Decorum came in with the house of Hanover. I know not whether men and
women in England were more virtuous before--I think not--but they
certainly were more frank in both their virtues and their vices. There
were fewer of those vices of conventionality thrown around the human
heart--fewer I mean to say of those cold restraints, those gilded
chains of society, which, like the ornaments that ladies wear upon
their necks and arms, seem like fetters; but, I fear me, restrain but
little human action, curb not passion, and are to the strong will but
as the green rushes round the limbs of the Hebrew giant. Decorum came
into England with the house of Hanover; but I am speaking of a period
before that, when ladies were less fearful of the tongue of scandal,
when scandal itself was fearful of assailing virtue, when honesty of
purpose and purity of heart could walk free in the broad day, and men
did not venture to suppose evil acts perpetrated whenever, by a
possibility, they could be committed.
Emily Hastings walked quietly along by the side of Mr. Marlow, through
her father's park. There was no one with him, no keen matron's ear to
listen to and weigh their words, no brother to pretend to accompany
them, and either feel himself weary with the task or lighten it by
seeking his own amusement apart. They were alone together, and they
talked without restraint. Ye gods, how they did talk! The dear girl
was in one of her brightest, gayest moods. There was nothing that did
not move her fancy or become a servant to it. The clouds as they shot
across the sky, the blue fixed hills in the distance, the red and
yellow and green coloring of the young budding oaks, the dancing of
the stream, the song of the bird, the whisper of the wind, the misty
spring light which spread over the morning distance, all had
illustrations for her thoughts. It seemed that day as if she could not
speak without a figure--as if she revelled in the flowers of
imagination, like a child tossing about the new mown grass in a
hay-field. And he, with joyous sport, took pleasure in furnishing her
at every moment with new material for the bounding joy of fancy.
They had not known each other long; but there was something in the
young man's manner--nay, let me go farther--in his character, which
invited confidence, which besought the hearts around to throw off all
strange disguise, and promised that he would take no base advantage of
their openness. That something was perhaps his earnestness: one felt
that he was true in all he said or did or looked: that his words were
but his spoken feelings: his countenance a paper on which the heart at
once recorded its sensations. But let me not be mistaken. Do not let
it be supposed that when I say he was earnest, I mean that he was even
grave. Oh no! Earnestness can exist as well in the merriest as in the
soberest heart. One can be as earnest, as truthful, even as eager in
joy or sport, as in sorrow or sternness. But he was earnest in all
things, and it was this earnestness which probably found a way for him
to so many dissimilar hearts.
Emily knew not at all what it was doing with hers; but she felt that
he was one before whom she had no need to hide a thought: that if she
were gay, she might be gay in safety: that if she were inclined to
muse, she might muse on in peace.
Onward they walked, talking of every thing on earth but love. It was
in the thoughts of neither. Emily knew nothing about it: the tranquil
expanse of life had never for her been even rippled by the wing of
passion. Marlow might know more; but for the time he was lost in the
enjoyment of the moment. The little enemy might be carrying on the war
against the fortress of each unconscious bosom; but if so, it was by
the silent sap and mine, more potent far than the fierce assault or
thundering cannonade--at least in this sort of warfare.
They were wending their way towards a gate, at the very extreme limit
of the park, which opened upon a path leading by a much shorter way to
Mr. Marlow's own dwelling than the road he usually pursued. He had
that morning come to spend but an hour at the house of Sir Philip
Hastings, and he had an engagement at his own house at noon. He had
spent two hours instead of one with Emily and her mother, and
therefore short paths were preferable to long ones for his purpose.
Emily had offered to show him the way to the gate, and her company was
sure to shorten the road, though it might lengthen the time it took to
travel.
Now in describing the park of Sir Philip Hastings, I have said that
there was a wide open space around the mansion; but I have also said,
that at some distance the trees gathered thick and sombre. Those
nearest the house gathered together in clumps, confusing the eye in a
wilderness of hawthorns, and bushes, and evergreen oaks, while beyond
appeared a dense mass of wood; and, through the scattered tufts of
trees and thick woodland at the extreme of the park ran several paths
traced by deer, and park-keepers, and country folk. Thus for various
reasons some guidance was needful to Marlow on his way, and for more
reasons still he was well pleased that the guide should be Emily
Hastings. In the course of their walk, amongst many other subjects
they spoke of Mrs. Hazleton, and Marlow expatiated warmly on her
beauty, and grace, and kindness of heart. How different was the effect
of all this upon Emily Hastings from that which his words in her
praise had produced upon her of whom he spoke! Emily's heart was free.
Emily had no schemes, no plans, no purposes. She knew not that there
was one feeling in her bosom with which praise of Mrs. Hazleton could
ever jar. She loved her well. Such eyes as hers are not practised in
seeing into darkness. She had divined the Italian singer--perhaps by
instinct, perhaps by some distinct trait, which occasionally will
betray the most wily. But Mrs. Hazleton was a fellow-woman--a woman of
great brightness and many fine qualities. Neither had she any
superficial defects to indicate a baser metal or a harder within. If
she was not all gold, she was doubly gilt.
Emily praised her too, warmed with the theme; and eagerly exclaimed,
"She always seems to me like one of those dames of fairy tales, upon
whom some enchanter has bestowed a charm that no one can resist. It is
not her beauty; for I feel the same when I hear her voice and shut my
eyes. It is not her conversation; for I feel the same when I look at
her and she is silent. It seems to breathe from her presence like the
odor of a flower. It is the same when she is grave as when she is
gay."
"Aye, and when she is melancholy," replied Marlow. "I never felt it
more powerfully than a few days ago when I spent an hour with her, and
she was not only grave but sad."
"Melancholy!" exclaimed Emily. "I never saw her so. Grave I have seen
her--thoughtful, silent--but never sad; and I do not know that she has
not seemed more charming to me in those grave, stiller moods, than in
more cheerful ones. Do you know that in looking at the beautiful
statues which I have seen in London, I have often thought they might
lose half their charm if they would move and speak? Thus, too, with
Mrs. Hazleton; she seems to me even more lovely, more full of grace,
in perfect stillness than at any other time. My father," she added,
after a moment's pause, "is the only one who in her presence seems
spell-proof."
Her words threw Marlow into a momentary fit of thought. "Why," he
asked himself, "was Sir Philip Hastings spell-proof when all others
were charmed?"
Men have a habit of depending much upon men's judgment, whether justly
or unjustly I will not stop to inquire. They rely less upon woman's
judgment in such matters; and yet women are amongst the keenest
discerners--when they are unbiassed by passion. But are they often so?
Perhaps it is from a conviction that men judge less frequently from
impulse, decide more generally from cause, that this presumption of
their accuracy exists. Woman--perhaps from seclusion, perhaps from
nature--is more a creature of instincts than man, They are given her
for defence where reason would act too slowly; and where they do act
strongly, they are almost invariably right. Man goes through the
slower process, and naturally relies more firmly on the result; for
reason demonstrates where instinct leads blindfold. Marlow judged Sir
Philip Hastings by himself, and fancied that he must have some cause
for being spell-proof against the fascinations of Mrs. Hazleton. This
roused the first doubt in his mind as to her being all that she
seemed. He repelled the doubt as injurious, but it returned from time
to time in after days, and at length gave him a clue to an intricate
labyrinth.
The walk came to an end, too soon he thought. Emily pointed out the
gate as soon as it appeared in sight, shook hands with him and
returned homeward. He thought more of her after they had parted, than
when she was with him. There are times when the most thoughtful do not
think--when they enjoy. But now, every word, every look of her who
had just left him, came back to memory. Not that he would admit to
himself that there was the least touch of love in his feelings. Oh
no! He had known her too short a time for such a serious passion as
love to have any thing to do with his sensations. He only thought of
her--mused--pondered--recalled all she had said and done, because she
was so unlike any thing he had seen or heard of before--a something
new--a something to be studied.
She was but a girl--a mere child, he said; and yet there was something
more than childish grace in that light, but rounded form, where beauty
was more than budding, but not quite blossomed, like a moss-rose in
its loveliest state of loveliness. And her mind too; there was nothing
childish in her thoughts except their playfulness. The morning
dew-drops had not yet exhaled; but the day-star of the mind was well
up in the sky.
She was one of those, on whom it is dangerous for a man afraid of love
to meditate too long. She was one the effect of whose looks and words
is not evanescent. That of mere beauty passes away. How many a face do
we see and think it the loveliest in the world; yet shut the eyes an
hour after, and try to recall the features--to paint them to the
mind's eye. You cannot. But there are others that link themselves with
every feeling of the heart, that twine themselves with constantly
recurring thoughts, that never can be effaced--never forgotten--on
which age or time, disease or death, may do its work without effecting
one change in the reality embalmed in memory. Destroy the die, break
the mould, you may; but the medal and the cast remain. Had Marlow
lived a hundred years--had he never seen Emily Hastings again, not one
line of her bright face, not one speaking look, would have passed from
his memory. He could have painted a portrait of her had he been an
artist. Did you ever gaze long at the sun, trying your eyes against
the eagle's? If so, you have had the bright orb floating before your
eyes the whole day after. And so it was with Marlow: throughout the
long hours that followed, he had Emily Hastings ever before him. But
yet he did not love her. Oh dear no, not in the least. Love he thought
was very different from mere admiration. It was a plant of slower
growth. He was no believer in love at first sight. He was an infidel
as to Romeo and Juliet, and he had firmly resolved if ever he did fall
in love, it should be done cautiously.
Poor man! he little knew how deep he was in already.
In the meanwhile, Emily walked onward. She was heart-whole at least.
She had never dreamed of love. It had not been one of her studies. Her
father had never presented the idea to her. Her mother had often
talked of marriage, and marriages good and bad; but always put them in
the light of alliances--compacts--negotiated treaties. Although Lady
Hastings knew what love is as well as any one, and had felt it as
deeply, yet she did not wish her daughter to be as romantic as she had
been, and therefore the subject was avoided. Emily thought a good deal
of Mr. Marlow, it is true. She thought him handsome, graceful,
winning--one of the pleasantest companions she had ever known. She
liked him better than any one she had ever seen; and his words rang in
her ears long after they were spoken. But even imagination, wicked
spinner of golden threads as she is, never drew one link between his
fate and hers. The time had not yet come, if it was to come.
She walked on, however, through the wood; and just when she was
emerging from the thicker part into the clumps and scattered trees,
she saw a stranger before her, leaning against the stump of an old
hawthorn, and seeming to suffer pain. He was young, handsome,
well-dressed, and there was a gun lying at his feet. But as Emily drew
nearer, she saw blood slowly trickling from his arm, and falling on
the gray sand of the path.
She was not one to suffer shyness to curb humanity; and she exclaimed
at once, with a look of alarm, "I am afraid you are hurt, sir. Had you
not better come up to the house?"
The young man looked at her, fainted, and answered in a low tone, "The
gun has gone off, caught by a branch, and has shattered my arm. I
thought I could reach the cottage by the park gates, but I feel
faint."
"Stay, stay a moment," cried Emily, "I will run to the hall and bring
assistance--people to assist you upon a carriage."
"No, no!" answered the stranger quickly, "I cannot go there--I will
not go there! The cottage is nearer," he continued more calmly. "I
think with a little help I could reach it, if I could staunch the
blood.
"Let me try," exclaimed Emily; and with ready zeal, she tied her
handkerchief round his arm, not without a shaking hand indeed, but
with firmness and some skill.
"Now lean upon me," she said, when she had done; "the cottage is
indeed nearer, but you would have better tendance if you could reach
the hall."
"No, no, the cottage," replied the stranger, "I shall do well there."
The cottage was perhaps two hundred yards nearer to the spot on which
they stood than the hall; but there was an eagerness about the young
man's refusal to go to the latter, which Emily remarked. Suspicion
indeed was alive to her mind; but those were days when laws concerning
game, which have very year been becoming less and less strict, were
hardly less severe than in the time of William Rufus. Every day, in
the country life which she led, she heard some tale of poaching or its
punishment. The stranger had a gun with him; she had found him in her
father's park; he was unwilling even in suffering and need of help to
go up to the hall for succor; and she could not but fancy that for
some frolic, perhaps some jest, or some wild whim, he had been
trespassing upon the manor in pursuit of game. That he was an ordinary
poacher she could not suppose; his dress, his appearance forbade such
a supposition.
But there was something more.
In the young man's face--more in its expression than its features
perhaps--more in certain marking lines and sudden glances than in the
general whole--there was something familiar to her--something that
seemed akin to her. He was handsomer than her father; of a more
perfect though less lofty character of beauty; and yet there was a
strange likeness, not constant, but flashing occasionally upon her
brow, in what, when, she could hardly determine.
It roused another sort of sympathy from any she had felt before; and
once more she asked him to go up to the hall.
"If you have been taking your sport," she said, "where perhaps you
ought not, I am sure my father will look over it without a word, when
he sees how you are hurt. Although people sometimes think he is stern
and severe, that is all a mistake. He is kind and gentle, I assure
you, when he does not feel that duty requires him to be rigid."
The stranger gave a quick start, and replied in a tone which would
have been haughty and fierce, had not weakness subdued it, "I have
been shooting only where I have a right to shoot. But I will not go up
to the hall, till--but I dare say I can get down to the cottage
without help, Mistress Emily. I have been accustomed to do without
help in the world;" and he withdrew his arm from that which supported
him. The next moment, however, he tottered, and seemed ready to fall,
and Emily again hurried to help him. There were no more words spoken.
She thought his manner somewhat uncivil; she would not leave him, and
the necessity for her kindness was soon apparent. Ere they were within
a hundred yards of the cottage, he sunk slowly down. His face grew
pale and death-like, and his eyes closed faintly as he lay upon the
turf. Emily ran on like lightning to the cottage, and called out the
old man who lived there. The old man called his son from the little
garden, and with his and other help, carried the fainting man in.
"Ay, master John, master John," exclaimed the old cottager, as he laid
him in his own bed; "one of your wild pranks, I warrant!"
His wife, his son, and he himself tended the young man with care; and
a young boy was sent off for a surgeon.
Emily did not know what to do; but compassion kept her in the cottage
till the stranger recovered his consciousness, and then after
inquiring how he felt, she was about to withdraw, intending to send
down further aid from the hall. But the stranger beckoned her faintly
to come nearer, and said in tones of real gratitude, "Thank you a
thousand times, Mistress Emily; I never thought to need such kindness
at your hands. But now do me another, and say not a word to any one at
the mansion of what has happened. It will be better for me, for you,
for your father, that you should not speak of this business."
"Do not! do not! Mistress Emily!" cried the old man, who was standing
near. "It will only make mischief and bring about evil."
He spoke evidently under strong apprehension, and Emily was much
surprised, both to find that one quite a stranger to her knew her at
once, and to find the old cottager, a long dependant upon her family,
second so eagerly his strange injunction.
"I will say nothing unless questions are asked me," she replied; "then
of course I must tell the truth."
"Better not," replied the young man gloomily.
"I cannot speak falsely," replied the beautiful girl "I cannot deal
doubly with my parents or any one," and she was turning away.
But the stranger besought her to stop one moment, and said, "I have
not strength to explain all now; but I shall see you again, and then I
will tell you why I have spoken as you think strangely. I shall see
you again. In common charity you will come to ask if I am alive or
dead. If you knew how near we are to each other, I am sure you would
promise!"
"I can make no such promise," replied Emily; but the old cottager
seemed eager to end the interview; and speaking for her, he exclaimed,
"Oh, she will come, I am sure, Mistress Emily will come;" and hurried
her away, seeing her back to the little gate in the park wall.