In a very gaudily furnished parlor, and in a very gaudy dress, sat a
lady of some eight or nine and thirty years of age, with many traces
of beauty still to be perceived in a face of no very intellectual
expression. Few persons perhaps would have recognized in her the fair
and faulty girl whom we have depicted weeping bitterly over the fate
of Sir Philip Hastings' elder brother, and over the terrible situation
in which he left her. Her features had much changed: the girlish
expression--the fresh bloom of youth was gone. The light graceful
figure was lost; but the mind had changed as greatly as the person,
though, like it, the heart yet retained some traces of the original.
When first she appeared before the reader's eyes, though weak and
yielding, she was by no means ill disposed. She had committed an
error--a great and fatal one; but at heart she was innocent and
honest. She was, however, like all weak people, of that plastic clay
moulded easily by circumstances into any form; and, in her,
circumstances had shaped her gradually into a much worse form than
nature had originally given her. To defraud, to cheat, to wrong, had
at one time been most abhorrent to her nature. She had taken no active
part in her father's dealings with old Sir John Hastings, and had she
known all that he had said and sworn, would have shrunk with horror
from the deceit. But during her father's short life, she had been
often told by himself, and after his death had been often assured by
the old woman Denby, that she was rightly and truly the widow of John
Hastings, although because it would be difficult to prove, her father
had consented to take an annuity for himself and her son, rather than
enter into a lawsuit with a powerful man; and she had gradually
brought herself to believe that she had been her lover's wife, because
in one of his ardent letters he had called her so to stifle the voice
of remorse in her bosom. The conviction had grown upon her, till now,
after a lapse of more than twenty years, she had forgotten all her
former doubts and scruples, believed herself and her son to be injured
and deprived of their just rights, and was ready to assert her
marriage boldly, though she had at one time felt and acknowledged that
there was no marriage at all, and that the words her seducer had used
were but intended to soothe her regret and terror. There was a point
however beyond which she was not prepared to go. She still shrunk from
giving false details, from perjuring herself in regard to particular
facts. The marriage, she thought, might be good in the sight of
heaven, of herself, and of her lover; but to render it good in the
eyes of the law, she had found would require proofs that she could not
give--oaths that she dared not take.
Another course, however, had been proposed for her; and now she sat in
that small parlor gaudily dressed, as I have said, but dressed
evidently for a journey. There were tears indeed in her eyes; and as
her son stood by her side she looked up in his face with a beseeching
look as if she would fain have said, "Pray do not drive me to this!"
But young John Ayliffe had no remorse, and if he spoke tenderly to her
who had spoiled his youth, it was only because his object was to
persuade and cajole.
"Indeed, mother," he said, "it is absolutely necessary or I would not
ask you to go. You know quite well that I would rather have you here:
and it will only be for a short time till the trial is over. Lawyer
Shanks told you himself that if you stayed, they would have you into
court and cross-examine you to death; and you know quite well you
could not keep in one story if they browbeat and puzzled you."
"I would say any where that my marriage was a good one," replied his
mother, "but I could not swear all that Shanks would have had me,
John--No, I could not swear that, for Dr. Paulding had nothing to do
with it, and if he were to repeat it all over to me a thousand times,
I am sure that I should make a blunder, even if I consented to tell
such a falsehood. My father and good Mrs. Danby used always to say
that the mutual consent made a marriage, and a good one too. Now your
father's own letter shows that he consented to it, and God knows I
did. But these lawyers will not let well alone, and by trying to mend
things make them worse, I think. However, I suppose you have gone too
far to go back; and so I must go to a strange out of the way country
and hide myself and live quite lonely. Well, I am ready--I am ready to
make any sacrifice for you, my boy--though it is very hard, I must
say."
As she spoke, she rose with her eyes running over, and her son kissed
her and assured her that her absence should not be long. But just as
she was moving towards the door, he put a paper--a somewhat long
one--on the table, where a pen was already in the inkstand, saying,
"just sign this before you go, dear mother."
"Oh, I cannot sign any thing," cried the lady, wiping her eyes; "how
can you be so cruel, John, as to ask me to sign any thing just now
when I am parting with you? What is it you want?
"It is only a declaration that you are truly my father's widow," said
John Ayliffe; "see here, the declaration, &c., you need not read it,
but only just sign here."
She hesitated an instant; but his power over her was complete; and,
though, she much doubted the contents, she signed the paper with a
trembling hand. Then came a parting full of real tenderness on her
part, and assumed affection and regret on his. The post-chaise, which
had been standing for an hour at the door, rolled away, and John
Ayliffe walked back into the house.
When there, he walked up and down the room for some time, with an
impatient thoughtfulness, if I may use the term, in his looks, which
had little to do with his mother's departure. He was glad that she was
gone--still gladder that she had signed the paper; and now he seemed
waiting for something eagerly expected.
At length there came a sound of a quick trotting horse, and John
Ayliffe took the paper from the table hastily, and put it in his
pocket But the visitor was not the one he expected. It was but a
servant with a letter; and as the young man took it from the hand of
the maid who brought it in, and gazed at the address, his cheek
flushed a little, and then turned somewhat pale. He muttered to
himself, "she has not taken long to consider!"
As soon as the slipshod girl had gone out of the room, he broke the
seal and read the brief answer which Emily had returned to his
declaration.
It would not be easy for an artist to paint, and it is impossible for
a writer to describe, the expression which came upon his face as he
perused the words of decided rejection which were written on that
sheet; but certainly, had poor Emily heard how he cursed her, how he
vowed to have revenge, and to humble her pride, as he called it, she
would have rejoiced rather than grieved that such a man had obtained
no hold upon her affection, no command of her fate. He was still in
the midst of his tempest of passion, when, without John Ayliffe being
prepared for his appearance, Mr. Shanks entered the room. His face
wore a dark and somewhat anxious expression which even habitual
cunning could not banish; but the state in which he found his young
client, seemed to take him quite by surprise.
"Why what is the matter, John?" he cried, "What in the name of fortune
has happened here?"
"What has happened!" exclaimed John Ayliffe, "look there," and he
handed Mr. Shanks the letter. The attorney took it, and with his keen
weazel eyes read it as deliberately as he would have read an ordinary
law paper. He then handed it back to his young client, saying, "The
respondent does not put in a bad answer."
"Damn the respondent," said John Ayliffe, "but she shall smart for
it."
"Well, well, this cannot be helped," rejoined Mr. Shanks; "no need of
putting yourself in a passion. You don't care two straws about her,
and if you get the property without the girl so much the better. You
can then have the pick of all the pretty women in the country."
John Ayliffe mused gloomily; for Mr. Shanks was not altogether right
in his conclusion as to the young man's feelings towards Emily.
Perhaps when he began the pursuit he cared little about its success,
but like other beasts of prey, he had become eager as he ran--desire
had arisen in the chase--and, though mortified vanity had the greatest
share in his actual feelings, he felt something beyond that.
While he mused, Mr. Shanks was musing also, calculating results
and combinations; but at length he said, in a low tone, "Is she
gone?--Have you got that accomplished?"
"Gone?--Yes.--Do you mean my mother?--Damn it, yes!--She is gone, to
be sure.--Didn't you meet her?"
"No," said Mr. Shanks; "I came the other way. That is lucky, however.
But harkee, John--something very unpleasant has happened, and we must
take some steps about it directly; for if they work him well, that
fellow is likely to peach."
"Who?--what the devil are you talking about?" asked John Ayliffe, with
his passion still unsubdued.
"Why, that blackguard whom you would employ--Master Tom Cutter,"
answered Mr. Shanks. "You know I always set my face against it, John;
and now--"
"Peach!" cried John Ayliffe, "Tom Cutter will no more peach than he'll
fly in the air. He's not of the peaching sort."
"Perhaps not, where a few months' imprisonment are concerned,"
answered Mr. Shanks; "but the matter here is his neck, and that makes
a mighty difference, let me tell you. Now listen to me, John, and
don't interrupt me till I've done; for be sure that we have got into a
very unpleasant mess, which we may have some difficulty in getting out
of. You sent over Tom Cutter, to see if he could not persuade young
Scantling, Lord Selby's gamekeeper, to remember something about the
marriage, when he was with his old father the sexton. Now, how he and
Tom manage their matters, I don't know; but Tom gave him a lick on the
head with a stick, which killed him on the spot. As the devil would
have it, all this was seen by two people, a laborer working in a ditch
hard by, and Scantling's son, a boy of ten years old. The end of it
is, Tom was instantly pursued, and apprehended; your good uncle, Sir
John, was called to take the depositions, and without any remand
whatever, committed our good friend for trial. Tom's only chance is to
prove that it was a case of chance-medley, or to bring it under
manslaughter, as a thing done in a passion, and if he thinks that
being employed by you will be any defence, or will show that it was a
sudden burst of rage, without premeditation, he will tell the whole
story as soon as he would eat his dinner."
"I'll go over to him directly, and tell him to hold his tongue," cried
John Ayliffe, now fully awakened to the perils of the case.
"Pooh, pooh! don't be a fool," said Mr. Shanks, contemptuously. "Are
you going to let the man see that you are afraid of him--that he has
got you in his power? Besides, they will not let you in. No, the way
must be this. I must go over to him as his legal adviser, and I can
dress you up as my clerk. That will please him, to find that we do not
abandon him; and we must contrive to turn his defence quite another
way, whether he hang for it or not. We must make it out that Scantling
swore he had been poaching, when he had done nothing of the kind, and
that in the quarrel that followed, he struck the blow accidentally. We
can persuade him that this is his best defence, which perhaps it is
after all, for nobody can prove that he was poaching, inasmuch as he
really was not; whereas, if he were to show that he killed a man while
attempting to suborn evidence, he would speedily find himself under a
crossbeam."
"Suborn evidence," muttered John Ayliffe to himself; for though ready
to do any act that might advance his purpose, he did not like to hear
it called by its right name.
However that might be, he agreed to the course proposed by the
attorney, and it was determined that, waiting for the fall of night,
they should both go over to the prison together, and demand admittance
to the felon's cell. The conversation then reverted to Emily's
distinct rejection of the young man's suit, and long did the two
ponder over it, considering what might be the effect upon the plans
they were pursuing.
"It may hurry us desperately," said Mr. Shanks, at length, "unless we
can get her to hold her tongue; for depend upon it, as soon as Sir
Philip hears what we are doing, he will take his measures accordingly.
Don't you think you and Mrs. Hazleton together can manage to frighten
her into silence? If I were you, I would get upon my horse's back
directly, ride over, and see what can be done. Your fair friend there
will give you every help, depend upon it."
John Ayliffe smiled. "I will see," he said. "Mrs. Hazleton is very
kind about it, and I dare say will help, for I am quite sure she has
got some purpose of her own to serve."
The attorney grinned, but made no answer, and in the space of a
quarter of an hour, John Ayliffe was on the road to Mrs. Hazleton's
dwelling.
After quarter of an hour's private conversation with the lady of the
house, he was admitted to the room in which Emily sat, unconscious of
his being there. She was displeased and alarmed at seeing him, but his
words and his conduct after he entered, frightened and displeased her
still more. He demanded secrecy in a stern and peremptory tone, and
threatened with vague, but not ill-devised menaces, to be the ruin of
her father and his whole house, if she breathed one word of what had
taken place between them. He sought, moreover, to obtain from her a
promise of secrecy; but that Emily would on no account give, although
he terrified her greatly; and he left her still in doubt as to whether
his secret was safe or not.
With Mrs. Hazleton he held another conference, but from her he
received better assurances. "Do not be afraid," she said; "I will
manage it for you. She shall not betray you--at least for a time.
However, you had better proceed as rapidly as possible, and if the
means of pursuing your claim be necessary--I mean in point of
money--have no scruple in applying to me."
Putting on an air of queenly dignity, Mrs. Hazleton proceeded in
search of Emily, as soon as the young man was gone. She found her in
tears; and sitting down by her side, she took her hand in a kindly
manner, saying, "My dear child, I am very sorry for all this, but it
is really in some degree your own fault. Nay, you need not explain any
thing. I have just had young Ayliffe with me. He has told me all, and
I have dismissed him with a sharp rebuke. If you had confided to me
last night that he had proposed to you, and you had rejected him, I
would have taken care that he should not have admittance to you.
Indeed, I am surprised that he should presume to propose at all,
without longer acquaintance. But he seems to have agitated and
terrified you much. What did he want?"
"He endeavored to make me promise," replied Emily, "that I would not
tell my father, or any one, of what had occurred."
"Foolish boy! he might have taken that for granted," replied Mrs.
Hazleton, forgetting for an instant what she had just said. "No woman
of any delicacy ever speaks of a matter of this kind, when once she
has taken upon herself to reject a proposal unconditionally. If she
wishes for advice," continued the lady, recollecting herself, "or
thinks that the suit may be pressed improperly, of course she's free
to ask counsel and assistance of some female friend, on whom she can
depend. But the moment the thing is decided, of course, she is silent
for ever; for nothing can be more a matter of honorable confidence
than an avowal of honorable love. I will write him a note, and tell
him he is in no danger, but warn him not to present himself here
again, so long as you are with me."
Emily made no answer, trying to decide in her own mind whether Mrs.
Hazleton's reasoning was right; and that lady, choosing to take her
assent for granted, from her silence, hurried away, to give her no
opportunity for retracting.