"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.