"MY DEAR SIR PHILIP:
"I have not seen you or dear Lady Hastings for many months; nor your
sweet Emily either, except at a distance, when one day she passed my
carriage on horseback, sweeping along the hill-side like a gleam of
light. My life is a sad, solitary one here; and I wish my friends
would take more compassion upon me and let me see human faces
oftener--especial faces that I love.
"But I know that you are very inexorable in these respects, and,
sufficient to yourself, cannot readily conceive how a lone woman can
pine for the society of other more loving friends than books or
nature. I must, therefore, attack the only accessible point I know
about you, meaning your compassion, which you never refuse to those
who really require it. Now I do require it greatly; for I am at this
present engaged in business of a very painful and intricate nature,
which I cannot clearly understand, and in which I have no one to
advise me but a country attorney, whose integrity as well as ability I
much doubt. To whom can I apply so well as to you, when I need the
counsel and assistance of a friend, equally kind, disinterested, and
clear-headed? I venture to do so, then, in full confidence, and ask
you to ride over as soon as you can, to give me your advice, or rather
to decide for me, in a matter where a considerable amount of property
is at stake, and where decision is required immediately. I trust when
you do come you will stay all night, as the business is, I fear, of so
complicated a nature, that it may occupy more than one day of your
valuable time in the affairs of
Your faithful and obliged servant,
CAROLINE HAZLETON."
"Is Mrs. Hazleton's messenger waiting?" asked Sir Philip Hastings,
after having read the letter and mused for a moment.
The servant answered in the affirmative; and his master rejoined,
"Tell him I will not write an answer, as I have some business to
attend to; but I beg he will tell his mistress that I will be with her
in three hours."
Lady Hastings uttered a low-toned exclamation of surprise. She did not
venture to ask any question--indeed she rarely questioned her husband
on any subject; but when anything excited her wonder, or, as was more
frequently the case, her curiosity, she was accustomed to seek for
satisfaction in a somewhat indirect way, by raising her beautiful
eyebrows with a doubtful sort of smile, or, as in the present
instance, by exclaiming, "Good gracious! Dear me!" or giving voice to
some other little vocative, with a note of interrogation strongly
marked after it.
In this case there was more than one feeling at the bottom of her
exclamation. She was surprised; she was curious; and she was,
moreover, in the least degree in the world, jealous. She had her share
of weaknesses, as I have said; and one of them was of a kind less
uncommon than may be supposed. Of her husband's conduct she had no
fear--not the slightest suspicion. Indeed, to have entertained any
would have been impossible--but she could not bear to see him liked,
admired, esteemed, by any woman--mark, me, I say by _any woman_; for
no one could feel more triumphant joy than she did when she saw him
duly appreciated by men. She was a great monopolizer: she did not wish
one thought of his to be won away from her by another woman; and a
sort of irritable feeling came upon her even when she saw him seated
by any young and pretty girl, and paying her the common attentions of
society. She was too well bred to display such sensations except by
those slight indications, or by a certain petulance of manner, which
he was not close observer enough of other people's conduct to remark.
Not to dwell too long on such things, Sir Philip Hastings, though
perfectly unconscious of what was going on in her heart, rarely kept
her long in suspense, when he saw any signs of curiosity. He perhaps
might think it a point of Roman virtue to spoil his wife, although she
had very little of the Portia in her character. On the present
occasion, he quietly handed over to her the letter of Mrs. Hazleton;
and then summoned a servant and gave orders for various preparations.
"Had not I and Emily better go with you?" asked Lady Hastings,
pointing out to him the passage in the letter which spoke of the long
absence of all the family.
"Not when I am going on business," replied her husband gravely, and
quitted the room.
An hour after, Philip Hastings was on horseback with a servant
carrying a valise behind him, and riding slowly through the park. The
day was far advanced, and the distance was likely to occupy about an
hour and a half in travelling; but the gentleman had fallen into a
reverie, and rode very slowly. They passed the park gates; they took
their way down the lane by the church and near the parsonage. Here Sir
Philip pulled in his horse suddenly, and ordered the man to ride on
and announce that he would be at Mrs. Hazleton's soon after. He then
fastened his horse to a large hook, put up for the express purpose on
most country houses of that day in England, and walked up to the door.
It was ajar, and without ceremony he walked in, as he was often
accustomed to do, and entered the little study of the rector.
The clergyman himself was not there; but there were two persons in the
room, one a young and somewhat dashing-looking man, one or two and
twenty years of age, exceedingly handsome both in face and figure;
the other personage past the middle age, thin, pale, eager and
keen-looking, in whom Sir Philip instantly recognized a well known,
but not very well reputed attorney, of a country town about twenty
miles distant. They had one of the large parish books before them, and
were both bending over it with great appearance of earnestness.
The step of Sir Philip Hastings roused them, and turning round, the
attorney bowed law, saying, "I give you good day, Sir Philip. I hope I
have the honor of seeing you well."
"Quite so," was the brief reply, and it was followed by an inquiry for
the pastor, who it seemed had gone into another room for some papers
which were required.
In the mean time the younger of the two previous occupants of the room
had been gazing at Sir Philip Hastings with a rude, familiar stare,
which the object of it did not remark; and in another moment the
clergyman himself appeared, carrying a bundle of old letters in his
hand.
He was a heavy, somewhat timid man, the reverse of his predecessor in
all things, but a very good sort of person upon the whole. On seeing
the baronet there, however, something seemed strangely to affect
him--a sort of confused surprise, which, after various stammering
efforts, burst forth as soon as the usual salutation was over, in the
words, "Pray, Sir Philip, did you come by appointment?"
Sir Philip Hastings, as the reader already knows, was a somewhat
unobservant man of what was passing around him in the world. He had
his own deep, stern trains of thought, which he pursued with a
passionate earnestness almost amounting to monomania. The actions,
words, and even looks of those few in whom he took an interest, he
could sometimes watch and comment on in his own mind with intense
study. True, he watched without understanding, and commented wrongly;
for he had too little experience of the motives of others from outward
observation, and found too little sympathy with the general motives of
the world, in his own heart, to judge even those he loved rightly. But
the conduct, the looks, the words of ordinary men, he hardly took the
trouble of remarking; and the good parson's surprise and hesitation,
passed like breath upon a mirror, seen perhaps, but retaining no hold
upon his mind for a moment. Neither did the abrupt question surprise
him; nor the quick, angry look which it called up on the face of the
attorney attract his notice; but he replied quietly to Mr. Dixwell, "I
do not remember having made any appointment with you."
The matter was all well so far; and would have continued well; but the
attorney, a meddling fellow, had nearly spoiled all, by calling the
attention of Philip Hastings more strongly to the strangeness of the
clergyman's question.
"Perhaps," said the man of law, interrupting the baronet in the midst,
"Perhaps Mr. Dixwell thought, Sir Philip, that you came here to speak
with me on the business of the Honorable Mrs. Hazleton. She told me
she would consult you, and I can explain the whole matter to you."
But the clergyman instantly declared that he meant nothing of the
kind; and at the same moment Sir Philip Hastings said, "I beg you will
not, sir. Mrs. Hazleton will explain what she thinks proper to me,
herself. I desire no previous information, as I am now on my way to
her. Why my good friend here should suppose I came by appointment, I
cannot tell. However, I did not; and it does not matter. I only wish,
Mr. Dixwell, to say, that I hear the old woman Danley is ill and
dying. She is a papist, and the foolish people about fancy she is a
witch. Little help or comfort will she obtain from them, even if they
do not injure or insult her. As I shall be absent all night, and
perhaps all to-morrow, I will call at her cottage as I ride over to
Mrs. Hazleton's and inquire into her wants. I will put down on paper,
and leave there, what I wish my people to do for her; but there is one
thing which I must request you to do, namely, to take every means, by
exhortation and remonstrance, to prevent the ignorant peasantry from
troubling this poor creature's death-bed. Her sad errors in matters of
faith should only at such a moment make us feel the greater compassion
for her."
Mr. Dixwell thought differently, for though a good man, he was a
fanatic. He did not indeed venture to think of disobeying the
injunction of the great man of the parish--the man who now held both
the Hastings and the Marshal property; but he would fain have detained
Sir Philip to explain and make clear to him the position--as clear as
a demonstration in Euclid to his own mind--that all Roman Catholics
ought to be, at the very least, banished from the country for ever.
But Sir Philip Hastings was not inclined to listen, and although the
good man began the argument in a solemn tone, his visitor, falling
into a fit of thought, walked slowly out of the room, along the
passage, through the door, and mounted his horse, without effectually
hearing one word, though they were many which Mr. Dixwell showered
upon him as he followed.
At his return to his little study, the parson found the young man and
the lawyer, no longer looking at the book, but conversing together
very eagerly, with excited countenances and quick gestures. The moment
he entered, however, they stopped, the young man ending with an oath,
for which the clergyman reproved him on the spot.
"That is very well, Mr. Dixwell," said the attorney, "and my young
friend here will be much the better for some good admonition; and for
sitting under your ministry, as I trust he will, some day soon; but we
must go I fear directly. However, there is one thing I want to say;
for you had nearly spoiled every thing to-day. No person playing at
cards--"
"I never touch them," said the parson, with a holy horror in his face.
"Well, others do," said the attorney, "and those who do never show
their hand to their opponent. Now, law is like a game of cards--"
"In which the lawyer is sure to get the odd trick," observed the young
man.
"And we must not have Sir Philip Hastings know one step that we are
taking," continued the lawyer. "If you have conscience, as I am sure
you have, and honor, as I know you have, you will not suffer any thing
that we have asked you, or said to you, to transpire; for then, of
course, Sir Philip would take every means to prevent our obtaining
information."
"I do not think it," said the parson.
"And justice and equity would be frustrated," proceeded the attorney,
"which you are bound by your profession to promote. We want nothing
but justice, Mr. Dixwell: justice, I say; and no one can tell what
card Sir Philip may play."
"I will trump it with the knave," said the young man to himself; and
having again cautioned the clergyman to be secret, not without some
obscure menaces of danger to himself, if he failed, the two gentlemen
left him, and hurried down, as fast as they could go, to a small
alehouse in the village, where they had left their horses. In a few
minutes, a well known poacher, whose very frequent habitation was the
jail or the cage, was seen to issue forth from the door of the
ale-house, then to lead a very showy looking horse from the stable,
and then to mount him and take his way over the hill. The poacher had
never possessed a more dignified quadruped than a dog or a donkey in
his life; so that it was evident the horse could not be his. That he
was not engaged in the congenial but dangerous occupation of stealing
it, was clear from the fact of the owner of the beast gazing quietly
at him out of the window while he mounted; and then turning round to
the attorney, who sat at a table hard by, and saying, "he is off, I
think."
"Well, let him go," replied the lawyer, "but I do not half like it,
Master John. Every thing in law should be cool and quiet. No
violence--no bustle."
"But this is not a matter of law," replied the younger man, "it is a
matter of safety, you fool. What might come of it, if he were to have
a long canting talk with the old wretch upon her death-bed?"
"Very little," replied the attorney, in a calm well-assured tone, "I
know her well. She is as hard as a flint stone. She always was, and
time has not softened her. Besides, he has no one with him to take
depositions, and if what you say is true, she'll not live till
morning."
"But I tell you, she is getting frightened, as she comes near death!"
exclaimed the young man. "She has got all sorts of fancies into her
head; about hell, and purgatory, and the devil knows what; and she
spoke to my mother yesterday about repentance, and atonement, and a
pack of stuff more, and wanted extreme unction, and to confess to a
priest. It would be a fine salve, I fancy, that could patch up the
wounds in her conscience; but if this Philip Hastings were to come to
her with his grave face and solemn tone, and frighten her still more,
he would get any thing out of her he pleased."
"I don't think it," answered the lawyer deliberately; "hate, Master
John, is the longest lived passion I know. It lasts into the grave,
as I have often seen in making good men's wills when they were
dying--sanctified, good men, I say. Why I have seen a man who has
spent half his fortune in charity, and built alms-houses, leave a
thoughtless son, or a runaway daughter, or a plain-spoken nephew, to
struggle with poverty all his life, refusing to forgive him, and
comforting himself with a text or a pretence. No, no; hate is the only
possession that goes out of the world with a man: and this old witch,
Danby, hates the whole race of Hastings with a goodly strength that
will not decay as her body does. Besides, Sir Philip is well-nigh as
puritanical as his father--a sort of cross-breed between an English
fanatic and an old Roman cynic. She abominates the very sound of his
voice, and nothing would reconcile her to him but his taking the mass
and abjuring the errors of Calvin. Ha! ha! ha! However, as you have
sent the fellow, it cannot be helped. Only remember I had nothing to
do with it if violence follows. That man is not to be trusted, and I
like to keep on the safe side of the law."
"Ay, doubtless, doubtless," answered the youth, somewhat thoughtfully;
"it is your shield; and better stand behind than before it. However, I
don't doubt Tom Cutter in the least. Besides, I only told him to
interrupt them in their talk, and take care they had no private
gossip; to stick there till he was gone, and all that."
"Sir Philip is not a man to bear such interruption," said the
attorney, gravely; "he is as quiet looking as the deep sea on a
summer's day; but there can come storms, I tell you, John, and then
woe to those who have trusted the quiet look."
"Then, if he gets in a passion, and mischief comes of it," replied the
young man, with a laugh, "the fault is his, you know, Shanks."
"True," answered the attorney, meditating, "and perhaps, by a little
clever twisting and timing, we might make something of it if he did,
were there any other person concerned but this Tom Cutter, and we had
a good serviceable witness or two. But this man is such a rogue that
his word is worth nothing; and to thrash him--though the business of
the beadle--would be no discredit to the magistrate. Besides, he is
sure to give the provocation, and one word of Sir Philip's would be
worth a thousand oaths of Tom Cutter's, in any court in the kingdom."
"As to thrashing him, that few can do," replied the youth; "but only
remember, Shanks, that I gave no orders for violence."
"I was not present," replied the attorney, with a grin; "you had
better, by a great deal, trust entirely to me, in these things, Master
John. If you do, I will bring you safely through, depend upon it; but
if you do not, nobody can tell what may come. Here comes Folwell, the
sexton. Now hold your tongue, and let me manage him, sir. You are not
acquainted with these matters."