I must not dwell long upon the youthful scenes of the lad I have just
introduced to the reader; but as it is absolutely needful that his
peculiar character should be clearly understood, I must suffer it to
display itself a little farther before I step from his boyhood to his
maturity.
We left Philip Hastings senseless upon the ground, at the feet of his
old preceptor, struck down by the sudden intelligence he had received,
without warning or preparation.
The old man was immeasurably shocked at what he had done, and he
reproached himself bitterly; but he had been a man of action all his
life, who never suffered thought, whether pleasant or painful, to
impede him. He could think while he acted, and as he was a strong man
too, he had no great difficulty in taking the slight, pale youth up in
his arms, and carrying him over the park stile, which was close at
hand, as the reader may remember. He had made up his mind at once to
bear his young charge to a small cottage belonging to a laborer on the
other side of the road which ran under the park wall; but on reaching
it, he found that the whole family were out walking in the fields, and
both doors and windows were closed.
This was a great disappointment to him, although there was a very
handsome house, in modern taste, not two hundred yards off. But there
were circumstances which made him unwilling to bear the son of Sir
John Hastings to the dwelling of his next neighbor. Next neighbors are
not always friends; and even the clergyman of the parish may have his
likings and dislikings.
Colonel Marshal and Sir John Hastings were political opponents. The
latter was of the Calvinistic branch of the Church of England--not
absolutely a non-juror, but suspected even of having, a tendency that
way. He was sturdy and stiff in his political opinions, too, and had
but small consideration for the conscientious views and sincere
opinions of others. To say the truth, he was but little inclined to
believe that any one who differed from him had conscientious views or
sincere opinions at all; and certainly the demeanor, if not the
conduct, of the worthy Colonel did not betoken any fixed notion or
strong principles. He was a man of the Court--gay, lively, even witty,
making a jest of most things, however grave and worthy of reverence.
He played high, generally won, was shrewd, complaisant, and particular
in his deference to kings and prime ministers. Moreover, he was of the
very highest of the High Church party--so high, indeed, that those who
belonged to the Low Church party, fancied he must soon topple over
into Catholicism.
In truth, I believe, had the heart of the Colonel been very strictly
examined, it would have been found very empty of anything like real
religion. But then the king was a Roman Catholic, and it was pleasant
to be as near him as possible.
It may be asked, why then did not the Colonel go the same length as
his Majesty? The answer is very simple. Colonel Marshal was a shrewd
observer of the signs of the times. At the card table, after the three
first cards were played, he could tell where every other card in the
pack was placed. Now in politics he was nearly as discerning; and he
perceived that, although King James had a great number of honors in
his hand, he did not hold the trumps, and would eventually lose the
game. Had it been otherwise, there is no saying what sort of religion
he might have adopted. There is no reason to think that
Transubstantiation would have stood in the way at all; and as for the
Council of Trent, he would have swallowed it like a roll for his
breakfast.
For this man, then, Sir John Hastings had both a thorough hatred and a
profound contempt, and he extended the same sensations to every member
of the family. In the estimation of the worthy old clergyman the
Colonel did not stand much higher; but he was more liberal toward the
Colonel's family. Lady Annabelle Marshal, his wife, was, when in the
country, a very regular attendant at his church. She had been
exceedingly beautiful, was still handsome, and she had, moreover, a
sweet, saint-like, placid expression, not untouched by melancholy,
which was very winning, even in an old man's eyes. She was known, too,
to have made a very good wife to a not very good husband; and, to say
the truth, Dr. Paulding both pitied and esteemed her. He went but
little to the house, indeed, for Colonel Marshal was odious to him;
and the Colonel returned the compliment by never going to the church.
Such were the reasons which rendered the thought of carrying young
Philip Hastings up to The Court--as Colonel Marshal's house was
called--anything but agreeable to the good clergyman. But then, what
could he do? He looked in the boy's face. It was like that of a
corpse. Not a sign of returning animation showed itself. He had heard
of persons dying under such sudden affections of the mind; and so
still, so death-like, was the form and countenance before him, as he
laid the lad down for a moment on the bench at the cottage door, that
his heart misgave him, and a trembling feeling of dread came over his
old frame. He hesitated no longer, but after a moment's pause to gain
breath, caught young Hastings up in his arms again, and hurried away
with him toward Colonel Marshal's house.
I have said that is was a modern mansion; that is to imply, that it
was modern in that day. Heaven only knows what has become of it now;
but Louis Quatorze, though he had no hand in the building of it, had
many of its sins to answer for--and the rest belonged to Mansard. It
was the strangest possible contrast to the old-fashioned country seat
of Sir John Hastings, who had his joke at it, and at the owner
too--for he, too, could jest in a bitter way--and he used to say that
he wondered his neighbor had not added his own name to the building,
to distinguish it from all other courts; and then it would have been
Court Marshal. Many were the windows of the house; many the ornaments;
pilasters running up between the casements, with sunken panels,
covered over with quaint wreaths of flowers, as if each had an
embroidered waistcoat on; and a large flight of steps running down
from the great doorway, decorated with Cupids and cornucopias running
over with this most indigestible kind of stone-fruit.
The path from the gates up to the house was well graveled, and ran in
and out amongst sundry parterres, and basins of water, with the
Tritons, &c., of the age, all spouting away as hard as a large
reservoir on the top of the neighboring slope could make them. But for
serviceable purposes these basins were vain, as the water was never
suffered to rise nearly to the brim; and good Dr. Paulding gazed on
them without hope, as he passed on toward the broad flight of steps.
There, however, he found something of a more comfortable aspect. The
path he had been obliged to take had one convenience to the dwellers
in the mansion. Every window in that side of the house commanded a
view of it, and the Doctor and his burden were seen by one pair of
eyes at least.
Running down the steps without any of the frightful appendages of the
day upon her head, but her own bright beautiful hair curling wild like
the tendrils of a vine, came a lovely girl of fourteen or fifteen,
just past the ugly age, and blushing in the spring of womanhood. There
was eagerness and some alarm in her face: for the air and haste of the
worthy clergyman, as well as the form he carried in his arms, spoke as
plainly as words could have done that some accident had happened; and
she called to him, at some distance, to ask what was the matter.
"Matter, child! matter!" cried the clergyman, "I believe I have half
killed this poor boy."
"Killed him!" exclaimed the girl, with a look of doubt as well as
surprise.
"Ay, Mistress Rachael," replied the old man, "killed him by unkindly
and rashly telling him of his brother's death, without preparation."
"You intended it for kind, I am sure," murmured the girl in a sweet
low tone, coming down the steps, and gazing on his pale face, while
the clergyman carried the lad up the steps.
"There, Miss Marshal, do not stay staring," said Dr. Paulding; "but
pray call some of the lackeys, and bid them bring water or hartshorn,
or something. Your lady-mother must have some essences to bring
folks out of swoons. There is nothing but swooning at Court, I am
told--except gaming, and drinking, and profanity."
The girl was already on her way, but she looked back, saying, "My
father and mother are both out; but I will soon find help."
When the lad opened his eyes, there was something very near, which
seemed to him exceedingly beautiful--rich, warm coloring, like that of
a sunny landscape; a pair of liquid, tender eyes, deeply fringed and
full of sympathy; and the while some sunny curls of bright brown hair
played about his cheek, moved by the hay-field breath of the sweet
lips that bent close over him.
"Where am I?" he said. "What is the matter? What has happened? Ah! now
I recollect. My brother--my poor brother! Was it a dream?"
"Hush, hush!" said a musical voice. "Talk to him, sir. Talk to him,
and make him still."
"It is but too true, my dear Philip," said the old clergyman; "your
brother is lost to us. But recollect yourself, my son. It is weak to
give way in this manner. I announced your misfortune somewhat
suddenly, it is true, trusting that your philosophy was stronger than
it is--your Christian fortitude. Remember, all these dispensations are
from the hand of the most merciful God. He who gives the sunshine,
shall he not bring the clouds? Doubt not that all is merciful; and
suffer not the manifestations of His will to find you unprepared or
unsubmissive."
"I have been very weak," said the young man, "but it was so sudden!
Heaven! how full of health and strength he looked when he went away!
He was the picture of life--almost of immortality. I was but as a reed
beside him--a weak, feeble reed, beside a sapling oak."
"'One shall be taken, and the other left,'" said the sweet voice of
the young girl; and the eyes both of the youth and the old clergyman
turned suddenly upon her.
Philip Hastings raised himself upon his arm, and seemed to meditate
for a moment or two. His thoughts were confused and indistinct. He
knew not well where he was. The impression of what had happened was
vague and indefinite. As eyes which have been seared by the lightning,
his mind, which had lost the too vivid impression, now perceived
everything in mist and confusion.
"I have been very weak," he said, "too weak. It is strange. I thought
myself firmer. What is the use of thought and example, if the mind
remains thus feeble? But I am better now I will never yield thus
again;" and flinging himself off the sofa on which they had laid him,
he stood for a moment on his feet, gazing round upon the old clergyman
and that beautiful young girl, and two or three servants who had been
called to minister to him.
We all know--at least, all who have dealt with the fiery things of
life--all who have felt and suffered, and struggled and conquered, and
yielded and grieved, and triumphed in the end--we all know how
short-lived are the first conquests of mind over body, and how much
strength and experience it requires to make the victory complete. To
render the soul the despot, the tyranny must be habitual.
Philip Hastings rose, as I have said, and gazed around him. He
struggled against the shock which his mere animal nature had received,
shattered as it had been by long and intense study, and neglect of all
that contributes to corporeal power. But everything grew hazy to his
eyes again. He felt his limbs weak and powerless; even his mind
feeble, and his thoughts confused. Before he knew what was coming, he
sunk fainting on the sofa again, and when he woke from the dull sort
of trance into which he had fallen, there were other faces around him;
he was stretched quietly in bed in a strange room, a physician and a
beautiful lady of mature years were standing by his bedside, and he
felt the oppressive lassitude of fever in every nerve and in every
limb.
But we must turn to good Doctor Paulding. He went back to his rectory
discontented with himself, leaving the lad in the care of Lady
Annabelle Marshal and her family. The ordinary--as the man who carried
the letters, was frequently called in those days--was to depart in an
hour, and he knew that Sir John Hastings expected his only remaining
eon in London to attend the body of his brother down to the family
burying place. It was impossible that the lad could go, and the old
clergyman had to sit down and write an account of what had occurred.
There was nothing upon earth, or beyond the earth, which would have
induced him to tell a lie. True, his mind might be subject to such
self-deceptions as the mind of all other men. He might be induced to
find excuses to his own conscience for anything he did that was
wrong--for any mistake or error in judgment; for, willfully, he never
did what was wrong; and it was only by the results that he knew it.
But yet he was eagerly, painfully upon his guard against himself. He
knew the weakness of human nature--he had dealt with it often, and
observed it shrewdly, and applied the lesson with bitter severity to
his own heart, detecting its shrinking from candor, its hankering
after self-defense, its misty prejudices, its turnings and windings to
escape conviction; and he dealt with it as hardly as he would have
done with a spoiled child.
Calmly and deliberately he sat down to write to Sir John Hastings a
full account of what had occurred, taking more blame to himself than
was really his due. I have his feet, gazing round upon the old
clergyman called it a full account, though it occupied but one page of
paper, for the good doctor was anything but profuse of words; and
there are some men who can say much in small space. He blamed himself
greatly, anticipating reproach; but the thing which he feared the most
to communicate was the fact that the lad was left ill at the house of
Colonel Marshal, and at the house of a man so very much disliked by
Sir John Hastings.
There are some men--men of strong mind and great abilities--who go
through life learning some of its lessons, and totally neglecting
others--pre-occupied by one branch of the great study, and seeing
nothing in the course of scholarship but that. Dr. Paulding had no
conception of the change which the loss of their eldest son had
wrought in the heart of Sir John and Lady Hastings. The second--the
neglected one--had now become not only the eldest, but the only one.
His illness, painfully as it affected them, was a blessing to them. It
withdrew their thoughts from their late bereavement. It occupied their
mind with a new anxiety. It withdrew it from grief and from
disappointment. They thought little or nothing of whose house he was
at, or whose care he was under; but leaving the body of their dead
child to be brought down by slow and solemn procession to the country,
they hurried on before, to watch over the one that was left.
Sir John Hastings utterly forgot his ancient feelings toward Colonel
Marshal. He was at the house every day, and almost all day long, and
Lady Hastings was there day and night.
Wonderful how--when barriers are broken down--we see the objects
brought into proximity under a totally different point of view from
that in which we beheld them at a distance. There might be some
stiffness in the first meeting of Colonel Marshal and Sir John
Hastings, but it wore off with exceeding rapidity. The Colonel's
kindness and attention to the sick youth were marked. Lady Annabelle
devoted herself to him as to one of her own children. Rachael Marshal
made herself a mere nurse. Hard hearts could only withstand such
things. Philip was now an only child, and the parents were filled with
gratitude and affection.