his pockets to see that it was
all right. Vain precaution! He was never destined to need it more.

Shortly after the surgeon left him, but returned at night again to
watch by his bedside. The bodily symptoms which he now perceived would
have led him to believe that a cure was possible, but there was a deep
depression of mind, a heavy irritable sombreness, from the result of
which the surgeon augured much evil. He saw that there was some
terrible weight upon the young man's heart, but whether it was fear or
remorse or disappointment he could not tell, and more than once he
repeated to himself, "He wants a priest as much as a physician."

Again the surgeon would often argue with himself in regard to the
propriety of telling him the very dangerous state in which he was. "He
may at any time become delirious," he said, "and lose all power of
making those dispositions and arrangements which, I dare say, have
never been thought of in the time of health and prosperity. Then,
again, his house and all that it contains is left entirely in the
hands of servants-a bad set too, as ever existed, who are just as
likely to plunder and destroy as not; but on the other hand, if I tell
him it may only increase his dejection and cut off all hope of
recovery. Really I do not know what to do. Perhaps it would be better
to wait awhile, and if I should see more unfavorable symptoms and no
chance left, it will then be time enough to tell him his true
situation and prepare his mind for the result."

Another restless, feverish night passed, another troubled sleep
towards morning, and then John Ayliffe woke with a start, exclaiming,
"You did not tell them I was here--lying here unable to stir, unable
to move--I told you not, I told you not. By--" and then he looked
round, and seeing none but the surgeon in the room, relapsed into
silence.

The surgeon felt his pulse, examined the bandages, and saw that a
considerable and unfavorable change had taken place; but yet he
hesitated. He was one of those men who shrink from the task of telling
unpleasant truths. He was of a gentle and a kindly disposition, which
even the necessary cruelties of surgery had not been able to harden.

"He may say what he likes," he said, "I must have some advice as to
how I should act. I will go and talk with the parson about the matter.
Though a little lacking in the knowledge of the world, yet Dixwell is
a good man and a sincere Christian. I will see him as I go home, but
make him promise secrecy in the first place, as this young baronet is
so terribly afraid of the unfortunate affair being known. He will die,
I am afraid, and that before very long, and I am sure he is not in a
fit state for death." With this resolution he said some soothing words
to his patient, gave him what he called a composing draught, and sent
for his horse from a neighboring farm-house, where he had lodged it
for the night. He then rode at a quiet, thoughtful pace to the
parsonage house at the gates of the park, and quickly walked in. Mr.
Dixwell was at breakfast, reading slowly one of the broad sheets of
the day as an especial treat, for they seldom found their way into his
quiet rectory; but he was very glad to see the surgeon, with whom he
often contrived to have a pleasant little chat in regard to the
affairs of the neighborhood.

"Ah, Mr. Short, very glad to see you, my good friend. How go things in
your part of the world? We are rather in a little bustle here, though
I think it is no great matter."

"What is it, Mr. Dixwell?" asked the surgeon.

"Only that wild young man, Sir John Hastings," said the clergyman,
"left his house suddenly on horseback the night before last, and has
never returned. But he is accustomed to do all manner of strange
things, and has often been out two or three nights before without any
one knowing where he was. The butler came down and spoke to me about
it, but I think there was a good deal of affectation in his alarm, for
when I asked him he owned his master had once been away for a whole
week."

"Has his horse come back?" asked the surgeon.

"Not that I know of," replied Mr. Dixwell. "I suppose the man would
have mentioned it if such had been the case. But what is going on at
Hartwell?"

"Nothing particular," said the surgeon, "only Mrs. Harrison brought
to bed of twins on Saturday night at twenty minutes past eleven. I
think all those Harrisons have twins--but I have something to talk to
you about, my good friend, a sort of case of conscience I want to put
to you. Only you must promise me profound secrecy."

Mr. Dixwell laughed--"What, under the seal of confession?" he said.
"Well, well, I am no papist, as you know, Short, but I'll promise and
do better than any papist does, keep my word when I have promised
without mental reservation."

"I know you will, my good friend," answered the surgeon, "and this is
no jesting matter, I can assure you. Now listen, my good friend,
listen. Not many evenings ago, I was sent for suddenly to attend a
young man who had met with an accident, a very terrible accident too.
He had a compound fracture of the thigh, three of his ribs broken, and
his head a good deal knocked about, but the cranium uninjured. I had
at first tolerable hope of his recovery; but he is getting much worse
and I fear that he will die."

"Well, you can't help that," said Mr. Dixwell, "men will die in spite
of all you can do, Short, just as they will sin in spite of all I can
say."

"Ay, there's the rub," said the surgeon, "I fear he has sinned a very
tolerably sufficient quantity, and I can see that there is something
or another weighing very heavy on his mind, which is even doing great
harm to his body."

"I will go and see him, I will go and see him," said Mr. Dixwell, "it
will do him good in all ways to unburden his conscience, and to hear
the comfortable words of the gospel."

"But the case is, Mr. Dixwell," said Short, "that he has positively
forbidden me to let any of his friends know where he lies, or to speak
of the accident to any one."

"Pooh, nonsense," said the clergyman, "if a man has fractured his
skull and you thought it fit to trepan him, would you ask him whether
he liked it or not? If the young man is near death, and his conscience
is burdened, I am the physician who should be sent for rather than
you."

"I fancy his conscience is burdened a good deal," said Mr. Short,
thoughtfully; "nay, I cannot help thinking that he was engaged in some
very bad act at the time this happened, both from his anxiety to
conceal from every body where he now lies, and from various words he
has dropped, sometimes in his sleep, sometimes when waking confused
and half delirious. What puzzles me is, whether I should tell him his
actual situation or not."

"Tell him, tell him by all means," said Mr. Dixwell, "why should you
not tell him?"

"Simply because I think that it will depress his mind still more,"
replied the surgeon, "and that may tend to deprive him even of the
very small chance that exists of recovery."

"The soul is of more value than the body," replied the clergyman,
earnestly; "if he be the man you depict, my friend, he should have as
much time as possible to prepare--he should have time to repent--ay,
and to atone. Tell him by all means, or let me know where he is to be
found, and I will tell him."

"That I must not do," said Mr. Short, "for I am under a sort of
promise not to tell; but if you really think that I ought to tell him
myself, I will go back and do it."

"If I really think!" exclaimed Mr. Dixwell, "I have not the slightest
doubt of it. It is your bounden duty if you be a Christian. Not only
tell him, my good friend, but urge him strongly to send for some
minister of religion. Though friends may fail him, and he may not wish
to see them--though all worldly supports may give way beneath him, and
he may find no strengthening--though all earthly hopes may pass away,
and give him no mortal cheer, the gospel of Christ can never fail to
support, and strengthen, and comfort, and elevate. The sooner he knows
that his tenement of clay is falling to the dust of which it was
raised, the better will be his readiness to quit it, and it is wise,
most wise, to shake ourselves free altogether from the dust and
crumbling ruins of this temporal state, ere they fall upon our heads
and bear us down to the same destruction as themselves."

"Well, well, I will go back and tell him," said Mr. Short, and bidding
the good rector adieu, he once more mounted his horse and rode away.

Now Mr. Dixwell was an excellent good man, but he was not without
certain foibles, especially those that sometimes accompany
considerable simplicity of character. "I will see which way he takes,"
said Mr. Dixwell, "and go and visit the young man myself if I can find
him out;" and accordingly he marched up stairs to his bedroom, which
commanded a somewhat extensive prospect of the country, and traced the
surgeon, as he trotted slowly and thoughtfully along. He could not
actually see the cottage of the Bests, but he perceived that the
surgeon there passed over the brow of the hill, and after waiting for
several minutes, he did not catch any horseman rising upon the
opposite slope over which the road was continued. Now there was no
cross road in the hollow and only three houses, and therefore Mr.
Dixwell naturally concluded that to one of those three houses the
surgeon had gone.

In the mean while, Mr. Short rode on unconscious that his movements
were observed, and meditating with a troubled mind upon the best means
of conveying the terrible intelligence he had to communicate. He did
not like the task at all; but yet he resolved to perform it manfully,
and dismounting at the cottage door, he went in again. There was
nobody within but the sick man and good old Jenny Best. The old woman
was at the moment in the outer room, and when she saw the surgeon she
shook her head, and said in a low voice, "Ah, dear, I am glad you have
come back again, sir, he does not seem right at all."

"Who's that?" said the voice of John Ayliffe; and going in, Mr. Short
closed the doors between the two rooms.

"There, don't shut that door," said John Ayliffe, "it is so infernally
close--I don't feel at all well, Mr. Short--I don't know what's the
matter with me. It's just as if I had got no heart. I think a glass of
brandy would do me good."

"It would kill you," said the surgeon.

"Well," said the young man, "I'm not sure that would not be best for
me--come," he continued sharply, "tell me how long I am to lie here on
my back?"

"That I cannot tell, Sir John," replied the surgeon, "but at all
events, supposing that you do recover, and that every thing goes well,
you could not hope to move for two or three months."

"Supposing I was to recover!" repeated John Ayliffe in a low tone, as
if the idea of approaching death had then, for the first time, struck
him as something real and tangible, and not a mere name. He paused
silently for an instant, and then asked almost fiercely, "what brought
you back?"

"Why, Sir John, I thought it might be better for us to have a little
conversation," said the surgeon. "I can't help being afraid, Sir John,
that you may have a great number of things to settle, and that not
anticipating such a very severe accident, your affairs may want a good
deal of arranging. Now the event of all sickness is uncertain, and an
accident such as this especially. It is my duty to inform you," he
continued, rising in resolution and energy as he proceeded, "that your
case is by no means free from danger--very great danger indeed."

"Do you mean to say that I am dying?" asked John Ayliffe, in a hoarse
voice.

"No, no, not exactly dying," said the surgeon, putting his hand upon
his pulse, "not dying I trust just yet, but--"

"But I shall die, you mean?" cried the other.

"I think it not at all improbable," answered the surgeon, gravely,
"that the case may have a fatal result."

"Curse fatal results," cried John Ayliffe, giving way to a burst of
fury; "why the devil do you come back to tell me such things and make
me wretched? If I am to die, why can't you let me die quietly and know
nothing about it?"

"Why, Sir John, I thought that you might have many matters to settle,"
answered the surgeon somewhat irritated, "and that your temporal and
your spiritual welfare also required you should know your real
situation."

"Spiritual d----d nonsense!" exclaimed John Ayliffe, furiously; "I
dare say it's all by your folly and stupidity that I am likely to die
at all. Why I hear of men breaking their legs and their ribs every day
and being none the worse for it."

"Why, Sir John, if you do not like my advice you need not have it,"
answered the surgeon; "I earnestly wished to send for other
assistance, and you would not let me."

"There, go away, go away and leave me," said John Ayliffe; but as the
surgeon took up his hat and walked towards the door, he added, "come
again at night. You shall be well paid for it, never fear."

Mr. Short made no reply, but walked out of the room.




CHAPTER XXXVII.


Solitude and silence, and bitter thought are great tamers of the human
heart. "As ye sow, so shall ye reap," says the Apostle, and John
Ayliffe was now forced to put in the sickle. Death was before his
eyes, looming large and dark and terrible, like the rock of adamant in
the fairy tale, against which the bark of the adventurous mariner was
sure to be dashed. Death for the first time presented itself to his
mind in all its grim reality. Previously it had seemed with him a
thing hardly worth considering--inevitable--appointed to all men--to
every thing that lives and breathes--no more to man than to the sheep,
or the ox, or any other of the beasts that perish. He had contemplated
it merely as death--as the extinction of being--as the goal of a
career--as the end of a chase where one might lie down and rest, and
forget the labor and the clamor and the trouble of the course. He had
never in thought looked beyond the boundary--he had hardly asked
himself if there was aught beyond. He had satisfied himself by saying,
as so many men do, "Every man must die some time or another," and had
never asked his own heart, "What is it to die?"

But now death presented itself under a new aspect; cold and stern,
relentless and mysterious, saying in a low solemn tone, "I am the
guide. Follow me there. Whither I lead thou knowest not, nor seest
what shall befall thee. The earth-worm and the mole fret but the
earthly garment of the man; the flesh, and the bones, and the beauty
go down to dust, and ashes, and corruption. The man comes with me to a
land undeclared--to a presence infinitely awful--to judgment and to
fate; for on this side of the dark portal through which I am the
guide, there is no such thing as fate. It lies beyond the grave, and
thither thou must come without delay."

He had heard of immortality, but he had never thought of it. He had
been told of another world, but he had never rightly believed in it.
The thought of a just judge, and of an eternal doom, had been
presented to him in many shapes, but he had never received it; and he
had lived and acted, and thought and felt, as if there were neither
eternity, nor judgment, nor punishment. But in that dread hour the
deep-rooted, inexplicable conviction of a God and immortality,
implanted in the hearts of all men, and only crushed down in the
breasts of any by the dust of vanity and the lumber of the world,
rose up and bore its fruits according to the soil. They were all
bitter. If there were another life, a judgment, an eternity of weal or
woe, what was to be his fate? How should he meet the terrors of the
judgment-seat--he who had never prayed from boyhood--he who through
life had never sought God--he who had done in every act something that
conscience reproved, and that religion forbade?

Every moment as he lay there and thought, the terrors of the vast
unbounded future grew greater and more awful. The contemplation almost
drove him to frenzy, and he actually made an effort to rise from his
bed, but fell back again with a deep groan. The sound caught the ear
of good Jenny Best, and running in she asked if he wanted any thing.

"Stay with me, stay with me," said the unhappy young man, "I cannot
bear this--it is very terrible--I am dying, Mrs. Best, I am dying."

Mrs. Best shook her head with a melancholy look; but whether from
blunted feelings, from the hard and painful life which they endured,
or from a sense that there is to be compensation somewhere, and that
any change must be for the better, or cannot be much worse than the
life of this earth, or from want of active imagination, the poorer and
less educated classes I have generally remarked view death and all its
accessories with less of awe, if not of dread, than those who have
been surrounded by luxuries, and perhaps have used every effort to
keep the contemplation of the last dread scene afar, till it is
actually forced upon their notice. Her words were homely, and though
intended to comfort did not give much consolation to the dying man.

"Ah well, sir, it is very sad," she said, "to die so young; though
every one must die sooner or later, and it makes but little difference
whether it be now or then. Life is not so long to look back at, sir,
as to look forward to, and when one dies young one is spared many a
thing. I recollect my poor eldest son who is gone, when he lay dying
just like you in that very bed, and I was taking on sadly, he said to
me, 'Mother don't cry so. It's just as well for me to go now when I've
not done much mischief or suffered much sorrow.' He was as good a
young man as ever lived; and so Mr. Dixwell said; for the parson used
to come and see him every day, and that was a great comfort and
consolation to the poor boy."

"Was it?" said John Ayliffe, thoughtfully. "How long did he know he
was dying?"

"Not much above a week, sir," said Mrs. Best; "for till Mr. Dixwell
told him, he always thought he would get better. We knew it a long
time however, for he had been in a decline a year, and his father had
been laying by money for the funeral three months before he died. So
when it was all over we put him by quite comfortable."

"Put him by!" said John Ayliffe.

"Yes, sir, we buried him, I mean," answered Mrs. Best. "That's our way
of talking. But Mr. Dixwell had been to see him long before. He knew
that he was dying, and he wouldn't tell him as long as there was any
hope; for he said it was not necessary--that he had never seen any one
better prepared to meet his Maker than poor Robert, and that it was no
use to disturb him about the matter till it came very near."

"Ah, Dixwell is a wise man and a good man," said John Ayliffe. "I
should very much like to see him."

"I can run for him in a minute sir," said Dame Best, but John Ayliffe
replied, in a faint voice, "No, no, don't, don't on any account."

In the mean while, the very person of whom they were speaking had
descended from the up-stairs room, finished his breakfast in order to
give the surgeon time to fulfil his errand, and then putting on his
three-cornered hat had walked out to ascertain at what house Mr. Short
had stopped. The first place at which he inquired was the farm-house
at which the good surgeon had stabled his horse on the preceding
night. Entering by the kitchen door, he found the good woman of the
place bustling about amongst pots and pans and maidservants, and other
utensils, and though she received him with much reverence, she did not
for a moment cease her work.

"Well, Dame," he said, "I hope you're all well here."

"Quite well, your reverence----Betty, empty that pail."

"Why, I've seen Mr. Short come down here," said the parson, "and I
thought somebody might be ill."

"Very kind, your reverence--mind yen don't spill it.--No, it warn't
here. It's some young man down at Jenny Best's, who's baddish, I
fancy, for the Doctor stabled his horse here last night."

"I am glad to hear none of you are ill," said Mr. Dixwell, and bidding
her good morning, he walked away straight to the cottage where John
Ayliffe lay. There was no one in the outer room, and the good
clergyman, privileged by his cloth, walked straight on into the room
beyond, and stood by the bedside of the dying man before any one was
aware of his presence.

Mr. Dixwell was not so much surprised to see there on that bed of
death the face of him he called Sir John Hastings, as might be
supposed. The character which the surgeon had given of his patient,
the mysterious absence of the young man from the Hall, and the very
circumstance of his unwillingness to have his name and the place where
he was lying known, had all lent a suspicion of the truth. John
Ayliffe's eyes were shut at the moment he entered, and he seemed
dozing, though in truth sleep was far away. But the little movement of
Mr. Dixwell towards his bedside, and of Mrs. Best giving place for the
clergyman to sit down, caused him to open his eyes, and his first
exclamation was, "Ah, Dixwell! so that damned fellow Short has
betrayed me, and told when I ordered him not."

"Swear not at all," said Mr. Dixwell. "Short has not betrayed you, Sir
John. I came here by accident, merely hearing there was a young man
lying ill here, but without knowing actually that it was you, although
your absence from home has caused considerable uneasiness. I am very
sorry to see you in such a state. How did all this happen?"

"I will not tell you, nor answer a single word," replied John Ayliffe,
"unless you promise not to say a word of my being here to any one. I
know you will keep your word if you say so, and Jenny Best too--won't
you, Jenny?--but I doubt that fellow Short."

"You need not doubt him, Sir John," said the clergyman; "for he is
very discreet. As for me, I will promise, and will keep my word; for I
see not what good it could be to reveal it to any body if you dislike
it. You will be more tenderly nursed here, I am sure, than you would
be by unprincipled, dissolute servants, and since your poor mother's
death--"

John Ayliffe groaned heavily, and the clergyman stopped. The next
moment, however, the young man said, "Then you do promise, do you?"

"I do," replied Mr. Dixwell. "I will not at all reveal the facts
without your consent."

"Well, then, sit down, and let us be alone together for a bit," said
John Ayliffe, and Mrs. Best quietly quitted the room and shut the
door.

John Ayliffe turned his languid eyes anxiously upon the clergyman,
saying, "I think I am dying, Mr. Dixwell."

He would fain have had a contradiction or even a ray of earthly hope;
but he got none; for it was evident to the eyes of Mr. Dixwell,
accustomed as he had been for many years to attend by the bed of
sickness and see the last spark of life go out, that John Ayliffe was
a dying man--that he might live hours, nay days; but that the
irrevocable summons had been given, that he was within the shadow of
the arch, and must pass through!

"I am afraid you are, Sir John," he replied, "but I trust that God
will still afford you time to make preparation for the great change
about to take place, and by his grace I will help you to the utmost in
my power."

John Ayliffe was silent, and closed his eyes again. Nor was he the
first to speak; for after having waited for several minutes, Mr.
Dixwell resumed, saying in a grave but kindly tone, "I am afraid, Sir
John, you have not hitherto given much thought to the subject which is
now so sadly fixed upon you. We must make haste, my good sir; we must
not lose a moment."

"Then do you think I am going to die so soon?" asked the young man
with a look of horror; for it cost him a hard and terrible struggle to
bring his mind to grasp the thought of death being inevitable and nigh
at hand. He could hardly conceive it--he could hardly believe it--that
he who had so lately been full of life and health, who had been
scheming schemes, and laying out plans, and had looked upon futurity
as a certain possession--that, he was to die in a few short hours; but
whenever the wilful heart would have rebelled against the sentence,
and struggle to resist it, sensations which he had never felt before,
told him in a voice not to be mistaken, "It must be so!"

"No one can tell," replied Mr. Dixwell, "how soon it may be, or how
long God may spare you; but one thing is certain, Sir John, that years
with you have now dwindled down into days, and that days may very
likely be shortened to hours. But had you still years to live, I
should say the same thing, that no time is to be lost; too much has
been lost already."

John Ayliffe did not comprehend him in the least. He could not grasp
the idea as yet of a whole life being made a preparation for death,
and looked vacantly in the clergyman's face, utterly confounded at the
thought.

Mr. Dixwell had a very difficult task before him--one of the most
difficult he had ever undertaken; for he had not only to arouse the
conscience, but to awaken the intellect to things importing all to the
soul's salvation, which had never been either felt or believed, or
comprehended before. At first too, there was the natural repugnance
and resistance of a wilful, selfish, over-indulged heart to receive
painful or terrible truths, and even when the obstacle was overcome,
the young man's utter ignorance of religion and want of moral feeling
proved another almost insurmountable. He found that the only access to
John Ayliffe's heart was by the road of terror, and without scruple he
painted in stern and fearful colors the awful state of the impenitent
spirit called suddenly into the presence of its God. With an unpitying
hand he stripped away all self-delusions from the young man's mind and
laid his condition before him, and his future state in all their dark
and terrible reality.

This is not intended for what is called a religious book, and
therefore I must pass over the arguments he used, and the course he
proceeded in. Suffice it that he labored earnestly for two hours to
awaken something like repentance in the bosom of John Ayliffe, and he
succeeded in the end better than the beginning had promised. When
thoroughly convinced of the moral danger of his situation, John
Ayliffe began to listen more eagerly, to reply more humbly, and to
seek earnestly for some consolation beyond the earth. His depression
and despair, as terrible truths became known to him were just in
proportion to his careless boldness and audacity while he had remained
in wilful ignorance, and as soon as Mr. Dixwell saw that all the
clinging to earthly expectations was gone--that every frail support of
mortal thoughts was taken away, he began to give him gleams of hope
from another world, and had the satisfaction of finding that the
doubts and terrors which remained arose from the consciousness of his
own sins and crimes, the heavy load of which he felt for the first
time. He told him that repentance was never too late--he showed him
that Christ himself had stamped that great truth with a mark that
could not be mistaken in his pardon of the dying thief upon the cross,
and while he exhorted him to examine himself strictly, and to make
sure that what he felt was real repentance, and not the mere fear of
death which so many mistake for it in their last hours, he assured him
that if he could feel certain of that fact, and trust in his Saviour,
he might comfort himself and rest in good hope. That done, he resolved
to leave the young man to himself for a few hours that he might
meditate and try the great question he had propounded with his own
heart. He called in Mistress Best, however, and told her that if
during his absence Sir John wished her to read to him, it would be a
great kindness to read certain passages of Scripture which he pointed
out in the house Bible. The good woman very willingly undertook the
task, and shortly after the clergyman was gone John Ayliffe applied to
hear the words of that book against which he had previously shut his
ears. He found comfort and consolation and guidance therein; for Mr.
Dixwell, who, on the one subject which had been the study of his life
was wise as well as learned, had selected judiciously such passages as
tend to inspire hope without diminishing penitence.




CHAPTER XXXVIII.


We must now turn on more to Sir Philip Hastings as he sat in his
lonely room in prison. Books had been allowed him, paper, pen, and
ink, and all that could aid to pass the time; but Sir Philip had
matter for study in his own mind, and the books had remained unopened
for several days. Hour after hour, since his interview with Secretary
Vernon, and day after day he had paced that room to and fro, till the
sound of his incessant footfall was a burthen to those below. His hair
had grown very white, the wrinkles on his brow had deepened and become
many, and his head was bowed as if age had pressed it down. As he
walked, his eye beneath his shaggy eyebrow was generally bent upon the
floor, but when any accidental circumstance caused him to raise it--a
distant sound from without, or some thought passing through his own
mind--there was that curious gleam in it which I have mentioned when
describing him in boyhood, but now heightened and rendered somewhat
more wild and mysterious. At those moments the expression of his eyes
amounted almost to fierceness, and yet there was something grand, and
fixed, and calm about the brow which seemed to contradict the
impatient, irritable look.

At the moment I now speak of there was an open letter on the table,
written in his daughter's hand, and after having walked up and down
for more than one hour, he sat down as if to answer it. We must look
over his shoulder and see what he writes, as it may in some degree
tend to show the state of his mind, although it was never sent.

"MY CHILD" (it was so he addressed the dear girl who had once been the
joy of his heart): "The news which has been communicated to you by
Marlow has been communicated also to me, but has given small relief.
The world is a prison, and it is not very satisfactory to leave one
dungeon to go into a larger.

"Nevertheless, I am desirous of returning to my own house. Your mother
is very ill, with nobody to attend upon her but yourself--at least no
kindred. This situation does not please me. Can I be satisfied that
she will be well and properly cared for? Will a daughter who has
betrayed her father show more piety towards a mother? Who is there
that man can trust?"

He was going on in the same strain, and his thoughts becoming more
excited, his language more stern and bitter every moment, when
suddenly he paused, read over the lines he had written with a gleaming
eye, and then bent his head, and fell into thought. No one can tell,
no pen can describe the bitter agony of his heart at that moment. Had
he yielded to the impulse--had he spoken ever so vehemently and
fiercely, it would have been happier for him and for all. But men will
see without knowing it in passing through the world, conventional
notions which they adopt as principles. They fancy them original
thoughts, springing from their own convictions, when in reality they
are bents--biases given to their minds by the minds of other men. The
result is very frequently painful, even where the tendency of the
views received is good. Thus a shrub forced out of its natural
direction may take a more graceful or beautiful form, but there is
ever a danger that the flow of the sap may be stopped, or some of the
branches injured by the process.

"No," said Sir Philip Hastings, at length, with a false sense of
dignity thus acquired, "no, it is beneath me to reproach her. Punish
her I might, and perhaps I ought; for the deed itself is an offence to
society and to human nature more than to me. To punish her would have
been a duty, even if my own heart's blood had flowed at the same time,
in those ancient days of purer laws and higher principles; but I will
not reproach without punishing. I will be silent. I will say nothing.
I will leave her to her own conscience," and tearing the letter he had
commenced to atoms, he resumed his bitter walk about the room.

It is a terrible and dangerous thing to go on pondering for long
solitary hours on any one subject of deep interest. It is dangerous
even in the open air, under the broad, ever-varying sky, with the
birds upon the bough, and the breeze amongst the trees, and a thousand
objects in bright nature to breathe harmonies to the human heart. It
is dangerous in the midst of crowds and gay scenes of active life so
to shut the spirit up with one solitary idea, which, like the fabled
dragon's egg, is hatched into a monster by long looking at it. But
within the walls of a prison, with nothing to divert the attention,
with nothing to solicit or compel the mind even occasionally to seek
some other course, with no object in external nature, with the
companionship of no fellow being, to appeal to our senses or to awake
our sympathies, the result is almost invariable. An innocent man--a
man who has no one strong passion, or dark, all-absorbing subject of
contemplation, but who seeks for and receives every mode of relief
from the monotony of life that circumstances can afford may endure
perfect solitude for years and live sane, but whoever condemns a
criminal--a man loaded with a great offence--to solitary confinement,
condemns him to insanity--a punishment far more cruel than death or
the rack. Hour after hour again, day after day, Sir Philip Hastings
continued to beat the floor of the prison with untiring feet. At the
end of the third day, however, he received formal notice that he would
be brought into court on the following morning, that the indictment
against him would be read, and that the attorney-general would enter a
_nolle prosequi_. Some of these forms were perhaps unnecessary, but it
was the object of the government at that time to make as strong an
impression on the public mind as possible without any unnecessary
effusion of blood.

The effect upon the mind of Sir Philip Hastings, however, was not
salutary. The presence of the judges, the crowd in the court, the act
of standing in the prisoners' dock, even the brief speech of the
lawyer commending the lenity and moderation of government, while he
moved the recording of the _nolle prosequi_, all irritated and excited
the prisoner. His irritation was shown in his own peculiar way,
however; a smile, bitter and contemptuous curled his lip. His eye
seemed to search out those who gazed at him most and stare them down,
and when he was at length set at liberty, he turned away from the dock
and walked out of the court without saying a word to any one. The
governor of the jail followed him, asking civilly if he would not
return to his house for a moment, take some refreshment, and arrange
for the removal of his baggage. It seemed as if Sir Philip answered at
all with a great effort; but in the end he replied laconically, "No, I
will send."

Two hours after he did send, and towards evening set out in a hired
carriage for his own house. He slept a night upon the road, and the
following day reached the Court towards evening. By that time,
however, a strange change had come over him. Pursuing the course of
those thoughts which I have faintly displayed, he had waged war with
his own mind--he had struggled to banish all traces of anger and
indignation from his thoughts--in short, fearing from the sensations
experienced within, that he would do or say something contrary to the
rigid rule he had imposed upon himself, he had striven to lay out a
scheme of conduct which would guard against such a result. The end of
this self-tutoring was satisfactory to him. He had fancied he had
conquered himself, but he was very much mistaken. It was only the
outer man he had subdued, but not the inner.

When the carriage drew up at his own door, and Sir Philip alighted,
Emily flew out to meet him. She threw her arms around his neck and
kissed his cheek, and her heart beat with joy and affection.

For an instant Sir Philip remained grave and stern, did not repel her,
but did not return her embrace. The next instant, however, his whole
manner changed. A sort of cunning double-meaning look came into his
eyes. He smiled, which was very unusual with him, assumed a sort of
sportiveness, which was not natural, called her "dainty Mistress
Emily," and asked after the health of "his good wife."

His coldness and his sternness might not have shocked Emily at all,
but his apparent levity pained and struck her with terror. A cold sort
of shudder passed over her, and unclasping her arms from his neck, she
replied, "I grieve to say mamma is very ill, and although the news of
your safety cheered her much, she has since made no progress, but
rather fallen back."

"Doubtless the news cheered you too very much, my sweet lady," said
Sir Philip in an affected tone, and without waiting for reply, he
walked on and ascended to his wife's room.

Emily returned to the drawing-room and fell into one of her profound
fits of meditation; but this time they were all sad and tending to
sadness. There Sir Philip found her when he came down an hour after.
She had not moved, she had not ordered lights, although the sun was
down and the twilight somewhat murky. She did not move when he
entered, but remained with her head leaning on her hand, and her eyes
fixed on the table near which she sat. Sir Philip gazed at her
gloomily, and said to himself, "Her heart smites her. Ha, ha,
beautiful deceitful thing. Have you put the canker worm in your own
bosom? Great crimes deserve great punishments. God of heaven! keep me
from such thoughts. No, no, I will never avenge myself on the plea of
avenging society. My own cause must not mingle with such
vindications."

"Emily," he said in a loud voice, which startled her suddenly from her
reverie, "Emily, your mother is very ill."

"Worse? worse?" cried Emily with a look of eager alarm; "I will fly to
her at once. Oh, sir, send for the surgeon."

"Stay," said Sir Philip, "she is no worse than when you left her,
except insomuch as a dying person becomes much worse every minute.
Your mother wishes much to see Mrs. Hazleton, who has not been with
her for two days, she says. Sit down and write that lady a note asking
her to come here to-morrow, and I will send it by a groom."

Emily obeyed, though with infinite reluctance; for she had remarked
that the visits of Mrs. Hazleton always left her mother neither
improved in temper nor in health.

The groom was dispatched, and returned with a reply from Mrs. Hazleton
to the effect that she would be there early on the following day.
During his absence, Sir Philip had been but little with his daughter.
Hardly had the note been written when he retired to his own small
room, and there remained shut up during the greater part of the
evening. Emily quietly stole into her mother's room soon after her
father left her, fearing not a little that Lady Hastings might have
remarked the strange change which had come upon her husband during his
absence. But such was not the case. She found her mother calmer and
gentler than she had been during the last week or ten days. Her
husband's liberation, and the certainty that all charge against him
was at an end, had afforded her great satisfaction; and although she
was still evidently very ill, yet she conversed cheerfully with her
daughter for nearly an hour.

"As I found you had not told your father the hopes that Mr. Marlow
held out when he went away, I spoke to him on the subject," she said.
"He is a strange cynic, my good husband, and seemed to care very
little about the matter. He doubt's Marlow's success too, I think, but
all that he said was, that if it pleased me, that was enough for him.
Mrs. Hazleton will be delighted to hear the news."

Emily doubted the fact, but she did not express her doubt, merely
telling her mother she had written to Mrs. Hazleton, and that the
servant had been sent with the note.

"She has not been over for two days," said Lady Hastings. "I cannot
think what has kept her away."

"Some accidental circumstance, I dare say," said Emily, "but there can
be no doubt she will be here to-morrow early."

They neither of them knew that on the preceding night but one Mrs.
Hazleton had received a visit from John Ayliffe, which,
notwithstanding all her self-command and assumed indifference, had
disturbed her greatly.

Mrs. Hazleton nevertheless was, as Emily anticipated, very early at
the house of Sir Philip Hastings. She first made a point of seeing
that gentleman himself; and though her manner was, as usual, calm and
lady-like, yet every word and every look expressed the greatest
satisfaction at seeing him once more in his home and at liberty. To
Emily also she was all tenderness and sweetness; but Emily, on her
part, shrunk from her with a feeling of dread and suspicion that she
could not repress, and hardly could conceal. She had not indeed read
any of the papers which Marlow had left with her, for he had not told
her to read them; but he had directed her thoughts aright, and had led
her to conclusions in regard to Mrs. Hazleton which were very painful,
but no less just.

That lady remarked a change in Emily's manner--she had seen something
of it before;--but it now struck her more forcibly, and though she
took no notice of it whatever, it was not a thing to be forgotten or
forgiven; for to those who are engaged in doing ill there cannot be a
greater offence than to be suspected, and Mrs. Hazleton was convinced
that Emily did suspect her.

After a brief interview with father and daughter, their fair guest
glided quietly up to the room of Lady Hastings, and seated herself by
her bed-side. She took the sick lady's hand in hers--that white,
emaciated hand, once so beautiful and rosy-tipped, and said how
delighted she was to see her looking a great deal better.

"Do you think so really?" said Lady Hastings; "I feel dreadfully weak
and exhausted, dear Mrs. Hazleton, and sometimes think I shall never
recover."

"Oh don't say so," replied Mrs. Hazleton; "your husband's return has
evidently done you great good: the chief part of your malady has been
mental. Anxiety of mind is often the cause of severe sickness, which
passes away as soon as it is removed. One great source of uneasiness
is now gone, and the only other that remains--I mean this unfortunate
engagement of dear Emily to Mr. Marlow--may doubtless, with a little
firmness and decision upon your part, be remedied also."

Mrs. Hazleton was very skillful in forcing the subject with which she
wished to deal, into a conversation to which it had no reference; and
having thus introduced the topic on which she loved to dwell, she went
on to handle it with her usual skill, suggesting every thing that
could irritate the invalid against Marlow, and render the idea of his
marriage with Emily obnoxious in her eyes.

Even when Lady Hastings, moved by some feelings of gratitude and
satisfaction by the intelligence of Marlow's efforts to recover her
husband's property, communicated the hopes she entertained to her
visitor, Mrs. Hazleton contrived to turn the very expectations to
Marlow's disadvantage, saying, "If such should indeed be the result,
this engagement will be still more unfortunate. With such vast
property as dear Emily will then possess, with her beauty, with her
accomplishments, with her graces, the hand of a prince would be hardly
too much to expect for her; and to see her throw herself away upon a
mere country gentleman--a Mr. Marlow--all very well in his way, but a
nobody, is indeed sad; and I would certainly prevent it, if I were
you, while I had power."

"But how can I prevent it?" asked Lady Hastings; "my husband and Emily
are both resolute in such things. I have no power, dear Mrs.
Hastings."

"Yon are mistaken, my sweet friend," replied her companion; "the power
will indeed soon go from you if these hopes which have been held out
do not prove fallacious. You are mistress of this house--of this very
fine property. If I understand rightly, neither your husband nor your
daughter have at present anything but what they derive from you. This
position may soon be altered if your husband be reinstated in the
Hastings estates."

"But your would not, Mrs. Hazleton, surely you would not have me use
such power ungenerously?" said Lady Hastings.

Mrs. Hazleton saw that she had gone a little too far--or rather
perhaps that she had suggested that which was repugnant to the
character of her hearer's mind; for in regard to money matters no one
was ever more generous or careless of self than Lady Hastings.
What was her's was her husband's and her child's--she knew no
difference--she made no distinction.

It took Mrs. Hazleton some time to undo what she had done, but she
found the means at length. She touched the weak point, the failing of
character. A little stratagem, a slight device to win her own way by
an indirect method, was quite within the limits of Lady Hastings'
principles; and after dwelling some time upon a recapitulation of all
the objections against the marriage with Marlow, which could suggest
themselves to an ambitious mind, she quietly and in an easy suggestive
tone, sketched out a plan, which both to herself and her hearer,
seemed certain of success.

Lady Hastings caught at the plan eagerly, and determined to follow it
in all the details, which will be seen hereafter.




CHAPTER XXXIX.


"I am very ill indeed this morning," said Lady Hastings, addressing
her maid about eleven o'clock. "I feel as if I were dying. Call my
husband and my daughter to me."

"Lord, my lady," said the maid, "had I not better send for the doctor
too? You do not look as if you were dying at all. You look a good deal
better, I think, my lady."

"Do I?" said Lady Hastings in a hesitating tone. But she did not want
the doctor to be sent for immediately, and repeated her order to call
her husband and her daughter.

Emily was with her in an instant, but Sir Philip Hastings was some
where absent in the grounds, and nearly half an hour elapsed before he
was found. When he entered he gazed in his wife's face with some
surprise--more surprise indeed, than alarm; for he knew that she was
nervous and hypondriacal, and as the maid had said, she did not
look as if she were dying at all. There was no sharpening of the
features--no falling in of the temples--none of that pale ashy color,
or rather that leaden grayness, which precedes dissolution. He sat
down, however, by her bedside, gazing at her with an inquiring look,
while Emily stood on the other side of the bed, and the maid at the
end; and after speaking a few kind but somewhat rambling words, he was
sending for some restoratives, saying "I think, my dear, you alarm
yourself without cause."

"I do not indeed, Philip," replied Lady Hastings. "I am sure I shall
die, and that before very long--but do not send for any thing. I would
rather not take it. It will do me more good a great deal to speak what
I have upon my mind--what is weighing me down--what is killing me."

"I am sorry to hear there is any thing," said Sir Philip, whose
thoughts, intensely busy with other things, were not yet fully
recalled to the scene before him.

"Oh, Philip, how can you say so?" said Lady Hastings, "when you know
there is. You need not go," she continued, speaking to the maid who
was drawing back as if to quit the room, "I wish to speak to my
husband and my daughter before some one who will remember what I say."

Sir Philip however quietly rose, opened the door, and motioned to the
girl to quit the room, for such public exhibitions were quite contrary
to his notions of domestic economy. "Now, my dear," he said, "what is
it you wish to tell me? If there be any thing that you wish done, I
will do it if it is in my power."

"It is in your power, Philip," replied Lady Hastings; "you know and
Emily knows quite well that her engagement to Mr. Marlow was against
my consent, and I must say the greatest shock I ever received in my
life. I have never been well since, and every day I see more and more
reason to object. It is in the power of either of you, or both, to
relieve my mind in this respect--to break off this unhappy engagement,
and at least to let me die in peace, with the thought that my daughter
has not cast herself away. It is in your power, Philip, to--"

"Stay a moment," said her husband, "it is not in my power."

"Why, are you not her father?" asked Lady Hastings, interrupting him.
"Are you not her lawful guardian? Have you not the disposal of her
hand?"

"It is not in my power," repeated Sir Philip coldly, "to break my
plighted word, to violate my honor, or to live under a load of shame
and dishonor."

"Why in such a matter as this," said Lady Hastings, "there is no such
disgrace. You can very well say you have thought better of it."

"In which ease I should tell a lie," said Sir Philip dryly.

"It is a thing done every day," argued Lady Hastings.

"I am not a man to do any thing because there are others who do it
every day," answered her husband. "Men lie, and cheat, and swindle,
and steal, and betray their friends, and relations, and parents, but I
can find no reason therein for doing the same. It is not in my power,
I repeat. I cannot be a scoundrel, whatever other men may be, and
violate my plighted word, or withdraw from my most solemn engagements.
Moreover, when Marlow heard of the misfortunes which have befallen us,
and learned that Emily would not have one-fourth part of that which
she had at one time a right to expect, he showed no inclination to
withdraw from his word, even when there was a good excuse, and I will
never withdraw from mine, so help me God."

Thus speaking he turned his eyes towards the ground again and fell
into a deep reverie. While this conversation had been passing, Emily
had sunk upon her knees, trembling in every limb, and hid her face in
the coverings of the bed. To her, Lady Hastings now turned. Whether it
was that remorse and some degree of shame affected her, when she saw
the terrible agitation of her child, I cannot tell, but she paused for
a moment as if in hesitation.

She spoke at length, saying "Emily, my child, to you I must appeal, as
your father is so obdurate."

Emily made no answer, however, but remained weeping, and Lady Hastings
becoming somewhat irritated, went on in a sharper tone. "What! will
not my own child listen to the voice of a dying mother?" she asked
rather petulantly than sorrowfully, although she tried hard to make
her tone gravely reproachful; "will she not pay any attention to her
mother's last request?"

"Oh, my mother," answered Emily, raising her head, and speaking more
vehemently than was customary with her, "ask me any thing that is
just; ask me any thing that is reasonable; but do not ask me to do
what is wrong and what is unjust. I have made a promise--do not ask me
to break it. There is no circumstance changed which could give even an
excuse for such a breach of faith. Marlow has only shown himself more
true more faithful, more sincere. Should I be more false, more
faithless, more ungenerous than he thought me? Oh no! it is
impossible--quite impossible," and she hid her streaming eyes in the
bedclothes again, clasping her hands tightly together over her
forehead.

Her father, with his arms crossed upon his chest, had kept his eyes
fixed upon her while she spoke with a look of doubt and inquiry. Well
might he doubt--well might he doubt his own suspicions. There was a
truth, a candor, a straightforwardness, in that glowing face which
gave the contradiction, plain and clear, to every foul, dishonest
charge which had been fabricated against his child. It was impossible
in fact that she could have so spoken and so looked, unless she had so
felt. The best actress that ever lived could not have performed that
part. There would have been something too much or too little.
something approaching the exaggerated or the tame. With Emily there
was nothing. What she said seemed but the sudden outburst of her
heart, pressed for a reply; and as soon as it was spoken she sunk down
again in silence, weeping bitterly under the conflict of two strong
but equally amiable feelings.

For a moment the sight seemed to rouse Sir Philip Hastings. "She
should not, if she would," he said; "voluntarily, and knowing what she
did, she consented to the promise I have made, and she neither can nor
shall retract. To Marlow, indeed, I may have a few words to say, and
he shall once more have the opportunity of acting as he pleases; but
Emily is bound as well as myself, and by that bond we must abide."

"What have you to say to Marlow?" asked Lady Hastings in a tone of
commonplace curiosity, which did not at all indicate a sense of that
terrible situation in which she assumed she was placed.

"That matters not," answered Sir Philip. "It will rest between him and
me at his return. How he may act I know not--what he may think I know
not; but he shall be a partaker of my thoughts and the master of his
own actions. Do not let us pursue this painful subject further. If you
feel yourself ill, my love, let us send for further medical help. I do
hope and believe that you are not so ill as you imagine; but if you
are so there is more need that the physician should be here, and that
we should quit topics too painful for discussion, where discussion is
altogether useless."

"Well, then, mark me," said Lady Hastings with an air of assumed
melancholy dignity, which being quite unnatural to her, bordered
somewhat on the burlesque; "mark me, Philip--mark me, Emily! your
wife, your mother, makes it her last dying request--her last dying
injunction, that you break off this marriage. You may or you may not
give me the consolation on this sick bed of knowing that my request
will be complied with; but I do not think that either of you will be
careless, will be remorseless enough to carry out this engagement
after I am gone. I will not threaten, Emily--I will not even attempt
to take away from you the wealth for which this young man doubtless
seeks you--I will not attempt to deter you by bequeathing you my curse
if you do not comply with my injunctions; but I tell you, if you do
not make me this promise before I die, you have embittered your
mother's last moments, and--"

"Oh, forbear, forbear," cried Emily, starting up. "For God's sake,
dear mother, forbear," and clasping her hands wildly over her eyes,
she rushed frantically out of the room.

Sir Philip Hastings remained for nearly half an hour longer, and then
descended the stairs and passed through the drawing-room. Emily was
seated there with her handkerchief upon her eyes, and her whole frame
heaving from the agonized sobs which rose from her bosom. Sir Philip
paused and gazed at her for a moment or two, but Emily did not say a
word, and seemed indeed totally unconscious of his presence. Some
movements of compassion, some feeling of sympathy, some doubts of his
preconceptions might pass through the bosom of Sir Philip Hastings;
but the dark seeds of suspicion had been sown in his bosom--had
germinated, grown up, and strengthened--had received confirmation
strong and strange, and he murmured to himself as he stood and gazed
at her, "Is it anger or sorrow? Is it passion or pain? All this is
strange enough. I do not understand it. Her resolution is taken, and
taken rightly. Why should she grieve? Why should she be thus moved,
when she knows she is doing that which is just, and honest, and
faithful?"

He measured a cloud by an ell wand. He gauged her heart, her
sensibilities, her mind, by the rigid metre of his own, and he found
that the one could not comprehend the other. Turning hastily away
after he had finished his contemplation, without proffering one word
of consolation or support, he walked away into his library, and
ringing a bell, ordered his horse to be saddled directly. While that
was being done, he wrote a hasty note to Mr. Short, the surgeon, and
when the horse was brought round gave it to a groom to deliver. Then
mounting on horseback, he rode away at a quick pace, without having
taken any further notice of his daughter.

Emily remained for about half an hour after his departure, exactly in
the same position in which he had left her. She noticed nothing that
was passing around her; she heard not a horse stop at the door; and
when her own maid entered the room and said,--"Doctor Short has come,
ma'am, and is with my lady. Sir Philip sent Peter for him; but Peter
luckily met him just down beyond the park gates;" Emily hardly seemed
to hear her.

A few minutes after, Mr. Short descended quietly from the room of Lady
Hastings, and looked into the drawing-room as he passed. Seeing the
beautiful girl seated there in that attitude of despondency, he
approached her quietly, saying, "Do not, my dear mistress Emily,
suffer yourself to be alarmed without cause. I see no reason for the
least apprehension. My good lady, your mother is nervous and excited,
but there are no very dangerous symptoms about her--certainly none
that should cause immediate alarm; and I think upon the whole, that
the disease is more mental than corporeal."

Emily had raised her eyes when he had just begun to speak, and she
shook her head mournfully at his last words, saying, "I can do nothing
to remedy it, Mr. Short--I would at any personal sacrifice, but this
involves more--I can do nothing."

"But I have done my best," said Mr. Short with a kindly smile; for he
was an old and confidential friend of the whole family, and upon Emily
herself had attended from her childhood, during all the little
sicknesses of early life. "I asked your excellent mother what had so
much excited her, and she told me all that has passed this morning. I
think, my dear young lady, I have quieted her a good deal."

"How? how?" exclaimed Emily eagerly. "Oh tell me how, Mr. Short, and I
will bless you!"

The good old surgeon seated himself beside her and took her hand in
his. "I have only time to speak two words," he said, "but think
they will give you comfort. Your mother explained to me that there
had been a little discussion this morning when she thought herself
dying--though that was all nonsense--and it must have been very
painful to you, my dear Mistress Emily. She told me what it was about
too, and seemed half sorry already for what she had said. So, as I
guessed how matters went--for I know that the dear lady is fond of
titles and rank, and all that, and saw she had a great deal mistaken
Mr. Marlow's position--I just ventured to tell her that he is the heir
of the old Earl of Launceston--that is to say, if the Earl does not
marry again, and he is seventy-three, with a wife still living. She
had never heard any thing about it, and it seemed to comfort her
amazingly. Nevertheless she is in a sad nervous state, and somewhat
weak. I do not altogether like that cough she has either; and so, my
dear young lady, I will send her over a draught to-night, of which you
must give her a tablespoonful every three hours. Give it to her with
your own hands; for it is rather strong, and servants are apt to make
mistakes. But I think if you go to her now, you will find her in a
very different humor from that which she was in this morning. Good
bye, good bye. Don't be cast down, Mistress Emily. All will go well
yet."




CHAPTER XL.


From the house of Sir Philip Hastings Mr. Short rode quickly on to the
cottage of Mistress Best, which he had visited once before in the
morning. The case of John Ayliffe, however, was becoming more and more
urgent every moment, and at each visit the surgeon saw a change in the
countenance of the young man which indicated that a greater change
still was coming. He had had a choice of evils to deal with; for
during the first day after the accident there had been so much fever
that he had feared to give any thing to sustain the young man's
strength. But long indulgence in stimulating liquors had had its usual
effect in weakening the powers of the constitution, and rendering it
liable to give way suddenly even where the corporeal powers seemed at
their height. Wine had become to John Ayliffe what water is to most
men, and he could not bear up without it. Exhaustion had succeeded
rapidly to the temporary excitement of fever, and mortification had
begun to show itself on the injured limb. Wine had become necessary,
and it was administered in frequent and large doses; but as a
stimulant it had lost its effect upon the unhappy young man, and when
the surgeon returned to the cottage on this occasion, he saw not only
that all hope was at an end, but that the end could not be very far
distant.

Good Mr. Dixwell was seated by John Ayliffe's side, and looked up to
the surgeon with an anxious eye. Mr. Short felt his patient's pulse
with a very grave face. It was rapid, but exceedingly feeble--went on
for twenty or thirty beats as fast as it could go--then stopped
altogether for an instant or two, and then began to beat again as
quickly as before.

Mr. Short poured out a tumbler full of port wine, raised John Ayliffe
a little, and made him drink it down. After a few minutes he felt his
pulse again, and found it somewhat stronger. The sick man looked
earnestly in his face as if he wished to ask some question; but he
remained silent for several minutes.

At length he said, "Tell me the truth, Short. Am not I dying?"

The surgeon hesitated, but Mr. Dixwell raised his eyes, saying, "Tell
him the truth, tell him the truth, my good friend. He is better
prepared to bear it than he was yesterday."

"I fear you are sinking, Sir John," said the surgeon.

"I do not feel so much pain in my leg," said the young man.

"That is because mortification has set in," replied Mr. Short.

"Then there is no hope," said John Ayliffe.

The surgeon was silent; and after a moment John Ayliffe said, "God's
will be done."

Mr. Dixwell pressed his hand kindly with tears in his eyes; for they
were the Christian words he had longed to hear, but hardly hoped for.

There was a long and somewhat sad pause, and then the dying man once
more turned his look upon the surgeon, asking, "How long do you think
it will be?"

"Three or four hours," replied Mr. Short. "By stimulants, as long as
you can take them, it may be protracted a little longer, but not
much."

"Every moment is of consequence," said the clergyman. "There is much
preparation still needful--much to be acknowledged and repented
of--much to be atoned for. What can be done, my good friend to
protract the time?"

"Give small quantities of wine very frequently," answered the surgeon,
"and perhaps some aqua vitæ--but very little--very little, or you may
hurry the catastrophe."

"Well, well," said John Ayliffe, "you can come again, but perhaps by
that time I shall be gone. You will find money enough in my pockets,
Short, to pay your bill--there is plenty there, and mind you send the
rest to my mother."

The surgeon stared, and said to himself, "he is wandering;" but John
Ayliffe immediately added, "Don't let that rascal Shanks have it, but
send it to my mother;" and saying "Very well, Sir John," he took his
leave and departed.

"And now my dear young friend," said Mr. Dixwell, the moment the
surgeon was gone, "there is no time to be lost. You have the power of
making full atonement for the great offence you have committed to one
of your fellow creatures. If you sincerely repent, as I trust you do,
Christ has made atonement for your offences towards God. But you must
show your penitence by letting your last acts in this life be just and
right. Let me go to Sir Philip Hastings."

"I would rather see his daughter, or his wife," said John Ayliffe: "he
is so stern, and hard, and gloomy. He will never speak comfort or
forgiveness."

"You are mistaken--I can assure you, you are mistaken," answered the
clergyman. "I will take upon me to promise that he shall not say one
hard word, and grant you full forgiveness."

"Well, well," said the young man, "if it must be he, so be it--but
mind to have pen and ink to write it all down--that pen won't write.
You know you tried it this morning."

"I will bring one with me," said Mr. Dixwell, rising eager to be gone
on his good errand; but John Ayliffe stopped him, saying, "Stay,
stay--remember you are not to tell him any thing about it till he is
quite away from his own house. I don't choose to have all the people
talking of it, and perhaps coming down to stare at me."

Mr. Dixwell was willing to make any terms in order to have what he
wished accomplished, and giving Mrs. Best directions to let the
patient have some port wine every half hour, he hurried away to the
Court.

On inquiring for Sir Philip, the servant said that his master had
ridden out.

"Do you know where he is gone, and how long he will be absent?" asked
Mr. Dixwell.

"He is gone, I believe, to call at Doctor Juke's, to consult about my
lady," replied the man; "and as that is hard upon twenty miles, he
can't be back for two or three hours."

"That is most unfortunate," exclaimed the clergyman. "Is your lady
up?"

The servant replied in the negative, adding the information that she
was very ill.

"Then I must see Mistress Emily," said Mr. Dixwell, walking into the
house. "Call her to me as quickly as you can."

The man obeyed, and Emily was with the clergyman in a few moments,
while the servant remained in the hall looking out through the open
door.

After remaining in conversation with Mr. Dixwell for a few minutes,
Emily hurried back to her room, and came down again dressed for
walking. She and Mr. Dixwell went out together, and the servant saw
them take their way down the road in the direction of Jenny Best's
cottage: but when they had gone a couple of hundred yards, the
clergyman turned off towards his own house, walking at a very quick
pace, while Emily proceeded slowly on her way.

When at a short distance from the cottage, the beautiful girl stopped,
and waited till she was rejoined by Mr. Dixwell, who came up very
soon, out of breath at the quickness of his pace. "I have ordered the
wine down directly," he said, "and I trust we shall be able to keep
him up till he has told his story his own way. Now, my dear young
lady, follow me;" and walking on he entered the cottage.

Emily was a good deal agitated. Every memory connected with John
Ayliffe was painful to her. It seemed as if nothing but misfortune,
sorrow, and anxiety, had attended her ever since she first saw him,
and all connected themselves more or less with him. The strange sort
of mysterious feeling of sympathy which she had experienced when first
she beheld him, and which had seemed explained to her when she learned
their near relationship, had given place day by day to stronger and
stronger personal dislike, and she could not now even come to visit
him on his death-bed with the clergyman without feeling a mixture of
repugnance and dread which she struggled with not very successfully.

They passed, however, through the outer into the inner room where
Mistress Best was sitting with the dying man, reading to him the New
Testament. But as soon as Mr. Dixwell, who had led the way, entered,
the good woman stopped, and John Ayliffe turned his head faintly
towards the door.

"Ah, this is very kind of you," he said when he saw Emily, "I can tell
you all better than any one else."

"Sir Philip is absent," said Mr. Dixwell, "and will not be home for
several hours."

"Hours!" repeated John Ayliffe. "My time is reduced to minutes!"

Emily approached quietly, and Mrs. Best quitted the room and shut the
door. Mr. Dixwell drew the table nearer to the bed, spread some
writing paper which he had brought with him upon it, and dipped a pen
in the ink, as a hint that no time was to be lost in proceeding.

"Well, well," said John Ayliffe with a sigh, "I won't delay, though it
is very hard to have to tell such a story. Mistress Emily, I have done
you and your family great wrong and great harm, and I am very, very
sorry for it, especially for what I have done against you."

"Then I forgive you from all my heart," cried Emily, who had been
inexpressibly shocked at the terrible change which the young man's
appearance presented. She had never seen death, nor was aware of the
terrible shadow which the dark banner of the great Conqueror often
casts before it.

"Thank you, thank you," replied John Ayliffe; "but you must not
suppose, Mistress Emily, that all the evil I have done was out of my
own head. Others prompted me to a great deal; although I was ready
enough to follow their guidance, I must confess. The two principal
persons were Shanks the lawyer, and Mrs. Hazleton--Oh, that woman is,
I believe, the devil incarnate."

"Hush, hush," said Mr. Dixwell, "I cannot put such words as those
down, nor should you speak them. You had better begin in order too,
and tell all from the commencement, but calmly and in a Christian
spirit, remembering that this is your own confession, and not an
accusation of others."

"Well, I will try," said the young man faintly, lifting his hand from
the bed-clothes, as if to put it to his head in the act of thought.
But he was too weak, and he fell back again, and fixing his eyes on a
spot in the wall opposite the foot of the bed, he continued in a sort
of dreamy commemorative way as follows: "I loved you--yes, I loved you
very much--I feel it now more than ever--I loved you more than you
ever knew--more than I myself knew then. (Emily bent her head and hid
her eyes with her hands.) It was not," he proceeded to say, "that you
were more beautiful than any of the rest--although that was true
too--but there was somehow a look about you, an air when you moved, a
manner when you spoke, that made it seem as if you were of a different
race from the rest--something higher, brighter, better, and as if your
nobler nature shone out like a gleam on all you did--I cannot help
thinking that if you could have loved me in return, mine would have
been a different fate, a different end, a different and brighter hope
even now--"

"You are wandering from the subject, my friend," said Mr. Dixwell.
"Time is short."

"I am not altogether wandering," said John Ayliffe, "but feel faint.
Give me some more wine." When he had got it, he continued thus: "I
found you could not love me--I said in my heart that you would not
love me; and my love turned into hate--at least I thought so--and I
determined you should rue the day that you had refused me. Long before
that, however, Shanks the lawyer had put it into my head that I could
take your father's property and title from him, and I resolved some
day to try, little knowing all that it would lead me into step by
step. I had heard my mother say a hundred times that she had been as
good as married to your uncle who was drowned, and that if right had
been done I ought to have had the property. So I set to work with
Shanks to see what could be done. Sometimes he led, sometimes I led;
for he was a coward, and wanted to do all by cunning, and I was bold
enough, and thought every thing was to be done by daring. We had both
of us got dipped so deep in there was no going back. I tore one leaf
out of the parish register myself, to make it seem that your
grandfather had caused the record of my mother's marriage to be
destroyed--but that was no marriage at all--they never were,
married--and that's the truth. I did a great number of other very evil
things, and then suddenly Mrs. Hazleton came in to help us; and
whenever there was any thing particularly shrewd and keen to be
devised, especially if there was a spice of malice in it towards Sir
Philip or yourself, Mrs. Hazleton planned it for us--not telling us
exactly to do this thing of that, but asking if it could not be done,
or if it would be very wrong to do it. But I'll tell you them all in
order--all that we did."

He went on to relate a great many particulars with which the reader is
already acquainted. He told the whole villanous schemes which had been
concocted between himself, the attorney, and Mrs. Hazleton, and which
had been in part, or as a whole, executed to the ruin of Sir Philip
Hastings' fortune and peace. The good clergyman took down his words
with a rapid hand, as he spoke, though it was somewhat difficult; for
the voice became more and more faint and low.

"There is no use in trying now," said John Ayliffe in conclusion,
"when I am going before God who has seen and known it all. There is no
use in trying to conceal any thing. I was as ready to do evil as they
were to prompt me, and I did it with a willing heart, though sometimes
I was a little frightened at what I was doing, especially in the night
when I could not sleep. I am sorry enough for it now--I repent from my
whole heart; and now tell me--tell me, can you forgive me?"

"As far as I am concerned, I forgive you entirely," said Emily, with
the tears in her eyes, "and I trust that your repentance will be fully
accepted. As to my father, I am sure that he will forgive you also,
and I think I may take upon myself to say, that he will either come or
send to you this night to express his forgiveness."

"No, no, no," said the young man with a great effort. "He must not
come--he must not send. I have made the atonement that he (pointing to
Mr. Dixwell) required, and I have but one favor to ask. Pray, pray
grant it to me. It is but this. That you will not tell any one of this
confession so long as I am still living. He has got it all down. It
can't be needed for a few hours, and in a few, a very few, I shall be
gone. Mr. Dixwell will tell you when it is all over. Then tell what
you like; but I would rather not die with more shame upon my head if I
can help it."

The good clergyman was about to reason with him upon the differences
between healthful shame, and real shame, and false shame, but Emily
gently interposed, saying, "It does not matter, my dear sir; a few
hours can make no difference."

Then rising, she once more repeated the words of forgiveness, and
added, "I will now go and pray for you, my poor cousin--I will pray
that your repentance may be sincere and true--that it may be accepted
for Christ's sake, and that God may comfort you and support you even
at the very last."

Mr. Dixwell rose too, and telling John Ayliffe that he would return in
a few minutes, accompanied Emily back towards her house. They parted,
however, at the gates of the garden; and while Emily threaded her way
through innumerable gravelled walks, the clergyman went back to the
cottage, and once more resumed his place by the side of the dying man.




CHAPTER XLI.


Sir Philip Hastings returned to his own house earlier than had been
expected, bringing with him the physician he had gone to seek, and
whom--contrary to the ordinary course of events--he had found at once.
They both went up to Lady Hastings's room, where the physician,
according to the usual practice of medical men in consultation,
approved of all that his predecessor had done, yet ordered some
insignificant changes in the medicines in order to prove that he had
not come there for nothing. He took the same view of the case that Mr.
Short had taken, declaring that there was no immediate danger; but at
the same time he inquired particularly how that lady rested in the
night, whether she started in her sleep, was long watchful, and
whether she breathed freely during slumber.

The maid's account was not very distinct in regard to several of these
points; but she acknowledged that it was her young lady who usually
sat up with Lady Hastings till three or four o'clock in the morning.

Sir Philip immediately directed Emily to be summoned, but the maid
informed him she had gone out about an hour and a half before, and had
not then returned.

When the physician took his leave and departed, Sir Philip summoned
the butler to his presence, and inquired, with an eager yet gloomy
tone, if he knew where Mistress Emily had gone.

"I really do not, Sir Philip," replied the man. "She went out with Mr.
Dixwell, but they parted a little way down the road, and my young lady
went on as if she were going to farmer Wallop's or Jenny Best's."

At the latter name Sir Philip started as if a serpent had stung him,
and he waved to the man to quit the room. As soon as he was alone he
commenced pacing up and down in more agitation than he usually
displayed, and once or twice words broke from him which gave some
indications of what was passing in his mind.

"Too clear, too clear," lie said, and then after a pause exclaimed,
holding up his hands; "so young, and so deceitful! Marlow must be told
of this, and then must act as he thinks fit--it were better she were
dead--far better! What is the cold, dull corruption of the grave, the
mere rotting of the flesh, and the mouldering of the bones, to this
corruption of the spirit, this foul dissolution of the whole moral
nature?"

He then began to pace up and down more vehemently than before, fixing
his eyes upon the ground, and seeming to think profoundly, with a
quivering lip and knitted brow. "Hard, hard task for a father," he
said--"God of heaven that I should ever dream of such a thing!--yet it
might be a duty. What can Marlow be doing during this long unexplained
absence? France--can he have discovered all this and quitted her,
seeking, in charity, to make the breach as little painful as possible?
Perhaps, after all," he continued, after a few moments' thought, "the
man may have been mistaken when he told me that he believed that this
young scoundrel was lying ill of a fall at this woman's cottage; yet
at the best it was bad enough to quit a sick mother's bedside for long
hours, when I too was absent. Can she have done it to show her spleen
at this foolish opposition to her marriage?"

There is no character so difficult to deal with--there is none which
is such a constant hell to its possessor--as that of a moody man. Sir
Philip had been moody, as I have endeavored to show, from his very
earliest years; but all the evils of that sort of disposition had
increased upon him rapidly during the latter part of his life.
Unaware, like all the rest of mankind, of the faults of his own
character, he had rather encouraged than struggled against its many
great defects. Because he was stern and harsh, he fancied himself
just, and forgot that it is not enough for justice to judge rightly of
that which is placed clearly and truly before it, and did not
remember, or at all events apply the principle, that an accurate
search for truth, and an unprejudiced suspension of opinion till truth
has been obtained, are necessary steps to justice. Suspicion--always a
part and parcel of the character of the moody man--had of late years
obtained a strong hold upon him, and unfortunately it had so happened
that event after event had occurred to turn his suspicion against his
own guiltless child. The very lights and shades of her character,
which he could in no degree comprehend, from his own nature being
destitute of all such impulsiveness, had not only puzzled him, but
laid the foundation of doubts. Then the little incident which I have
related in a preceding part of this work, regarding the Italian
singing-master--Emily's resolute but unexplained determination to take
no more lessons from that man, had set his moody mind to ponder and to
doubt still more. The too successful schemes and suggestions of Mrs.
Hazleton had given point and vigor to his suspicions, and the betrayal
of his private conversation to the government had seemed a climax to
the whole, so that he almost believed his fair sweet child a fiend
concealed beneath the form of an angel.

It was in vain that he asked himself, What could be her motives? He
had an answer ready, that her motives had always been a mystery to
him, even in her lightest acts. "There are some people," he thought,
"who act without motives--in whom the devil himself seems to have
implanted an impulse to do evil without any cause or object, for the
mere pleasure of doing wrong."

On the present occasion he had accidentally heard from the farmer, who
was the next neighbor of Jenny Best, that he was quite certain Sir
John Hastings, as he called him, was lying ill from a fall at that
good woman's cottage. His horse had been found at a great distance on
a wild common, with the bridle broken, and every appearance of having
fallen over in rearing. Blood and other marks of an accident had been
discovered on the road. Mr. Short, the surgeon, was seen to pay
several visits every day to the old woman's house, and yet maintained
the most profound secrecy in regard to his patient. The farmer argued
that the surgeon would not be so attentive unless that patient was a
person of some importance, and it was clear he was not one of Jenny
Best's own family, for every member of it had been well and active
after the surgeon's visits had been commenced.

All these considerations, together with the absence of John Ayliffe
from his residence, had led the good farmer to a right conclusion, and
he had stated the fact broadly to Sir Philip Hastings.

Sir Philip, on his part, had made no particular inquiries, for the
very name of John Ayliffe was hateful to him; but when he heard that
his daughter had gone forth alone to that very cottage, and had
remained there for a considerable time in the same place with the man
whom he abhorred, and remembered that the tale which had been boldly
put forth of her having visited him in secret, the very blood, as it
flowed through his heart, seemed turned into fire, and his brain
reeled with anguish and indignation.

Presently the hall door was heard to open, and there was a light step
in the passage. Sir Philip darted forth from his room, and met his
daughter coming in with a sad and anxious face, and as he thought with
traces of tears upon her eyelids.

"Where have you been?" asked her father in a stern low tone.

"I have been to Jenny Best's down the lane, my father," replied Emily,
startled by his look and manner, but still speaking the plain truth,
as she always did. "Is my mother worse?"

Without a word of reply Sir Philip turned away into his room again and
closed the door.

Alarmed by her father's demeanor, Emily hurried up at once to Lady
Hastings's room, but found her certainly more cheerful and apparently
better.

The assurance given by the physician that there was no immediate
danger, nor any very unfavorable symptom, had been in a certain degree
a relief to Lady Hastings herself; for, although she had undoubtedly
been acting a part when in the morning she had declared herself dying,
yet, as very often happens with those who deceive, she had so far
partially deceived herself as to believe that she was in reality very
ill. She was surprised at Emily's sudden appearance and alarmed look,
but her daughter did not think it right to tell her the strange
demeanor of Sir Philip, but sitting down as calmly ass he could by her
mother's side, talked to her for several minutes on indifferent
subjects. It was evident to Emily that, although her father's tone was
so harsh, her mother viewed her more kindly than in the morning, and
the information which had been given her by the surgeon accounted for
the change. The conduct of Sir Philip, however, seemed not to be
explained, and Emily could hardly prevent herself from falling into
one of those reveries which have often been mentioned before. She
struggled against the tendency, however, for some time, till at length
she was relieved by the announcement that Mistress Hazleton was below,
but when Lady Hastings gave her maid directions to bring her friend
up, Emily could refrain no longer from uttering at least one word of
warning.

"Give me two minutes more, dear mamma," she said, in a low voice. "I
have something very particular to say to you--let Mrs. Hazleton wait
but for two minutes."

"Well," said Lady Hastings, languidly; and then turning to the maid
she added, "Tell dear Mrs. Hazleton that I will receive her in five
minutes, and when I ring my bell, bring her up."

As soon as the maid had retired Emily sank upon her knees by her
mother's bedside, and kissed her hand, saying, "I have one great favor
to ask, dear mother, and I beseech you to grant it."

"Well, my child," answered Lady Hastings, thinking she was going to
petition for a recall of her injunction against the marriage with
Marlow, "I have but one object in life, my dear Emily, and that is
your happiness. I am willing to make any sacrifice of personal
feelings for that object. What is it you desire?"

"It is merely this," replied Emily, "that you would not put any trust
or confidence whatever in Mrs. Hazleton. That you would doubt her
representations, and confide nothing to her, for a short time at
least."

Lady Hastings looked perfectly aghast "What do you mean, Emily?" she
said. "What can you mean? Put no trust in Mrs. Hazleton my oldest and
dearest friend?"

"She is not your friend," replied Emily, earnestly, "nor my friend,
nor my father's friend, but the enemy of every one in this house. I
have long had doubts--Marlow changed those doubts into suspicions, and
this day I have accidentally received proof positive of her cruel
machinations against my father, yourself, and me. This justifies me in
speaking as I now do, otherwise I should have remained silent still."

"But explain, explain, my child," said Lady Hastings. "What has she
done? What are these proofs you talk of? I cannot comprehend at all
unless you explain."

"There would be no time, even if I were not bound by a promise,"
replied Emily; "but all I ask is that you suspend all trust and
confidence in Mrs. Hazleton for one short day--perhaps it may be
sooner; but I promise you that at the end of that time, if not before,
good Mr. Dixwell shall explain every thing to you, and place in your
hands a paper which will render all Mrs. Hazleton's conduct for the
last two years perfectly clear and distinct."

"But do tell me something, at least, Emily," urged her mother. "I hate
to wait in suspense. You used to be very fond of Mrs. Hazleton and she
of you. When did these suspicions of her first begin, and how?"

"Do you not remember a visit I made to her some time ago," replied
Emily, "when I remained with her for several days? Then I first
learned to doubt her. She then plotted and contrived to induce me to
do what would have been the most repugnant to your feelings and my
father's, as well as to my own. But moreover she came into my room one
night walking in her sleep, and all her bitter hatred showed itself
then."

"Good gracious! What did she say? What did she do?" exclaimed Lady
Hastings, now thoroughly forgetting herself in the curiosity Emily's
words excited.

Her daughter related all that had occurred on the occasion of Mrs.
Hazleton's sleeping visit to her room, and repeated her words as
nearly as she could recollect them.

"But why, my dearest child, did you not tell us all this before?"
asked Lady Hastings.

"Because the words were spoken in sleep," answered Emily, "and excited
at the time but a vague doubt. Sleep is full of delusions; and though
I thought the dream must be a strange one which could prompt such
feelings, yet still it might all be a troublous dream. It was not till
afterwards, when I saw cause to believe that Mrs. Hazleton wished to
influence me in a way which I thought wrong, that I began to suspect
the words that had come unconsciously from the depths of her secret
heart. Since then suspicion has increased every day, and now has
ripened into certainty. I tell you, dear mother, that good Mr.
Dixwell, whom you know and can trust, has the information as well as
myself. But we are both bound to be silent as to the particulars for
some hours more. I could not let Mrs. Hazleton be with you again,
however--remembering, as I do, that seldom has she crossed this
threshold or we crossed hers, without some evil befalling us--and not
say as much as I have said, to give you the only hint in my power of
facts which, if you knew them fully, you could judge of much
better than myself. Believe me, dear mother, that as soon as I am
permitted--and a very few hours will set me free--I will fly at once
to tell you all, and leave you and my father to decide and act as your
own good judgment shall direct."

"You had better tell me first, Emily," replied Lady Hastings; "a woman
can always best understand the secrets of a woman's heart. I wish you
had not made any promise of secrecy; but as you have, so it must be.
Has Marlow had any share in this discovery?" she added, with some
slight jealousy of his influence over her daughter's mind.

"Not in the least with that which I have made to-day," replied Emily;
"but I need not at all conceal from you that he has long suspected
Mrs. Hazleton of evil feelings and evil acts towards our whole family;
and that he believes that he has discovered almost to a certainty that
Mrs. Hazleton aided greatly in all the wrong and injury that has been
done my father. The object of his going to France was solely to trace
out the whole threads of the intrigue, and he went, not doubting in
the least that he should succeed in restoring to my parents all that
has been unjustly taken from them. That such a restoration must take
place, I now know; but what he has learned or what he has done I
cannot tell you, for I am not aware. I am sure, however, that if he
brings all he hopes about, it will be his greatest joy to have aided
to right you even in a small degree."

"I do believe he is a very excellent and amiable young man," said Lady
Hastings thoughtfully.

She seemed as if she were on the point of saying something farther on
the subject of Marlow's merits; but then checked herself, and added,
"But now indeed, Emily, I think I ought to send for Mrs. Hazleton."

"But you promise me, dear mother," urged Emily eagerly, "that you will
put no faith in any thing she tells you, and will not confide in her
in any way till you have heard the whole?"

"That I certainly will take care to avoid, my dear," replied Lady
Hastings. "After what you have told me, it would be madness to put any
confidence in her--especially when a few short hours will reveal all.
You are sure, Emily, that it will not be longer!"

"Perfectly certain, my dear mother," answered her daughter. "I would
not have promised to refrain from speaking, had I not been certain
that the time for such painful concealment must be very short."

"Well, then, my dear child, ring the bell," said Lady Hastings. "I
will be very guarded merely on your assurances, for I any sure that
you are always candid and sincere whatever your poor father may
think."

Emily rung the bell, and retired to her own room, repeating mournfully
to herself, "whatever my poor father may think?--Well, well," she
added, "the time will soon come when he will be undeceived, and do his
child justice. Alas, that it should ever have been otherwise!"

She found relief in tears; and while she wept in solitude Lady
Hastings prepared to receive Mrs. Hazleton with cold dignity. She had
fully resolved, when Emily left her, to be as silent as possible in
regard to every thing that had occurred that day; not to allude,
directly or indirectly, to the warning which had been given her, and
to leave Mrs. Hazleton to attribute her unwonted reserve to caprice,
or any thing else she pleased. But the resolutions of Lady Hastings
were very fragile commodities when she fell into the hands of artful
people who knew her character, and one was then approaching not easily
frustrated in her designs.




CHAPTER XLII.


Mrs. Hazleton was an observer of all small particulars. She never
seemed to give them any attention indeed, but it is not those who
notice them publicly who pay most attention to them in private. Now
she had never in her life been detained five minutes when she had come
to visit Lady Hastings. Her friend was always only too glad to see
her. On the present occasion, she had been kept alone for fully
ten-minutes in the drawing-room, and she was not at all pleased with
this want of alacrity. Her face was as smooth, as gentle, and as
smiling when she entered the sick lady's bed-room, as if she had been
full of affection and tender consideration; and before she had reached
the bed-side, Lady Hastings felt that it would be a somewhat difficult
task to play the cold and reserved part she had imposed upon herself.
She resolved, doggedly, however, to act it out; and as Mrs. Hazleton
approached, she continued looking at her fair delicate hands, or at
the rings--now somewhat too large for the fingers they encircled.

All this was a hint, if not distinct intelligence, to Mrs. Hazleton.
She saw that a change of feeling, or at least a change of purpose, had
taken place, and that Lady Hastings felt embarrassed by a
consciousness which she might or might not choose to communicate. Mrs.
Hazleton remained the same, however, and rather enjoyed the hesitation
which she perceived than otherwise. She was not without that proud
satisfaction which persons of superior mind feel, in witnessing the
effects upon weak people of causes which would not give them a
moment's trouble. Difficulties and complexities she had been so much
accustomed to overcome and to unravel, that she had learned to feel a
certain triumphant joy in encountering them. That joy, indeed, would
have been changed to despair or rage if she had ever dreamed of being
frustrated; but success had made her bold, and she loved to steer her
course through agitated waters.

"Well, my dear friend," she said, with the sweet tones of her voice
falling from her lips like drops d liquid honey, "You do not seem
quite so well to-day. I hope this business which you were to undertake
has not agitated you, or perhaps you have not executed your intention;
it could be very well put off till you are better."

This was intended to lead to confession; for from a knowledge of Lady
Hastings' character, a strong suspicion arose that she had not found
courage to carry through the little drama which had been planned
between them, and that she was now ashamed to confess her want of
resolution.

Lady Hastings remained silent, playing with her rings, and Mrs.
Hazleton, a little angry--but very little--gave her one of those
delightful little scratches which she was practised in administering,
saying, "No one knew any thing about your intentions but myself, so,
no one can accuse you of weakness or vacillation."

"I care very little," said Lady Hastings (most untruly) "of what
people accuse me. I shall of course form my own resolutions from what
I know, and execute them or not, dear Mrs. Hazleton, according to
circumstances, which are ever changing. What is inexpedient one day
may be quite expedient the next."

Now no one was more fully aware than Mrs. Hazleton that expediency is
always the argument of weak minds, and that changing circumstances
afford every day fair excuses to men and to multitudes for every kind
of weakness under the sun. Her belief was strengthened, that Lady
Hastings had not acted as she had promised to act, and she replied
with an easy, quiet, half-pitying smile, "Well, it is not of the
slightest consequence whether you do it now or a week hence, or not at
all. The worst that could come would be Emily's marriage with Marlow,
and if you do not care about it, who should? I take it for granted, of
course, that you have not acted in the matter so boldly and decidedly
as we proposed."

There was an implied superiority in Mrs. Hazleton's words and manner,
which Lady Hastings did not like. It roused and elevated her, and she
replied somewhat sharply, "You are quite mistaken, my dear friend. I
did all that was ever intended; I sent for Emily and my husband, told
them that I believed I should not live long, and made it my last
request that the engagement with Marlow should be broken off."

"Indeed!" exclaimed Mrs. Hazleton, with even too much eagerness; "What
did they say? Did they consent?"

"Far from it," answered Lady Hastings. "My husband said he had made a
promise, which he would not violate on any account or consideration
whatever, and Emily was much in the same story."

"That shows that your decision was not strongly enough expressed,"
replied her visitor. "I do not believe that any man or woman could be
heartless enough to refuse a wife or mother's last request, if made in
so solemn a manner."

"They did refuse, point-blank, however," said Lady Hastings. "But do
you know, Mrs. Hazleton," she continued, seeing a provokingly bitter
smile on Mrs. Hazleton's face, "do you know, strange to say, I am very
glad they did refuse. Upon after consideration, when all anger and
irritation was gone, I began to think it was hardly right or fair, or
Christian either, to oppose this marriage so strongly, without some
better reason than I have to assign. Marlow is a gentleman in all
respects, of very good family too, I believe. He is a good and
excellent young man. His fortune, too, is not inconsiderable, his
prospects good, and his conduct under the deprivations which we have
lately suffered, and the loss of at least two-thirds of the fortune he
had a right to expect with Emily, has been all that is kind, and
amiable, and generous."

Mrs. Hazleton sat by the bedside, fixing her eyes full upon the
countenance of the invalid, and betraying not in the least the rage
and disappointment that were at her heart. They were not a whit the
less bitter, however, or fierce, or malignant; but rather the more so
from the effort to smother them. No one for a moment could have
imagined that she was angry, even in the least degree; and yet no
disappointed demon ever felt greater fury at being frustrated by the
weakness or vacillation of a tool.

After staying for a moment to take breath, Lady Hastings proceeded,
saying, "All these considerations, dear Mrs. Hazleton, have made me
resolve to make amends for what I have said--to withdraw the
opposition I have hitherto shown--and consent to the marriage."

Mrs. Hazleton retired for a moment into herself. For a minute or two
she was as silent as death--her cheek grew a little paler--her eyes
lost their lustre, and became dead and cold--they seemed looking at
nothing, seeing nothing--there was no speculation in them. The only
thing that indicated life and emotion was a slight quivering of the
beautifully-chiselled lip. There was a word echoing in the dark
chambers of her heart in replying to Lady Hastings. It was "Never!"
but it was not spoken; and after a short and thoughtful pause she
recovered herself fully, and set about her work again.

"My dear friend," she said, in a sweet tone, "you have doubtless good
reasons for what you do. Far be it from me to say one word against
your doing what you think fit; only I should like to know what has
made such a change in your views, because I think perhaps you may be
deceived."

"Oh, no, I am not deceived," replied Lady Hastings, "but really I
cannot enter into explanations. I have heard a great deal lately about
many things--especially this morning; but I--I--in fact, I promised
not to tell you."

Lady Hastings thought that in making this distinct declaration she was
performing a very magnanimous feat; but her little speech, short as it
was, contained three separate clauses or propositions, with each of
which Mrs. Hazleton proposed to deal separately. First, she asserted
that she was not deceived, and to this her companion replied, with a
slight incredulous smile, "Are you quite sure, my friend? Here you are
lying on a bed of sickness, with no power of obtaining accurate
information; while those who are combined to win you to their wishes
have every opportunity of conveying hints to you, both directly and
indirectly, which may not be altogether false, but yet bear with them
a false impression."

"Oh, but there can be no possible doubt," said Lady Hastings, "that
Marlow is the heir of the Earl of Launceston."

Mrs. Hazleton's brow contracted, and a quick flush passed over her
cheek. She had never before given attention to the fact--she had never
thought of it at all--but the moment it was mentioned, her knowledge
of the families of the nobility, and Mr. Marlow's connections, showed
her that the assertion was probably true. "It may be so," she said,
"but I am very doubtful. However, I will inquire, and let you know the
truth, to-morrow. And now, my dear friend, let us turn to something
else. You say you have heard a great deal to-day, and that you have
promised not to tell _me_--me--for you marked that word particularly.
Now here I have a right to demand some explanation; for your very
words show that some person or persons endeavor to prejudice your mind
against me. What you have heard must be some false charge. Otherwise
the one who has been your friend for years, who has been faithful,
constant, attentive, kind, to the utmost limit of her poor abilities,
would not be selected for exclusion from your confidence. They seek,
in fact, by some false rumor, or ridiculous tale, which you have not
the means of investigating yourself, to deprive you of advice and
support. I charge no one in particular; but some one has done this--if
they had nothing to fear from frankness, they would not inculcate a
want of candor towards one who loves you, as they well know."

"Why the fact is Emily said," replied Lady Hastings, "that could only
be for a short time, and----"

"Emily!" cried Mrs. Hazleton with a laugh, "Emily indeed! Oh, then the
matter is easily understood--but pray what did Emily say? Dear Emily,
she is a charming girl--rather wayward--rather wilful--not always
quite so candid to her friends as I could wish; but these are all
thoughts which will pass away with more knowledge of the world. She
will learn to discriminate between true friends and false ones--to
trust and confide entirely and without hesitation in those who really
love her, and not to repose her confidence in the dark and
mysterious.--Now I will undertake to say that Emily has thrown out
hints and inuendoes, without giving you very clear and explicit
information. She has asked you to wait patiently for a time. It is
always the dear child's way; but I did not think she would practice it
upon her own mother."

Now most people would have imagined, as Lady Hastings did imagine,
that Mrs. Hazleton's words proceeded from spite--mere spite; but such
was not the case: it was all art. She sought to pique Lady Hastings,
knowing very well that when once heated or angry, she lost all
caution; and her great object at that moment was to ascertain what
Emily knew, and what Emily had said. She was successful to a certain
degree. She did pique Lady Hastings, who replied at once, and somewhat
sharply, though with the ordinary forms of courtesy. "I do not think
you altogether do Emily justice, dear Mrs. Hazleton, although you have
in some degree divined the course she has pursued. She did not exactly
throw out inuendoes; but she made bold and distinct charges, and
though she did not proceed to the proofs, because there was no time to
do so, and also because there were particular reasons for not doing
so, yet she promised within a very few hours to establish every
assertion that she made beyond the possibility of doubt.

"I thought so," said Mrs. Hazleton, in a somewhat abstracted tone,
casting her eyes round the room and taking up, apparently unconcerned,
the vial of medicine which stood by Lady Hastings' bedside. "Pray, my
dear friend, when the revelation is made--if it ever be made--inform
me of the particulars."

"If it ever be made," exclaimed Lady Hastings. "No revelation needs to
be made, Mrs. Hazleton--nothing is wanting but the proofs. Emily was
explicit enough as to the facts. She said that you had aided and
assisted in depriving my husband of his property, that in that and
many other particulars you had acted any thing but a friendly part,
that you were moved by a spirit of hatred against us all, and that
very seldom had there been any communications between our house and
yours without some evil following it--which is true enough."

She spoke with a good deal of vehemence, and raised herself somewhat
on her elbow, as if to utter her words more freely. In the mean while
Mrs. Hazleton sat silent and calm--as far as the exterior went at
least--with her eyes fixed upon a particular spot in the quilt from
which they never moved till Lady Hastings had done.

"Grave charges," she said at length, "very grave charges to bring
against one whom she has known from her infancy, and for whom she has
professed some regard--but no less false than grave, my dear friend.
Now either one of two things has happened: the first, which I mention
merely as a possibility, but without at all believing that such is the
case--the first is, I say, that Emily, judging your opposition to her
proposed unequal marriage to be abetted by myself, has devised these
charges out of her own head, in order to withdraw your confidence from
me and gain her own objects: the second is--and this is much more
likely--that she has been informed by some one, either maliciously or
mistakenly, of some suspicions and doubts such as are always more or
less current in a country place, and has perhaps embellished them a
little in their transmission to you.--The latter is certainly the most
probable.--I suppose she did not tell you from whom she received the
information."

"Not exactly," answered Lady Hastings, "but one thing I know, which
is, that Mr. Dixwell the rector has all the same information, and if I
understood her rightly, has got it down in writing."

Mrs. Hazleton's cheek grew a shade paler; but she answered at once "I
am glad to hear that; for now we come to something definite. All these
charges must be substantiated, dear friend--that is, if they can be
substantiated--" she added with a smile.

"You can easily understand that, attached to you by the bonds of a
long friendship, I cannot suffer my name to be traduced, or my conduct
impeached, even by your own daughter, without insisting upon a full
explanation, and clear, satisfactory proofs, or a recantation of the
charges. Emily must establish what she has said, if she can.--I am in
no haste about it; it may be to-morrow, or the next day, or the day
after--whenever it suits you and her in short; but it must be done.
Conscious that I am innocent of such great offences, I can wait
patiently; and I do not think, my dear friend, that although I see you
have been a little startled by these strange tales, you will give any
credence to them in your heart till they are proved. Dear Emily is
evidently very much in love with Mr. Marlow, and is anxious to remove
all opposition to her marriage with him. But I think she must take
some other means; for these will certainly break down beneath her."

She spoke so calmly, and in so quiet and gentle a tone--her whole look
and manner was so tranquilly confident--that lady Hastings could
hardly believe that she was in any degree guilty.

"Well, I cannot tell," she said, "how this may turn out, but I do not
think her marriage with Mr. Marlow can have any thing to do with it. I
have fully and entirely resolved to cease all opposition to her union;
on which I see my daughter's happiness is staked, and I shall
certainly immediately signify my consent both to Emily and to my
husband."

"Wait a little--wait a little" said Mrs. Hazleton with a significant
nod of the head. "I have no mysteries, my dear friend. I have nothing
to conceal or to hold back. You are going, however, to act upon
information which is very doubtful. I believe that you have been
deceived, whoever has told you that Mr. Marlow is the heir to the Earl
of Launceston, and it is but an act of friendship on my part to
procure you more certain intelligence. You shall have it I promise
you, before four and twenty hours are over, and all I ask is that you
will not commit yourself by giving your consent till that intelligence
has been obtained. You cannot say that you consent if Mr. Marlow
proves to be the heir of that nobleman, but will not consent if such
be not the case.--That would never do, and therefore your consent
would be irrevocable. But on the other hand there can be no great harm
in waiting four and twenty hours at the utmost. I have plenty of books
of heraldry and genealogy, which will soon let me into the facts, and
you shall know them plainly and straightforwardly at once. You can
then decide and state your decision firmly and calmly, with just
reason and upon good grounds."

Lady Hastings was silent. She saw that Mrs. Hazleton had detected the
motives of her sudden change of views, and she did not much like being
detected. She had fully made up her mind, too, that Marlow was to
become Earl and her daughter Countess of Launceston, and the very
thought of such not being the result was a sort of half disappointment
to her. Now Lady Hastings did not like being disappointed at all, and
moreover she had made up her mind to have a scene of reconciliation,
and tenderness, and gratitude with her husband and her daughter, from
which--being of a truly affectionate disposition--she thought she
should derive great pleasure. Thus she hesitated for a moment as to
what she should answer, and Mrs. Hazleton, determined not to let the
effect of what she had said subside before she had bound her more
firmly, added, after waiting a short time for a reply, "you will
promise me, will you not, that you will not distinctly recall your
injunction, and give your consent to the marriage till you have seen
me again; provided I do not keep you in suspense more than four and
twenty hours? It is but reasonable too, and just, and you would, I am
sure, repent bitterly if you were to find afterwards that your consent
to this very unequal marriage had been obtained by deceit, and that
you bad been made a mere fool of--Really at the very first sight, even
if I had not good reason to believe that this story of the heirship is
either a mistake or a misrepresentation, it seems so like a stage
trick--the cunning plot of some knavish servant or convenient friend
in a drama--that I should be very doubtful. Will you not promise me
then?"

"Well, there can be no great harm in waiting that length of time,"
said Lady Hastings. "I do not mind promising that; but of course you
will let me know within four and twenty hours."

"I will," replied Mrs. Hazleton firmly; "earlier if it be possible; but
the fact is, I have some business to settle to-morrow of great
importance. My lawyer, Mr. Shanks--whom I believe to be a great
rogue--persuaded me to lend some money upon security which he
pronounced himself to be good. I knew not what it was for; as we women
of course can be no judges of such things; but I have just discovered
that it was to pay off some debts of this young man who calls himself
Sir John Hastings. Now I don't know whether the papers have been
signed, or any thing about it; and I hear that the young man himself
is absent, no one knows where. It makes me very uneasy; and I have
sent for Shanks to come to me to-morrow morning. It may therefore be
the middle of the day before I can get here; but I will not delay a
moment, you may be perfectly sure."

She had risen as she spoke, and after pressing the hand of Lady
Hastings tenderly in her own, she glided calmly out of the room with
her usual graceful movement, and entering her carriage with a face as
serene as a summer sky, ordered the coachman to drive home in a voice
that wavered not in its lightest tone.




CHAPTER XLIII.


Mrs. Hazelton entered the carriage, I have said, at the end of the
last chapter, without the slightest appearance of agitation or
excitement. Although now and then a flush, and now and then a
paleness, had spread over her face during the conversation with Lady
Hastings, though her eye had emitted an occasional flash, and at other
times had seemed fixed and meaningless, such indications of internal
warfare were all banished when she left the room, the fair smooth
cheek had its natural color, the eye was as tranquil as that of
indifferent old age.

The coachman cracked his long whip, before four magnificent large
horses heaved the ponderous vehicle from its resting place, and Mrs.
Hazleton sank back in the carriage and gave herself up to thought--but
not to thought only. Then all the smothered agitation; then all the
strong contending passions broke forth in fierce and fiery warfare. It
is impossible to disentangle them and lay them out, as on a map,
before the reader's mind. It is impossible to say which at first
predominated, rage, or fear, or disappointment, or the thirst of
vengeance. One passion it is true--the one which might be called the
master passion of her nature--soon soared towering above the rest,
like one of those mighty spirits which rise to the dizzy and dangerous
pinnacle of power in the midst of the turbulence and tempest which
accompany great social earthquakes. But at first all was confusion.

"Never," she repeated to herself--"never!--it shall never be. If I
slay her with my own hand it shall never be--foiled--frustrated in
every thing; and by this mere empty, moody child, who has been my
stumbling block, my enemy, my obstruction, in all my paths. No, no, it
shall never be!"

A new strain of thought seemed to strike her; her head leaned forward;
her eyes closed, and her lips quivered.

There are many kinds of conscience, and every one has some sort, such
as it is. What I mean is, that there is almost in every heart a voice
of warning and reproof which counsels us to regret certain actions,
and which speaks in different tones to different men. To the
worldly--those who are habitually of the earth earthly--it holds out
the menace of earthly shame and misfortune and sorrow. It
recapitulates the mistakes we have committed, points to the evil
consequences of evil deeds, shows how the insincerities and falsehoods
of our former course have proved fruitless, and how the cunning
devices, and skilful contrivances, and artful stratagems, have ended
in mortification and reproach and contempt; while still the gloomy
prospects of detection and exposure and public contumely and personal
punishment, are held up before our eyes as the grim portrait of the
future.

I need not pause here to show how conscience affects those who,
however guilty, have a higher sense--those who have a cloudy belief in
a future state--who acknowledge in their own hearts a God of
justice--who look to judgment, and feel that there must be an
immortality of weal or woe. Mrs. Hazleton was of the former class. The
grave was a barrier to her sight, beyond which there was no seeing.
She had been brought up for this world, lived in this world, thought,
devised, schemed, plotted for this world. She never thought of another
world at all. She went to church regularly every Sunday, read the
prayers with every appearance of devotion, even listened to the sermon
if the preacher preached well, and went home more practically atheist
than many who have professed themselves so.

What were her thoughts, then, now? They were all earthly still. Even
conscience spoke to her in earthly language, as if there were no other
means of reaching her heart but that. Its very menaces were all
earthly. She reviewed her conduct for the last two or three years,
and bitterly reproached herself for several faults she discovered
therein--faults of contrivance, of design, of execution. She had made
mistakes; and for a time she gave herself up to bitter repentance for
that great crime.

"Caught in my own trap," she said; "frustrated by a girl--a
child!--ay! and with exposure, perhaps punishment, before me. How she
triumphs, doubtless, in that little malignant heart. How she will
triumph when she brings forward her proofs, and overwhelms me with
them--if she has them. Oh, yes, she has them! She is mighty careful
never to say any thing of which she is not certain. I have remarked
that in her from a child. She has them beyond doubt, and now she is
sitting anticipating the pleasure of crushing me--enjoying the
retrospect of my frustrated endeavors--thinking how she and Marlow
will laugh together over a whole list of attempts that have failed,
and purposes that I have not been able to execute. Yes, yes, they will
laugh loud and gaily, and at the very altar, perhaps, will think with
triumph that they are filling for me the last drop of scorn and
disappointment. Never, never, never! It shall never be. That is the
only way, methinks;" and she fell into dark and silent thought again.

The fit lasted some time, and then she spoke again, muttering the
words between her teeth as she had previously done. "They will never
marry with a mother's curse upon their union! Oh, no, no, I know her
too well. She will not do that. That weak poppet may die before she
recalls her opposition--must die--and then they will live on loving
and wretched. But it must be made as bitter as possible. It must not
stop there."

Again she paused and thought, and then said to herself, "That drug
which the Italian monk sold me would do well enough if I did but fully
know its effects. There are things which leave terrible signs behind
them--besides it is old, and may have lost its virtue. I must run no
risk of that--and it must be speedy as well as sure. I have but four
and twenty hours--the time is very short;" and relapsing into silence
again, she continued in deep and silent meditation till the carriage
stopped at her own gates.

Mrs. Hazleton sat in the library that night for two or three hours,
and studied diligently a large folio volume which she had taken down
herself. She read, and she seemed puzzled. A servant entered to ask
some unimportant question, and she waved him away impatiently. Then
leaning her head upon her hand she thought profoundly. She calculated
in her own mind what Emily knew--how much--how intimately, and how she
had learned it. Such a thing as remorse she knew not; but she had some
fear, though very little--a sort of shrinking from the commission of
acts more daring and terrible than any she had yet performed. There
was something appalling--there is always something appalling--in the
commission of a great new crime, and the turning back, as it were, of
the mind of Mrs. Hazleton from the search for means to accomplish a
deed determined, in order to calculate the necessity of that deed,
proceeded from this sort of awe at the next highest step of evil to
those which she had already committed.

"She must know all," said Mrs. Hazleton to herself, after having
considered the matter for some moments deeply. "And she must have
learned it accurately. I know her caution well. From whom can she have
learned it?"

"From that young villain Ayliffe," was the prompt reply. "I was too
harsh with him, and in his fit of rage he has gone away at once to
tell this girl--or perhaps that old fool Dixwell. Most likely he has
furnished her with evidence too, before he fled the country. Without
that I could have set Marlow's discoveries at naught. Yet I doubt his
having gone to Dixwell; he always despised him. Mean as he was
himself; he looked upon him as a meaner. He would not go to him to
whine and cant over him. He would go to the girl herself. Her he
always loved, even in the midst of his violence and his rage. He would
go to her or write to her beyond all doubt. She must be silenced. But
I must deal with another first. Come what will, this marriage shall
not take place. Besides, she is the most dangerous of the two. The
girl might be frightened or awed into secresy, and it will take longer
time to reach her, but nothing will keep that weak woman's tongue from
babbling, and in four and twenty hours her consent will be given to
this marriage. If I can but contrive it rightly, that at least may be
stopped, and a part of my revenge obtained at all events. It must be
so--it must be so."

She turned to the leaves of the book again, but nothing in the
contents seemed to give her satisfaction. "That will be too long," she
said, after having read about a third of a page. "Three or four days
to operate! Who could wait three or four days when the object is
security, tranquility, or revenge? Besides the case admits of no
delay. Before three of four days all will be over."

She read again, and was discontented with what she read. "That will
leave traces," she said. "It must be the Italian's dose, I believe,
after all. Those monks are very skilful men, and perhaps it may not
have lost its efficiency. It is easily tried," she exclaimed suddenly,
and ascending quietly to her own dressing-room, she sought out from
the drawer of an old cabinet a small packet of white powder, which she
concealed in the palm of her hand. Then descending to the library
again, she sat for a few minutes in dull, heavy thought, and then rang
a hand-bell which stood upon her table.

"Bring me a small quantity of meat cut fine for the dog," she said, as
soon as her servant appeared. "He seems ill; what has been the matter
with him?"

"Nothing, madam," said the man, looking under the table where lay a
beautiful small spaniel sound asleep. "He has been quite well all
day."

"He has had something like a fit," said Mrs. Hazleton.

"Dear me, perhaps he is going mad," replied the man. "Had I not better
kill him?"

"Kill him!" exclaimed Mrs. Hazleton; "on no account whatever. Bring me
a small plate of meat."

The man did as he was ordered, and on his return found the dog sitting
at his mistress's feet, looking up in her face.

"Ah, Dorset," she said, speaking to the animal in a kindly tone, "you
are better now, are you?"

The man seemed inclined to linger to see whether the dog would eat:
but Mrs. Hazleton took the plate from him, and threw the poor beast a
small piece, which he devoured eagerly.

"There that will do," said Mrs. Hazleton. "You may leave the room."

When she was alone again, she paused for a moment or two, then
deliberately unfolded the packet, and put a very small quantity of the
powder it contained upon a piece of the meat. This morsel she threw to
the poor animal, who swallowed it at once, and then she set down the
plate upon the ground, which he cleared in a moment. After that Mrs.
Hazleton turned to her reading again, and looked round once at the end
of about two minutes. The dog had resumed his sleeping attitude, and
she read on. Hardly a minute more had passed ere the poor brute
started up, ran round once or twice, as if seized with violent
convulsions, staggered for an instant to and fro, and fell over on its
side. Mrs. Hazleton rang the hell violently, and two servants ran in
at once. "He is dying," she cried; "he is dying."

"Keep out of his way, madam," exclaimed one of the men, evidently in
great fear himself, "there is no knowing what he may do."

The next instant the poor dog started once more upon his feet, uttered
a loud and terrific yell, and fell dead upon the floor.

"Poor thing," said Mrs. Hazleton. "Poor Dorset! He is dead; take him
away."

The two men seemed unwilling to touch him, but when quite satisfied
that there was no more life left in him, they carried him away, and
Mrs. Hazleton remained alone.

"Speedy enough," said the lady, replacing the large volume on the
shelf. "We need no distillations and compoundings. This is as
efficacious as ever. Now let me see. I must try and remember the size
of the bottle, and the color of the stuff that was in it." She thought
of these matters for some minutes, and then retired to rest.

Did she sleep well or ill that night? God knows. But if she slept
well, the friends of hell must sometimes have repose.

The next morning very early, Mrs. Hazleton walked out. As the reader
knows, she lived at no great distance from the little town, even by
the high-road, and that was shortened considerably by a path through
the park. There was a poor man in the place, an apothecary, who had
came down there in the hope of carrying away some of the practice of
good Mr. Short. He had not been very successful, and his stock of
medicines was not very great: but he had all that Mrs. Hazleton
wanted. Her demands indeed were simple enough--merely a little
logwood, a little saffron, and a little madder. Having obtained these
she asked to see some vials, and selected one containing somewhat less
than half a pint.

The good man packed all these up with zealous care, saying that he
would send them up to the house in a few minutes. Mrs. Hazleton,
however, said she would carry them herself; but the very idea of the
great lady carrying home a parcel, even through her own park, shocked
the little apothecary extremely, and he pressed hard to be permitted
to send his own boy, till Mrs. Hazleton replied in a rather peremptory
tone, "I always say what I mean, sir. Be so good as to give me the
parcel."

When she reached her own house, she ordered her carriage to be at the
door at half past twelve in order to convey her to the dwelling of Sir
Philip Hastings. Upon a very nice calculation the drive, commenced at
that hour, would bring her to the place of her destination shortly
after that precise period of the day when Lady Hastings was accustomed
to take an hour's sleep. But Mrs. Hazleton had laid out her plan, and
did not thus act by accident.

Almost every lady in those days acted the part of a Lady Bountiful in
her neighborhood, and gave, not alone assistance in food and money to
the cottagers and poor people about her, but medicine and sometimes
medical advice. Both the latter were very simple indeed; but the
preparation of these simple medicines entailed the necessity of what
was called a still-room in each great house. In fact to be a Lady
Bountiful, and to have a still-room, were two of the conventionalities
of the day, from which no lady, having more than a very moderate
fortune, could then hope to escape. Mrs. Hazleton was in the
still-room, then, when her dear friend, who had already on one
occasion given the death blow to her schemes upon Mr. Marlow's heart,
drove up to the door and asked to see her.

The servant replied that his mistress was busy in the still-room, but
that he would go and call her in a moment.

"Oh, dear, no," replied the lady, entering the house with an elastic
step; "I will go and join her there, and surprise her in her
charitable works. I know the way quite well--you needn't come--you
needn't come;" and on she went to the still-room, which she entered
without ceremony.

Mrs. Hazleton was, at that moment, in the act of pouring a purpleish
sort of fluid, out of a glass dish with a lip to it, into an
apothecary's vial. She turned round sharply at the sound of the
opening door, thinking that it was produced by a servant intruding
upon her uncalled. When she saw her friend, however, whose indiscreet
advice she had neither forgotten nor forgiven, her face for a moment
turned burning red, and then as pale as death; and she had nearly let
the glass fall from her hand.

What was said on either part matters very little. Mrs. Hazleton was
too wise to speak as sharply as she felt, and led the way from the
still-room as fast as possible; but her dear friend had in one
momentary glance seen every thing--the glass bowl, the vial, the
fluid, and--more particularly than all--Mrs. Hazleton's sudden changes
of complexion on her entrance.




CHAPTER XLIV.


Sir Philip Hastings sat at breakfast with his daughter the morning of
the same day on which Mrs. Hazleton in the still-room was subjected to
her dear friend's unpleasant intrusion. He was calmer than he had
been since his return; but it was a gloomy, thoughtful sort of
calmness--that sort of superficial tranquility which is sometimes
displayed under the influence of overpowering feelings, as the sea, so
sailors tell us, is sometimes actually beaten down by the force of the
winds that sweep over it. His brow was contracted with a deep frown,
but it was by no means varied. It was stern, fixed, immoveable. To his
daughter he spoke not a word, except when she bade him good morning,
and asked after his health; and then he only replied "Well."

When breakfast was nearly over, a servant brought in some letters, and
handed two to his master and one to Emily. Sir Philip's were soon
read; but Emily's was longer, and she was still perusing it, with
apparently much emotion, when the servant returned to the room. Sir
Philip, during the half hour they had been previously together, had
abstained from turning his eyes towards her. He had looked at the
table cloth, or straight at the wall; but now he was gazing at her so
intently, with a strange, eager, haggard expression of countenance
that he did not even notice the entrance of the servant till the man
spoke to him.

"Please your worship" said the servant "Master Atkinson of the Hill
farm, near Hartwell, wishes to speak to you on some justice business."

Sir Philip started, and murmured between his teeth. "Justice--ay,
justice!--who did you say?"

The man repeated what he had said before, and his master replied,
"shew him in."

He then remained for a moment or two with his head leaning on his
hand, and seemingly making an effort to recall his thoughts from some
distant point; and when Mr. Atkinson entered, he spoke to him
tranquilly enough.

"Pray be seated, Mr. Atkinson," he said, "what is it you want? I have
meddled little with magisterial affairs lately."

"I want a warrant, sir," replied Mr. Atkinson. "And against a near
neighbor and relation of yours; so I am sure you are not a man to
refuse me justice."

"Not if it were my nearest and my dearest," replied Sir Philip, in a
deep and hollow tone. "Who is the person?"

"A young man calling himself Sir John Hastings," said Mr. Atkinson.
"We are afraid of his getting out of the country. He knows he has been
found out, and he is hiding somewhere not very far off; but I and a
constable will find him."

Emily had lain down her letter by her side, and was listening
attentively. It was clear she was greatly moved by what she heard. Her
face turned white and red. Her lip quivered as if she would fain have
spoken; but she hesitated and remained silent for a moment. She
thought of the unhappy young man lying on his death bed; for she had
as yet received no intimation of his death from Mr. Dixwell, and of
his seeing himself seized upon by the officers of justice, his last
thoughts disturbed, all his anxious strivings after penitence, all his
communings with his own heart, all his efforts to prepare for meeting
with death, and God, and judgment, scattered by worldly shame and
earthly anguish--she felt for him--she would fain have petitioned for
him; but she was misunderstood, and, what was worse, she knew it--she
felt it--she could not speak--she dare not say any thing, though her
heart seemed as if it would break, and her only consolation was that
all would be explained, that her motives, her conduct, would all be
clear and comprehended in a a very few short hours. She knew, however,
that she could not bear much more without weeping; for the letter
which she had received from Marlow, telling her that he had arrived in
London, and would set off to see her, as soon as some needful
business, in the capital had been transacted, had agitated her much,
and even pleasureable emotions will often shake the unnervous so as to
weaken rather than strengthen us when called upon to contend with
others of a different kind.

She rose then and left the room with a sad look and wavering step, and
Sir Philip gazed at her as she passed with a look impossible to
describe, saying to himself, "So--is it so?"

The next instant, however, he turned to the farmer, who was a man of a
superior class to the ordinary yeomen of that day, saying, "What is
your charge, sir?"

"Oh, plenty of charges, sir," replied the man; "fraud, conspiracy,
perjury, forgery, in regard to all which I am ready to give
information on my oath."

Sir Philip leaned his head upon his hand, and thought bitterly for two
or three minutes. Then raising his eyes full to Atkinson's face, he
said, "Were this young man my own child, were he my son, or were he my
brother, were he a very dear friend, I should not have the slightest
hesitation, Mr. Atkinson. I would take the information, and grant you
a warrant at once--nay; I will do so still, if you insist upon it; for
it shall never be said that any consideration made me refuse justice.
But I would have you remember that Sir John Hastings is my enemy; that
he has, justly or unjustly, deprived me of fortune and station, and
throughout the only transactions we have had together, has shown a
spirit of malignity against me which might well make men believe that
I must entertain similar feelings towards him. To sign a warrant
against him, therefore, would be very painful to me, although I
believe him to be capable of the crimes with which you charge him, and
know you to be too honest a man to make such an accusation without a
reasonable confidence in its truth. But I would have you consider
whether it may not bring suspicion upon all your proceedings, if your
very first step therein is to obtain a warrant against this man from
his known and open enemy."

"But what am I to do, Sir Philip?" asked the farmer. "I am afraid he
will escape. I know that he is hiding in this very neighborhood, in
this very parish, within half a mile of this house."

A groan burst from the heart of Sir Philip Hastings. He had spoken his
remonstrance clearly, slowly, and deliberately, forcibly bending his
thoughts altogether to the subject before him; but he had been deeply
and terribly moved all the time, and this direct allusion to the
hiding place of John Ayliffe, to the very house which his daughter had
visited on the previous day, roused all the terrible feelings, the
jealous anger, the indignation, the horror, the contempt which had
been stirred up in him, by what he thought her indecent, if not
criminal act. It was too much for his self-command, and that groan
burst forth in the struggle against himself.

He recovered himself speedily, however, and he replied, "Apply to Mr.
Dixwell: he is a magistrate, and lives hardly a stone's throw from
this house. You will lose but little time, save me from great pain,
and both you and me from unjust imputations."

"Oh, I am not afraid of any imputations," said Mr. Atkinson. "I have
personally no interest in the matter. You have, Sir, a great interest
in it and if you would just hear what the case is, you would see that
no one should look more sharply than you to the matter, in order that
no time may be lost."

"I would rather not hear the case at all," replied Sir Philip. "If I
have a personal interest in it, as you say, it would ill befit me to
meddle. Go to Mr. Dixwell, my good friend. Explain the whole to him,
and although perhaps he is not the brightest man that ever lived, yet
he is a good man and an honest man, who will do justice in this
matter."

"Very well, sir, very well," replied the farmer, a little mortified;
for to say the truth, he had anticipated some little accession of
importance from lending a helping hand to restore Sir Philip Hastings
to the rights of which he had been unjustly deprived, and taking his
leave he went away, thinking the worthy baronet the most impracticable
man he had ever met with in his life. "I always knew that he was
crotchety," he said to himself, "and carried his notions of right and
wrong to a desperate great length; but I did not know that he went so
far as this. I don't believe that if he saw a man running away with
his own apples, he would stop him without a warrant from another
justice. Yet he can be severe enough when he is not concerned himself,
as we all know. He'd hang every poacher in the land for that matter,
saying, as I have heard him many a time, that it is much worse to
steal any thing that is unprotected, than if it is protected."

With these thoughts he rode straight away to the house of Mr. Dixwell,
but to his mortification he found that the worthy clergyman was out.
"Can you tell me where he is?" he asked of the servant, "I want him on
business of the greatest importance."

The woman hesitated for a moment, but the expression of perplexity and
anxiety on the good farmer's face overcame her scruples, and she
replied, "I did not exactly hear him say where he was going, but I saw
him take the foot-path down to Jenny Best's."

Atkinson turned his horse's head at once, and rode along the road till
he reached the cottage. There he fastened his horse to a tree, and
went in. The outer room was vacant; but through the partition he heard
a voice speaking in a slow, measured tone, as if in prayer; and after
waiting and hesitating for a moment or two, he struck upon the table
with his knuckles to call attention to his presence.

The moment after, the door opened slowly and quietly, and Jenny Best
herself first put out her head, and then came into the room with a
curtsy, closing the door behind her.

"Good day, Jenny," said the farmer; "is Mr. Dixwell here?"

"Yes, Master Atkinson," replied the good dame; "he is in there,
praying with a sick person."

"Why how is that?" asked Mr. Atkinson. "Best is not ill, I hope, nor
your son."

"No, sir," answered the old woman; "it is a young man who broke his
leg close by our door the other day;" and seeing him about to ask
further questions, which she might have had difficulty in parrying,
she added, "I will call the parson to you, sir."

Thus saying, she retreated again into the inner room, and in a few
moments Mr. Dixwell himself appeared.

"God day, Atkinson," he said; "you have been absent on a journey, I
hear."

"Yes, your Reverence," replied the farmer, "and it is in consequence
of that journey that I come to you now. I want a warrant from you, Mr.
Dixwell; and that as quick as possible."

"Why, I cannot give you a warrant here," said the clergyman,
hesitating. "I have no clerk with me, nor any forms of warrants, and I
cannot very well go home just now. It can, do no harm waiting an hour
or two, I suppose."

"It may do a great deal of harm," replied the farmer, "for as great a
rogue and as bad a fellow as ever lived may escape from justice if it
is not granted immediately."

"Can't you go to Mr. Hastings?" said the clergyman. "He would give you
one directly, if the case justifies it."

"He sent me to your Reverence," replied the farmer. "In one word, the
case is this, Mr. Dixwell. I have to charge a man, whom, I suppose, I
must call a gentleman, upon oath, with fraud, perjury, and forgery.
Shanks, one of the conspirators we have got already. But this
man--this fellow who calls himself Sir John Hastings, I mean, is
hiding away here--in this very cottage, sir, I am told--and may make
his escape at any minute. Now that I am here, and a magistrate with
me, I tell you fairly, sir, I will not quit the place till I have him
in custody."

He spoke in a very sharp and decided tone; for to say the truth he had
a vague suspicion that Mr. Dixwell, whose good-nature was well known,
knew very well where John Ayliffe was, and might be trying to convert
him, with the full intention of afterwards aiding him to escape. The
clergyman answered at once, however, "he is here, Master Atkinson, but
he is very ill, and will soon be in sterner custody than yours."

There was a good deal of the bull-dog spirit of the English yeoman in
the good farmer's character, and he replied tartly, "I don't care for
that. He shall be in my custody first."

Mr. Dixwell looked pained and offended. His brow contracted a good
deal, and laying his hand upon the farmer's wrist, he led him towards
the door of the inner room, saying, "You are hard and incredulous,
sir. But come with me, and you shall see his state with your own
eyes."

The farmer suffered himself to be led along, and Mr. Dixwell opened
the door, and entered the room with a quiet and reverent step. The
sunshine was streaming through the little window upon the floor, and
by its cheerful light, contrasting strangely with the gray darkness of
the face which lay upon the bed of death. There was not a sound, but
the footfalls of the two persons who entered; for the old woman had
seated herself by the bedside, and was gazing silently at the face of
the sick man.

At first, Mr. Atkinson thought that he was dead; and life indeed
lingered on with but the very faintest spark. He seemed utterly
unconscious; for the eyes even did not move at the sound of the
opening door, and the farmer was a good deal shocked at the hardness
of his judgment. He was not one, however, to give up his purpose
easily, and when Mr. Dixwell said, "you can now see and judge for
yourself--is he likely to escape, do you think?" Atkinson answered in
a low but determined tone, "No, but I do not think I ought to leave
him as long as there is any life in him."

"You can do as you please," said Mr. Dixwell, in a tone of much
displeasure. "Only be silent. There is a seat;" and leaving him, he
took his place again by the dying man's side.

Though shocked, and feeling perhaps a little ashamed, Mr. Atkinson.
with that dogged sort of resolution which I have before spoken of;
resisted his own feelings, and would not give up the field. He thought
he was doing his duty, and that is generally quite sufficient for an
Englishman. Nothing could move him, so long as breath was in the body
of the unhappy young man. He remained seated there, perfectly still
and silent, as hour after hour slipped away, with his head bent down,
and his arms crossed upon his chest.

The approach of death was very slow with John Ayliffe: he lingered
long after all the powers of the body seemed extinct. Hand or foot he
could not move--his sunken eyes remained half closed--the hue of death
was upon his face, but yet the chest heaved, the breath came and went,
sometimes rapidly, sometimes very slowly; and for along time Mr.
Dixwell could not tell whether he was conscious at all or not. At the
end of two hours, however, life seemed to make an effort against the
great enemy, though it was a very feeble one, and intellect had no
share in it. He began to mutter a few words from time to time, but
they were wild and incoherent, and the faint sounds referred to dogs
and horses, to wine and money. He seemed to think himself talking to
his servants, gave orders, and asked questions, and told them to light
a fire, he was so cold. This went on till the shades of evening began
to fall, and then Mr. Short, the surgeon, came in and felt his pulse.

"It is very strange," said the surgeon, "that this has lasted so long.
But it must be over in a few minutes now. I can hardly feel a
pulsation."

Mr. Dixwell did not reply, and the surgeon remained gazing on the
dying man's face till it was necessary to ask for a light. Jenny Best
brought in a solitary candle, and whether it was the effect of the
sudden though feeble glare, I cannot tell, John Ayliffe opened his
eyes, and said, more distinctly than before, "I am going--I am
going--this is death--yes, this is death! Pray for me, Mr.
Dixwell--pray for me--I do repent--yes, I have hope."

The jaw quivered a little as he uttered the last words, but at the
same moment John Best, the good woman's husband, entered the room with
a hurried step, drew Mr. Short, the surgeon, aside, and whispered
something in his ear.

"Good Heaven!" exclaimed the surgeon. "Impossible, Best! Has the man
got a horse? mine's at the farm."

"Yes, sir, yes!" replied the man, eagerly. "He has 'got a horse; but
you had better make haste."

Mr. Short dashed out of the room; but before he left it, John Ayliffe
was a corpse.




CHAPTER XLV.


Mrs. Hazleton found the inconvenience of having a dear friend. It was
in vain that she tried to get rid of her visitor. The visitor would
not be got rid of. She was deaf to hints; she paid no attention to any
kind of inuendoes; and she looked so knowing, so full of important
secrets, so quietly mischievous, that Mrs. Hazleton was cowed by that
most unnerving of all things, the consciousness of meditated crime.
She could not help thinking that the fair widow saw into her thoughts
and purposes--she could not help doubting the impenetrability of the
veil behind which hypocrisy hides the hideout features of unruly
passion--she could not help thinking that the keen-sighted and astute
must perceive some of the movements at least of the rude movers of the
painted puppets of the face--the smile, the gay looks, the sparkling
eyes, the calm placid brow, the dignified serenity, which act their
part in the glittering scene of the world, too often worked by the
most harsh, foul, and brutal of all the motives of the human heart.
But she was irritated too, as well as fearful; and there was a sort of
combat went on between impatience and apprehension. Had she given way
to inclination she would have ordered one of her servants to take the
intruder by the shoulders and put her out of doors; but for more
than an hour after the time she had fixed for setting out, vague
fears--however groundless and absurd--were sufficiently powerful to
restrain her temper. She was not of a character, however, to be long
cowed by any thing. She had great confidence in herself--in her own
resources--in her own conduct and good fortune likewise. That
confidence might have been a little shaken indeed by events which had
lately occurred; but anger soon rallied it, and brought it back to her
aid. She asked herself if she were a fool to dread that woman--what it
was she had discovered--what it was that she could testify. She had
merely seen her doing what almost every lady did a hundred times in
the year in those day--preparing some simples in the still-room; and
gradually as she found that gentle hints proved unsuccessful, she
resumed her natural dignity of demeanor. That again gave way to a
chilling silence, and then to a somewhat irritable imperiousness, and
rising from her chair, she begged her visitor to excuse her, alleging
that she had business of importance to transact which would occupy her
during the whole day.

Not one of all the variation of conduct--not one sign, however slight,
of impatience, doubt, or anger--escaped the keen eye that was fixed
upon her. Mrs. Hazleton, under the influence of conscience, did not
exactly betray the dark secrets of her own heart, but she raised into
importance, an act in itself the most trifling, which would have
passed without any notice had she not been anxious to conceal it.

As soon as her visitor, taking a hint that could not be mistaken, had
quitted the room and the house, with an air of pique and ill-humor,
Mrs. Hazleton returned to the still-room and recommenced her
operations there; but she found her hand shaking and her whole frame
agitated.

"Am I a fool," she asked herself, "to be thus moved by an empty gossip
like that? I must conquer this, or I shall be unfit for my task."

She sat down at a table, leaned her head upon her hand, gazed forth
out of the little window, forced her mind away from the present,
thought of birds and flowers, and pictures and statues, and of the two
sunshiny worlds of art and nature--of every thing in short but the
dark, dark cares of her own passions. It was a trick she had learned
to play with herself--one of those pieces of internal policy by which
she had contrived so often and so long, to rule and master with
despotic sway the frequent rebellions of the body against the tyranny
of the mind.

She had not sat there two minutes, however, ere there was a tap at the
door, and she started with a quick and jarring thrill, as if that
knock had been a summons of fate. The next instant she looked quickly
around, however, and was satisfied that whoever entered could find no
cause for suspicion. She was there seated quietly at the table. The
vial was out of sight, the fatal powder hidden in the palm of her
hand, and she said aloud, "Come in."

The butler entered, bowing profoundly and saying, "The carriage is at
the door, madam, and Wilson has just come back from the house of Mr.
Shanks, but he could not find him."

The man hesitated a little as if he wished to add something more, and
Mrs. Hazleton replied in a somewhat sharp tone, "I told you when I
sent it away just now that I would tell you when I was ready. I shall
not be so for half an hour; but let it wait, and do not admit any one.
Mr. Shanks must be found, and informed that I want to see him early
to-morrow, as I shall go to London on the following day."

"I am sorry to say, madam," replied the butler, "that if the talk of
the town is true, he will not be able to come. They say he has been
apprehended on a charge of perjury and forgery in regard to that
business of Sir Philip Hastings, and has been sent off to the county
jail."

Mrs. Hazleton looked certainly a little aghast, and merely saying
"Indeed!" she waved her hand for the man to withdraw.

She then sat silent and motionless for at least five minutes. What
passed within her I cannot tell; but when she rose, though pale as
marble, she was firm, calm, and self-possessed as ever. She turned the
key in the lock; she drew a curtain which covered the lower half of
the window, farther across, so that no eye from without, except the
eye of God, could see what she was doing there within. She then drew
forth the vial from its nook, opened out the small packet of powder,
and poured part of it into a glass. She seemed as if she were going to
pour the whole, but she paused in doing so, and folded up the rest
again, saying, "That must be fully enough; I will keep the rest; it
may be serviceable, and I can get no more."

She gazed down upon the ground near her feet with a look of cold,
stern, but awful resolution, as if there had been an open grave before
her; and then she placed the packet in her glove, poured a little
distilled water into the glass, shook it, and held the mixture up to
the light. The powder had in great part dissolved, but not entirely,
and she added a small quantity more of the distilled water, and poured
the whole into the vial, which was already about one-third full of a
dark colored liquid.

"Now I will go," she said, concealing the bottle. But when she reached
the door, and had her hand upon the lock, she paused and remained in
very deep thought for an instant, with her brow slightly contracted
and her lip quivering. Heaven knows what she thought of then,--whether
it was doubt, or fear, or pity, or remorse--but she said in a low
tone, "Down, fool! it shall be done," and she passed out of the room.

She paused suddenly in the little passage which led to the still-room,
by a pair of double doors, into the principal part of the house,
perceiving with some degree of consternation that she had been
unconsciously carrying the vial with its dark colored contents in her
hand, exposed to the view of all observers. Her eye ran round the
passage with a quick and eager glance; but there was no one in sight,
and she felt reassured. Even at that moment she could smile at her own
heedlessness, and she did smile as she placed the bottle in her
pocket, saying to herself, "How foolish! I must not suffer such fits
of absence to come upon me, or I shall spoil all."

She then walked quietly to her dressing-room, arranged her dress for
the little journey before her, and descended again to the hall, where
the servants were waiting for her corning. After she had entered the
carriage, however, she again fell into a fit of deep thought, closed
her eyes, and remained as if half asleep for nearly an hour. Perhaps
it would be too much to scrutinize the state or changes of her
feelings during that long, painful lapse of thought. That there was a
struggle--a terrible struggle--can hardly be doubted--that opportunity
was given her for repentance, for desistance, between the purpose and
the deed, we know; and there can be little doubt that the small,
still voice--which is ever the voice of God--spoke to her from the
spirit-depth within, and warned her to forbear. But she was of an
unconquerable nature; nothing could turn her; nothing could overpower
her, when she had once resolved on any act. There was no persuasion
had effect; no remonstrance was powerful. Reason, conscience, habit
itself, were but dust in the balance in the face of one of her
determinations.

She roused herself suddenly from her fit of moody abstraction, when
the carriage was still more than a mile from the house of Sir Philip
Hastings. She looked at the watch which hung by her side, and gazed at
the sky; and then she said to herself, "That woman's impertinent
intrusion was intolerable. However; I shall get there an hour before
the twenty-four hours have passed, and doubtless she will have kept
her word and refrained from speaking till she has seen me; but I am
afraid I shall find her woke up from her midday doze, and that may
make the matter somewhat difficult. Difficult! why I have seen
jugglers do tricks a thousand times to which this is a mere trifle. My
sleight of hand will not fail me, I think;" and then she set her mind
to work to plan out every step of her proceedings.

All was clearly and definitely arranged by the time she arrived at the
door of Sir Philip Hastings' house. Her face was cleared of every
cloud, her whole demeanor under perfect control. She was the Mrs.
Hazleton, the calm, dignified, graceful Mrs. Hazleton, which the world
knew; and when she descended from the carriage with a slow but easy
step, and spoke to the coachman about one of the springs which had
creaked and made a noise on the way, not one of Sir Philip Hastings'
servants could have believed that her mind was occupied with any thing
more grave than the idle frivolous thoughts of an every-day society.




CHAPTER XLVI.


Mrs. Hazleton fancied herself in high good luck; for just as she was
passing through the door into the hall, Lady Hastings' maid crossed
and made her a curtsey. Mrs. Hazleton beckoned her up, saying in a
quiet, easy, every-day tone, "I suppose your lady is awake by this
time?"

"No, madam," replied the maid, "she is asleep still. She did not take
her nap as early as usual to-day; for Mistress Emily was with her, and
my lady would not go to sleep till she went out to take a walk."

Mrs. Hazleton was somewhat alarmed at this intelligence; for she had
not much confidence in her good friend's discretion. "How is Miss
Emily?" she said in a tender tone. "She seemed very sad and low when
last I saw her."

"She is just the same, Madam," replied the maid. "She did not seem
very cheerful when she went out, and has been crying a good deal
to-day."

Mrs. Hazleton was better satisfied, and paused for an instant to
think; but the maid interrupted her cogitations by saying--"I think I
may wake my lady now, if you please to come up, Madam."

"Oh, dear, no," replied Mrs. Hazleton. "Do not wake her. I will go in
quietly and sit with her till she wakes naturally. It is a pity to
deprive her of one moment's calm sleep. You needn't come, you needn't
come. I will ring for you when your mistress wakes;" and she quietly
ascended the stairs, though the maid offered some civil remonstrances
to her undertaking the task of watching by her sleeping mistress.

The most careful affection could not have prompted greater precautions
in opening the door of the sick lady's chamber, than those which were
taken by Mrs. Hazleton. It was a good solid door, however, well
seasoned, and well hung, and moved upon its hinges without noise. She
closed it with the same care, and then with a soft tread glided up to
the side of the bed.

Lady Hastings was sleeping profoundly and quietly; and as she lay in
an attitude of easy grace, a shadow of her youthful beauty seemed to
have returned, and all the traces of after cares and anxiety were
banished for the time. On the table, near the bed-head, stood the vial
of medicine, with the glass and spoon; and Mrs. Hazleton eyed it for a
moment or two without touching it. She saw that she had hit the color
exactly; but the quantity in that vial, and the one she had with her,
was somewhat different. She felt puzzled and doubtful. She asked
herself--"Would the difference be discovered when the time came for
giving her the medicine?" and a certain degree of trepidation seized
her. But she was bold, and said to herself--"They will never see it.
They suspect nothing. They will never see it." She took the vial from
her pocket, and held it for an instant or two in her hand. Again a
doubt and hesitation took possession of her. She gazed at the sleeper
with a haggard eye. The face was so calm, so sweet, so gentle in
expression, that the pleasant look perhaps did move her a little with
remorse. The voice within said again, and again, "Forbear!" She tried
to deafen herself against it, or to fill the ear of conscience with
delusive sounds. "She is dying," she said--"She will die--she cannot
recover. It is but taking away a few short hours, in order to stop
that fatal marriage, which shall never be. I am becoming a fool--a
weak irresolute fool."

Just as she thus thought, Lady Hastings moved uneasily, as if to wake
from her slumber. That moment was decisive. With a hurried hand, and
quick as light, Mrs. Hazleton changed the two vials, and concealed the
one which she had taken away.

Then it was, probably for the first time, that all the awful
consequences of the deed, for time and for eternity, flashed upon her.
The scales fell from her eyes: no longer passion, or mortified vanity,
or irritated pride, or disappointed love, distorted the objects or
concealed their forms. She stood there consciously a murderer. She
trembled in every limb; and, unable to support herself, sunk down in
the chair that stood near. Had Lady Hastings slept on, Mrs. Hazleton
would have been saved; for her impulse was immediately to reverse the
very act she had done--all would have been saved--all to whom that act
brought wretchedness. But the movement of the chair--the sound
of the vial touching the marble table--the rustle of the thick
silk--dispelled what remained of slumber, and Lady Hastings opened her
eyes drowsily, and looked round. At the very moment she would have
given worlds to recall it. The deed became irrevocable. The barrier of
Fate fell: it was amongst the things done; it was written in the book
of God as a great crime committed. Nothing remained but to insure,
that the end she aimed at would be obtained; that the evil
consequences, in this world at least, should be averted from herself.
There was a terrible struggle to recover her self-command--a wrestling
of the spirit--against the turbulent and fierce emotions which shook
the body. She was still much agitated when Lady Hastings recognized
her and began to speak; but her determination was taken to obtain the
utmost that she could from the act she had committed--to have the full
price of her crime. She was no Judas Iscariot, to be content with the
thirty pieces of silver for the innocent blood, and then hang herself
in despair. Oh no! She had sold her own soul, and she would have its
price.

But yet, as I have said, the struggle was terrible, and lasted longer
than usual with her.

"Dear me, my kind friend, is that you?" said Lady Hastings. "Have you
been here long? I did not hear you come in."

Her words, and her tone, were gentle and affectionate. All the
coldness and the sharpness of the preceding day seemed to have passed
away, and to have been forgotten; but words and tone were equally
jarring to the feelings of Mrs. Hazleton. The sharpest language, the
most angry manner, would have been a relief to her. They would have
afforded her some sort of strength--some sort of support.

It is painful enough to hear sweet music when we are very sad. I have
known it rise almost to agony; but the tones of friendship and regard,
of gentleness and tender kindness, to the ear of hatred and malice,
must be more terrible still.

"I have been here but a moment," said Mrs. Hazleton, gloomily--almost
peevishly. "I suppose it was my coming in woke you; but I am sure I
made as little noise as possible."

"Why, what is the matter?" said Lady Hastings. "You look quite pale
and agitated, and you speak quite crossly."

"Your sudden waking startled me," said Mrs. Hazleton; "and, besides,
you looked so ill, my dear friend. I almost thought you were dead till
you began to move."

There was malice in the sentence, simple as it seemed, and it had its
effect. Nervous, hypochondriac, Lady Hastings was frightened at the
mere sound, and her heart beat strangely at the very thought of being
supposed dead. It seemed to her to augur that she was very ill; that
she was much worse than her friends allowed her to believe; that they
anticipated her speedy dissolution, and she remained silent and sad
for several minutes, giving Mrs. Hazleton time to recover herself
completely. She was a little piqued too at the abruptness of Mrs.
Hazleton's manner. Neither the speech, nor the mode, nor the speaker,
pleased her; and she replied at length--"Nevertheless, I feel a good
deal better to-day. I have slept well for, I dare say, a couple of
hours; and my dear child Emily has been with me all the morning. I
must say she bears opposition and contradiction very sweetly."

She knew that would not please Mrs. Hazleton, and she laid some
emphasis on the words by way of retaliation. It was petty, but it was
quite in her character. "Now I think of it," she added, "you promised
to tell me what you discovered in regard to Marlow's relationship to
Lord Launceston. I find--but never mind. Tell me what you have found
out."

Mrs. Hazleton hesitated. The first impulse was to tell a lie--to
assert that Marlow was not the old earl's heir; but there was
something in Lady Hastings' manner which made her suspect that she had
received more certain information, and she made up her mind to speak
the truth.

"It is very true," she said; "Mr. Marlow is the old lord's nearest
male relation, and heir to his title. I suspect," she added with a
silly sounding laugh, "you have found this out yourself, my dear
friend, and have made your peace with Emily, by withdrawing your
opposition to her marriage."

Her heart was very bitter at that moment; for she really did suspect
all that she said. The idea presented itself to her mind (producing a
feeling of fierce disappointment), of all her efforts being rendered
fruitless, her dark schemes frustrated, her cunning contrivances
without effect, at the very moment when the crime, by which she
proposed to insure success, was so far consummated as to be beyond
recall. She was relieved on that score in a moment.

"Oh dear no," cried Lady Hastings. "I promised you, my dear friend,
that I would say nothing till I saw you, and I have said nothing
either to my husband or Emily. But I will of course now tell her all
immediately, and I do confess it will give me greater satisfaction
than any act of my whole life, to withdraw the opposition to her
marriage which has made her so miserable, and to bid her be happy with
the man of her own choice--an excellent good young man he is too. He
has been laboring, I find, for the last fortnight or three weeks,
night and day, in our service, and has detected the horrible
conspiracy by which my husband was deprived of his rights and
property. I shall tell Emily, with great joy, as soon as ever she
comes back, that were it for nothing but this zeal in our cause, I
would receive him joyfully as my son-in-law."

"You had better wait till to-morrow morning," said Mrs. Hazleton, in a
cold but significant tone.

"Oh dear no," said Lady Hastings, somewhat petulantly, "I have waited
quite long enough--perhaps too long. You surely would not have me
protract my child's anxiety and sorrow unnecessarily. No, I will tell
her the moment she returns. She read me part of a letter from Marlow
to-day, which shows me that he has lost no time in seeking to serve us
and make us happy, and I will lose no time in making my child and him
happy also."

"As you please," replied Mrs. Hazleton; "I only thought that in this
changeable world, there are so many unexpected things occurring
between one day and another, it might be well for you to pause and
consider a little--in order, I mean, that after-thought may not show
you reason to withdraw your consent, as you now withdraw your
objection."

"My consent once given, shall never be withdrawn," replied Lady
Hastings, in a determined tone.

Mrs. Hazleton looked at the vial by the bedside, and then at her
watch. "You had better avoid all agitation," she said, "and at all
events before you speak with Emily, take a dose of the medicine, which
Short tells me he has given you to soothe and calm your spirits--shall
I give you one now?"

"No, I thank you," replied Lady Hastings, briefly; "not at present."

"Is it not the time?" said Mrs. Hazleton, looking at her watch again;
"the good man told me you were to take it very regularly."

"But he told me," replied Lady Hastings, "that nobody was to give it
to me but Emily, and she will be back at the right time, I am sure.
What o'clock is it?"

"Past five," replied Mrs. Hazleton, advancing the hour a little.

"Then it wants three quarters of an hour to the time," said Lady
Hastings, "and Emily has only gone to take a walk. We are expecting
Marlow to-night, so she will not go far I am sure."

Mrs. Hazleton fell into profound thought. In proposing to give Lady
Hastings the portion herself, she had deviated a little from her
original plan. She had intended all along, that the mortal draught
should be administered by the hand of Emily, and she had only been
tempted to depart from that purpose by the fear of Lady Hastings
withdrawing her opposition to her daughter's marriage with Marlow
before the deed was fully accomplished. There was no help for it,
however. She was obliged to take her chance of the result; and while
she mused at that moment, vague notions--what shall I call them?--not
exactly schemes or purposes, but rather dreams of turning suspicion
upon Emily herself, of making men believe--suspect, even if they could
not prove--that the daughter knowingly deprived the mother of life,
crossed her imagination. She meditated rather longer than was quite
decorous, and then suddenly recollecting herself she said, "By the
way, has Emily yet condescended to particularize her astounding
charges against your poor friend? I am really anxious to hear them,
and although I confess that the matter has afforded me some amusement,
it has brought painful feelings and doubts with it too: I have
sometimes fancied, my dear friend, that there is a slight aberration
in your poor Emily's mind, and I can account for her conduct in this
instance by no other mode. You know her grandfather, Sir John, had
moments when he was hardly sane. I have heard your own good father
declare upon one occasion, that Sir John was as mad as a lunatic. Tell
me then, has Emily brought forward any proofs, or alluded to these
accusations since I saw you? You said she would explain all in a few
hours."

"She has not as yet explained all," replied Lady Hastings, "but I
cannot deny that she has alluded to the charges, and repeated them all
distinctly. She said that the delay had been rather longer than she
expected; but that as soon as Mr. Dixwell came, every thing should be
told."

"The suspense is unpleasant," said Mrs. Hazleton, somewhat
sarcastically; "I trust the young lady does not play with the feelings
of her lover as she does with those of her friends, otherwise I should
pity Marlow."

Lady Hastings was a good deal nettled. "I do not think he much
deserves your pity," she replied; "and besides, I think he is quite
satisfied with Emily's conduct, as I am also. I am quite confident she
has good reason for what she says, my dear Madam--not that I mean to
assert that the charges are true, by any means--she may be mistaken,
you know--she may be misinformed--but that she brings them in good
faith, and fully believes that she can prove them distinctly, I do not
for a moment doubt. If she is wrong, nobody will be more grieved, or
more ready to make atonement than herself; but whether she is right or
wrong, remains to be proved."

"All that I have to request then is," said Mrs. Hazleton, "that you
will be kind enough to let me know, immediately you are yourself
informed, what are the specific charges, and upon what grounds they
rest. That they must be false, I know; and therefore I shall give
myself no uneasiness about them. All I regret is, that you should be
troubled about what must be frivolous and absurd. Nevertheless, I must
beg you to let me hear immediately."

"Sir Philip will do that," replied Lady Hastings, coldly. "If Emily is
right in her views, the matter will require the intervention of a man.
It will be too serious for a woman to deal with."

"Oh, very well," said Mrs. Hazleton, with an air of offended dignity.
"Good morning, my dear Lady;" and she quitted the room.

She paused upon the broad staircase for two or three minutes, leaning
upon the balustrade in deep thought; but when she descended to the
hall, she asked a servant who stood there if Mistress Emily had
returned. The man replied in the negative, and she then inquired for
Sir Philip, asking to see him.

The servant said he was in his library, and proceeded to announce her.
She followed him so closely as to enter the room almost at the same
moment, and beheld Sir Philip Hastings, with his head leaning on his
hand, sitting at the table and gazing earnestly down upon it. There
was a book before him, but it was closed.

"I beg pardon for intruding, my dear sir," said Mrs. Hazleton, "but I
wished to ask if you know where Emily is. I want to speak with her."

"I know nothing about her," said Sir Philip, abruptly; and then
muttered to himself, "would I knew more."

"I thought I saw her in the fields as I came," said Mrs. Hazleton,
"gathering flowers and herbs--she is fond of botany, I believe."

"I know not," said Sir Philip, recovering himself a little. "Pray be
seated, Madam--I have not attended much to her studies lately."

"Thank you, I must go," said Mrs. Hazleton. "Perhaps I shall meet her
as I drive along. Do not let me interrupt you, do not let me interrupt
you;" and she quietly quitted the room.

"Gathering herbs!" said Sir Philip Hastings, "what new whim is this?"




CHAPTER XLVII.


Emily Hastings was not three hundred yards from the house when Mrs.
Hazleton drove away from the house door. She had never been more than
three hundred yards from it during that day. She had gathered no
herbs, she had wandered through no fields; but, at her mother's
earnest request, she had gone out to breathe the fresh air for half an
hour, and had ascended through the gardens to a little terrace on the
hill, where she had continued to walk up and down under the shade of
some tall trees; had seen Mrs. Hazleton arrive, and saw her depart.
The scene which the terrace commanded was very beautiful in itself,
and the house below, the well-cultivated gardens, a fountain here and
there, neat hedge-rows, and trim, well-ordered fields, gave the whole
an air of home comfort, and peaceful affluence, such as few countries
but England can display.

I have shown, or should have shown, that Emily was somewhat of an
impressible character, and the brightness and the pleasant character
of the scene had its usual effect in cheering. Certainly, to any one
who had stood near her, looking over even that fair prospect, she
herself would have been the loveliest object in it. Every year had
brought out some new beauty in her face, and without diminishing one
charm of extreme youth, had expanded her fair form into womanly
richness. The contour of every limb was perfect: the whole in symmetry
complete; and her movements, as she walked to and fro, upon the
terrace, were all full of that easy, floating grace, which requires a
combination of youth and health, and fine proportion, and a pure, high
mind. If there was a defect it was that she was somewhat pale that
day; for she had not slept at all during the preceding night from
agitated feelings, and busy thoughts that would not rest. But the
slight degree of languor, which watching and anxiety had given, was
not without its own peculiar charm, and the liquid brightness of her
eyes seemed but the more dazzling for the drooping of the eyelid, with
its long sweeping fringe.

There was a mixture, too, strange as it may seem to say so, of sadness
and cheerfulness, in the expression of her face that day--perhaps I
should say an alternation of the two expressions; but the change from
the one to the other was too rapid for distinctness; and the well of
feelings from which the expressions flowed, was of very mingled
waters. The scene of death and suffering which she had lately
witnessed at the cottage, her father's wild and gloomy manner, her
mother's sickness, the displeasure of one parent, however unjust, and
the opposition of another, to her dearest wishes, however
unreasonable, naturally produced anxiety and sadness. But then again,
on the other hand, Marlow's letter had cheered and comforted her much;
the prospect of seeing him so speedily, rejoiced her more than she had
even anticipated, and the certainty that a few short hours would
remove for ever all doubts as to her conduct, her thoughts and her
feelings, from the mind of both her parents, and especially from that
of her father, gave her strength and happy confidence.

Poor Emily! How lovely she looked as she walked along there with the
ever varying expressions fluttering over her face, and her rich
nut-brown hair, free and uncovered, floating in curls on the sportive
breath of the breeze.

When first she came out the general tone of her feelings was sad; but
the bright hopes seemed to in vigor in the open air, and her mind
fixed more and more gladly on the theme of Marlow's letter. As it did
so she extracted fresh motives of comfort from it. He had given her
many details in regard to his late proceedings. He had openly and
plainly spoken of the conduct of Mrs. Hazleton, and told her he could
prove the facts which he asserted. He had not even hinted at an
injunction to secrecy, and although her first impulse had been to wait
for his arrival and let him explain the whole himself, yet, as it was
now getting late in the day, and he had not come--as the obligation to
secrecy, laid upon her by John Ayliffe, might not be removed till the
following morning, and her mother was evidently anxious and uneasy for
want of all explanations--Emily thought she might be fully justified
in reading more of Marlow's letter to Lady Hastings than she had
hitherto done, and showing her that she had asserted nothing without
reasonable cause. The sight of Mrs. Hazleton's carriage arriving
confirmed her in this intention. She knew that fair lady to possess
very great influence over her mother's mind. She believed that
influence to have been always exerted balefully, and she judged it
better, much better, to cut it short at once, rather than suffer it to
endure even for another day.

When she saw the carriage drive away, then, she returned rapidly to
the house, went to her room to get Marlow's letter, and then proceeded
to her mother's chamber.

"Mrs. Hazleton has been here, my love," said Lady Hastings, as soon as
Emily approached, "and really, she has been very strange and
disagreeable. She seems, not to have the slightest consideration for
me; but even in my weak state, says every thing that can agitate and
annoy me."

"I trust, my dear mother, that you will see her no more," said Emily.
"The full proofs of what I told you concerning her. I cannot yet give;
but Marlow lays me under no injunction to secrecy, and I have brought
his letter to read you the part in which he speaks of her. That will
show you quite enough to convince you that Mrs. Hazleton should never
be permitted within these doors again."

"Oh read it, pray read it, my dear," said Lady Hastings. "I am all
anxiety to know the facts; for really one does not know how to behave
to this woman, and I feel in a very awkward position towards her."

Emily sat down by the bedside and read, word for word, all that Marlow
had written in reference to Mrs. Hazleton, which was interspersed,
here and there, with many kindly and respectful expressions towards
Lady Hastings and her husband, which he knew well would be gratifying
to her whom he addressed. His statements were all clear and precise,
and from them Lady Hastings learned he had obtained proof, from
various different sources, that her seeming friend had knowingly and
willingly supplied John Ayliffe with the means of carrying on his
fraudulent suit against Sir Philip Hastings: that she had been his
counsel and cooperator in all his proceedings, and had suggested many
of the most criminal steps he had taken. The last passage which Emily
read was remarkable: "To see into the dark abyss of that woman's
heart, my dearest Emily," he said, "is more than I can pretend to do;
but it is perfectly clear that she has been moved in all her
proceedings for some years, by bitter personal hatred towards Sir
Philip, Lady Hastings, and yourself. Mere self-interest--to which she
is by no means insensible on ordinary occasions--has been sacrificed
to the gratification of malice, and she has even gone so far as to
place herself in a situation of considerable peril for the purpose of
ruining your excellent father, and making your mother and yourself
unhappy. What offence has been committed by any of your family to
merit such persevering and ruthless hatred, I cannot tell. I only know
that it must have been unintentional; but that it has not been the
less bitterly revenged. Perhaps the disclosures which must be made as
soon as I return, may give us some insight into the cause; but at
present I can only tell you the result."

"My dear Emily," said Lady Hastings, "your father should know this
immediately. He has been very sad and gloomy since his return. I
really cannot tell what is the matter with him; but something weighs
upon his spirits, evidently; but this news will give him relief, or,
at all events, will divert his thoughts. It was very natural, my dear
girl, that you should first tell your mother, but I really think that
we must now take him into our councils."

"I will go and ask him to come here, at once," said Emily. "I think my
dear father has not understood me rightly lately, and has chilled me
by cold looks and words when I would fain have spoken to him, and
poured my whole thoughts into his bosom. Oh, I shall be glad to do any
thing to regain his confidence; and although I know it must be
regained in a very, very short space of time, yet I would gladly do
any thing to prevent its being withheld from me even a moment longer."

She took a step towards the door as she spoke; but Lady Hastings;
unhappily, called her back. "Stay, my Emily," she said. "Come hither,
my dear child; I have something to say that will cheer you and comfort
you, and give you strength to meet any little crosses of your father's
with patience and resignation. He has been sorely tried, and is much
troubled. But I was going to say, dear Emily," and she threw her arms
round her daughter's neck as she leaned over her, "that I have been
thinking much of all that was said the other day, in regard to your
marriage with Marlow. I see that your heart is set upon it, and that
you can only be happy in a union with him. I know him to be a good and
excellent young man; and after all that he has done to serve us, I
must not interpose your wishes any longer; although, perhaps, I might
have chosen differently for you had the choice rested with me. I give
you, therefore, my full and free consent, Emily, and trust you will be
as happy as you deserve, my dear girl. I think you might very well
have made a higher alliance, but----"

"But none that would have made me half so happy," replied Emily,
embracing her mother. "Oh, dear mother, if you could know the load you
take from my heart, you would be amply repaid for any sacrifice of
opinion you make to your child's happiness. I cannot conceive any
situation more painful to be placed in than a conflict between two
duties. My positive promise to Marlow, my obedience to you, are now
reconciled, and I thank you a thousand thousand times for having thus
relieved me from so terrible a struggle."

The tears rose in her eyes as she spoke, and Lady Hastings made her
sit down by her bedside, saying--"Nay, my dear child, do not suffer
yourself to be so much agitated. I did not know till the other day,"
she said, feeling some self-reproach at having been brought to play
the part she had acted lately, "I did not know till the other day that
you were really so much in love, my Emily. But I have known what such
feelings are, and can sympathize with you. Indeed I should have
yielded long ago if it had not been for the persuasions of that horrid
Mrs. Hazleton. She always stood in the way of every thing I wanted to
do, and would not even let me know the truth about your real
feelings--pretending all the time to be my friend too!"

"She has been a friend to none of us, I fear," replied Emily, "and to
me especially an enemy; although I cannot at all tell what I ever did
to merit such pertinacious hatred as she seems to feel towards me."

"Do you know, my child," said Lady Hastings, with a meaning smile, "I
have been sometimes inclined to think that she wished to marry Marlow
herself?"

Emily started and looked aghast, and then that delicate feeling, that
sensitiveness for the dignity of woman's nature, which none, I
suspect, but woman's heart can clearly comprehend, caused her cheek to
glow like a rose with shame at the very thought of a woman loving
unloved, and seeking unsought. She felt, however, at once, that there
might be--that there probably was--much truth in what her mother said,
that she had touched the true point, and had discovered one at least
of the causes of Mrs. Hazleton's strange conduct. Nevertheless, she
answered, "Oh, dear mother, I hope it is not so. Sure I am that Marlow
would never trifle with any woman's love, and I cannot think that Mrs.
Hazleton would so degrade herself as even to dream of a man who never
dreamt of her; besides, she is old enough to be his mother."

"Not quite, my child, not quite," replied Lady Hastings. "She is, I
believe, younger than I am; and though old enough to be your mother,
Emily, I could not have been Marlow's, unless I had married at ten
years old. Besides, she is very beautiful, and she knows it, and may
have thought that such beauty as hers, and her great wealth, might
well make up for a small difference of years."

"Perhaps you are right," replied Emily, thoughtfully, as many a
circumstance flashed upon her memory, which had seemed, to her dark
and mysterious in times past; but to which the cause suggested by her
mother seemed now to afford a key. "But if it was me, only, she
hated," added Emily, "why should she so persecute my father and
yourself?"

"Perhaps," replied Lady Hastings, speaking with a clear-sighted wisdom
which she seldom evinced, "perhaps because she knew that the most
terrible blows are those which are aimed at us through those we love.
Besides, one cannot tell what offence your father may have given. He
is very plain spoken, and not accustomed to deal very tenderly. Now
Mrs. Hazleton is not well pleased to hear plain truths, nor to bear
with patience any sharpness or abruptness of manner. Moreover, my
child, I have heard that it was old Sir John Hastings' wish, when we
were all young and free, that your father should marry Mrs. Hazleton.
But he preferred another, perhaps less worthy of him in every
respect."

"Oh, no, no." cried Emily, with eager affection. "More worthy of him a
thousand times in all ways. More good--more kind--more beautiful."

"Nay, nay, flatterer," said Lady Hastings, with a smile. "I was well
enough to look at once, Emily, and more to his taste. That is enough.
My glass tells me clearly that I cannot compete with Mrs. Hazleton
now. But it is growing dark, my dear, I must have lights."

"I will ring for them, and then go and seek my father," replied Emily.

She rang, and the maid appeared from the anteroom, just as Lady
Hastings was saying that it was time to take her medicine. Emily took
up the vial and the spoon, poured out the quantity prescribed, with a
steady hand, very unlike that with which Mrs. Hazleton had held the
same bottle an hour before, and having put the dose into a wine-glass,
handed it to her mother.

"Bring lights," said Lady Hastings, addressing her maid; and the
moment after, she raised the glass to her lips, and drank the
contents.

"It tastes very odd, Emily," she said, "I think it must be spoiled by
the heat of the room."

"Indeed," said Emily. "That is very strange. The last vial kept quite
well. But Mr. Short will be here to-night, and we will make him send
some more."

She paused for a moment or two, and then added, "Now, shall I go for my
father?"

"No," said Lady Hastings, somewhat faintly; "wait till the girl comes
back with the lights."

She was silent for a few moments, and then raised herself suddenly on
her arm, saying in a tone of great alarm, "Emily, Emily! I feel very
ill.--Good God, I feel very ill!"

Emily sprang to her side and threw her arm round her; but the next
instant Lady Hastings uttered a fearful scream, like the cry of a
sea-bird, and her head fell back upon her daughter's arm.

Emily rang the bell violently: ran to the door and shrieked loudly for
aid; for she saw too well that her mother was dying.

The maid, several of the other servants, and Sir Philip Hastings
himself, rushed into the room. Lights were brought: Mr. Short was sent
for; but ere the servant had well passed the gates, Lady Hastings,
after a few convulsive sobs, had yielded up her spirit.




CHAPTER XLVIII.


When the surgeon entered the room of Lady Hastings there was a
profound silence. Sir Philip Hastings was standing by his wife's
bedside, motionless as a statue; gazing with a knitted brow and fixed
stony eye upon the features of her whom he had so well and constantly
loved. Emily lay fainting upon the floor, with her head supported by
one of the maids, while another tried to recall her to life. Two more
servants were the room, but they, like all the rest, remained silent
in presence of the awful scene before them. The windows were not yet
closed, and the faint, struggling, gray twilight, came in, and mingled
sombrely with the pale light of the wax candles, giving even a more
deathlike hue to the face of the corpse, and throwing strange crossing
lights and shades upon features which remained convulsed even after
the agony of death was past.

"Good God! Sir Philip, what is this I hear?" exclaimed Mr. Short
before he caught the whole particulars of the scene.

Sir Philip Hastings made no answer. He did not even seem to hear; and
the surgeon advanced to the bedside, and gazed for an instant on the
face of Lady Hastings. He took her hand in his. It was still warm; but
when he put his fingers on her wrist, no pulse vibrated beneath his
touch. The heart, too, was quite still: not a flutter indicated a
lingering spark of vitality. The breath was gone; and though the
surgeon sought on the dressing-table for a small mirror, and applied
it to the lips, it remained undimmed. He shook his head sadly; but yet
he made some efforts. He took a vial of essence from his pocket, and
applied it to the nostrils; he opened a vein, and a few drops of blood
issued from it, but stopped immediately; and several other experiments
he tried, that not a lingering doubt might remain of death having
taken possession completely.

At length he ceased, saying, "It is in vain. How did this happen? It
is very strange. There was not an indication of such an event
yesterday. She was decidedly better."

"And so she was this morning, sir," said Lady, Hastings' maid; "she
slept quite well too, sir, before Mrs. Hazleton came."

Sir Philip Hastings remained profoundly silent; but Mr. Short gave a
sudden start at the name of Mrs. Hazleton, and asked the maid when
that lady had left her mistress.

"Not half an hour before her death, sir," replied the maid; "and even
for a little time after she was gone, my lady seemed quite well and
cheerful with Mistress Emily."

"Were you with her when she was seized so suddenly?" asked the
surgeon.

"No, sir," said the maid. "No one was with her but Mistress Emily. My
lady had sent me away for lights; but just when I was coming up the
stairs, I heard my young lady ringing the bell violently, and
screaming for help, and in two minutes after I came in my lady was
dead."

"I must hear the first symptoms," said Mr. Short, "and this dear young
lady needs attending to. If I know her right, this shock will well
nigh kill her."

He moved towards Emily as he spoke, but in passing across, his eye
lighted upon the vial which was standing upon the table at the
bedside, with the spoon and wine-glass which had been used in
administering the medicine. Something in the appearance of the bottle
seemed to strike him suddenly, and he raised it sharply and held it to
the candle. "Good God!" exclaimed Mr. Short; "Good God!" and his face
turned as pale as death, and a fit of trembling seized upon him.

It was several moments before he uttered another word. He put his hand
to his brow, and seemed to think deeply and anxiously. Then he
examined the bottle again, took out the cork, held it to his nostrils,
tasted a single drop poured upon the end of his finger, and shook his
head sadly and solemnly. Every eye but those of the maid, who was
supporting Emily's head, was now turned upon him. There was something
in his manner so unusual, so strange, that even the attention of Sir
Philip Hastings was attracted by it; and he looked gloomily at the
surgeon for a moment, as if in a dreamy wonder at his proceedings.

At length, Mr. Short spoke again. "Can any body tell me," he said,
"when Lady Hastings took a dose of this stuff?"

No one remarked the irreverent term which he applied to the contents
of the vial; for every one who listened to him would probably have
given it the same name, had it been a mithridate; but the maid of the
deceased lady replied at once, "Only a few minutes before she died,
sir. I saw her take it myself."

"Who gave it to her?" demanded the surgeon, sternly.

"My young lady, sir," answered the maid, "just before I went for the
lights, and I am sure she did not give her a drop too much of it; for
she measured it out carefully in the spoon before she put it into the
glass."

Mr. Short remained silent again, and Sir Philip Hastings spoke for the
first time with a great effort.

"What is the matter, sir?" he asked, gloomily; "you seem confounded,
thunder-struck. What has befallen to draw your eyes from that?" and he
pointed to the bed of his dead wife.

"I am bound to say, Sir Philip," replied Mr. Short, "that it is my
belief that the dose given to Lady Hastings from that bottle, has been
the cause of her death. In a word, I believe it to be poison."

Sir Philip Hastings gazed in his face with a wild look of horror. His
teeth chattered in his head, his whole frame shook visibly to the eyes
of those around, but he uttered not a word, and it was the maid who
answered, exclaiming in a shrill voice, "Oh, how horrible! How could
you send my lady such stuff?"

"I never sent it to her, woman!" said Mr. Short, sternly; "if you had
eyes you would see that it is not of the same color, nor has it the
same taste of that which I sent. It is different in every respect; and
if no other proof were wanting that which I sent Lady Hastings was
harmless, it would be sufficient to say, that the last vial I brought
was delivered to you yourself yesterday quite full, that Lady Hastings
ought to have taken four or five doses of that medicine between that
time and this, and----"

"Oh, yes!" exclaimed the maid, interrupting him, "she took it quite
regularly. I saw Mistress Emily give her three doses myself."

"Well, did those hurt her?" asked Mr. Short, sharply.

"I can't say they did," replied the woman, "indeed she always seemed
better a little while after taking them."

"Well that shows that this is not the same," said Mr. Short; "besides,
this bottle has never come out of my surgery. I always choose mine
perfectly clear and white, that I may be enabled to see if the
medicine is at all troubled or not. This has a green tinge, and must
have come from some common druggist's, and the stuff that it contains
must be strictly analyzed."

As he spoke, Sir Philip Hastings strode up to him, grasped his hand,
and wrung it hard, saying in a hollow husky tone, and pointing to the
bottle, "What is it you mean? What is it all about? What is that?"

"Poison! Sir Philip," replied Mr. Short, moved by the feelings of the
moment beyond all his ordinary prudence; "poison! and I very much fear
that it has been administered to your poor lady intentionally."

"Gathering herbs!--gathering herbs!" screamed Sir Philip Hastings,
like a madman; and tearing the hair out of his head, he rushed away
from the room, and locked himself into his library.

No one could tell to what his words alluded, nor did they trouble
themselves much to discover; for every one at once concluded that the
shock of his wife's sudden death, and the discovery of its terrible
cause, had driven him insane.

"Oh, do run after my master, sir," cried the maid; "he has gone into
the library, I heard him bang the door."

"Has he got any arms there?" asked Mr. Short, "there used to be
pistols at the Hall."

"No, sir, no," exclaimed one of the housemaids, "they are not there.
They are in his dressing-room out yonder."

"Well, then, I will leave him alone for the present," said the
surgeon; "here is one who demands more immediate care. Poor young
lady! If she should discover, in her present state of grief, how her
mother has died, and that her hand has been employed to produce such a
catastrophe, it will destroy either her life or her intellect."

"But who could have done it, sir?" exclaimed Lady Hastings' maid.

"Never you mind that for the present," said Mr. Short; "I have my
suspicions; but they are no more than suspicions at present. You stay
with me here, and let the other woman carry your poor young lady to
her room. I will be with her presently, and will give her what will do
her good. One of you, as soon as possible, send me up a man-servant--a
groom would be best."

His orders were obeyed promptly; for he spoke with a tone of decision
and command which the terrible circumstances of the moment enabled him
to assume; although in ordinary circumstances he was a man of mild and
gentle character.

As soon as poor Emily was borne away to her own chamber, Mr. Short
turned to the maid again, inquiring, "How long had Mistress Hazleton
gone when your mistress was seized with these fatal convulsions?"

"About half an hour, sir," said the maid. "It couldn't have been
longer. Mrs. Hazleton came when my lady was asleep, and went in alone,
saying she would not disturb her."

"Ha!" cried the surgeon; "was she with her for any time alone?"

"All the time that she staid, sir," replied the maid; "for I did not
like to go in, and Mistress Emily was walking on the terrace up the
hill."

"I suppose then you cannot tell how long Mrs. Hazleton remained alone
with your lady before she woke?"

"Yes, I can pretty nearly, sir," answered the maid, "for though Mrs.
Hazleton told me not to come in with her, and said she would ring when
my lady waked, I came after her into the anteroom, and sat there all
the time. For about five minutes, or it might be ten, all was quiet
enough; but at the end of that time I heard my lady and Mrs. Hazleton
begin to speak."

"You heard no other sounds previously?" asked the surgeon.

"Nothing but the rustle of Mrs. Hazleton's gown, as she moved about
once or twice," said the maid, "and of that I can't be rightly sure."

"You did not by chance look through the key-hole?" asked Mr. Short.

"No, that I didn't," said the maid, tossing her head, "I never did
such a thing in my life."

"Well, well. Get me a sheet of paper," replied the surgeon, "and a pen
and ink--oh, they are here are they?" But before he could sit down to
write, a groom crept in through the half-open door, and received
orders from the surgeon to saddle a horse instantly and return. Mr.
Short then sat down and wrote as follows:

"Ma. ATKINSON:--As you are high constable of Hartwell, I write as a
justice of the peace for the county of ----, to authorize and require
you to follow immediately the carriage of The Honorable Mistress
Hazleton, to apprehend that lady and to keep her in your safe custody,
taking care that her person be immediately searched by some proper
person, and that any vials, bottles, powders, or other objects
whatsoever bearing the appearance of drugs or medicines, or of having
contained them, be carefully preserved, and marked for identification.
I have not time or menus to fill up a regular warrant; but I will
justify you in, and be responsible for, whatever you may do to insure
that Mrs. Hazleton has no means or opportunity allowed her of
concealing or making away with any thing she has carried away from
this house, where Lady Hastings has just deceased from the effects of
poison. You had better take the fresh horse of the bearer, and lose
not an instant in overtaking the carriage."

He then signed his name just as the groom returned; but ere he gave
the man the paper he added in a postscript:

"You had better search the carriage minutely, and make any preliminary
investigation that you may think fit before I arrive. The hints given
above will be sufficient for your guidance."

"Take this paper immediately to Jenny Best's cottage," said Mr. Short
to the groom. "Ask if Mr. Atkinson is there. Should he be so, give it
to him, and let him take your horse if he requires it. Should you not
find him there, seek for him either at the house of Mr. Dixwell, or at
the farm close by. Should he be at neither of those places, follow him
on to his house near Hartwell at full speed. Do you understand?"

"Oh, quite well, sir," said the groom, who was a shrewd, keen fellow;
and he left the room without more words.

When he got down to the hall door, however, he thought he might as
well know more of his errand, and read the paper which he had received
with the butler and the foot man. A brief consultation followed
between them, and not a little horror and anger was excited by the
information they had gained from the paper, for Lady Hastings had been
well loved by her servants, and Mrs. Hazleton was but little loved by
any of her inferiors in station.

"Go you on, John, as fast as possible," said the footman, "I'll get, a
horse and come after you as fast as possible with Harry; for this
grand dame has three servants with her, and mayn't choose to be taken
easily."

"Ay, come along, come along," said the groom; "we'll run her down,
I'll warrant," and hurrying away he got to his horse's back.

In the mean time Mr. Short had proceeded to the room of poor Emily
Hastings, whom he found recovering from her fainting fit, and sobbing
in the bitterness of grief.

"Oh, Mr. Short," she said, "this is very terrible. There surely was
something wrong about that medicine, for my poor mother was taken ill
the moment she had swallowed it. She had had the same quantity three
times to-day before; but she said that it tasted strange and
unpleasant. It could not surely have been spoiled by keeping so short
a time, and that could not have killed her even if it had been so.
Pray do examine it."

"I will, I will, my dear," replied Mr. Short kindly, "but I don't
think the medicine I sent could spoil, and if it did it could have no
evil effect. Now quiet yourself, my dear Mistress Emily; I am going to
give you a draught which will soothe your nerves, and fit you better
to bear all these terrible things."

He then had recourse to the little store of medicines he usually
carried in his pocket, and administered first a stimulant and then a
somewhat powerful narcotic. For about ten minutes he remained seated
by Emily's bedside with her own maid standing at the foot, and during
that time the poor girl spoke once or twice, asking anxiously after
her father, and expressing a great desire to go to him. Gradually,
however, her eyelid's began to droop, her sentences remained
unfinished, and, in the end, she fell into a deep and profound sleep.

"She will not wake for six or eight hours," said Mr. Short, addressing
the maid. "But when she does wake it would be better you should be
with her, my good girl. If you like, therefore, you can go and take
some rest in the meanwhile; but order yourself to be called at the end
of five hours."

"If you are quite sure that she will remain asleep, sir," said the
maid, "I will lie down, for I am sure sorrow wearies one more than
work."

"She won't wake," said Mr. Short, "for six hours at least. I will now
go and see Sir Philip," and descending the stairs he knocked at the
door of the library, thinking that probably he should find it locked.
The stern voice of Sir Philip Hastings, however, said "Come in," in a
wonderfully calm tone; and when the surgeon entered he found Sir
Philip seated at the library table, and apparently reading a Greek
book, the contents of which Mr. Short could not at all divine.




CHAPTER XLIX.


I must now follow the groom on his road, first to the cottage of good
Jenny Best, where he learned that Mr. Atkinson had gone away some five
minutes before, and then to the house of the neighboring farm, where
he found the person he sought still seated on his horse, but talking
to the tenant at the door.

"Here, Mr. Atkinson," cried the groom as he came up; "here's a note
for you from Mr. Short the surgeon--a sort of warrant, I believe; for
he's a justice of the peace, you know, as well as a surgeon. Read it
quick, Mr. Atkinson, read it quick; for it won't keep hot long; and if
that woman isn't caught I think I'll hang myself."

"Bring us a light, farmer," said Mr. Atkinson, "quickly. What is all
this about, John?"

"Why, Madam Hazleton has poisoned my lady, and she's as dead as a door
nail," said the groom, "that's all; and bad enough too. Zounds, I
thought she'd do some mischief; she was always so hard upon her
horses."

"Good heaven!" exclaimed Mr. Atkinson, "you do not mean to say that
she has certainly poisoned Lady Hastings?"

"Why, Mr. Short believes it, and every one believes it," answered the
groom.

Mr. Atkinson might have endeavored to reduce the number comprised in
the term "every body" to its just proportions; but before he could do
so, the farmer returned with a light shaded from the wind by his hat;
and the good high constable of Hartwell, bending over his saddle, read
hurriedly Mr. Short's brief note.

"What's the matter? what's the matter?" cried the farmer; and great
was his surprise and consternation to hear that Lady Hastings was
dead, and that strong suspicion existed of her having been poisoned by
Mrs. Hazleton. There is a stern, dogged love of justice, however, in
the English peasant, which rises into energy and excitement; and the
farmer was instantly heard calling for his horse.

"Zounds, I'll ride with you, Atkinson," he said. "This great dame has
got so many servants, she may think fit to set the law at defiance;
but she must be taught that high people cannot poison other people any
more than low ones. But you go on; you go on. I'll catch you up,
perhaps. If not, I'll come in time, don't you be afraid."

"I'm going along too," said the groom, "and two others are coming; so
if her tall men show fight, I think we'll leather their jackets."

Away they went as fast as they could go, and to say truth, Mr.
Atkinson was not at all sorry to have some assistance; for without
ever committing any one act which could be characterized as criminal,
unjust, or wrong, within the knowledge of her neighbors, Mrs.
Hazleton had somehow impressed the minds of all who surrounded her
with the conviction, that hers was a most daring and remorseless
nature. The general world received their impression of her
character--and often a false one, be it good or evil--by her greater
and more important actions: the little circle that surrounds us forms
a slower but more certain judgment from minute but often repeated
traits.

On rode Mr. Atkinson and the groom, as fast as their horses could
carry them. Wherever there was turf by the road-side they galloped;
and at the rate of progression made by carriages in that day, they
made sure they must be gaining very rapidly upon the object of their
pursuit. When first they set out it was very dark; but at the end of
twenty minutes, in which period they had ridden somewhat more than
four miles, the edge of the moon began to appear above the horizon,
and her light showed them well nigh another mile on the road before
them. Still no carriage was in sight, and the groom exclaimed, "Dang
it, Mr. Atkinson, we must spur on, or she will get home before we
catch her."

It is impossible to run after any thing without feeling some of the
eagerness of the foxhound, and, it is not to be denied that Mr.
Atkinson shared in some degree in the impetuous spirit of the chase
with the groom. He said nothing about it, indeed; but he made his
spurs mark his horse's sides, and on they went up the opposite slope
at a quicker pace than ever. From the top was a very considerable
descent into the bottom of the valley; in which Hartwell is situated;
but the moon had not yet risen high enough to illuminate more than
half the scene, and darkness, doubly dark, seemed to have gathered
over the low grounds beneath the eyes of the two horsemen.

Mr. Atkinson thought he perceived some large object below, moving on
towards Hartwell; but he could not be sure of it till he had descended
some way down the hill, when the carriage of Mrs. Hazleton, mounting a
little rise into the moonlight, became plainly visible to the eye. The
groom took off his cap and waved it, saying, "Tally ho!" but neither
he nor his companion paused in their rapid course, but went thundering
down at the risk of their necks, and of their horses' knees. The
carriage moved slowly; the pursuers went very fast: and at the end of
about four minutes they had reached and passed the two mounted
men-servants, who, as customary in those days, rode behind the
vehicle. Robberies on the highway were by no means uncommon; so that
it was the custom for the attendants upon a carriage to travel armed,
and Mrs. Hazleton's two men instantly laid their hands upon the
holsters of their pistols, when those too rapid riders passed them at
such a furious pace. Mr. Atkinson, however, was not a man to be easily
frightened from any thing he undertook, and wheeling his horse sharply
when in a little advance of the coachman, he exclaimed, "In the King's
name I command you to stop. I am James Atkinson, high constable of
Hartwell. You know me, sir; and I command you in the King's name to
stop!"

"Why, Master Atkinson, what is all this about?" cried the coachman.
"There is nobody but Mrs. Hazleton here. Don't you know the carriage?"

"Quite well," replied Mr. Atkinson; "but you hear what I say, and will
disobey at your peril. John, ride round to the other side, while I
speak to the lady here."

Now Mrs. Hazleton had heard the whole of this conversation, and had
there been sufficient light, Mr. Atkinson, whose eye was turned
towards where she sat, would have seen her turn deadly pale. It might
naturally be supposed that in any ordinary circumstances she would
have directed her first attention to the side from which the sounds
proceeded; but so far from that being the case, she instantly put her
hand in her pocket, and was almost in the act of throwing something
into the road, when John the groom presented himself at the window,
and she stopped suddenly.

"What is it, Mr. Atkinson?" she exclaimed, turning to the other
window, and speaking in a tone of high indignation. "Why do you
presume to stop my carriage on the King's highway?"

"Because I am ordered, Madam, by lawful authority, so to do." replied
Mr. Atkinson. "I am sorry, Madam, to tell you that you must consider
yourself as a prisoner."

Mrs. Hazleton would fain have asked upon what charge; but she did not
dare, and for a moment strength and courage failed her. It was but for
a moment, however, and in the next she exclaimed in a loud and more
imperious tone than ever, "This is a pretence for robbery or insult.
Drive on, coachman. Mathew--Rogerson--clear the way!"

She reckoned wrongly, however, if she counted upon any great zeal in
her servants. The two men hesitated; for the King's name was a tower
of strength which they did not at all like to assail. Their mistress
repeated her order in an angry tone, and one of them, with habitual
deference to her commands, went so far as to cock the pistol which he
now held in his hand; but at that moment the adverse party received an
accession of strength which rendered all assistance hopeless. The
other two servants of Sir Philip Hastings came down the hill at full
speed, and a gentleman, followed by a servant, rode up from the side
of Hartwell, and addressed Mr. Atkinson by his name.

"Ah, Mr. Marlow!" said Mr. Atkinson. "You come at a very melancholy
moment, sir, and to witness a very unpleasant scene; but,
nevertheless; I must require your assistance, sir, as this lady seems
inclined to resist the law."

"What is the matter?" asked Marlow. "I hope there is no mistake here.
If I see rightly this is Mrs. Hazleton's carriage. What is she charged
with?"

"Murder, sir," replied. Mr. Atkinson, who had been a little irritated
by the lady's resistance, and spoke more plainly than he might
otherwise have done. "The murder of Lady Hastings by poison."

It was spoken. She heard the words clearly and distinctly. She
had been detected. Some small oversight--some accidental
circumstance--some precaution forgotten--some accidental word, or
gesture, had betrayed the dark secret, revealed the terrible crime. It
was all known to men, as well as to God, and Mrs. Hazleton sunk back
in the carriage overpowered by the agony of detection.

"Oh, ho; here come the other men," said Mr. Atkinson, as the two
servants of Sir Philip Hastings rode up. "Now, coachman, drive on till
I tell you to stop. You, John, keep close to the other window, and
watch it well. I will take care of this one. The others come behind.
Mr. Marlow, you had perhaps better ride with us for half a mile or so;
for I must stop at the house of Widow Warmington, as I have orders to
make a strict search."

"Oh, take me to my own house--take me to my own house," said Mrs.
Hazleton, in a faint tone.

"I dare not venture to do that, Madam," said Mr. Atkinson; "for we are
nearly three miles distant, and accidents might happen by the way
which would defeat the ends of justice. I must have a full search made
at the very first place where I can procure lights. That will be at
Mrs. Warmington's; but she is a friend of your own, Madam, and you
will be received there with all kindness."

Mrs. Hazleton did not reply; and the carriage drove on, Mr. Atkinson
keeping a keen watch upon one window, and the groom riding close to
the other.

A few minutes brought them to the house of the shrewd widow, and the
bell was rung sharply by one of the servants. A woman servant appeared
in answer to the summons, and without asking whether her mistress was
at home, or not, Atkinson took the candle from her hand, saying, "Lend
me the light for a moment. I wish to light Mrs. Hazleton into the
house. Now, Madam, will you please to descend.--John, dismount, and
come round here; assist Mrs. Hazleton to alight, and come with us on
her other side."

Mrs. Hazleton saw that she could not double or turn there. She
withdrew her hand from her pocket where she had hitherto held it,
resumed her forgotten air of dignity, and though, to say the truth,
she would rather have met her "dearest foe in heaven," than have
entered that house so escorted, she walked with a firm step and
dauntless eye, with the high constable on one side, and groom on the
other.

"They shall not see me quail," she said to herself. "They shall not
see me quail. I know the worst, and I can meet it--I have had my
revenge."

In the mean time, the maid had run in haste to tell her mistress the
marvels of the scene she had just witnessed, and Mrs. Warmington had
gathered enough, without divining the whole, to rejoice her with
anticipated triumph. The arrest of Shanks the attorney on a charge of
conspiracy and forgery, had set going the hundred tongues of Rumor,
few of which had spared the name of Mrs. Hazleton; and Mrs.
Warmington, at the worst, suspected that her dear friend was
implicated in the guilt of the attorney. That, however, was sufficient
to give the widow considerable satisfaction, for she had not forgotten
either some coldness and neglect with which Mrs. Hazleton had treated
her for some time, or her impatient and insolent conduct that morning;
and though upon the strength of her plumpness, and easy manners,
people looked upon Mrs. Warmington as a very good natured person, yet
fat people can be very vindictive sometimes.

"Good gracious me, my dear, what is the matter?" exclaimed Mrs.
Warmington, as the prisoner was brought in, while Mr. Atkinson, in a
speaking to those behind, exclaimed, "Let no one touch or approach the
carriage till I return."

Mrs. Hazleton made no answer to her dear friend's questions, and the
high constable, taking a little step forward, said, "I beg pardon,
Mrs. Warmington, for intruding into your house; but I have been
ordered to apprehend this lady, and to have her person and her
carriage strictly searched, without giving the opportunity for the
concealment or destruction of any thing. It seems to me that Mrs.
Hazleton has something bulky in that left hand pocket. As I do not
like to put my hand rudely upon a lady, may I ask you, Madam, to let
me see what that pocket contains?"

Without the slightest hesitation, but with a good deal of curiosity,
Mrs. Warmington advanced at once and took hold of the rich silk
brocade of the prisoner's gown.

"Out, woman!" cried Mrs. Hazleton, with the fire flashing from her
eyes; and she struck her.

But Mrs. Warmington did not quit her hold or her purpose. "Good
gracious, what a termagant!" she exclaimed, and at once thrust her
right hand into the pocket, and drew forth the vial which had been
sent by the surgeon to Lady Hastings.

"Dear me!" exclaimed Mrs. Warmington. "Why, this is the very bottle I
saw you mixing stuff in this morning, when you seemed so angry and
vexed at my coming into the still-room.--No, it isn't the same either;
but it was one very like this, only darker in the the color."

"Ha!" said Mr. Atkinson. "Madam, will you have the goodness to put a
mark upon that bottle by which you can know it again?--Scratch it with
a diamond or something."

"Oh, poor I have no diamonds," said Mrs. Warmington. "My dear, will
you lend me that ring?"

Mrs. Hazleton gave her a withering glance, but made no reply; and
Marlow pointed to two peculiar spots in the glass of the bottle,
saying, "By those marks it will be known, so that it cannot be
mistaken." His words were addressed to Mr. Atkinson; for he felt
disgusted and sickened by the heartless and insulting tone of Mrs.
Warmington towards her former friend.

At the sound of his voice--for she had not yet looked at him--Mrs.
Hazleton started and looked round. It is not possible to tell the
feelings which affected her heart at that moment, or to picture with
the pen the varied expressions, all terrible, which swept over her
beautiful countenance like a storm. She remembered how she had loved
him. Perhaps at that moment she knew for the first time how much she
had loved him. She felt too, how strongly love and hate had been
mingled together by the fiery alchemy of disappointment, as veins of
incongruous metals have been mixed by the great convulsions of the
early earth. She felt too, at that moment, that it was this love and
this hate which had been the cause of her deepest crimes, and all
their consequences--the awful situation in which she there stood, the
lingering tortures of imprisonment, the agonies of trial, and the
bitter consummation of the scaffold.

"Oh, Marlow, Marlow," she cried--in a tone for the first time
sorrowful--"to see you mingling in these acts!"

"I have nothing to do with the present business, Mrs. Hazleton,"
replied Marlow, "but I am bound to say that in consequence of
information I have procured, it would have been my duty to have caused
your apprehension upon other charges, had not this, of which I know
nothing, been preferred against you. All is discovered, madam all is
known. With a slight clue, at first, I have pursued the intricate
labyrinth of your conduct for the last two years to its conclusion,
and every thing has been made plain as day.

"You, Marlow, you?" cried Mrs. Hazleton, fixing her eyes steadfastly
upon him, and then adding, as he bowed his head in token of assent,
"but all is not known, even to you. You shall know all, however,
before I die; and perhaps to know all may wring your heart, hard
though it be. But what am I talking of?" she continued, her face
becoming suddenly suffused with crimson, and her fine features
convulsed with rage. "All is discovered, is it? And you have done it
it? What matters it to me, then, whose heart is wrung--or what becomes
of you, or me, or any one? A drop more or less is nothing in the
overflowing well. Why should I struggle longer? Why should I hide any
thing? Why should I fly from this charge to meet another? I did it--I
poisoned her--I put the drug by her bedside. It is all true--I did it
all--I have had my revenge as far as it could be obtained, and now do
with me what you like. But remember, Marlow, remember, if Emily
Hastings marries you, she does it with a mother's curse upon her
head--a curse that will fall upon her heart like a mildew, and wither
it for ever--a curse that will dry up the source of all fond
affections, blacken the brightest hours, and embitter the purest
joys--a dying mother's curse! She knows it--she has heard it--it can
never be recalled. I have put that beyond fate. Ha ha! It is upon you
both; and if you venture to unite your unhappy destinies, may that
curse cling to you and blast you for ever."

She spoke with all the vehemence of intense passion, breaking, for the
first time in life, through strong habitual self-control; and when she
had done, she cast herself into a chair, and covered her eyes with her
hands.

She wept not; but her whole frame heaved and shivered, with the
terrible emotion that tore her heart.

In the mean time, Marlow and Mrs. Warmington and the high constable
spoke upon it, consulting what was to be done with her. The prison
system of England was at that time as bad as it could be, and those
who condemned and abhorred her the most, were anxious to spare her as
long as possible the horrors of the jail. At length, after many
difficulties, and a good deal of hesitation, Mr. Atkinson agreed, at
the suggestion of Mrs. Warmington, to leave her in the house where she
then was, under the charge of a constable to be sent for from
Hartwell. There was a high upper room from which there was no
possibility of escape, with an antechamber in which the constable
could watch, and there he was determined to confine her till she could
be brought before the magistrate on the following day.

"I must have her thoroughly searched in the first place," said Mr.
Atkinson; "for she may have some more of the poison about her, and in
her present state, after all she has confessed, she is just as likely
to swallow it as not. However, Mr. Marlow, you had better, I think,
ride on as fast as possible to see Sir Philip Hastings, and tell him
what has occurred here. If I judge rightly, your presence will be very
needful there."

"It will indeed," said Marlow, a sudden vague apprehension of he knew
not what, seizing upon him; "God grant I have not tarried too long
already;" and quitting the room, he sprang upon his horse's back
again.




CHAPTER L.

Sir Philip Hastings, I have said, was reading a Greek book when Mr.
Short entered the library. His face was grave, and very stern; but all
traces of the terrible agitation with which he had quited the side of
his wife's death-bed, were now gone from his face. He hardly looked up
when the surgeon entered. He seemed not only reading, but absorbed by
what he read. Mr. Short thought the paroxysm of grief was passed, and
that the mind of Sir Philip Hastings, settling down into a calm
melancholy, was seeking its habitual relief in books. He knew, as
every medical man must know, the various whimsical resources to which
the heart of man flies, as if for refuge, in moments of great
affliction. The trifles with which some will occupy themselves--the
intense abstraction for which others will labor--the imaginations, the
visions, the fancies to which others again will apply, not for
consolation, not for comfort; but for escape from the one dark
predominant idea. He said a few words to Sir Philip then, of a kindly
but somewhat commonplace character, and the baronet looked up, gazing
at him across the candles which stood upon the library table. Had Mr.
Short's attention been particularly called to Sir Philip's
countenance, he would have perceived at once, that the pupils of the
eyes were strangely and unnaturally contracted, and that from time to
time a certain nervous twitching of the muscles curled the lip, and
indented the cheek. But he did not remark these facts: he merely saw
that Sir Philip was reading: that he had recovered his calmness; and
he judged that that which might be strange in other men, might not be
strange in him. In regard to what he believed the great cause of Sir
Philip's grief, his wife's death, he thought it better to say nothing;
but he naturally concluded that a father would be anxious to hear of a
daughter's health under such circumstances, and therefore he told him
that Emily was better and more composed.

Sir Philip made a slight, but impatient motion of the hand, but Mr.
Short went on to say, "As she was so severely and terribly affected,
Sir Philip, I have given Mistress Emily a composing draught, which has
already had the intended effect of throwing her into profound slumber.
It will insure her, I think, at least six, if not seven hours of calm
repose, and I trust she will rise better able to bear her grief than
she would be now, were she conscious of it."

Sir Philip mattered something between his teeth which the surgeon did
not hear, and Mr. Short proceeded, saying, "Will you permit me to
suggest, Sir Philip, that it would be better for you too, my dear sir,
to take something which would counteract the depressing effect of
sorrow."

"I thank you, sir, I thank you," replied Sir Philip, laying his hand
upon the book; "I have no need. The mind under suffering seeks
medicines for the mind. The body is not affected. It is well--too
well. Here is my doctor;" and he raised his hand and let it fall upon
the book again.

"Well then, I will leave you for to-night, Sir Philip," said the
surgeon; "to-morrow I must intrude upon you on business of great
importance. I will now take my leave."

Sir Philip rose ceremoniously from his chair and bowed his head;
gazing upon the surgeon as he left the room and shut the door, with a
keen, cunning, watchful look from under his overhanging eyebrows.

"Ha!" he said, when the surgeon had left the room, "he thought to
catch me--to find out what I intended to do--slumber!--calm, tranquil
repose--so near a murdered mother! God of heaven!" and he bent down
his head till his forehead touched the pages of the book, and remained
with his face thus concealed for several minutes.

It is to be remarked that not one person, with a single exception, to
whom the circumstances of Lady Hastings' death were known, even
dreamed of suspecting Emily. They all knew her, comprehended her
character, loved her, had faith in her, except her own unhappy father.
But with him, if the death of his unhappy wife were terrible, his
suspicions of his daughter were a thousand fold more so. To his
distorted vision a multitude of circumstances brought proof all
powerful. "She has tried to destroy her father," he thought, "and she
has not scrupled to destroy her mother. In the one case there seemed
no object. In the other there was the great object of revenge, with
others perhaps more mean, but not less potent. Try her cause what way
I will, the same result appears. The mother opposes the daughter's
marriage to the man she loves--threatens to frustrate the dearest wish
of her heart,--and nothing but death will satisfy her. This is, the
end then of all these reveries--these alternate fits of gloom and
levity. The ill balanced mind has lost its equipoise, and all has
given way to passion. But what must I do---oh God! what must I do?"

His thoughts are here given, not exactly as they presented themselves;
for they were more vague, confused, and disjointed; but such was the
sum and substance of them. He raised his head from the book and
looked up, and after thinking for a moment or two he said, "This
Josephus--this Jew--gives numerous instances, if I remember right, of
justice done by fathers upon their children--ay, and by the express
command of God. The priest of the Most High was punished for yielding
to human weakness in the case of his sons. The warrior Jephtha spared
not his best beloved. What does the Roman teach? Not to show pity to
those the nearest to us by blood, the closest in affection, where
justice demands unwavering execution. It mast be so. There is but the
choice left, to give her over to hands of strangers, to add public
shame, and public punishment to that which justice demands, or to do
that myself which they must inevitably do. She must die--such a
monster must not remain upon the earth. She has plotted against her
father's life--she has colleagued with his fraudulent enemies--she has
betrayed the heart that fondly trusted her--she has visited secretly
the haunts of a low, vulgar ruffian--she has aided and abetted those
who have plundered her own parents--she has ended by the murder of the
mother who so fondly loved her. I--I am bound, by every duty to
society, to deliver it from one, who for my curse, and its bane, I
brought into the world. She must be put to death; and no hand but mine
must do it."

He gazed gloomily down upon the table for several minutes, and then
paced the room rapidly with agony in every line of his face. He wrung
his hands hard together. He lifted up his eyes towards heaven, and
often, often, he cried out, "Oh God! Oh God! Is there no hope?--no
doubt?--no opening for pause or hesitation?"

"None, none, none," he said at length, and sank down into his chair
again.

His eye wandered round the room, as if seeking some object he
could not see, and then he murmured, "So beautiful--so young--so
engaging--just eighteen summers; and yet such a load of crime!"

He bent his head again, and a few drops of agony fell from his eyes
upon the table. Then clasping his forehead tight with his hand, he
remained for several minutes thoughtful and silent. He seemed to grow
calmer; but it was a deceitful seeming; and there was a wild,
unnatural light in his eyes which, notwithstanding all the apparent
shrewdness of his reasoning--the seeming connection and clearness of
his argument, would have shown to those expert in such matters, that
there was something not right within the brain.

At length he said to himself in a whisper, as if he was afraid that
some one should hear him, "She sleeps--the man said she sleeps--now is
the time--I must not hesitate--I must not falter--now is the time!"
and he rose and approached the door.

Once, he stopped for a moment--once, doubt and irresolution took
possession of him. But then he cast them off; and moved on again.

With a slow step, but firm and noiseless tread, he crossed the hall
and mounted the stairs. No one saw him: the servants were scattered:
there was no one to oppose his progress, or to say, "Forbear!"

He reached his daughter's room, opened the door quietly, went in, and
closed it. Then he gazed eagerly around. The curtains were withdrawn:
his fair, sweet child lay sleeping calmly as an infant. He could see
all around. Father and child were there. There was no one else.

Still he gazed around, seeking perhaps for something with which to do
the fatal deed! His eye rested on a packet of papers upon the table.
It contained those which Marlow had left with poor gentle Emily to
justify her to her father in case of need.

Oh, would he but take them up! Would he but read the words within!

He turns away--he steals toward the bed! Drop the curtain! I can write
no more. Emily is gone!




CHAPTER LI.


When Mr. Short, the surgeon, left the presence of Sir Philip Hastings,
he found the butler seated in an arm-chair in the hall, cogitating
sadly over all the lamentable events of the day. He was an old
servant of the family, and full of that personal interest in every
member of it which now, alas, in these times of improvement and
utilitarianism (or as it should be called, selfishness reduced to
rule), when it seems to be the great object of every one to bring men
down to the level of a mere machine, is no longer, or very rarely, met
with. He rose as soon as the surgeon appeared, and inquired eagerly
after his poor master. "I am afraid he is touched here, sir," he said,
laying his finger on his forehead. "He has not been at all right ever
since he came back from London, and I am sure, when he came down
to-night, calling out in such a way about gathering herbs, I thought
he had gone clean crazy."

"He has become quite calm and composed now," replied Mr. Short;
"though of course he is very sad: but as I can do no good by staying
with him, I must go down to the farm for my horse, and ride away where
my presence is immediately wanted."

"They have brought your horse up from the farm, sir," said the butler.
"It is in the stable-yard."

Thither Mr. Short immediately proceeded, mounted, and rode away. When
he had gone about five miles, or perhaps a little more, he perceived
that two horsemen were approaching him rapidly, and he looked sharp
towards them, thinking they might be Mr. Atkinson and the groom. As
they came near, the outlines of the figures showed him that such was
not the case; but the foremost of the two pulled up suddenly as he was
passing, and Marlow's voice exclaimed, "Is that Mr. Short?"

"Yes, sir, yes, Mr. Marlow," replied the surgeon. "I am very glad
indeed you have come; for there has been terrible work this day at the
house of poor Sir Philip Hastings. Lady Hastings is no more, and--"

"I have heard the whole sad history," replied Marlow, "and am riding
as fast as possible to see what can be done for Sir Philip, and my
poor Emily. I only stopped to tell you that Mrs. Hazleton has been
taken, the vial of medicine found upon her, and that she has boldly
confessed the fact of having poisoned poor Lady Hastings. You will
find her and Atkinson, the high constable, at the house of Mrs.
Warmington.--Good night, Mr. Short; good night;" and Marlow spurred on
again.

The delay had been very short, but it was fatal.

When Marlow reached the front entrance of the court, he threw his rein
to the groom and without the ceremony of ringing, entered the house.
There was a lamp burning in the hall, which was vacant; but Marlow
heard a step upon the great staircase, and looked up. A dark shadowy
figure was coming staggering down, and as it entered the sphere of the
light in the hall, Marlow recognized the form, rather than the
features, of Sir Philip Hastings. His face was ashy pale: not a trace
of color was discernible in any part: the very lips were white; and
the gray hair stood ragged and wild upon his head. His haggard and
sunken eye fell upon Marlow; but he was passing onward to the library,
as if he did not know him, tottering and reeling like a drunken man,
when Marlow, very much shocked, stopped him, exclaiming, "Good God,
Sir Philip, do you not know me?"

The unhappy man started, turned round, and grasped him tightly by the
wrist, saying, in a hoarse whisper, and looking over his shoulder
towards the staircase, "Do not go there, do not go there--come
hither--you do not know what has happened."

"I do, indeed, Sir Philip," replied Marlow, in a soothing tone, "I
have heard--"

"No, no, no, no!" said Sir Philip Hastings. "No one knows but I--there
was no one there--I did it all myself.--Come hither, I say!" and he
drew Marlow on towards the library.

"He has lost his senses," thought Marlow. "I must try and soothe him
before I see my Poor Emily. I will try and turn his mind to other
things;" and, suffering himself to be led forward, he entered the
library with Sir Philip Hastings, who instantly cast himself into a
chair, and pressed his hands before his eyes.

Marlow stood and gazed at him for a moment in silent compassion, and
then he said, "Take comfort, Sir Philip. Take comfort. I bring you a
great store of news; and what I have to tell will require great bodily
and mental exertions from you, to deal with all the painful
circumstances in which you are placed. I have followed out every
thread of the shameful conspiracy against you--not a turning of the
whole rascally scheme is undiscovered."

"She had her share in that too," said Sir Philip, looking up in his
face, with a wild, uncertain sort of questioning look.

"I know it," replied Marlow, thinking he spoke of Mrs. Hazleton, "She
was the prime mover in it all."

Sir Philip wrung his hands tight, one within the other, murmuring "Oh,
God; oh, God!"

"But," continued Marlow, "she will soon expiate her crimes; for she
has been taken, and proofs of her guilt found upon her, so strong and
convincing, that she did not think fit even to conceal the fact, but
confessed her crime at once."

Sir Philip started, and grasped both the arms of the chair in which he
sat, tight in his thin white hands, gazing at Marlow with a look of
bewildered horror that cannot be described. Marlow went on, however,
saying, "I had previously told her, indeed, that I had discovered all
her dark and treacherous schemes--how she had labored to make this
whole family miserable--how she had attempted to blacken the character
of my dear Emily--imitated her handwriting--induced you to
misunderstand her whole conduct, and thrown dark hints and suspicions
in your way. She knew that she could not escape this charge, even if
she could conceal her guilt of to-day, and she confessed the whole."

"Who--who--who?" cried Sir Philip Hastings, almost in a scream. "Of
whom are you talking, man?"

"Of Mrs. Hazleton," replied Marlow. "Were you not speaking of her?"

Sir Philip Hastings stretched forth his hands, as if to push him
farther from him; but his only reply was a deep groan, and, after a
moment's pause, Marlow proceeded, "I, thought you were speaking of
her--of her whose task it has been, ever since poor Emily's
ill-starred visit to her house, to calumniate and wrong that
dear innocent girl--to make you think her guilty of bitter
indiscretions, if not great crimes--who, more than any one, aided to
wrong you, and who now openly avows that she placed the poison in your
poor wife's room in order to destroy her."

"And I have killed her!--and I have killed her!" cried Sir Philip
Hastings, rising up erect and tall--"and I have killed her!"

"Good God, whom?" exclaimed Marlow, with his heart beating as if it
would burst through his side. "Whom do you mean, sir?"

Sir Philip remained silent for a moment, pressing his hands tight upon
his temples, and then, answered in a slow, solemn voice, "Your
Emily--my Emily--my own sweet--" but he did not finish the sentence;
for ere the last words could be uttered, he fell forward on the floor
like a dead man.

For an instant, stupified and horror-struck, Marlow remained
motionless, hardly comprehending, hardly believing what he had heard.
The next instant, however, he rushed out of the library, and found the
butler with the late Lady Hastings' maid, passing through the back of
the house towards the front staircase.

"Which is Emily's room?" he cried,--"Which is Emily's room?"

"She is asleep, sir," said the maid.

"Which is her room?" cried Marlow, vehemently. "He is mad--he is
mad--your master is mad--he says he has killed her. Which is her
room?" and he darted up the staircase.

"The third on the right, sir," cried the butler, following with the
maid, as fast as possible; and Marlow darted towards the door.

A fit of trembling, however, seized him as he laid his hand upon the
lock. "He must have exaggerated," he said to himself. "He has been
unkind--harsh--he calls that killing her--I will open it gently," and
he and the two servants entered it nearly together.

All was quiet. All was still. The light was burning on the table.
There was a large heavy pillow cast down by the side of the bed, and
the bed coverings were in some disorder.

No need of such a stealthy pace, Marlow! You may tread firm and
boldly. Even your beloved step will not wake her. The body sleeps till
the day of judgment. The spirit has gone where the wicked cease from
troubling, and the weary are at rest.

The beautiful face was calm and tranquil; though beneath each of the
closed eyes was a deep bluish mark, and the lips had lost their
redness. The fair delicate hands grasped the bed-clothes tightly, and
the whole position of the figure showed that death had not taken place
without a convulsive struggle. Marlow tried, with trembling hands, to
unclasp the fingers from the bed-clothes, and though he could not do
it, he fancied he felt warmth in the palms of the hands. A momentary
gleam of hope came upon him. More assistance was called: every effort
that could be suggested was made; but it was all in vain.
Consciousness--breath--life--could never be restored. There was not a
dry eye amongst all those around, when the young lover, giving up the
hopeless task, cast himself on his knees by the bedside, and pressed
his face upon the dead hand of her whom he had loved so well.

Just at that moment the voice of Sir Philip Hastings was heard below
singing a stanza of some light song. It was the most horrible sound
that ever was heard!

Two of the servants ran down in haste, and the sight of the living was
as terrible as that of the dead. Philip Hastings had recovered from
his fit without assistance, had raised himself, and was now walking
about the room with the same sort of zigzag, tottering step with which
he bad met Marlow on his return. A stream of blood from a wound which
he had inflicted on his forehead when he fell, was still pouring down
his face, rendering its deathlike paleness only the more ghastly. His
mouth was slightly drawn aside, giving a strange sinister expression
to his countenance; but from his eyes, once so full of thought and
intellect, every trace of reason had vanished. He held his hands
before him, and the fingers of the one beat time upon the back of the
other to the air that he was singing, and which he continued to sing
even after the entrance of the servants. He uttered not a word to them
on their appearance: he took not the slightest notice of them till the
butler, seeing his condition, took him by the arm, and asked if he had
not better go to bed.

Then, Sir Philip attempted to answer, but his words when spoken were
indistinct as well as confused, and it became evident that he had a
stroke of palsy. The servants knew hardly what to do. Marlow they did
not dare to disturb in his deep grief: the surgeon was by this time
far away: their mistress, and her fair unhappy daughter were dead:
their master had become an idiot. It was the greatest possible relief
to them when they beheld Mr. Dixwell the clergyman enter the library.
Some boy employed about the stables or the kitchen, had carried down a
vague tale of the horrors to the Rectory; and the good clergyman,
though exhausted with all the fatigues and anxiety of the day, had
hurried down at once to see what could be done for the survivors of
that doomed family. He comprehended the situation of Sir Philip
Hastings in a moment; but he put many questions to the butler as to
what preceded the terrible event, the effects of which he beheld. The
old servant answered little. To most of the questions he merely shook
his heal sadly; but that mute reply was sufficient; and Mr. Dixwell,
taking Sir Philip by the hand, said, "You had better retire to rest,
sir--you are not well."

Sir Philip Hastings gave an unmeaning smile, but followed the
clergyman mildly, and having seen him to a bedroom, and left him in
the hands of his servants, Mr. Dixwell turned his step towards the
chamber of poor Emily.

Marlow had risen from his knees; but was still standing by the bedside
with his arms folded on his chest. His face was stern and sorrowful;
but perfectly calm.

Mr. Dixwell approached quietly, and in a melancholy tone, addressed to
him some words of consolation--commonplace enough indeed, but well
intended.

Marlow laid his hand upon the clergyman's arm, and pointed to Emily's
beautiful but ghastly face. He only added, "In vain!--Do what is
needful--Do what is right--I am incapable;" and leaving the room, he
descended to the library, where he closed the door, and remained in
silence and solitude till day broke on the following morning.




CHAPTER LII.


Mrs. Warmington became a person of some importance with the people of
Hartwell. All thoughts were turned towards her house. Everybody wished
they could get in and see and hear more; for the news had spread
rapidly and wide, colored and distorted; but yet falling far short of
the whole terrible truth. When Mr. Short himself arrived in town, he
found three other magistrates had already assembled, and that Mr.
Atkinson and Sir Philip Hastings' groom, John, were already giving
them some desultory and informal information as to the apprehension of
Mrs. Hazleton and its causes. The first consideration after his
appearance amongst them, was what was to be done with the prisoner;
for one of the justices--a gentleman of old family in the county, who
had not much liked the appointment of the surgeon to the bench, and
had generally found motives for differing in opinion with him ever
since--objected to leaving Mrs. Hazleton, even for the night, in any
other place than the common jail. The more merciful opinion of the
majority, however, prevailed. Atkinson gave every assurance that the
constable whom he had placed in charge of the lady was perfectly to be
depended upon, and that the room in which she was locked up, was too
high to admit the possibility of escape. Thus it was determined that
Mrs. Hazleton should be left where she was for the night, and brought
before the magistrates for examination at an early hour on the
following morning.

Even after this decision was come to, however, the conversation or
consultation, if it may be so called, was prolonged for some time in a
gossiping, idle sort of way. Gentlemen sat upon the edge of the table
with their hats on, or leaned against the mantelpiece, beating their
boots with their riding-whips, and some marvelled, and some inquired,
and some expounded the law with the dignity and confidence, if not
with the sagacity and learning of a Judge. They were still engaged in
this discussion when the news of Emily's death was brought to
Hartwell, and produced a painful and terrible sensation in the breasts
of the lightest and most careless of those present. The man who
conveyed the intelligence brought also a summons to Mr. Short to
return immediately to Sir Philip Hastings, and only waiting to get a
fresh horse, the surgeon set out upon his return with a very sad and
sorrowful heart. He would not disturb Mr. Marlow; though he was
informed that he was in the library; but he remained with Sir Philip
Hastings himself during the greater part of the night, and only set
out for his own house to take a little repose before the meeting of
the magistrates, some quarter of an hour before the first dawn of day.

Full of painful thoughts he rode on at a quick pace, till the yellow
and russet hues of the morning began to appear in the east. He then
slackened his pace a little, and naturally, as he approached the house
of Mrs. Warmington, he raised his eye towards the windows of the room
in which he knew that the beautiful demon, who had produced so much
misery to others and herself, had been imprisoned.

Mr. Short was riding on but suddenly a sound met his ear, and as his
eyes ran down the building from the windows above, to a small plot of
grass which the lady of the house called the lawn, he drew up his
horse, and rode sharply up to the gate.

But it is time now to turn to Mrs. Hazleton. Lodged in the upper
chamber which had been decided upon as the one fittest for their
purpose, by Mr. Atkinson and the rest, with the constable from
Hartwell domiciled in the anteroom, and the door between locked, Mrs.
Hazleton gave herself up to despair; for her state of mind well
deserved that name, although her feelings were very different from
those which are commonly designated by that name. Surely to feel that
every earthly hope has passed away--to see that further struggle for
any object of desire is vain--to know that the struggles which have
already taken place have been fruitless--to feel that their objects
have been base, unworthy, criminal--to perceive no gleam of light on
either side of the tomb--to have the present a wilderness, the future
an abyss, the past and its memories a hell--surely this is despair! It
matters not with what firmness, or what fierceness it may be borne: it
matters not what fiery passions, what sturdy resolutions, what weak
regrets, what agonizing fears, mingle with the state. This is despair!
and such was the feeling of Mrs. Hazleton. She saw vast opportunities,
a splendid position in society, wealth, beauty, wit, mind,
accomplishments, all thrown away, and for the gratification of base
passions exchanged for disgrace, and crime, and a horrible death. It
was a bad bargain; but she felt she had played her whole for revenge
and had lost; and she abode the issue resolutely.

All these advantages which I have enumerated, and many more, Mrs.
Hazleton had possessed; but she wanted two things which are absolutely
necessary to human happiness and human virtue--heart and principle.
The one she never could have obtained; for by nature she was
heartless. The other might have been bestowed upon her by her parents.
But they had failed to do so; for their own proper principles had been
too scanty for them to bestow any on their daughter. Yet, strange to
say, the lack of heart somewhat mitigated the intensity of the lady's
sufferings now. She felt not her situation as bitterly as other
persons with a greater portion of sensibility would inevitably have
done. She had so trained herself to resist all small emotions, that
they had in reality become obliterated. Fiery passions she could feel;
for the earthquake rends the granite which the chisel will not touch,
and these affected her now as much as ever.

At that very moment, as she sat there, with her head resting on her
hand, what is the meaning of that stern, knitted brow, that fixed,
steadfast gaze forward, that tight compression of the lips and teeth
At that moment Nero's wish was in the bosom of Mrs. Hazleton. Could
she have slaughtered half the human race to blot out all evidence of
her crimes, and to escape the grinning shame which she knew awaited
her, she would have done it without remorse. Other feelings, too, were
present. A sense of anger at herself for having suffered herself to be
in the slightest degree moved or agitated by any thing that had
occurred; a determined effort, too, was there--I will not call it a
struggle--to regain entire command of herself--to be as calm, as
graceful, as self-possessed, as dignified as when in high prosperity
with unsullied fame. It might be, in a certain sense, playing a part,
and doubtless the celebrated Madame Tiquet did the same; but she was
playing a part for her own eyes, as well as those of others. She
resolved to be firm, and she was firm. "Death," she said, "is before
me: for that I am prepared. It cannot agitate a nerve, or make a limb
shake. All other evils are trifles compared with this. Why then should
I suffer them to affect me in the least? No, no, they shall not see me
quail!"

After she had thus thought for some two hours, gaining more and more
self-command every moment, as she turned and re-turned all the points
of her situation in her own mind, and viewed them in every different
aspect, she rose to retire to rest, lay down, and tried to sleep. At
first importunate thought troubled her. The same kind of ideas went
on--the same reasonings upon them--and slumber for more than one hour
would not visit her eyelids. But she was a very resolute woman, and at
length she determined that she would not think: she would banish
thought altogether; she would not let the mind rest for one moment
upon any subject whatsoever; and she succeeded. The absence of thought
is sleep; and she slept; but resolution ended where sleep begun, and
the images she had banished waking, returned to the mind in slumber.
Her rest was troubled. Growing fancies seemed to come thick upon her
mind; though the eyes remained closed, the features were agitated; the
lips moved. Sometimes she laughed; sometimes she moaned piteously;
sometimes tears found their way through her closed eyelids; and sobs
struggled in her bosom.

At length, between three and four o'clock in the morning, Mrs.
Hazleton rose up in bed. She opened her eyes, too; but there was a
dull glassy look about them--a fixed leaden stare, not natural to her
waking hours. Slowly she got out of bed, approached the table, took up
a candle which she had left burning there, and which was now nearly
down to the socket, and walked straight to the door, saying aloud,
"Very dark--very dark--every thing is dark."

She tried the door, but found it locked; and the constable slept on.
She then returned to the table, seated herself, and for some five or
ten minutes continued to twist her long hair round her fingers. She
then rose again, and went straight to the window, threw it up, and
seemed to look out. "Chilly--chilly," she said. "I most walk to warm
myself."

The sill of the window was somewhat high, but that was no obstacle;
for there was a chair near, and Mrs. Hazleton placed it for herself
with as much care as if she had been wide awake. When this was done
she stepped lightly upon it, and put her knee upon the window-sill,
raised herself suddenly upright, and struck her head sharply against
the upper part of the window. It is probable that the blow woke her,
but at all events it destroyed her balance, and she fell forward at
once out of the window.

There was a loud shriek, and then a deep groan. But the constable
slept on, and no one knew the fate that had befallen her 'till Mr.
Short, the surgeon, passing the house, was attracted to the spot where
she had fallen, by a moan, and the sight of a white object lying
beneath the window.

A loud ringing of the bell, and knocking at the door, soon roused the
inhabitants of the house, and the mangled form of Mrs. Hazleton was
carried in and stretched upon a bed. She was not dead; and although
almost every bone was broken, except the skull, and the terrible
injuries she had received precluded all possibility of recovery, she
regained her senses before three o'clock of the same day, and
continued to linger for somewhat more than a fortnight in agonies both
of mind and body, too terrible to be described. With the rapid, though
gradual weakening of the corporeal frame, the powers of the mind
became enfeebled--the vigorous resolution failed--the self-command
abandoned her. Half an hour's death she could have borne with stoical
firmness, but a fortnight's was too much. The thoughts she could shut
out in vigorous health, forced themselves upon her as she lay there
like a crushed worm, and the tortures of hell got hold upon her, long
before the spirit departed. Yet a sparkle of the old spirit showed
itself even to her last hour. That she was conscious of an eternity,
that she was convinced of after judgment, of the reward of good, and
of the punishment of evil, that she believed in a God, a hell, a
heaven, there can be no doubt--indeed her words more than once implied
it--and the anguish of mind under which she seemed to writhe proved
it. But yet, she refused all religious consolation; expressed no
penitence: no sorrow for what she had done, and scoffed at the surgeon
when he hinted that repentance might avail her even then. It seemed
that, as with the earthly future, she had made up her mind at once,
when first detected, to meet her fate boldly; so with the judgment of
the immortal future, she was resolute to encounter it unbending. When
urged, nearly at her last hour, to show some repentance, she replied,
in the weak and faltering voice of death, but in as determined a tone
as ever, "It is all trash. An hour's repentance could do no good even
if I could repent. But I do not. Nobody does repent. They regret their
failure, are terrified by their punishment; but they and I would do
exactly the same again if we hoped for success and impunity. Talk to
me no more of it. I do not wish to think of hell till it has hold upon
me, if that should ever be."

She said no more from that moment forward, and in about an hour after,
her spirit went to meet the fate she had so boldly dared.

But few persons remain to be noticed in this concluding chapter, and
with regard to their after history, the imagination of the reader
might perhaps be left to deal, without further information. A few
words, however, may be said, merely to give a clue to their after
fate.

The prosecution of Mr. Shanks, the attorney, was carried on but
languidly, and it is certain that he was not convicted of the higher
offence of forgery. On some charge, however, it would seem he was
sentenced to two years' imprisonment, and the last that is heard of
him, shows him blacking shoes at the inn in Carrington, then a very
old man, in the reign of George the First.

Sir Philip Hastings never recovered his senses, not did he seem to
have any recollection of the horrible events with which his earthly
history may be said to have closed; but his life was not far extended.
For about six months he continued in the same lamentable state in
which we have last depicted him, sometimes singing, sometimes
laughing, and sometimes absorbed in deep melancholy. At the end of
that period, another paralytic stroke left him in a state of complete
fatuity, from which, in two years, he was relieved by death.

If the reader will look into the annals of the reign of Queen Anne, he
will find frequent mention in the campaigns of Marlborough and Eugene,
of a Major, a Colonel, and a General Marlow. They were all the same
person; and they will find that officer often reported as severely
wounded. I cannot trace his history much farther; but the genealogies
of those times show, that in 1712, one Earl of Launceston died at the
age of eighty-seven, and was succeeded by the eighth Earl, who only
survived three years, and the title with him became extinct, as it is
particularly marked that he died unmarried. As this last of the race
is distinguished by the title of Lieutenant-General, the Earl of
Launceston, there can be no doubt that this was the lover and promised
husband of poor Emily Hastings.

It is a sad tale, and rarely perhaps has any such tragedy darkened the
page of domestic history in England. A whole family were swept away,
and most of those connected with them, in a very short space of time;
but it is not the number of deaths within that period that gives its
gloominess to the page--for every domestic history is little but a
record of deaths--but the circumstances. Youth, beauty, virtue,
gentleness, kindness, honor, integrity, punctilious rectitude: reason,
energy, wisdom, sometimes, nay often, have no effect as a screen from
misfortune, sorrow, and death. Were this world all, what a frightful
chaos would human life be. But the very sorrows and adversities of the
good, prove that there is a life beyond, where all will be made even.



THE END.










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