There was a lady, a very beautiful lady indeed, came to a lonely
house, which seemed to have been tenanted for several years by none
but servants, about three years after the death of Sir John Hastings.
That house stood some miles to the north of the seat of that
gentleman, which now had passed to his son; and it was a fine-looking
place, with a massive sort of solemn brick-and-mortar grandeur
about it, which impressed the mind with a sense of the wealth and
long-standing of its owners.
The plural has slipped from my pen, and perhaps it is right; for the
house looked as if it had had many owners, and all of them had been
rich.
Now, there was but one owner,--the lady who descended from that
lumbering, heavy coach, with the two great leathern wings on each side
of the door. She was dressed in widow's weeds, and she had every right
to wear them. Though two-and-twenty only, she stood there orphan,
heiress, and widow. She had known many changes of condition, but not
of fate, and they did not seem to have affected her much. Of high-born
and proud parentage, she had been an only child for many years before
her parents' death. She had been spoiled, to use a common, but not
always appropriate phrase; for there are some people who cannot be
spoiled, either because the ethereal essence within them is
incorruptible, or because there is no ethereal essence to spoil at
all. However, she had been spoiled very successfully by fate, fortune,
and kind friends. She had never been contradicted in her life; she had
never been disappointed--but once. She had travelled, seen strange
countries--which was rare in those days with women--had enjoyed many
things. She had married a handsome, foolish man, whom she chose--few
knew rightly why. She had lost both her parents not long after; got
tired of her husband, and lost him too, just when the loss could leave
little behind but a decent regret, which she cultivated as a slight
stimulant to keep her mind from stagnating. And now, without husband,
child, or parents, she returned to the house of her childhood, which
she had not seen for five long years.
Is that all her history? No, not exactly all. There is one little
incident which may as well be referred to here. Her parents had
entered into an arrangement for her marriage with a very different man
from him whom she afterwards chose,--Sir Philip Hastings; and
foolishly they had told her of what had been done, before the
young man's own assent had been given. She did not see much of
him--certainly not enough to fall in love with him. She even thought
him a strange, moody youth; but yet there was something in his
moodiness and eccentricity which excited her fancy. The reader knows
that he chose for himself; and the lady also married immediately
after.
Thus had passed for her a part of life's pageant; and now she came to
her own native dwelling, to let the rest march by as it might. At
first, as she slowly descended from the carriage, her large, dark,
brilliant eyes were fixed upon the ground. She had looked long at the
house as she was driving towards it, and it seemed to have cast her
into a thoughtful mood. It is hardly possible to enter a house where
we have spent many early years, without finding memory suddenly seize
upon the heart and possess it totally. What a grave it is! What a long
line of buried ancestors may not _the present_ always contemplate
there.
Nor are there many received into the tomb worth so much respect as one
dead hour. All else shall live again: lost hours have no resurrection.
There were old servants waiting around, to welcome her, new ones
attending upon her orders; but for a moment or two she noticed no one,
till at length the old housekeeper, who knew her from a babe, spoke
out, saying, "Ah, madam I do not wonder to see you a little sad on
first coming to the old place again, after all that has happened."
"Ah, indeed, Arnold," replied the lady, "many sad things have happened
since we parted. But how are you, Goody? You look blooming:" and
walking into the house, she heard the reply in the hall.
From the hall, the old housekeeper led her lady through the house, and
mightily did she chatter and gossip by the way. The lady listened
nearly in silence; for Mrs. Arnold was generous in conversation, and
spared her companion all expense of words. At length, however,
something she said seemed to rouse her mistress, and she exclaimed
with a somewhat bitter laugh, "And so the good people declared I was
going to be married to Sir Philip Hastings?"
"_Mr_. Hastings he was then, madam," answered the housekeeper "to be
sure they did. All the country around talked of it, and the tenants
listened at church to hear the banns proclaimed."
The lady turned very red, and the old woman went on to say, "Old Sir
John seemed quite sure of it; but he reckoned without his host, I
fancy."
"He did indeed," said the lady with an uncheerful smile, and there the
subject dropped for the time. Not long after, however, the lady
herself brought the conversation back to nearly the same point, asked
after Sir Philip's health and manner of living, and how he was liked
in the neighborhood, adding, "He seemed a strange being at the time I
saw him, which was only once or twice--not likely to make a very
pleasant husband, I thought."
"Oh dear, yes, madam, he does," answered Mrs. Arnold, "many a worse, I
can assure you. He is very fond of his lady indeed, and gives up more
to her than one would think. He is a little stern, they say, but very
just and upright; and no libertine fellow, like his brother who was
drowned--which I am sure was a providence, for if he was so bad when
he was young, what would he have been when he was old?"
"Better, perhaps," replied her mistress, with a quiet smile; "but was
he so very wicked? I never heard any evil of him."
"Oh dear me, madam! do not you know?" exclaimed the old woman; and
then came the whole story of the cotter's daughter on the hill, and
how she and her father and old Mother Danby--whom people believed to
be a witch--had persuaded or threatened Sir John Hastings into making
rich people of them.
"Persuaded or threatened Sir John Hastings!" said the lady in a tone
of doubt. "I knew him better than either of his sons; and never did I
see a man so little likely to yield to persuasion or to bow to menace;"
and she fell into a deep fit of musing, which lasted long, while the
old housekeeper rambled on from subject to subject, unlistened to, but
very well content.
Let us dwell a little on the lady, and on her character. There is
always something to interest, something to instruct, in the character
of a woman. It is like many a problem in Euclid, which seems at first
sight as plain and simple as the broad sunshine; but when we come to
study it, we find intricacies beneath which puzzle us mightily to
resolve. It is a fine, curious, delicate, complicated piece of
anatomy, a woman's heart. I have dissected many, and I know the fact.
Take and lay that fibre apart--take care, for heaven's sake! that you
do not tear the one next to it; and be sure you do not dissever the
fragments which bind those most opposite parts together! See, here
lies a muscle of keen sensibility; and there--what is that? A
cartilage, hard as a nether millstone. Look at those light, irritable
nerves, quivering at the slightest touch; and then see those tendons,
firm, fixed, and powerful as the resolution of a martyr. Oh, that
wonderful piece of organization who can describe it accurately?
I must not pretend to do so; but I will give a slight sketch of the
being before me.
There she stands, somewhat above the usual height, but beautifully
formed, with every line rounded and flowing gracefully into the
others. There is calmness and dignity in the whole air, and in every
movement; but yet there is something very firm, very resolute, very
considerate, in the fall of that small foot upon the carpet. She
cannot intend her foot to stay there for ever; and yet, when she sets
it down, one would be inclined to think she did. Her face is very
beautiful--every feature finely cut--the eyes almost dazzling in their
dark brightness. How chaste, how lovely the fine lines of that mouth.
Yet do you see what a habit she has of keeping the pearly teeth close
shut--one pure row pressed hard against the other. The slight
sarcastic quiver of the upper lip does not escape you; and the
expanded nostril and flash of the eye, contradicted by the fixed
motionless mouth.
Such is her outward appearance, such is she too within--though the
complexion there is somewhat darker. Much that, had it been cultivated
and improved, would have blossomed into womanly virtue; a capability
of love, strong, fiery, vehement, changeless--not much tenderness--not
much pity,--no remorse--are there. Pride, of a peculiar character, but
strong, ungovernable, unforgiving, and a power of hate and thirst of
vengeance, which only pride can give, are there likewise. Super-add a
shrewdness--a policy--a cunning--nay, something greater--something
approaching the sublime--a divination, where passion is to be
gratified, that seldom leads astray from the object.
Yes, such is the interior of that fair temple, and yet, how calm,
sweet, and promising it stands.
I have omitted much perhaps; for the human heart is like the caldron
of the witches in Macbeth, and one might go on throwing in ingredients
till the audience became tired of the song. However, what I have said
will be enough for the reader's information; and if we come upon any
unexplained phenomena, I must endeavor to elucidate them hereafter.
Let us suppose the lady's interview with her housekeeper at an
end--all her domestic arrangements made--the house restored to its air
of habitation--visits received and paid. Amongst the earliest visitors
were Sir Philip and Lady Hastings. He came frankly, and in one of his
most happy moods, perfectly ignorant that she had ever been made aware
of there having been a marriage proposed between himself and her and
she received him and his fair wife with every appearance of
cordiality. But as soon as these visits and all the ceremonies were
over, the lady began to drive much about the country, and to collect
every tale and rumor she could meet with of all the neighboring
families. Her closest attention, however, centred upon those affecting
the Hastings' race; and she found the whole strange story of the
cottage girl confirmed, with many another particular added. She smiled
when she heard this--smiled blandly--it seemed to give her pleasure.
She would fain have called upon the girl and her mother too. She
longed to do so, and to draw forth with skill, of which she possessed
no small share, the key secret of the whole. But her station, her
reputation, prevented her from taking a step which she knew might be
noised abroad and create strange comments.
She resolved upon another move, however, which she thought would do as
well. There would be no objection to her visiting her poorer
neighbors, to comfort, to relieve; and she went to the huts of many.
At length one early morning, on a clear autumn day, the carriage was
left below on the high road, and the lady climbed the hill alone
towards the cottage, where the girl and her parents formerly lived.
She found the old woman, who was now its occupant, busily cooking her
morning meal; and sitting down, she entered into conversation with
her. At first she could obtain but little information; the old woman
was in a sullen mood, and would not speak of any thing she did not
like. Money was of no avail to unlock her eloquence.
She had never asked or taken charity, the old woman said, and now she
did not need it.
The lady pondered for a few minutes, considering the character of her
ancient hostess, trying it by her experience and intuition; and thus
she boldly asked her for the whole history of young John Hastings and
the cottage girl.
"Tell me all," she said, "for I wish to know it--I have an interest in
it."
"Ay?" said the old woman, gazing at her, "then you are the pretty lady
Sir Philip was to have married, but would not have her?"
"The same," replied the visitor, and for an instant a bright red spot
arose upon her cheek--a pang like a knife passed through her heart.
That was the price she paid for the gratification of her curiosity.
But it probably was gratified, for she stayed nearly an hour and a
half in the cottage--so long, indeed, that her servants, who were with
the carriage, became alarmed, and one of the footmen walked up the
hill. He met his lady coming down.
"Poor thing," she said, as if speaking of the old woman she had just
left, "her senses wander a little; but she is poor, and has been much
persecuted. I must do what I can for her. Whenever she comes to the
house, see she is admitted."
The old woman did come often, and always had a conference with the
lady of the mansion; but here let us leave them for the present. They
may appear upon the stage again.