Emily's night was not peaceful. The very idea that her father's fate
was in the power of any other man, was, in itself, trouble enough; but
in the present case there was more. Why, or wherefore, she knew not;
but there was something told her that, in spite of all Mrs. Hazleton's
commendations, and the fair portrait she had so elaborately drawn,
John Ayliffe was not a man to use power mercifully. She tried eagerly
to discover what had created this impression: she thought of every
look and every word which she had seen upon the young man's
countenance, or heard from his lips; and she fixed at length more upon
the menacing scowl which she had marked upon his brow in the cottage,
than even upon the menacing language which he had held when her
father's name was mentioned.
Sleep visited not her eyes for many an hour, and when at length her
eyes closed through fatigue, it was restless and dreamful. She fancied
she saw John Ayliffe holding Sir Philip on the ground, trying to
strangle him. She strove to scream for help, but her lips seemed
paralyzed, and there was no sound. That strange anguish of sleep--the
anguish of impotent strong will--of powerless passion--of effort
without effect, was upon her, and soon burst the bonds of slumber. It
would have been impossible to endure it long. All must have felt that
it is greater than any mortal agony; and that if he could endure more
than a moment, like a treacherous enemy it would slay us in our sleep.
She awoke unrefreshed, and rose pale and sad. I cannot say that Mrs.
Hazleton, when she beheld Emily's changed look, felt any great
compunction. If she had no great desire to torture, which I will not
pretend to say, she did not at all object to see her victim suffer;
but Emily's pale cheek and distressed look afforded indications still
more satisfactory; which Mrs. Hazleton remarked with the satisfaction
of a philosopher watching a successful experiment. They showed that
the preparation she had made for what was coming, was even more
effectual than she had expected, and so the abstract pleasure of
inflicting pain on one she hated, was increased by the certainty of
success.
Emily said little--referred not at all to the subject of her thoughts,
but dwelt upon it--pondered in silence. To one who knew her she might
have seemed sullen, sulky; but it was merely that one of those fits of
deep intense communion with the inner things of the heart--those
abstracted rambles through the mazy wilderness of thought, which
sometimes fell upon her, was upon her now. At these times it was very
difficult to draw her spirit forth into the waking world again--to
rouse her to the things about her life. It seemed as if her soul was
absent far away, and that the mere animal life of the body remained.
Great events might have passed before her eyes, without her knowing
aught of them.
On all former occasions but one, these reveries--for so I must call
them--had been of a lighter and more pleasant nature. In them it
had seemed as if her young spirit had been tempted away from the
household paths of thought, far into tangled wilds where it had lost
itself--tempted, like other children, by the mere pleasure of the
ramble--led on to catch a butterfly, or chase the rainbow.
Feeling--passion, had not mingled with the dream at all, and
consequently there had been no suffering. I am not sure that on other
occasions, when such absent fits fell upon her, Emily Hastings was not
more joyous, more full of pure delight, than when, in a gay and
sparkling mood, she moved her father's wonder at what he thought light
frivolity. But now it was all bitter: the labyrinth was dark as well
as intricate, and the thorns tore her as she groped for some path
across the wilderness.
Before it had lasted very long--before it had at all reached its
conclusion--and as she had sat at the window of the drawing-room,
gazing out upon the sky without seeing either white cloud or blue, Sir
Philip Hastings himself, on a short journey for some magisterial
purpose, entered the room, spoke a few words to Mrs. Hazleton, and
then turned to his daughter. Had he been half an hour later, Emily
would have cast her arms round his neck and told him all; but as it
was, she remained self-involved, even in his presence--answered indeed
mechanically--spoke words of affection with an absent air, and let the
mind still run on upon the path which it had chosen.
Sir Philip had no time to stay till this fit was past, and Mrs.
Hazleton was glad to get rid of him civilly before any other act of
the drama began.
But his daughter's mood did not escape Sir Philip's eyes. I have said
that for her he was full of observation, though he often read the
results wrongly; and now he marked Emily's mood with doubt, and not
with pleasure. "What can this mean?" he asked himself, "can any thing
have gone wrong? It is strange, very strange. Perhaps her mother was
right after all, and it might have been better to take her to the
capital."
Thus thinking, Sir Philip himself fell into a reverie, not at all
unlike that in which he had found his daughter. Yet he understood not
hers, and pondered upon it as something strange and inextricable.
In the mean time, Emily thought on, till at length Mrs. Hazleton
reminded her that they were to go that day to the Waterfall. She rose
mechanically, sought her room, dressed, and gazed from the window.
It is wonderful, however, how small a thing will sometimes take the
mind, as it were, by the hand, and lead it back out of shadow into
sunshine. From the lawn below the window a light bird sprang up into
the air, quivered upon its twinkling wings, uttered a note or two, and
then soared higher, and each moment as it rose up, up, into the sky,
the song, like a spirit heavenward bound, grew stronger and more
strong, and flooded the air with melody.
Emily watched it as it rose, listened to it as it sang. Its upward
flight seemed to carry her spirit above the dark things on which it
brooded; its thrilling voice to waken her to cheerful life again.
There is a high holiness in a lark's song; and hard must be the heart,
and strong and corrupt, that does not raise the voice and join with it
in its praise to God.
When she went down again into the drawing-room, she was quite a
different being, and Mrs. Hazleton marvelled what could have happened
so to change her. Had she been told that it was a lark's song, she
would have laughed the speaker to scorn. She was not one to feel it.
I will not pause upon the journey of the morning, nor describe the
beautiful fall of the river that they visited, or tell how it fell
rushing over the precipice, or how the rocks dashed it into diamond
sparkles, or how rainbows bannered the conflict of the waters, and
boughs waved over the struggling stream like plumes. It was a sweet
and pleasant sight, and full of meditation; and Mrs. Hazleton, judging
perhaps of others by herself, imagined that it would produce in the
mind of Emily those softening influences which teach the heart to
yield readily to the harder things of life.
There is, perhaps, not a more beautiful, nor a more frequently
applicable allegory than that of the famous Amreeta Cup--I know not
whether devised by Southey, or borrowed by him from the rich store of
instructive fable hidden in oriental tradition. It is long, long,
since I read it; but yet every word is remembered whenever I see the
different effect which scenes, circumstances, and events produce upon
different characters. It is shown by the poet that the cup of divine
wine gave life and immortality, and excellence superhuman, and bliss
beyond belief, to the pure heart; but to the lark, earthly, and evil,
brought death, destruction, and despair. We may extend the lesson a
little, and see in the Amreeta wine, the spirit of God pervading all
his works, but producing in those who see and taste an effect, for
good or evil, according to the nature of the recipient. The strong,
powerful, self-willed, passionate character of Mrs. Hazleton, found,
in the calm meditative fall of the cataract, in the ever shifting play
of the wild waters, and in the watchful stillness of the air around, a
softening, enfeebling influence. The gentle character of Emily turned
from the scene with a heart raised rather than depressed, a spirit
better prepared to combat with evil and with sorrow, full of love and
trust in God, and a confidence strong beyond the strength of this
world. There is a voice of prophecy in waterfalls, and mountains, and
lakes, and streams, and sunny lands, and clouds, and storms, and
bright sunsets, and the face of nature every where, which tells the
destiny, not of one, but of many, and at all events, foreshows the
unutterable mercy reserved for those who trust. It is a prophecy--and
an exhortation too. The words are, "Be holy, and be happy!" The God
who speaks is true and glorious. Be true and inherit glory.
Emily had been cheerful as they went. As they returned she was calm
and firm. Readily she joined in any conversation. Seldom did she fall
into any absent fit of thought, and the effect of that day's drive was
any thing but what Mrs. Hazleton expected or wished.
When they returned to the house, a letter was delivered to Emily
Hastings, with which, the seal unbroken, she retired to her own room.
The hand was unknown to her, but with a sort of prescience something
more than natural, she divined at once from whom it came, and saw that
the difficult struggle had commenced. An hour or two before, the very
thought would have dismayed her. Now the effect was but small.
She had no suspicion of the plans against her; no idea whatever that
people might be using her as a tool--that there was any interest
contrary to her own, in the conduct or management of others. But yet
she turned the key in the door before she commenced the perusal of the
letter, which was to the following effect:
"I know not," said the writer, in a happier style than perhaps might
have been expected, "how to prevail upon your goodness to pardon all I
am going to say, knowing that nothing short of the circumstances in
which I am placed, could excuse my approaching you even in thought. I
have long known you, though you have known me only for a few short
hours. I have watched you often from childhood up to womanhood, and
there has been growing upon me from very early years a strong
attachment, a deep affection, a powerful--overpowering--ardent love,
which nothing can ever extinguish. Need I tell you that the last few
days would have increased that love had increase been possible.
"All this, however, I know is no justification of my venturing to
raise my thoughts to you--still less of my venturing to express these
feelings boldly; but it has been an excuse to myself, and in some
degree to others, for abstaining hitherto from that which my best
interests, a mother's fame, and my own rights, required. The time has
now come when I can no longer remain silent; when I must throw upon
you the responsibility of an important choice; when I am forced to
tell you how deeply, how devotedly, I love you, in order that you may
say whether you will take the only means of saving me from the most
painful task I ever undertook, by conferring on me the greatest
blessing that woman ever gave to man; or, on the other hand, will
drive me to a task repugnant to all my feelings, but just, necessary,
inevitable, in case of your refusal. Let me explain, however, that I
am your cousin--the son of your father's elder brother by a private
marriage with a peasant girl of this county. The whole case is
perfectly clear, and I have proof positive of the marriage in my
hands. From fear of a lawsuit, and from the pressure of great poverty,
my mother was induced to sacrifice her rights after her husband's
early death, still to conceal her marriage, to bear even sneers and
shame, and to live upon a pittance allowed to her by her husband's
father, and secured to her by him after his own death, when she was
entitled to honor, and birth, and distinction by the law of the land.
"One of her objects, doubtless, was to secure to herself and her son a
moderate competence, as the late Sir John Hastings, my grandfather and
yours, had the power of leaving all his estates to any one he pleased,
the entail having ended with himself. For this she sacrificed her
rights, her name, her fame, and you will find, if you look into your
grandfather's will, that he took especial care that no infraction of
the contract between him and her father should give cause for the
assertion of her rights. Two or three mysterious clauses in that will
will show you at once, if you read them, that the whole tale I tell
you is correct, and that Sir John Hastings, on the one hand, paid
largely, and on the other threatened sternly, in order to conceal the
marriage of his eldest son, and transmit the title to the second. But
my mother could not bar me of my rights: she could endure unmerited
shame for pecuniary advantages, if she pleased; but she could not
entail shame upon me; and were it in the power of any one to deprive
me of that which Sir John Hastings left me, or to shut me out from the
succession to his whole estates, to which--from the fear of disclosing
his great secret--he did not put any bar in his will that would have
been at once an acknowledgment of my legitimacy, I would still
sacrifice all, and stand alone, friendless and portionless in the
world, rather than leave my mother's fame and my own birth
unvindicated. This is one of the strongest desires, the most
overpowering impulses of my heart; and neither you nor any one could
expect me to resist it. But there is yet a stronger still--not an
impulse, but a passion, and to that every thing must yield. It is
love; and whatever may be the difference which you see between
yourself and me, however inferior I may feel myself to you in all
those qualities which I myself the most admire, still, I feel myself
justified in placing the case clearly before you--in telling you how
truly, how sincerely, how ardently I love you, and in asking you
whether you will deign to favor my suit even now as I stand, to save
me the pain and grief of contending with the father of her I love, the
anguish of stripping him of the property he so well uses, and of the
rank which he adorns; or will leave me to establish my rights, to take
my just name and station, and then, when no longer appearing humble
and unknown, to plead my cause with no less humility than I do at
present.
"That I shall do so then, as now, rest assured--that I would do so if
the rank and station to which I have a right were a principality, do
not doubt; but I would fain, if it were possible, avoid inflicting any
pain upon your father. I know not how he may bear the loss of station
and of fortune--I know not what effect the struggles of a court of
law, and inevitable defeat may produce. Only acquainted with him by
general repute, I cannot tell what may be the effect of mortification
and the loss of all he has hitherto enjoyed. He has the reputation of
a good, a just, and a wise man, somewhat vehement in feeling, somewhat
proud of his position. You must judge him, rather than I; but, I
beseech you, consider him in this matter.
"At any time, and at all times, my love will be the same--nothing can
change me--nothing can alter or affect the deep love I bear you. When
casting from me the cloud which had hung upon my birth, when assuming
the rank and taking possession of the property that is my own, I shall
still love you as devotedly as ever--still as earnestly seek your
hand. But oh! how I long to avoid all the pangs, the mischances, the
anxieties to every one, the ill feeling, the contention, the
animosity, which must ever follow such a struggle as that between your
father and myself--oh, how I long to owe every thing to you, even the
station, even the property, even the fair name that is my own by right
Nay, more, far more, to owe you guidance and direction--to owe you
support and instruction--to owe you all that may improve, and purify,
and elevate me.
"Oh, Emily, dear cousin, let me be your debtor in all things. You who
first gave me the thought of rising above fate, and making myself
worthy of the high fortunes which I have long known awaited me,
perfect your work, redeem me for ever from all that is unworthy, save
me from bitter regrets, and your father from disappointment, sorrow,
and poverty, and render me all that I long to be.
"Yours, and forever,
"JOHN HASTINGS."
Very well done, Mrs. Hazleton!--but somewhat too well done. There was
a difference, a difference so striking, so unaccountable, between the
style of this letter, both in thought and composition, and the
ordinary style and manners of John Ayliffe, that it could not fail to
strike the eyes of Emily. For a moment she felt a little confused--not
undecided. There was no hesitation, no doubt, as to her own conduct.
For an instant it crossed her mind that this young man had deeper,
finer feelings in his nature than appeared upon the surface--that his
manner might be more in fault than his nature. But there were things
in the letter itself which she did not like--that, without any labored
analysis or deep-searching criticism, brought to her mind the
conviction that the words, the arguments, the inducements employed
were those of art rather than of feeling--that the mingling of threats
towards her father, however veiled, with professions of love towards
herself, was in itself ungenerous--that the objects and the means were
not so high-toned as the professions--that there was something sordid,
base, ignoble in the whole proceeding. It required no careful thought
to arrive at such a conclusion--no second reading--and her mind was
made up at once.
The deep reverie into which she had fallen in the morning had done her
good--it had disentangled thought, and left the heart and judgment
clear. The fair, natural scene she had passed through since, the
intercourse with God's works, had done her still more good--refreshed,
and strengthened, and elevated the spirit; and after a very brief
pause she drew the table towards her, sat down, and wrote. As she did
write, she thought of her father, and she believed from her heart that
the words she used were those which he would wish her to employ. They
were to the following effect:
"Sir: Your letter, as you may suppose, has occasioned me great pain,
and the more so, as I am compelled to say, not only that I cannot
return your affection now, but can hold out no hope to you of ever
returning it. I am obliged to speak decidedly, as I should consider
myself most base if I could for one moment trifle with feelings such
as those which you express.
"In regard to your claims upon my father's estates, and to the rank
which he believes himself to hold by just right, I can form no
judgment; and could have wished that they had never been mentioned to
me before they had been made known to him.
"I never in my life knew my father do an unjust or ungenerous thing,
and I am quite sure that if convinced another had a just title to all
that he possesses on earth, he would strip himself of it as readily as
he would of a soiled garment. My father would disdain to hold for an
hour the rightful property of another. You have therefore only to lay
your reasons before him, and you may be sure that they will have just
consideration and yourself full justice. I trust that you will do so
soon, as to give the first intelligence of such claims would be too
painful a task for
"Your faithful servant,
"EMILY HASTINGS."
She read her letter over twice, and was satisfied with it. Sealing it
carefully, she gave it to her own maid for despatch, and then paused
for a moment, giving way to some temporary curiosity as to who could
have aided in the composition of the letter she had received, for John
Ayliffe's alone she could not and would not believe it to be. She cast
such thoughts from her very speedily, however, and, strange to say,
her heart seemed lightened now that the moment of trial had come and
gone, now that a turning-point in her fate seemed to have passed.
Mrs. Hazleton was surprised to see her re-enter the drawing-room with
a look of relief. She saw that the matter was decided, but she was too
wise to conclude that it was decided according to her wishes.