When Mr. Short, the surgeon, left the presence of Sir Philip Hastings,
he found the butler seated in an arm-chair in the hall, cogitating
sadly over all the lamentable events of the day. He was an old servant
of the family, and full of that personal interest in every member of it
which now, alas, in these times of improvement and utilitarianism (or
as it should be called, selfishness reduced to rule), when it seems to
be the great object of every one to bring men down to the level of a
mere machine, is no longer, or very rarely, met with. He rose as soon
as the surgeon appeared, and inquired eagerly after his poor master. "I
am afraid he is touched here, sir," he said, laying his finger on his
forehead. "He has not been at all right ever since he came back from
London, and I am sure, when he came down to-night, calling out in such
a way about gathering herbs, I thought he had gone clean crazy."
"He has become quite calm and composed now," replied Mr. Short; "though
of course he is very sad: but as I can do no good by staying with
him, I must go down to the farm for my horse, and ride away where my
presence is immediately wanted."
"They have brought your horse up from the farm, sir," said the butler.
"It is in the stable-yard."
Thither Mr. Short immediately proceeded, mounted, and rode away. When
he had gone about five miles, or perhaps a little more, he perceived
that two horsemen were approaching him rapidly, and he looked sharp
towards them, thinking they might be Mr. Atkinson and the groom. As
they came near, the outlines of the figures showed him that such was
not the case; but the foremost of the two pulled up suddenly as he was
passing, and Marlow's voice exclaimed, "Is that Mr. Short?"
"Yes, sir, yes, Mr. Marlow," replied the surgeon. "I am very glad
indeed you have come; for there has been terrible work this day at the
house of poor Sir Philip Hastings. Lady Hastings is no more, and----"
"I have heard the whole sad history," replied Marlow, "and am riding as
fast as possible to see what can be done for Sir Philip, and my poor
Emily. I only stopped to tell you that Mrs. Hazleton has been taken,
the vial of medicine found upon her, and that she has boldly confessed
the fact of having poisoned poor Lady Hastings. You will find her and
Atkinson, the high constable, at the house of Mrs. Warmington.--Good
night, Mr. Short; good night;" and Marlow spurred on again.
The delay had been very short, but it was fatal.
When Marlow reached the front entrance of the court, he threw his rein
to the groom, and without the ceremony of ringing, entered the house.
There was a lamp burning in the hall, which was vacant; but Marlow
heard a step upon the great staircase, and looked up. A dark shadowy
figure was coming staggering down, and as it entered the sphere of
the light in the hall, Marlow recognized the form, rather than the
features, of Sir Philip Hastings. His face was ashy pale: not a trace
of color was discernible in any part: the very lips were white; and the
gray hair stood ragged and wild upon his head. His haggard and sunken
eye fell upon Marlow; but he was passing onward to the library, as if
he did not know him, tottering and reeling like a drunken man, when
Marlow, very much shocked, stopped him, exclaiming, "Good God, Sir
Philip, do you no know me?"
The unhappy man started, turned round and grasped him tightly by the
wrist, saying in a hoarse whisper, and looking over his shoulder
towards the staircase, "Do not go there, do not go there--come
hither--you do not know what has happened."
"I do, indeed, Sir Philip," replied Marlow in a soothing tone, "I have
heard----"
"No, no, no, no!" said Sir Philip Hastings. "No one knows but I--there
was no one there--I did it all myself.--Come hither, I say!" and he
drew Marlow on towards the library.
"He has lost his senses," thought Marlow. "I must try and soothe him
before I see my poor Emily. I will try and turn his mind to other
things;" and, suffering himself to be led forward, he entered the
library with Sir Philip Hastings, who instantly cast himself into a
chair, and pressed his hands before his eyes.
Marlow stood and gazed at him for a moment in silent compassion, and
then he said, "Take comfort, Sir Philip. Take comfort. I bring you
a great store of news; and what I have to tell will require great
bodily and mental exertions from you, to deal with all the painful
circumstances in which you are placed. I have followed out every thread
of the shameful conspiracy against you--not a turning of the whole
rascally scheme is undiscovered."
"She had her share in that too," said Sir Philip, looking up in his
face, with a wild, uncertain sort of questioning look.
"I know it," replied Marlow, thinking he spoke of Mrs. Hazleton, "She
was the prime mover in it all."
Sir Philip wrung his hands tight, one within the other, murmuring "Oh,
God; oh, God!"
"But," continued Marlow, "she will soon expiate her crimes; for she
has been taken, and proofs of her guilt found upon her, so strong and
convincing, that she did not think fit even to conceal the fact, but
confessed her crime at once."
Sir Philip started, and grasped both the arms of the chair in which he
sat, tight in his thin white hands, gazing at Marlow with a look of
bewildered horror that cannot be described. Marlow went on, however,
saying, "I had previously told her, indeed, that I had discovered
all her dark and treacherous schemes--how she had labored to make
this whole family miserable--how she had attempted to blacken the
character of my dear Emily--imitated her handwriting--induced you to
misunderstand her whole conduct, and thrown dark hints and suspicions
in your way. She knew that she could not escape this charge, even if
she could conceal her guilt of to-day, and she confessed the whole."
"Who--who--who?" cried Sir Philip Hastings, almost in a scream. "Of
whom are you talking, man?"
"Of Mrs. Hazleton," replied Marlow. "Were you not speaking of her?"
Sir Philip Hastings stretched forth his hands, as if to push him
farther from him; but his only reply was a deep groan, and, after a
moment's pause, Marlow proceeded, "I thought you were speaking of
her--of her whose task it has been, ever since poor Emily's ill-starred
visit to her house, to calumniate and wrong that dear innocent girl--to
make you think her guilty of bitter indiscretions, if not great
crimes--who, more than any one, aided to wrong you, and who now openly
avows that she placed the poison in your poor wife's room in order to
destroy her."
"And I have killed her!--and I have killed her!" cried Sir Philip
Hastings, rising up erect and tall--"and I have killed her!"
"Good God, whom?" exclaimed Marlow, with his heart beating as if it
would burst through his side. "Whom do you mean, sir?"
Sir Philip remained silent for a moment, pressing his hands tight upon
his temples, and then answered in a slow, solemn voice, "Your Emily--my
Emily--my own sweet--" but he did not finish the sentence; for ere the
last words could be uttered, he fell forward on the floor like a dead
man.
For an instant, stupified and horror-struck, Marlow remained
motionless, hardly comprehending, hardly believing what he had heard.
The next instant, however, he rushed out of the library, and found the
butler with the late Lady Hastings' maid, passing through the back of
the house towards the front staircase.
"Which is Emily's room?" he cried,--"Which is Emily's room?"
"She is asleep, sir," said the maid.
"Which is her room?" cried Marlow, vehemently. "He is mad--he is
mad--your master is mad--he says he has killed her. Which is her room?"
and he darted up the staircase.
"The third on the right, sir," cried the butler, following with the
maid, as fast as possible; and Marlow darted towards the door.
A fit of trembling, however, seized him as he laid his hand upon the
lock. "He must have exaggerated," he said to himself. "He has been
unkind--harsh--he calls that killing her--I will open it gently," and
he and the two servants entered it nearly together.
All was quiet. All was still. The light was burning on the table. There
was a large heavy pillow cast down by the side of the bed, and the bed
coverings were in some disorder.
No need of such a stealthy pace, Marlow! You may tread firm and boldly.
Even your beloved step will not wake her. The body sleeps till the
day of judgment. The spirit has gone where the wicked cease from
troubling, and the weary are at rest.
The beautiful face was calm and tranquil; though beneath each of
the closed eyes was a deep bluish mark, and the lips had lost their
redness. The fair delicate hands grasped the bed-clothes tightly,
and the whole position of the figure showed that death had not taken
place without a convulsive struggle. Marlow tried, with trembling
hands, to unclasp the fingers from the bed-clothes, and though he
could not do it, he fancied he felt warmth in the palms of the hands.
A momentary gleam of hope came upon him. More assistance was called:
every effort that could be suggested was made; but it was all in vain.
Consciousness--breath--life--could never be restored. There was not a
dry eye amongst all those around, when the young lover, giving up the
hopeless task, cast himself on his knees by the bedside, and pressed
his face upon the dead hand of her whom he had loved so well.
Just at that moment the voice of Sir Philip Hastings was heard below
singing a stanza of some light song. It was the most horrible sound
that ever was heard!
Two of the servants ran down in haste, and the sight of the living was
as terrible as that of the dead. Philip Hastings had recovered from
his fit without assistance, had raised himself, and was now walking
about the room with the same sort of zigzag, tottering step with which
he had met Marlow on his return. A stream of blood from a wound which
he had inflicted on his forehead when he fell, was still pouring down
his face, rendering its deathlike paleness only the more ghastly. His
mouth was slightly drawn aside, giving a strange sinister expression
to his countenance; but from his eyes, once so full of thought and
intellect, every trace of reason had vanished. He held his hands before
him, and the fingers of the one beat time upon the back of the other to
the air that he was singing, and which he continued to sing even after
the entrance of the servants. He uttered not a word to them on their
appearance: he took not the slightest notice of them till the butler,
seeing his condition, took him by the arm, and asked if he had not
better go to bed.
Then, Sir Philip attempted to answer, but his words when spoken were
indistinct as well as confused, and it became evident that he had a
stroke of palsy. The servants knew hardly what to do. Marlow they did
not dare to disturb in his deep grief: the surgeon was by this time far
away: their mistress, and her fair unhappy daughter were dead: their
master had become an idiot. It was the greatest possible relief to them
when they beheld Mr. Dixwell the clergyman enter the library. Some boy
employed about the stables or the kitchen, had carried down a vague
tale of the horrors to the Rectory; and the good clergyman, though
exhausted with all the fatigues and anxiety of the day, had hurried
down at once to see what could be done for the survivors of that doomed
family. He comprehended the situation of Sir Philip Hastings in a
moment; but he put many questions to the butler as to what preceded
the terrible event, the effects of which he beheld. The old servant
answered little. To most of the questions he merely shook his head
sadly; but that mute reply was sufficient; and Mr. Dixwell, taking Sir
Philip by the hand, said, "You had better retire to rest, sir--you are
not well."
Sir Philip Hastings gave an unmeaning smile, but followed the clergyman
mildly, and having seen him to a bedroom, and left him in the hands of
his servants, Mr. Dixwell turned his step towards the chamber of poor
Emily.
Marlow had risen from his knees; but was still standing by the bedside
with his arms folded on his chest. His face was stern and sorrowful;
but perfectly calm.
Mr. Dixwell approached quietly, and in a melancholy tone, addressed
to him some words of consolation--commonplace enough indeed, but well
intended.
Marlow laid his hand upon the clergyman's arm, and pointed to Emily's
beautiful but ghastly face. He only added, "In vain!--Do what is
needful--Do what is right--I am incapable;" and leaving the room, he
descended to the library, where he closed the door, and remained in
silence and solitude till day broke on the following morning.