Emily was as gay as a lark. The light of love and happiness was in her
eyes, the hue of health was upon her cheek, and a new spirit of hope
and joy seemed to pervade all her fair form. So Sir Philip Hastings
found her on the terrace with Marlow when he returned from Hartwell.
She was dressed in a riding habit, and one word would have explained
all the gaiety of her mood. Lady Hastings, never very consequent in
her actions, had wished for some one of those things which ladies wish
for, and which ladies only can choose. She had felt too unwell to go
for it herself; and although she had not a fortnight before expressed
her strong disapprobation of her daughter and Mr. Marlow even walking
out alone in the park, she had now sent them on horseback to procure
what she wanted. They had enjoyed one of those glorious rides over the
downs, which seem to pour into the heart fresh feelings of delight at
every step, flooding the sense with images of beauty, and making the
blood dance freely in the veins. It seemed also, both to her and
Marlow, that a part of the prohibition was removed, and though they
might not perhaps be permitted to walk out together, Lady Hastings
could hardly for the future forbid them to ride. Thus they had come
back very well pleased, with light hearts within, and gay hopes
fluttering round them.
Sir Philip Hastings, on the other hand, had passed a day of
bitterness, and hard, painful thought. On his first visit to the
county town, he had, as I have shown, been obliged once more to put
off decision. Then came his conference with Mrs. Hazleton. Then he had
returned to his lawyer's office, and found that the wanting evidence
had been supplied by his opponents. All that he had demanded was
there; and no apparent flaw in the case of his adversary. He had
always announced his attention of withdrawing opposition if such
proofs were afforded, and he did so now, with stern, rigid, and
somewhat hasty determination--but not without bitterness and regret.
His ride home, too, was troubled with dull and grievous thoughts, and
his whole mind was out of tune, and unfit to harmonize with gaiety of
any kind. He forgot that poor Emily could not see what had been
passing in his bosom, could not know all that had occurred to disturb
and annoy him, and her light and cheerful spirits seemed an offence to
him.
Sir Philip passed on, after he had spoken a few words to Marlow, and
sought Lady Hastings in the room below, where she usually sat after
she came down. Sir Philip, as I have shown, had not been nurtured in a
tender school, and he was not very apt by gentle preparation to soothe
the communication of any bad tidings. Without any circumlocution,
then, or prefatory remarks of any kind, he addressed his wife in the
following words: "This matter is decided, my dear Rachel. I am no
longer Sir Philip Hastings, and it is necessary that we should remove
from this house within a month, to your old home--the Court. It will
be necessary, moreover, that, we should look with some degree of
accuracy into the state of our future income, and our expenditure.
With your property, and the estate which I inherit from my mother,
which being settled on the younger children, no one can take from me,
we shall still have more than enough for happiness, but the style of
our living must be altered. We shall have plenty of time to think of
that, however, and to do what we have to do methodically."
Lady Hastings, or as we should rather call her now, Mistress Hastings,
seemed at first hardly to comprehend her husband's meaning, and she
replied, "You do not mean to say, Philip, that this horrible cause is
decided?"
"As far as I am concerned, entirely," replied Sir Philip Hastings. "I
shall offer no farther defence."
Lady Hastings fell into a fit of hysterics, and her husband knowing
that it was useless to argue with her in such circumstances, called
her maid, and left her.
There was but a dull dinner-party at the Hall that day. Sir Philip was
gloomy and reserved, and the news which had spread over the house, as
to the great loss of property which he had sustained, soon robbed his
daughter of her cheerfulness.
Marlow, too, was very grave; for he thought his friend had acted, not
only hastily, but imprudently. Lady Hastings did not come down to
dinner, and as soon as the meal was over Emily retired to her mother's
dressing-room, leaving Marlow and her father with their wine. Sir
Philip avoided the subject of his late loss, however, and when Marlow
himself alluded to it, replied very briefly.
"It is done," he said, "and I will cast the matter entirely from my
mind, Marlow. I will endeavor, as far as possible, to do in all
circumstances what is right, whatever be the anguish it costs me.
Having done what is right, my next effort shall be to crush every
thing like regret or repining. There is only one thing in life which
could give me any permanent pain, and that would be to have an
unworthy child."
Marlow did not seem to remark the peculiar tone in which the last
words were uttered, and he replied, "There, at least, you are most
happy, Sir Philip; for surely Emily is a blessing which may well
compensate for any misfortunes."
"I trust so--I think so," said Sir Philip, in a dry and hasty manner,
and then changing the subject, he added, "Call me merely Philip
Hastings, my good friend. I say with Lord Verulam, 'The Chancellor is
gone.' I mean I am no longer a baronet. That will not distress me,
however, and as to the loss of fortune, I can bear it with the most
perfect indifference."
Mr. Hastings reckoned in some degree without his host, however. He
knew not all the petty annoyances that were in store for him. The
costs he had to pay, the back-rents which were claimed, the long and
complicated accounts that were to be passed, the eager struggle which
was made to deprive him of many things undoubtedly his own; all were
matters of almost daily trouble and irritation during the next six
months. He had greatly miscalculated the whole amount of expenses.
Having lived always considerably within his income, he had imagined
that he had quite a sufficient amount in ready money to pay all the
demands that could be made upon him. But such was far from being the
case. Before all the debts were paid, and the accounts closed, he was
obliged to raise money upon his life-interest in his mother's
property, and to remain dependent, as it were, upon his wife's income
for his whole means. These daily annoyances had a much greater effect
upon Mr. Hastings than any great and serious misfortune could have
had. He became morose, impatient, gloomy. His mind brooded over all
that had occurred, and all that was occurring. He took perverted views
of many things, and adhered to them with an obstinacy that nothing
could shake.
In the mean time all the neighbors and friends of the family
endeavored to show their sympathy and kindness by every means in their
power. Even before the family quitted the Hall, the visitors were more
numerous than they had ever been before, and this was some consolation
to Mistress Hastings, though quite the contrary to her husband, who
did not indeed appear very frequently amongst the guests, but remained
in his own study as much as possible.
It was a very painful day for every one, and for Emily especially,
when they passed the door of the old Hall for the last time, and took
their way through the park towards the Court. The furniture in great
part, the books, the plate, had gone before; the rooms looked vacant
and desolate, and as Emily passed through them one by one, ere she
went down to the carriage, there was certainly nothing very attractive
in their aspect. But there were spots there associated with many dear
memories--feelings--fancies--thoughts--all the bright things of early,
happy youth; and it was very bitter for her to leave them all, and
know that she was never to visit them again.
She might, and probably would, have fallen into one of her deep
reveries, but she struggled against it, knowing that both her father
and her mother would require comfort and consolation in the coming
hours. She exerted herself, then, steadily and courageously to bear up
without a show of grief, and she succeeded even too well to satisfy
her father. He thought her somewhat light and frivolous, and judged it
very strange that his daughter could quit her birth-place, and her
early home, without, apparently, one regretful sigh. He himself sat
stern, and gloomy, and silent, in the carriage, as it rolled away.
Mistress Hastings leaned back, with her handkerchief over her eyes,
weeping bitterly. Emily alone was calmly cheerful, and she maintained
this demeanor all the way along till they reached the Court, and
separated till dinner-time. Then, however, she wept bitterly and long.
Before she had descended to meet her parents at dinner, she did her
best to efface all traces of her sad employment for the last hour. She
did not succeed completely, and when she entered the drawing-room, and
spoke cheerfully to her father, he raised his eyes to her face, and
detected, at once, the marks of recent tears on her swollen eyelids.
"She has been weeping," said Mr. Hastings to himself; "can I have been
mistaken?"
A gleam of the truth shot through his mind, and comforted him much,
but alas, it was soon to be lost again.
From feelings of delicacy, Marlow had absented himself that day, but
on the following morning he was there early, and thenceforward was a
daily visitor at the Court. He applied himself particularly to cheer
Emily's father, and often spent many hours with him, withdrawing Mr.
Hastings' mind from all that was painful in his own situation, by
leading it into those discussions of abstract propositions of which he
was so fond. But Marlow was not the only frequent visitor at the
Court. Mrs. Hazleton was there two or three times in the week, and was
all kindness, gentleness, and sympathy. She had tutored herself well,
and she met Mr. Marlow as Emily's affianced husband, with an ease and
indifference which was marvellously well assumed. To Mrs. Hastings she
proved the greatest comfort, although it is not be asserted that the
counsels which she gave her, proved at all comfortable to the rest of
the household, and yet Mrs. Hazleton never committed herself. Mrs.
Hastings could not have repeated one word that she said, that any one
on earth could have found fault with. She had a mode of insinuating
advice without speaking it--of eking out her words by looks and
gestures full of significance to the person who beheld them, but
perfectly indescribable to others.
She was not satisfied, however, with being merely the friend and
confidante of Mrs. Hastings. She must win Emily's father also, and she
succeeded so well that Mr. Hastings quite forgot all doubts and
suspicions, and causes of offence, and learned to look upon Mrs.
Hazleton as a really kind and amiable person, and as consistent as
could be expected of any woman.
Not one word, however, did Mrs. Hazleton say in the hearing of Emily's
father which could tend in any degree to depreciate the character of
Mr. Marlow, or be construed into a disapproval of the proposed
marriage. She was a great deal too wise for that, knowing the
character of Mr. Hastings sufficiently to see that she could effect no
object, and only injure herself by such a course.
To Emily she was all that was kind and delightful. She was completely
the Mrs. Hazleton of former days; but with the young girl she was less
successful than with her parents. Emily could never forget the visit
to her house, and what had there occurred, and the feelings which she
entertained towards Mrs. Hazleton were always those of doubt. Her
character was a riddle to Emily, as well it might be. There was
nothing upon which she could definitely fix as an indication of a bad
heart, or of duplicity of nature, and yet she doubted; nor did Marlow
at all assist in clearing her mind; for although they often spoke of
Mrs. Hazleton, and Marlow admitted all her bright and shining
qualities, yet he became very taciturn when Emily entered more deeply
into that lady's character. Marlow likewise had his doubts, and to say
sooth, he was not at all well pleased to see Mrs. Hazleton so
frequently with Mrs. Hastings. He did not well know what it was he
feared, but yet there was a something which instinctively told him
that his interests in Emily's family would not find the most favorable
advocate in Mrs. Hazleton.
Such was the state of things when one evening there was assembled at
the house of Mr. Hastings, a small dinner party--the first which had
been given since his loss of property. The summer had returned, the
weather was beautiful, the guests were cheerful and intellectual, and
the dinner passed off happily enough. There were several gentlemen and
several ladies present, and amongst the latter was Mrs. Hazleton.
Politics at that time ran high: the people were not satisfied
altogether with the King whom they had themselves chosen, and several
acts of intolerance had proved that promises made before the
attainment of power are not always very strictly maintained when power
has been reached. Mr. Hastings had never meddled in the strife of
party. He had a thorough contempt for policy and politicians, but he
did not at all object to argue upon the general principles of
government, in an abstract manner, and very frequently startled his
hearers by opinions, not only unconstitutional, and wide and far from
any of the received notions of the day, but sometimes also, very
violent, and sometimes, at first sight, irreconcilable with each
other. On the present occasion the conversation after dinner took a
political turn, and straying away from their wine, the gentlemen
walked out into the gardens, which were still beautifully kept up, and
prolonged their discussion in the open air. The ladies too--as all
pictures show they were fond of doing in those days--were walking
amongst the flowers, not in groups, but scattered here and there.
Marlow was naturally making his way to the side of Emily, who was
tying up a shrub at no great distance from the door, but Mrs. Hazleton
unkindly called him to her, to tell her the name of a flower which she
did not know. In the mean time Mr. Hastings took his daughter by the
arm, leaning gently upon her, and walking up and down the terrace,
while he continued his discussion with a Northumberland gentleman
known in history as Sir John Fenwick. "The case seems to be this,"
said Mr. Hastings, in reply to some question or the other; "all must
depend upon the necessity. Violent means are bad as a remedy for any
thing but violent evils, but the greatness of the evil will often
justify any degree of vigor in the means. Will any one tell me that
Brutus was not justified in stabbing Cæsar? Will any one tell me that
William Tell was not justified in all that he did against the tyrant
of his country? I will not pretend to justify the English regicides,
not only because they condemned a man by a process unknown to our
laws, and repugnant to all justice, but because they committed an act
for which there was no absolute necessity. Where an absolute necessity
is shown, indeed--where no other means can be found of obtaining
freedom, justice and security, I see no reason why a King should not
be put to death as well as any other man. Nay more, he who does the
deed with a full appreciation of its importance, a conscience clear of
any private motives, and a reasoning sense of all the bearings of the
act he commits, merits a monument rather than a gibbet, though in
these days he is sure to obtain the one and not the other."
"Hush, hush, do not speak so loud, my dear sir," said Sir John
Fenwick; "less than those words brought Sidney's head to the block."
"I am not afraid of mine," replied Mr. Hastings, with a faint smile;
"mine are mere abstract notions with regard to such things; very
little dangerous to any crowned heads, and if they thought fit to put
down such opinions, they would have to burn more than one half of all
the books we have derived from Rome."
Sir John Fenwick would not pursue the subject, however, and turned the
conversation in another course. He thought indeed that it had gone far
enough, especially when a young lady was present; for he was one of
those men who have no confidence in any woman's discretion, and he
knew well, though he did not profit much by his knowledge, that things
very slight, when taken abstractedly, may become very dangerous if
forced into connection with events. Philip Hastings would have said
what he did say, before any ears in Europe, without the slightest
fear, but as it proved, he had said too much for his own safety. No
one indeed seemed to have noticed the very strong opinions he had
expressed except Sir John Fenwick himself, and shortly after the party
gathered together again, and the conversation became general and not
very interesting.