We must go back a little, for we have somewhat anticipated our tale.
Never did summons strike more joyfully on the ear of mortal than came
that of her recall home to Emily Hastings. As so often happens to all
in life, the expected pleasure had turned to ashes on the lip, and her
visit to Mrs. Hazleton offered hardly one point on which memory could
rest happily. Nay, more, without being able definitely to say why,
when she questioned her own heart, the character of her beautiful
hostess had suffered by close inspection. She was not the same in
Emily's esteem as she had been before. She could not point out what
Mrs. Hazleton had said or done to produce such an impression; but she
was less amiable,--less reverenced. It was not alone that the
trappings in which a young imagination had decked her were stripped
off; but it was that a baser metal beneath had here and there shown
doubtfully through the gilding with which she concealed her real
character.
If the summons was joyful to Emily, it was a surprise and an
unpleasant one to Mrs. Hazleton. Not that she wished to keep her young
guest with her long; for she was too keen and shrewd not to perceive
that Emily would not be worked upon so easily as she had imagined; and
that under her very youthfulness there was a strength of character
which must render one part of the plans against her certainly
abortive. But Mrs. Hazleton was taken by surprise. She could have
wished to guard against construction of some parts of her conduct
which must be the more unpleasant, because the more just. She had
fancied she would have time to give what gloss she chose to her
conduct in Emily's eyes, and to prevent dangerous explanations between
the father and the daughter. Moreover, the suddenness of the call
alarmed her and raised doubts. Wherever there is something to be
concealed there is something to be feared, and Mrs. Hazleton asked
herself if Emily had found means to communicate to Sir Philip Hastings
what had occurred with John Ayliffe.
That, however, she soon concluded was impossible. Some knowledge of
the facts, nevertheless, might have reached him from other sources,
and Mrs. Hazleton grew uneasy. Sir Philip's letter to his daughter,
which Emily at once suffered her hostess to see, threw no light upon
the subject. It was brief, unexplicit, and though perfectly kind and
tender, peremptory. It merely required her to return to the Hall, as
some business rendered her presence at home necessary.
Little did Mrs. Hazleton divine the business to which Sir Philip
alluded. Had she known it, what might have happened who can say? There
were terribly strong passions within that fair bosom, and there were
moments when those strong passions mastered even strong worldly sense
and habitual self-control.
There was not much time, however, for even thought, and less for
preparation. Emily departed, after having received a few words of
affectionate caution from Mrs. Hazleton, delicately and skilfully put,
in such a manner as to produce the impression that she was speaking of
subjects personally indifferent to herself--except in so much as her
young friend's own happiness was concerned.
Shall we say the truth? Emily attended but little. Her thoughts were
full of her father's letter, and of the joy of returning to a home
where days passed peacefully in an even quiet course, very different
from that in which the stream of time had flowed at Mrs. Hazleton's.
The love of strong emotions--the brandy-drinking of the mind--is an
acquired taste. Few, very few have it from nature. Poor Emily, she
little knew how many strong emotions were preparing for her.
Gladly she saw the carriage roll onward through scenes more and more
familiar at every step. Gladly she saw the forked gates appear, and
marked the old well-known hawthorns as they flitted by her; and the
look of joy with which she sprang into her fathers arms, might have
convinced any heart that there was but one home she loved.
"Now go and dress for dinner at once, my child," said Sir Philip, "we
have delayed two hours for you. Be not long."
Nor was Emily long; she could not have been more rapid had she known
that Marlow was waiting eagerly for her appearance. Well pleased,
indeed, was she to see him, when she entered the drawing-room; but for
the first time since she had known him--from some cause or other--a
momentary feeling of embarrassment--of timidity, came upon her; and
the color rose slightly in her cheek. Her eyes spoke, however, more
than her lips could say, and Marlow must have been satisfied, if
lovers ever could be satisfied.
Lady Hastings was lying languidly on a couch, not knowing how to
intimate to her daughter her disapproval of a suit yet unknown to
Emily herself. She could not venture to utter openly one word in
opposition; for Sir Philip Hastings had desired her not to do so, and
she had given a promise to forbear, but she thought it would be
perfectly consistent with that promise, and perfectly fair and right
to show in other ways than by words, that Mr. Marlow was not the man
she would have chosen for her daughter's husband, and even to
insinuate objections which she dare not state directly.
In her manner to Marlow therefore, Lady Hastings, though perfectly
courteous and polite--for such was Sir Philip's pleasure--was as cold
as ice, always added "Sir" to her replies, and never forgot herself so
far as to call him by his name.
Emily remarked this demeanor; but she knew--I should rather have said
she was aware; for it was a matter more of sensation than thought,--a
conviction that had grown up in her mind without reflection--she was
aware that her mother was somewhat capricious in her friendships. She
had seen it in the case of servants and of some of the governesses she
had had when she was quite young. One day they would be all that was
estimable and charming in Lady Hastings' eyes, and another, from some
slight offence--some point of demeanor which she did not like--or some
moody turn of her own mind, they would be all that was detestable. It,
had often been the same, too, with persons of a higher station; and
therefore it did not in the least surprise her to find that Mr.
Marlow, who had been ever received by Lady Hastings before as a
familiar friend, should now be treated almost as a stranger.
It grieved her, nevertheless, and she thought that Marlow must feel
her mother's conduct painfully. She would fain have made up for it by
any means in her power, and thus the demeanor of Lady Hastings had an
effect the direct reverse of that which she intended. Nor did her
innuendos produce any better results, for she soon saw that they
grieved and offended her husband, while her daughter showed marvellous
stupidity, as she thought, in not comprehending them.
Full of love, and now full of hope likewise, Marlow, it must be
confessed, thought very little of Lady Hastings at all. He was one of
those men upon whom love sits well--they are but few in the world--and
whatever agitation he might feel at heart, there was none apparent in
his manner. His attention to Emily was decided, pointed, not to be
mistaken by any one well acquainted with such matters; but he was
quite calm and quiet about it; there was no flutter about it--no
forgetfulness of proprieties; and his conversation had never seemed to
Emily so agreeable as that night, although the poor girl knew not what
was the additional charm. Delightful to her, however, it was; and in
enjoying it she forgot altogether that she had been sent for about
business--nay, even forgot to wonder what that business could be.
Thus passed the evening; and when the usual time for retiring came,
Emily was a little surprised that there was no announcement of Mr.
Marlow's horse, or Mr. Marlow's carriage, as had ever been the case
before, but that Mr. Marlow was going to spend some days at the hall.
When Lady Hastings rose to go to rest, and her daughter rose to go
with her, another thing struck Emily as strange. Sir Philip, as his
wife passed him, addressed to her the single word "Beware!" with a
very marked emphasis. Lady Hastings merely bowed her head, in reply;
but when she and Emily arrived at her dressing-room, where the
daughter had generally stayed to spend a few minutes with her mother
alone, Lady Hastings kissed her, and wished her good night, declaring
that she felt much fatigue, and would ring for her maid at once.
Lady Hastings was a very good woman, and wished to obey her husband's
injunctions to the letter, but she felt afraid of herself, and would
not trust herself with Emily alone.
Dear Emily lay awake for half an hour after she had sought her pillow,
but not more, and then she fell into a sleep as soft and calm as that
of childhood, and the next morning rose as blooming as the flower of
June. Sir Philip was up when she went down stairs, and walking on the
terrace with Marlow. Lady Hastings sent word that she would breakfast
in her own room, when she had obtained a few hours' rest, as she had
not slept all night. Thus Emily had to attend to the breakfast-table
in her mother's place; but in those days the lady's functions at the
morning meal were not so various and important as at present; and the
breakfast passed lightly and pleasantly. Still there was no mention of
the business which had caused Emily to be summoned so suddenly, and
when the breakfast was over, Sir Philip retired to his library,
without asking Emily to follow, and merely saying, "You had better not
disturb your mother, my dear child. If you take a walk I will join you
ere long."
For the first time, a doubt, a notion--for I must not call it a
suspicion--came across the mind of Emily, that the business for which
she had been sent might have something to do with Mr. Marlow. How her
little heart beat! She sat quite still for a minute or two, for she
did not know, if she rose, what would become of her.
At length the voice of Marlow roused her from her gently-troubled
reverie, as he said. "Will you not come out to take a walk?"
She consented at once, and went away to prepare. Nor was she long, for
in less than ten minutes, she and Marlow were crossing the park,
towards the older and thicker trees amidst which they had rambled once
before. But it was Marlow who now led her on a path which he chose
himself. I know not whether it was some memory of his walk with Mrs.
Hazleton, or whether it was that instinct which leads love to seek
shady places, or whether, like a skilful general, he had previously
reconnoitred the ground; but something or other in his own breast
induced him to deviate from the more direct track which they had
followed on their previous walk, and guide his fair companion across
the short dry turf towards the thickest part of the wood, through
which there penetrated, winding in and out amongst the trees, a small
path, just wide enough for two, bowered overhead by crossing branches,
and gaining sweet woodland scenes of light and shade at every step, as
the eye dived into the deep green stillness between the large old
trunks, carefully freed from underwood, and with their feet carpeted
with moss, and flowers, and fern. It was called the deer's track, from
the fact that along it, morning and evening, all the bucks and does
which had herded on that side of the park might be seen walking
stately down to or from a bright, clear-running trout-stream, that
wandered along about a quarter of a mile farther on; and often, in the
hot weather, a person standing half way down the walk might see a tall
antlered fellow standing with his forefeet in the water and his
hind-quarters raised upon the bank, gazing at himself in the liquid
mirror below, with all his graceful beauties displayed to the
uttermost by a burst of yellow light, which towards noon always poured
upon the stream at that place.
Marlow and Emily, however, were quite alone upon the walk. Not even a
hind or hart was there; and after the first two or three steps, Marlow
asked his fair companion to take his arm. She did so, readily; for she
needed it, not so much because the long gnarled roots of the trees
crossed the path from time to time, and offered slight impediments,
for usually her foot was light as air, but because she felt an
unaccountable languor upon her, a tremulous, agitated sort of unknown
happiness unlike any thing else she had ever before experienced.
Marlow drew her little hand through his arm then, and she rested upon
it, not with the light touch of a mere acquaintance, but with a gentle
confiding pressure which was very pleasant to him, and yet the
capricious man must needs every two or three minutes, change that
kindly position as the trees and irregularities of the walk afforded
an excuse. Now he placed Emily on the one side, now on the other, and
if she had thought at all (but by this time she was far past thought,)
she might have fancied that he did so solely for the purpose of once
more taking her hand in his to draw it through his arm again.
At the spot where the walk struck the stream, and before it proceeded
onward by the bank, there was a little irregular open space not twenty
yards broad in any direction, canopied over by the tall branches of an
oak, and beneath the shade about twelve yards from the margin of the
stream, was a pure, clear, shallow well of exceedingly cold water,
which as it quietly flowed over the brink went on to join the rivulet
below. The well was taken care of, kept clean, and basined in plain
flat stones; but there was, no temple over it, Gothic or Greek. On the
side farthest from the stream was a plain wooden bench placed for the
convenience of persons who came to drink the waters which were
supposed to have some salutary influence, and there by tacit consent
Marlow and Emily seated themselves side by side.
They gazed into the clear little well at their feet, seeing all the
round variegated pebbles at the bottom glistening like jewels as the
branches above, moved by a fresh wind that was stirring in the sky,
made the checkered light dance over the surface. There was a green
leaf broken by some chance from a bough above which floated about upon
the water as the air fanned it gently, now hither, now thither, now
gilded by the sunshine, now covered with dim shadow. After pausing in
silence for a moment or two, Marlow pointed to the leaf with a light
and seemingly careless smile, saying, "See how it floats about, Emily.
That leaf is like a young heart full of love."
"Indeed," said Emily, looking full in his face with a look of inquiry,
for perhaps she thought that in his smile she might find an
interpretation of what was going on in her own bosom. "Indeed! How
so?"
"Do you not see," said Marlow, "how it is blown about by the softest
breath, which stirs not the less sensitive things around, how it is
carried by any passing air now into bright hopeful light, now into dim
melancholy shadow?"
"And is that like love?" asked Emily. "I should have thought it was
all brightness."
"Ay, happy love--love returned," replied Marlow, "but where there is
uncertainty, a doubt, there hope and fear make alternately the light
and shade of love, and the lightest breath will bear the heart from
the one extreme to the other--I know it from the experience of the
last three days, Emily; for since last we met I too have fluctuated
between the light and shade. Your father's consent has given a
momentary gleam of hope, but it is only you who can make the light
permanent."
Emily shook, and her eyes were bent down upon the water; but she
remained silent so long that Marlow became even more agitated than
herself. "I know not what I feel," she murmured at length,--"it is
very strange."
"But hear me, Emily," said Marlow, taking her unresisting hand, "I do
not ask an immediate answer to my suit. If you regard me with any
favor--if I am not perfectly indifferent to you, let me try to improve
any kindly feelings in your heart towards me in the bright hope of
winning you at last for my own, my wife. The uncertainty may be
painful--must be painful; but--"
"No, no, Marlow," cried Emily, raising her eyes to his face for an
instant with her cheek all glowing, "there must be no uncertainty. Do
you think I would keep you--you, in such a painful state as you have
mentioned? Heaven forbid!"
"Then what am I to think?" asked Marlow pressing closer to her side
and gliding his arm round her. "I am almost mad to dream of such
happiness, and yet your tone, your look, my Emily, make me so rash.
Tell me then--tell me at once, am I to hope or to despair?--Will you
be mine?"
"Of course," she answered, "can you doubt it?"
"I can almost doubt my senses," said Marlow; but he had no occasion to
doubt them.
They sat there for nearly half an hour; they then wandered on, with
marvellous meanderings in their course, for more than an hour and a
half more, and when they returned, Emily knew more of love than ever
could be learned from books. Marlow drew her feelings forth and gave
them definite form and consistency. He presented them to her by
telling what he himself felt in a plain and tangible shape, which
required no long reverie--none of their deep fits of thoughtfulness to
investigate and comprehend. From the rich store of his own
imagination, and the treasury of deep feeling in his breast, he poured
forth illustrations that brightened as if with sunshine every
sensation which had been dark and mysterious in her bosom before;
and ere they turned their steps back towards the house, Emily
believed--nay, she felt; and that is much more--that without knowing
it, she had loved him long.