Marlow reasoned with his own heart. For the first time in his life it
had proved rebellious. It would have its own way. It would give no
account of its conduct,--why it had beat so, why it had thrilled so,
why it had experienced so many changes of feeling when he saw John
Ayliffe sitting beside Emily Hastings, and when Emily Hastings had
risen with so joyous a smile to greet him--it would not explain at
all. And now he argued the point with it systematically, with a
determination to get to the bottom of the matter one way or another.
He asked it, as if it had been a separate individual, if it was in
love with Emily Hastings. The question was too direct, and the heart
said it "rather thought not."
Was it quite sure? he asked again. The heart was silent, and seemed to
be considering. Was it jealous? he inquired. "Oh dear no, not in the
least."
Then why did it go on in such a strange, capricious, unaccountable
way, when a good-looking, vulgar young man was seen sitting beside
Emily?
The heart said it "could not tell; that it was its nature to do so."
Marlow was not to be put off. He was determined to know more, and he
argued, "If it be your nature to do so, you of course do the same when
you see other young men sitting by other young women." The heart was
puzzled, and did not reply; and then Marlow begged a definite answer
to this question. "If you were to hear to-morrow that Emily Hastings
is going to be married to this youth, or to any other man, young or
old, what would you do then?"
"Break!" said the heart, and Marlow asked no more questions. Knowing
how dangerous it is to enter into such interrogations on horseback,
when the pulse is accelerated and the nervous system all in a flutter,
he had waited till he got into his own dwelling, and seated himself in
his chair, that he might deal with the rebellious spirit in his breast
stately, and calmly likewise; but as he came to the end of the
conversation, he rose up, resolving to order a fresh horse, and ride
instantly away, to confer with Sir Philip Hastings. In so doing he
looked round the room. It was not very well or very fully furnished.
The last proprietor before Mrs. Hazleton had not been very fond of
books, and had never thought of a library. When Marlow brought his own
books down he had ordered some cases to be made by a country
carpenter, which fitted but did not much ornament the room. They gave
it a raw, desolate aspect, and made him, by a natural projection of
thought, think ill of the accommodation of the whole house, as soon as
he began to entertain the idea of Emily Hastings ever becoming its
mistress. Then he went on to ask himself, "What have I to offer for
the treasure of her hand? What have I to offer but the hand of a very
simple, undistinguished country gentleman--quite, quite unworthy of
her? What have I to offer Sir Philip Hastings as an alliance worthy of
even his consideration?--A good, unstained name; but no rank, and a
fortune not above mediocrity. Marry! a fitting match for the heiress
of the Hastings and Marshall families."
He gazed around him, and his heart fell.
A little boy, with a pair of wings on his shoulders, and the end of a
bow peeping up near his neck, stood close behind Marlow, and whispered
in his ear, "Never mind all that--only try."
And Marlow resolved he would try; but yet he hesitated how to do so.
Should he go himself to Sir Philip? But he feared a rebuff. Should he
write? No, that was cowardly. Should he tell his love to Emily first,
and strive to win her affections, ere he breathed to her father? No,
that would be dishonest, if he had a doubt of her father's consent. At
length he made up his mind to go in person to Sir Philip, but the
discussion and the consideration had been so long that it was too late
to ride over that night, and the journey was put off till the
following day. That day, as early as possible, he set out. He called
it as early as possible, and it was early for a visit; but the moment
one fears a rebuff from any lady one grows marvellously punctilious.
When his horse was brought round he began to fancy that he should be
too soon for Sir Philip, and he had the horse walked up and down for
half an hour.
What would he have given for that half hour, when, on reaching Sir
Philip's door, he found that Emily's father had gone out, and was not
expected back till late in the day. Angry with himself, and a good
deal disappointed, he returned to his home, which, somehow, looked far
less cheerful than usual. He could take no pleasure in his books, or
in his pictures, and even thought was unpleasant to him, for under the
influence of expectation it became but a calculation of chances, for
which he had but scanty data. One thing, indeed, he learned from the
passing of that evening, which was, that home and home happiness was
lost to him henceforth without Emily Hastings.
The following day saw him early in the saddle, and riding away as if
some beast of the chase were before him. Indeed, man's love, when it
is worth any thing, has always a smack of the hunter in it. He cared
not for highlands or bypaths--hedges and ditches offered small
impediments. Straight across the country he went, till he approached
the end of his journey; but then he suddenly pulled in his rein, and
began to ask himself if he was a madman. He was passing over the
Marshall property at the time, the inheritance of Emily's mother, and
the thought of all that she was heir to cooled his ardor with doubt
and apprehension. He would have given one half of all that he
possessed that she had been a peasant-girl, that he might have lived
with her upon the other.
Then he began to think of all that he should say to Sir Philip
Hastings, and how he should say it; and he felt very uneasy in his
mind. Then he was angry with himself for his own sensations, and tried
philosophy and scolded his own heart. But philosophy and scolding had
no effect; and then cantering easily through the park, he stopped at
the gate of the house and dismounted.
Sir Philip was in this time; and Marlow was ushered into the little
room where he sat in the morning, with the library hard by, that he
might have his books at hand. But Sir Philip was not reading now; on
the contrary, he was in a fit of thought; and, if one might judge by
the contraction of his brow, and the drawing down of the corners of
his lips, it was not a very pleasant one.
Marlow fancied that he had come at an inauspicious moment, and the
first words of Sir Philip, though kind and friendly, were not at all
harmonious with the feeling of love in his young visitor's heart.
"Welcome, my young friend," he said, looking up. "I have been thinking
this morning over the laws and habits of different nations, ancient
and modern; and would fain satisfy myself if I am right in the
conclusion that we, in this land, leave too little free action to
individual judgment. No man, we say, must take law in his own hands;
yet how often do we break this rule--how often are we compelled to
break it. If you, with a gun in your hand, saw a man at fifty or sixty
paces about to murder a child or a woman, without any means of
stopping the blow except by using your weapon, what would you do?"
"Shoot him on the spot," replied Marlow at once, and then added, "if I
were quite certain of his intention."
"Of course--of course," replied Sir Philip. "And yet, my good friend,
if you did so, without witnesses---supposing the child too young to
testify, or the woman sleeping at whom the blow was aimed--you would
be hung for your just, wise, charitable act."
"Perhaps so," said Marlow, abruptly; "but I would do it,
nevertheless."
"Right, right," replied Sir Philip, rising and shaking his hand;
"right, and like yourself! There are cases when, with a clear
consciousness of the rectitude of our purpose, and a strong confidence
in the justice of our judgment, we must step over all human laws, be
the result to ourselves what it may. Do you remember a man--one
Cutter--to whom you taught a severe lesson on the very first day I had
the pleasure of knowing you? I should have been undoubtedly justified,
morally, and perhaps even legally also, in sending my sword through
his body, when he attacked me that day. Had I done so I should have
saved a valuable human life, spared the world the spectacle of a great
crime, and preserved an excellent husband and father to his wife and
children. That very man has murdered the game-keeper of the Earl of
Selby; and being called to the spot yesterday, I had to commit him for
that crime, upon evidence which left not a doubt of his guilt. I
spared him when he assaulted me from a weak and unworthy feeling of
compassion, although I knew the man's character, and dimly foresaw his
career. I have regretted it since; but never so much as yesterday.
This, of course, is no parallel case to that which I just now
proposed; but the one led my mind to the other."
"Did the wretched man admit his guilt?" asked Marlow.
"He did not, and could not deny it," answered Sir Philip; "during the
examination he maintained a hard, sullen silence; and only said, when
I ordered his committal, that I ought not to be so hard upon him for
that offence, as it was the best service he could have done me; for
that he had silenced a man whose word could strip me of all I
possessed."
"What could he mean?" asked Marlow, eagerly.
"Nay, I know not," replied Sir Philip, in an indifferent tone;
"crushed vipers often turn to bite. The man he killed was the son of
the former sexton here--an honest, good creature too, for whom I
obtained his place; his murderer a reckless villain, on whose word
there is no dependence. Let us give no thought to it. He has held some
such language before; but it never produced a fear that my property
would be lost, or even diminished. We do not hold our fee simples on
the tenure of a rogue's good pleasure--why do you smile?"
"For what will seem at first sight a strange, unnatural reason for a
friend to give, Sir Philip," replied Marlow, determined not to lose
the opportunity; "for your own sake and for your country's, I am bound
to hope that your property may never be lost or diminished; but every
selfish feeling would induce me to wish it were less than it is."
Sir Philip Hastings was no reader of riddles, and he looked puzzled;
but Marlow walked frankly round and took him by the hand, saying, "I
have not judged it right, Sir Philip, to remain one day after I
discovered what are my feelings towards your daughter, without
informing you fully of their nature, that you may at once decide upon
your future demeanor towards one to whom you have hitherto shown much
kindness, and who would on no account abuse it. I was not at all aware
of how this passion had grown upon me, till the day before yesterday,
when I saw your daughter at Mrs. Hazleton's, and some accidental
circumstance revealed to me the state of my own heart."
Sir Philip looked as if surprised; but after a moment's thought, he
inquired, "And what says Emily, my young friend?"
"She says nothing, Sir Philip," replied Marlow; "for neither by word
nor look, as far as I know, have I betrayed my own feelings towards
her. I would not, between us, do so, till I had given you an
opportunity of deciding, unfettered by any consideration for her,
whether you would permit me to pursue my suit or not."
Sir Philip was in a reasoning mood that day, and he tortured Marlow by
asking, "And would you always think it necessary, Marlow, to obtain a
parent's consent, before you endeavored to gain the affection of a
girl you loved?"
"Not always," replied the young man; "but I should think it always
necessary to violate no confidence, Sir Philip. You have been kind to
me--trusted me--had no doubt of me; and to say one word to Emily which
might thwart your plans or meet your disapproval, would be to show
myself unworthy of your esteem or her affection."
Sir Philip mused, and then said, as if speaking to himself, "I had
some idea this might turn out so, but not so soon. I fancy, however,"
he continued, addressing Marlow, "that you must have betrayed your
feelings more than you thought, my young friend; for yesterday I found
Emily in a strange, thoughtful, abstracted mood, showing that some
strong feelings were busy at her heart."
"Some other cause," said Marlow quickly; "I cannot even flatter myself
that she was thinking of me. When I saw her the day before, there was
a young man sitting with her and Mrs. Hazleton--John Ayliffe, I think,
is his name--and I will own I thought his presence seemed to annoy
her."
"John Ayliffe at Mrs. Hazleton's!" exclaimed Sir Philip, his brow
growing very dark; "John Ayliffe in my daughter's society! Well might
the poor child look thoughtful--and yet why should she? She knows
nothing of his history. What is he like, Marlow--how does he bear
himself?"
"He is certainly handsome, with fine features and a good figure,"
replied Marlow; "indeed, it struck me that there was some resemblance
between him and yourself; but there is a want I cannot well define in
his appearance, Sir Philip--in his air--in his carriage, whether still
or in motion, which fixes upon him what I am accustomed to call a
class-mark, and that not of the best. Depend upon it, however, that it
was annoyance at being brought into society which she disliked that
affected your daughter as you have mentioned. My love for her she is,
and must be, ignorant of; for I stayed there but a few minutes; and
before that day, I saw it not myself. And now, Sir Philip, what say
you to my suit? May I--as some of your words lead me to hope--may I
pursue that suit and strive to win your dear daughter's love?"
"Of course," replied Sir Philip, "of course. A vague fancy has long
been floating in my brain, that it might be so some day. She is too
young to marry yet; and it will be sad to part with her when the time
does come; but you have my consent to seek her affection if she can
give it you. She must herself decide."
"Have you considered fully," asked Marlow, "that I have neither
fortune nor rank to offer her, that I am by no means--"
Sir Philip waved his hand almost impatiently. "What skills it talking
of rank or wealth?" he said. "You are a gentleman by birth, education,
manners. You have easy competence. My Emily will desire no more for
herself, and I can desire no more for her. You will endeavor, I know,
to make her happy, and will succeed, because you love her. As for
myself, were I to choose out of all the men I know, you would be the
man. Fortune is a good adjunct; but it is no essential. I do not
promise her to you. That she must do; but if she says she will give
you her hand, it shall be yours."
Marlow thanked him, with joy such as may be conceived; but Sir
Philip's thoughts reverted at once to his daughter's situation at Mrs.
Hazleton's. "She must stay there no longer, Marlow," he said; "I will
send for her home without delay. Then you will have plenty of
opportunity for the telling of your own tale to her ear, and seeing
how you may speed with her; but, at all events, she must stay no
longer in a house where she can meet with John Ayliffe. Mrs. Hazleton
makes me marvel--a woman so proud--so refined!"
"It is but justice to say," replied Marlow, thoughtfully, "that I have
some vague recollection of Mrs. Hazleton having intimated that they
met that young gentleman by chance upon some expedition of pleasure.
But had I not better communicate my hopes and wishes to Lady Hastings,
my dear sir?"
"That is not needful," replied Emily's father, somewhat sternly; "I
promise her to you, if she herself consents. My good wife will not
oppose my wishes or my daughter's happiness; for do I suffer
opposition upon occasions of importance. I will tell Lady Hastings my
determination myself."
Marlow was too wise to say another word, but agreed to come on the
following day to dine and sleep at the hall, and took his leave for
the time. It was not, indeed, without some satisfaction that he heard
Sir Philip order a horse to be saddled and a man to prepare to carry a
letter to Mrs. Hazleton; for doubts were rapidly possessing themselves
of his mind--not in regard to Emily--but in reference to Mrs. Hazleton
herself.
The letter was dispatched immediately after his departure, recalling
Emily to her father's house, and announcing that the carriage would be
sent for her early on the following morning. That done, Sir Philip
repaired to his wife's drawing-room, and informed her that he had
given his consent to his young friend Marlow's suit to their daughter.
His tone was one that admitted no reply, and Lady Hastings made none;
but she entered her protest quite as well, by falling into a violent
fit of hysterics.