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 must 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!"