FOOTNOTES:
[5] It is now, or was not long since, at Munich, in the Leuchtenburg Gallery.
THE LAST JOSEPH IN EGYPT.
A writer in the July number of Bentley's Miscellany describes some official experiences in Egypt during the reign of Mehemet Ali, and among various curious incidents has the following of Boghos Bey, the prime minister of the Pacha, who then played a no inconsiderable part on the stage of European diplomacy, more particularly as relating to the, at that period, all-engrossing "Eastern Question."
"By birth an Armenian, in early life Boghos Bey was dragoman or interpreter to Mr. Wherry, then English consul at Smyrna; but he gave up that appointment, to accompany, in a similar capacity, the Turkish army, which, during the occupation of Egypt by the French, was sent to co-operate at Alexandria with Sir Ralph Abercrombie's British force. At the close of the war, on the expulsion of the French, he remained in Egypt, where he attached himself to the rising fortunes of Mehemet Ali, with whom he successively occupied the post of interpreter, secretary, and finally that of prime minister, when his master—from the Albanian adventurer—became the self-elected successor of the Pharaohs and Ptolomies.
"On one occasion, Boghos having got into disgrace, Mehemet Ali ordered his prime minister to be placed in a sack and thrown into the Nile. It was supposed that this cruel sentence had been duly carried into effect. However, the British consul in Egypt at that time, managed to get something else smuggled into the sack, whilst he smuggled old Boghos into his own residence, where the latter long remained concealed, until, on one occasion, the financial accounts got so entangled, that Mehemet Ali expressed to the British consul his regret that Boghos Bey was no longer there to unravel the complicated web of difficulties in which he found himself entangled: whereupon old Boghos was produced, pardoned, reinstated in his office, acquired more influence than ever, and was, at the time referred to, the very 'Joseph' of the land."
THE ENGLISH IN AMERICA: BY THE AUTHOR OF "SAM SLICK."
Mr. Justice Haliburton obtained some notoriety and a certain degree of popularity by his broad caricatures of common life in New England. These books did not display very eminent ability even for the rather low and mean field in which the author found congenial occupation, but the old jokes transplanted into our republican soil had a seeming freshness in the eyes of buyers of cheap books, and they were profitable to paper-makers and printers, until the patience of the public could tolerate no more of their monotonous vulgarity. Judge Haliburton has since essayed a more serious vein, and being wholly without originality, has fallen into the old track of depreciation, sneering, and vituperation, in the expectation that any form of attack upon the people of the United States would sell, at least in England. The unfortunate gentleman was mistaken, as the following very kind reviewal of his book, which we transfer to The International from The Athenæum of July 26, will show.
"The English in America. By the Author of 'Sam Slick,' &c. This is a vulgar and violent political pamphlet, which will fill no small part of the admirers of 'Sam Slick' with alarm and astonishment. The 'English in America' are in these two volumes set forth principally as a parcel of uncouth, disingenuous, and repulsive Puritans, who emigrated to America in the early part of the seventeenth century for the sake of an easier indulgence in disloyalty and schism. Confining himself almost wholly to the events which took place in the colony of Massachusetts, Judge Haliburton has thought it worth while to write a book, half declamation and half treatise, against Democracy and Dissent,—which seem to him to be the two giant evils that oppress mankind. It is no part of our function to discuss the abstract merits of either of these questions; but it is perfectly within our province to point out the errors and faults of those writers who imagine that they can serve a party purpose by making a convenient and derogatory use of literature.
"In the first place, then, we say that the volumes before us are essentially unfair. The 'English in America' have not really and truly been such English as are there described,—nor has their career been such as is there narrated,—nor generally are the actual facts of the case logically and impartially stated in these volumes. Judge Haliburton colors and distorts almost every event and circumstance to which he refers; and there is a coarseness and rancor in the manner in which he speaks of nearly all persons and parties who differ from him in opinion, which has surprised and shocked us. There was no occasion whatever for all this vehemence. In the first place, the facts connected with the early history of the British settlements in America are too well known to permit any attempt at systematic and unscrupulous disparagement of the early Puritan colonists to be in any important degree successful. In the next place, the questions which Judge Haliburton professes to consider have been for all practical purposes discussed and decided long ago. In the last place, we are quite sure that no writer on questions of colonial policy could more effectually cut himself off from all sympathy and influence than by the adoption of an excited and menacing tone.
"We find in the introductory chapter to these volumes a statement to the effect that one of the chief objects in writing them has been to inform Englishmen that Democracy did not appear for the first time in America during the War of Independence; and that the peculiar form of religion that prevailed at an early period in the New England States exerted a very powerful influence over their politics and modes of government. Surely there is nothing new in all this. There is no great discovery here which required for its introduction the expenditure of so much labor and vehemence. We had imagined that the great orations of Burke on Conciliation with America had exhausted long ago not only all the facts but most of the philosophy which is contained in the general view now revived by the author of 'Sam Slick.' There are a sentence or two in one of the most famous passages of perhaps the greatest of these orations which seem to anticipate the present volumes most completely. 'All Protestantism,' said Burke more than seventy years ago, 'even the most cold and passive, is a sort of dissent. But the religion most prevalent in our northern colonies is a refinement on the principle of resistance; it is the dissidence of dissent, and the Protestantism of the Protestant religion. This religion, under a variety of denominations, agreeing in nothing but in the communication of the spirit of liberty, is predominant in most of the northern provinces; where the Church of England, notwithstanding its legal rights, is in reality no more than a sort of private sect, not composing, most probably, the tenth of the people. The colonists left England when this spirit was high, and in the emigrants was the highest of all; and even that stream of foreigners which has been constantly flowing into these colonies has for the greatest part been composed of dissenters from the establishments of their several countries, and have brought with them a temper and character far from alien to that of the people with whom they mixed.' The speech of Burke in which these sentences occur ought surely to have passed for something in the estimation of Judge Haliburton before he committed himself to the task of writing this book.
"We are quite sensible that as far as the mere composition is concerned there is very great merit in its publication. The style is vigorous and lively—and not unfrequently the animation rises into eloquence. The narrative parts of the volumes are in general exceedingly well written; and we must not omit to say, that during those short intervals when the author permits himself to lose sight of his extreme opinions he rarely fails to delight the reader with a page or two distinguished by acute observation and good sense.
"Still, the faults of the book are of the most serious kind. It is incomplete in plan: for it is neither a regular narrative, nor a treatise, nor a commentary, nor a history, nor an article for a review—but something of all five. As we have said, it is written in a tone highly excited and partial; and it has the misfortune to appear before the world as the exponent of seemingly a new, but in reality of an old and familiar, doctrine, by employing examples and reasonings of which very few people indeed will not be able to detect at once either the sophistry or the incompleteness.
"We forbear to enter into any general discussion on the well-worn topics of the Pilgrim Fathers and the Puritan settlements. The verdict of an impartial age has been long ago pronounced on these questions: and we may well deplore the unsound judgment of any writer of the deserved eminence of Judge Haliburton who gratuitously brings upon himself an imputation of outrageous eccentricity by attempting to unsettle, on his own single authority, conclusions so well and so long established....
"There is a great deal said in these volumes in disparagement of the early New Englanders. They are stigmatized as turbulent, schismatic, dishonest, revolutionary, bigoted, cruel, and so on. These are old charges, which have been several times placed in their true light; and it is needless again to undertake a defence and to enter into explanations which are familiar to most educated persons. We are not the indiscriminate admirers of the policy pursued by the first colonists of Massachusetts Bay; but the course which they adopted, the communities which they built up, and the form of liberty which they introduced into the New World can be adequately understood only when surveyed from a comprehensive and impartial point of view. It is at best a shallow criticism which contents itself with the discovery that the settlers were religious zealots, and had no particular respect for either kings or bishops.
... "We close these volumes. We regret that the author has been so ill-advised as to publish them at all. They are well written, as we have said—and in some respects possess great merit; but truth compels us to add, that they are very unworthy of the author and of the great questions they profess to elucidate and discuss."
A FEW QUESTIONS FROM A WORN-OUT LORGNETTE.
WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE
BY A. OAKEY HALL.
I trust I am not now impertinent, however much so I may have been heretofore. I have seen and observed a great deal. My observations have engendered experiences. My experiences have some point to them. And altogether, I think I am entitled to ask a few questions of those whom I have sometimes overlooked, but now address myself to most immediately. I am proud to say that I never belonged to but one mistress. I was of too much value to be exchanged, lost, lightly parted with, or—I feel prouder as I say it—sold. Moreover, I was a gage d'amour. That fascinating Dr. ——!
But though curious, I will be discreet. This sole mistress of mine gave me plenty to do. Many thanks to her for it, since it has given me an insight into much that is wonderful. I am certain she preferred opera to the drama. I saw more of the stage at the first, and more of the audience at the last. I have found much in both to puzzle me. Some things I have solved. As for that which remains, I had hoped to determine for myself, but an unlucky fall from a nail has spoiled my sight. I have been now two months imprisoned in an escrutoire. Others must answer my questions.
In the first place, I want to know why theatres and opera houses have such curious odors when empty? I have often perceived this fact when our carriage came announced the last of all. And why are the lights turned out when the audience have half-way reached the front doors? What becomes of the bills which are left behind? Do the rag-pickers ever break in? Where do the musicians go to through that little door in the stage? And why does the kettle drummer always glance around the house upon entering with such an air of satisfaction? As if any one cared for him! Why does the leader always stop to take a pinch of snuff, while the audience are breathing in their boots and gaiters to catch the first note of the new opera? Why does the fat man with the violoncello always saw upon two strings, and leave the two in the middle to such a contemptuous silence and exile? Why do the front-bench people get up ten minutes before the performances are over, and rush from the house as if the floor was on fire, while the galleries make twice as much noise by crying "hush!" and always stay to hear the speech (if there is any), although they have not paid as much by half as they who ran away? Why does the lover, rushing upon the stage to the embrace of his mistress, stop half way to bow to the ladies in the boxes? And why doesn't the aforesaid mistress box his ears for his impoliteness? And why did she say, just before he came, "Here comes my Alonzo! Hark! I hear his step," when every door upon the stage was shut, and nothing was heard but the confused trampling behind her, which might have been the galloping of donkeys? And why did this same lady wait for him by the side of a rosewood table, covered with satin damask, and ornamented with a Wellington inkstand—and she dressed in a robe of shot-silk, with laces and feathers—while he was dressed as a valiant knight of the sixteenth century should be? And now I think of it, why did Mr. Anderson, in the play of "Gisippus," visit the Roman centurion in a brick house, entered through a mahogany door, with a brass plate upon it? Why do the peasantry of Europe always dress with the most expensive ribbons about their legs and arms when they come out to dance at the wedding, or to drink from pewter mugs to the health of the bride? And why do they stand like mutes at a funeral, whilst two people in their midst are plotting some horrible murder? Why do the Italian banditti wear such steeple-crowned hats when they creep through small holes, or kneel for concealment behind rocks which only cover their foreheads? Why do the soldiers in Fra Diavolo stand and sing, "We must away, 'tis duty calls," while they sit at a table drinking punch, and seem in no more hurry to go than if they were paid for drinking? Why do the chamois-hunters in "Amilie" continue so urgent about going to the mountains away, after the prey, before the dawning of the day, when it is evident from the very nature of things that they couldn't be spared for such a severe service on any contingency?
Why does the lover always sing tenor in an opera? What connection is there between villany and a bass voice? What's the necessity of a prima donna singing towards the ceiling when she addresses a chorus behind her? By what right does the head man in the chorus do all the gesticulating, while his fellows stand like militia-men? Who ever saw an excited basso bid a "minion away," without trying to throw his fist behind him? Why does Ernani's mistress wear such splendid diamonds, and not sell them to give him release from persecution? I have seen a sentimental young lady swear to share the poverty and disgrace of her lover, when she was fool enough to lay aside most precious jewels and dresses, which would have purchased affluence, and then robe herself in calico! Now, why did he permit that?
Why do stage heroines venture out into the woods in November in white silk dresses? Are there never any snakes about? And why are theatrical forests always green in the middle of winter? What kind of thermometers do managers have? Why is it that three or four stout men, with loaded pistols, allow themselves to be beaten off the stage by a slim man with a small stick? In my opinion—and I don't care who hears it—Richard the Third (whom I understand to be a natural son of one Shakespeare) was a great numskull to allow Richmond to beat him with the two dozen lanky-looking scoundrels who come in during the last scene!
Why do the fairies shake so convulsively when they soar through the air over the stage? Are stage-fairies all over the world such unequal highflyers? Who made gaiter-boots for Juno and her attendant goddesses, in the many classical plays I have witnessed? Did the Egyptians and Persians know how to make cotton-cloth a yard wide—I have measured their costumes too often behind the footlights not to know the exact measurement.
Why do people always cough in the theatre after a severe storm of thunder and lightning, and hold their handkerchiefs to their noses at such times? Why does the moon, in every opera wherein she condescends to show herself, stand still for half an hour immediately over a chimney? What is the necessity of a man dying for love, and singing himself to death like a swan, when he has strength enough of body and mind to pick up three or four pounds of bouquets? And why does he give them up to the spasmodic lady in white muslin, whom he has been abusing for half an hour, and declaring, in most emphatic terms, that they part from that time forward for ever? What wonderful hair-invigorator do some actors use in order to grow themselves a fine pair of bushy whiskers in fifteen minutes? How is it possible for a noble lord to have travelled over thousands of miles, to have encountered unheard-of perils, in order to return and marry the miller's maid, and yet to preserve, through years of absence, the same trousers, vest, coat, and hat, in which he first won her affections? Mentioning hats, why does the rich landholder, in modern comedy, sometimes go without a hat, when all his servants talk to him with their hats upon their heads? Is there any forcible, necessary, or (to put it stronger) absolute, connection between a queen in distress and large quantities of pearls strung about the hair?
These are but a twentieth part of the inquiries which crowd into my questioning-box. I know they are disjointed,—as I soon shall be. But I will see what can be done for me, as things here stand, before I venture to again pile "whys" upon "wherefores."
FRAGMENTS:
FROM "THE STORY OF A SOUL," AN UNPUBLISHED POEM, WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE
BY H. W. PARKER.
A TOUR DE FORCE.
I felt myself alone—alone as one
Who leapt in joy from starry rock to rock
Across creations stream, and joyed to know
Himself alone in starry solitudes,
Communing with his soul and God; and clomb
The heights of glory, there amazed to see
The wilderness of worlds, and feel the want
Of other hearts to share excess of bliss.
Alone!—it startled me with such a fear—
A daring fear, as only spirits can have.
At once I would be every where—on all
The peopled globes where'er myself had been;
My lonely being would I spread through all.
I thought, with the velocity of thought
Which disembodied souls alone may know—
I thought, I willed, myself in thousand places
In quick and successive instants, quick as one;
And so around again, and still around,
Without an interval. Soon as a flash,
A thousand selves were scattered o'er the deep
Of distant space; and, urging on my soul,
Around and on, with energy immortal,
And swifter still, at last I seemed to grow
Ubiquitous—a multipresence dread,
A loneliness enlarged, more awful yet—
Until, in thought's extreme rapidity,
The distant selves were blended into one,
And space was gone! The universe was lost
In me—in nothingness.
Soon it returned
And stood resplendent; space again became
A mode of thought, as thought resumed its calm,
And motion ceased with will. I found myself
Far off in outer coasts of light....
MEMORY.
.... The vision changed; for still
The cherub Fancy sports beyond the grave,
Led by the hand of Reason. Once again,
My memory rose, a painted canvas, framed
In golden mouldings of immortal joy.
But now the perfect copy of a life,
With all the colors glorified, began
To melt in slow dissolving views of truth.
From out the crowded scene of mortal deeds,
A group enraged, colossal in its shapes:
Self—a dead giant, hideous and deformed,
Lay, slain with lightning, while, upon his head,
Stood holy Love, her eyes upturned to Heaven,
Her hands extended o'er the kneeling forms
Of Faith and Hope....
MUSIC.
Nor were the splendors silent all. To spirits
'Tis ever one to see, to hear, to feel—
The music of the spheres is therefore truth,
And, now, no more I heard the noise confused
Of humming stars and murmuring moons, in tones
Discordant; but as in the focal point
Of whispering rooms, so here I found at last
The centre where the perfect chords combine—
Where the full harmonies of rolling worlds
Are poring evermore in billowy seas
Of sounds, that break in thundered syllables
Unutterable to men. A naked soul
Within the central court of space, to me
The trill of myriad stars, the heavy boom
Of giant suns that slowly came and went,
The whistlings, sweet and far, of lesser orbs,
And the low thunder of more distant deeps,
Ever commingling, grew to eloquence
No mortal brain may bear. The universe
Had found a voice....
HEAVEN.
"Look to thy God." I flamed at Him with will intense,
And soon a sea of light and love arose
And bathed my soul, and filled the empty space
With overflowing glory. All was heaven;
And all the joy, the splendor, I had known
In space, to this was but the prelude harsh
Of brazen instruments, before the song
Of some incarnate seraph, breathes and rolls
A flood of fulness o'er a tranced world.
Enough to say, whate'er we wish of scene,
Society, occupation, pleasure—
Whenever wished, is ours; and this is Heaven;
This is the prize of earthly self-denial.
Freedom, the boundless freedom of the pure—
This the reward of holy self-restraint.
A STORY WITHOUT A NAME.[6]
WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE
BY G. P. R. JAMES, ESQ.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
We must now turn once 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."
"You 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 any thing but what they derive from you. This position may soon be altered if your husband be reinstated in the Hastings estates."
"But you 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 feel 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 bed-side, 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 case 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 bed-clothes 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 I 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 I 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 or 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 villainous 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," he 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 bed-side 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 as she 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 bed-side, 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 yon 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 am 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.