Occasionally in the life of man, as in the life of the
world--History--or in the course of a stream towards the sea, come
quiet lapses, sunny and calm, reflecting nothing but the still
motionless objects around, or the blue sky and moving clouds above.
Often too we find that this tranquil expanse of silent water follows
quickly after some more rapid movement, comes close upon some spot
where a dashing rapid has diversified the scene, or a cataract, in
roar and confusion and sparkling terror, has broken the course of the
stream.
Such a still pause, silent of action--if I may use the term--followed
the events which I have related in the last chapter, extending over a
period of nearly six months. Nothing happened worthy of any minute
detail. Peace and tranquillity dwelt in the various households which I
have noticed in the course of this story, enlivened in that of Sir
Philip Hastings by the gay spirit of Emily Hastings, although somewhat
shadowed by the sterner character of her father; and in the household
of Mrs. Hazleton brightened by the light of hope, and the fair
prospect of success in all her schemes which for a certain time
continued to open before her.
Mr. Marlow only spent two days at her house, and then went away to
London, but whatever effect her beauty might have produced upon him,
his society, brief as it was, served but to confirm her feelings
towards him, and before he left her, she had made up her mind fully
and entirely, with her characteristic vigor and strength of
resolution, that her marriage with Mr. Marlow was an event which must
and should be. There was under this conviction, but not the less
strong, not the less energetic, not the less vehement, for being
concealed even from herself--a resolution that no sacrifice, no fear,
no hesitation at any course, should stand in the way of her purpose.
She did not anticipate many difficulties certainly; for Mr. Marlow
clearly admired her; but the resolution was, that if difficulties
should arise, she would overcome them at all cost. Hers was one of
those characters of which the world makes its tragedies, having within
itself passions too strong and deep to be frequently excited--as the
more profound waters which rise into mountains when once in motion
require a hurricane to still them--together with that energetic will,
that fixed unbending determination, which like the outburst of a
torrent from the hills, sweeps away all before it. But let it be ever
remembered that her energies were exerted upon herself as well as upon
others, not in checking passion, not in limiting desire, but in
guarding scrupulously every external appearance, guiding every thought
and act with careful art towards its destined object. Mrs. Hazleton
suffered Mr. Marlow to be in London more than a month before she
followed to conclude the mere matters of business between them. It
cost her a great struggle with herself, but in that struggle she was
successful, and when at length she went, she had several interviews
with him. Circumstances--that great enemy of schemes, was against her.
Sometimes lawyers were present at their interviews, sometimes
impertinent friends; but Mrs. Hazleton did not much care: she trusted
to the time he was speedily about to pass in the country, for the full
effect, and in the mean time took care that nothing but the golden
side of the shield should be presented to her knight.
The continent was at that time open to Englishmen for a short period,
and Mr. Marlow expressed his determination of going to the Court of
Versailles for a month or six weeks before he came down to take
possession of Hartwell place, everything now having been settled
between them in regard to business.
Mrs. Hazleton did not like his determination, yet she did not much
fear the result; for Mr. Marlow was preeminently English, and never
likely to wed a French woman. Still she resolved that he should see
her under another aspect before he went. She was a great favorite of
the Court of those days; her station, her wealth, her beauty, and her
grace rendered her a brightness and an ornament wherever she came. She
was invited to one of the more private though not less splendid
assemblies at the Palace, and she contrived that Mr. Marlow should be
invited also, though neither by nature or habit a courtier. She
obtained the invitation for him skilfully, saying to the Royal
Personage of whom she asked it, that as he won a lawsuit against her,
she wished to show him that she bore no malice. He went, and found her
the brightest in the brilliant scene; the great and the proud, the
handsome and the gay, all bending down and worshipping, all striving.
for a smile, and obtaining it but scantily. She smiled upon him,
however, not sufficiently to attract remark from others, but quite
sufficiently to mark a strong distinction for his own eyes, if he had
chosen to use them. He went away to France, and Mrs. Hazleton,
returned to the country; the winter passed with her in arranging his
house for him; and, in so doing, she often had to write to him. His
replies were always prompt, kind, and grateful; and at length came the
spring, and the pleasant tidings that he was on his way back to his
beloved England.
Alas for human expectation! Alas for the gay day-dream of
youth--maturity--middle age--old age--for they have all their
day-dreams! Every passion which besets man from the cradle to the
grave has its own visionary expectations. Each creature, each animal,
from the tiger to the beetle, has its besetting insect, which preys
upon it, gnaws it, irritates it, and so have all the ages of the soul
and of the heart. Alas for human speculation of all kinds! Alas for
every hope and aspiration! for those that are pure and high, but,
growing out of earth, bear within themselves the bitter seeds of
disappointment; and those that are dark or low produce the germ of
the most poisonous hybrid, where disappointment is united with
remorse.
Happy is the man that expecteth nothing, for verily he shall not be
disappointed! It is a quaint old saying; and could philosophy ever
stem the course of God's will, it would be one which, well followed,
might secure to man some greater portion of mortal peace than he
possesses. But to aspire was the ordinance of God; and, viewed
rightly, the withering of the flowers upon each footstep we have taken
upwards, is no discouragement; for if we shape our path aright, there
is a wreath of bright blossoms crowning each craggy peak before us, as
we ascend to snatch the garland of immortal glory, placed just beyond
the last awful leap of death.
Mrs. Hazleton's aspirations, however, were all earthly. She thought of
little beyond this life. She had never been taught so to think. There
are some who are led astray from the path of noble daring, to others
as difficult and more intricate, by some loud shout of passion on the
right or on the left--and seek in vain to return; some who, misled by
an apparent similarity in the course of two paths, although the finger
post says, "Thus shalt thou go!" think that the way so plainly beaten,
and so seemingly easy, must surely lead them to the same point. Others
again never learn to read the right path from the wrong (and she was
one), while others shut their eyes to all direction, fix their gaze
upon the summit, and strain up, now amidst flowers and now amidst
thorns, till they are cast back from the face of some steep precipice,
to perish in the descent or at the foot.
Mrs. Hazleton's aspirations were all earthly; and that was the secret
of her only want in beauty. That divine form, that resplendent face,
beamed with every earthly grace, sparkled forth mind and intellect in
every glance, but they were wanting in soul, in spirit, and in heart.
Life was there, but the life of life, the intense flame of immortal,
over-earthly intelligence, was wanting. She might be the grandest
animal that ever was seen, the most bright and capable intellect that
ever dealt with mortal things; but the fine golden chain which leads
on the electric fire from intellectual eminence to spiritual
preeminence, from mind to soul, from earth to heaven, was wanting, or
had been broken. Her loveliness none could doubt, her charm of manner
none could deny, her intellectual superiority all admitted, her
womanly softness added a grace beyond them all; but there was one
grace wanting--the grace of a high, holy soul, which, in those who
have it, be they fair, be they ugly, pours forth as an emanation from
every look and every action, and surrounds them with a cloud of
radiance, faintly imaged by the artist's glory round a saint.
Alas for human aspirations! Alas for the expectations of this fair
frail creature! How eagerly she thought of Mr. Marlow's return how she
had anticipated their meeting again! How she had calculated upon all
that would be said and done during the next few weeks! The first news
she received was that he had arrived, and with a few servants had
taken possession of his new dwelling. She remained all day in her own
house; she ordered no carriage; she took no walk: she tried to read;
she played upon various instruments of music; she thought each instant
he would come, at least for a few minutes, to thank her for all the
care she had bestowed to make his habitation comfortable. The sun
gilded the west; the melancholy moon rose up in solemn splendor; the
hours passed by, and he came not.
The next morning, she heard that he had ridden over to the house of
Sir Philip Hastings, and indignation warred with love in her bosom.
She thought he must certainly come that day, and she resolved angrily
to upbraid him for his want of courtesy. Luckily, however, for her, he
did not come that day; and a sort of melancholy took possession of
her. Luckily, I say; for when passion takes hold of a scheme it is
generally sure to shake it to pieces, and that melancholy loosens the
grasp of passion for a time. The next day he did come, and with an air
so easy and unconscious of offence as almost to provoke her into
vehemence again. He knew not what she felt--he had no idea of how he
had been looked for. He was as ignorant that she had ever thought of
him as a husband, as she was that he had ever compared her in his mind
to his own mother.
He talked quietly, indifferently, of his having been over to the house
of Sir Philip Hastings, adding merely--not as an excuse, but as a
simple fact--that he had been unable to call there as he had promised
before leaving the country. He dilated upon the kind reception he had
met with from Lady Hastings, for Sir Philip was absent upon business;
and he went on to dwell rather largely upon the exceeding beauty and
great grace of Emily Hastings.
Oh how Mrs. Hazleton hated her! It requires but a few drops of poison
to envenom a whole well.
He did worse: he proceeded to descant upon her character--upon the
blended brightness and deep thought--upon the high-souled emotions and
childlike sparkle of her disposition--upon the simplicity and
complexity, upon the many-sided splendor of her character, which, like
the cut diamond, reflected each ray of light in a thousand varied and
dazzling hues. Oh how Mrs. Hazleton hated her--hated, because for the
first time she began to fear. He had spoken to her in praise of
another woman--with loud encomiums too, with a brightened eye, and a
look which told her more than his words. These were signs not to be
mistaken. They did not show in the least that he loved Emily Hastings,
and that she knew right well; but they showed that he did not love
her; and there was the poison in the cup.
So painful, so terrible was the sensation, that, with all her mastery
over herself, she could not conceal the agony under which she writhed.
She became silent, grave, fell into fits of thought, which clouded the
broad brow, and made the fine-cut lip quiver. Mr. Marlow was surprised
and grieved. He asked himself what could be the matter. Something had
evidently made her sorrowful, and he could not trace the sorrow to its
source; for she carefully avoided uttering one word in depreciation of
Emily Hastings. In this she showed no woman's spirit. She could have
stabbed her, had the girl been there in her presence; but she would
not scratch her. Petty spite was too low for her, too small for the
character of her mind. Hers was a heart capable of revenge, and would
be satisfied with nothing less.
Mr. Marlow soothed her, spoke to her kindly, tenderly, tried to lead
her mind away, to amuse, to entertain her. Oh, it was all gall and
bitterness to her. He might have cursed, abused, insulted her,
without, perhaps, diminishing her love--certainly without inflicting
half the anguish that was caused by his gentle words. It is impossible
to tell all the varied emotions that went on in her heart--at least
for me. Shakspeare could have done it, but none less than Shakspeare.
For a moment she knew not whether she loved or hated him; but she soon
felt and knew it was love; and the hate, like lightning striking a
rock, and glancing from the solid stone to rend a sapling, all turned
away from him, to fall upon the head of poor unconscious Emily
Hastings.
Though she could not recover from the blow she had received, yet she
soon regained command over herself, conversed, smiled, banished
absorbing thoughts, answered calmly, pertinently, even spoke in her
own bright, brilliant way, with a few more figures and ornaments of
speech than usual; for figures are things rather of the head than of
the heart, and it was from the head that she was now speaking.
At length Mr. Marlow took his leave, and for the first time in life
she was glad he was gone.
Mrs. Hazleton gave way to no burst of passion: she shed not a tear;
she uttered no exclamation. That which was within her heart, was too
intense for any such ordinary expression. She seated herself at a
table, leaned her head upon her hand, and fixed her eyes upon one
bright spot in the marquetry. There she sat for more than an entire
hour, without a motion, and in the meantime what were the thoughts
that passed through her brain? We have shown the feelings of her heart
enough.
She formed plans; she determined her course; she looked around for
means. Various persons suggested themselves to her mind as
instruments. The three women, I have mentioned in a preceding
chapter--the good sort of friends. But it was an agent she wanted, not
a confidant. No, no, Mrs. Hazleton knew better than to have a
confidant. She was her own best council-keeper, and she knew it.
Nevertheless, these good ladies might serve to act in subordinate
parts, and she assigned to each of them their position in her scheme
with wonderful accuracy and skill. As she did so, however, she
remembered that it was by the advice of Mrs. Warmington that she had
brought Mr. Marlow to Hartwell Place; and in her heart's secret
chamber she gave her fair friend a goodly benediction. She resolved to
use her nevertheless--to use her as far as she could be serviceable;
and she forgot not that she herself had been art and part in the
scheme that had failed. She was not one to shelter herself from blame
by casting the whole storm of disappointment upon another, She took
her own full share. "If she was a fool so to advise," said Mrs.
Hazleton, "'twas a greater fool to follow her advice."
She then turned to seek for the agent. No name presented itself but
that of Shanks, the attorney; and she smiled bitterly when she thought
of him. She recollected that Sir Philip Hastings had thrown him
head-foremost down the steps of the terrace, and that was very
satisfactory to her; for, although Mr. Shanks was a man who sometimes
bore injuries very meekly, he never forgot them.
Nevertheless, she had somewhat a difficult part to play, for most
agents have a desire of becoming confidants also, and that Mrs.
Hazleton determined her attorney should not be. The task was to
insinuate her purposes rather than to speak them--to act, without
betraying the motive of action--to make another act, without
committing herself by giving directions.
Nevertheless, Mrs. Hazleton arranged it all to her own satisfaction;
and as she did so, amongst the apparently extinct ashes of former
schemes, one small spark of hope began to glow, giving promise for the
time to come. What did she propose? At first, nothing more than to
drive Sir Philip Hastings and his family from the country, mingling
the gratification of personal hatred with efforts for the
accomplishment of her own purposes. It was a bold attempt, but Mrs.
Hazleton had her plan, and she sat down and wrote for Mr. Shanks, the
attorney.