Men have lived and died in the pursuit of two objects the least
worthy, on which the high mind of man could ever fix, out of all the
vain illusions that lead us forward through existence from youth to
old age: the philosopher's stone, and the elixir of life. Gold, gold,
sordid gold--not competence--not independence, but wealth--profuse,
inexhaustible wealth--the hard food of Cr[oe]sus; strange that it
should ever form the one great object of an immortal spirit! But
stranger still, that a being born to higher destinies should seek to
pin itself down to this dull earth forever--to dwell in a clay hut,
when a palace gates are open--to linger in a prison, when freedom may
be had--to outlive affections, friendships, hope and happiness--to
remain desolate in a garden where every flower has withered. To seek
the philosopher's stone--even could it have been found--was a madness:
but to desire the elixir of life was a worse insanity.
There was once, however, in the world's history a search--an eager
search, for that which at first sight may seem nearly the same as the
great elixir; but which was in reality very, very different.
We are told by the historians of America, that a tradition prevailed
amongst the Indians of Puerto Rico, that in one of the islands on the
coast, there was a fountain which possessed the marvellous power of
restoring, to any one who bathed in its waters, all the vigor and
freshness of youth, and that some of the Spanish adventurers sought it
anxiously, but sought in vain. Here indeed was an object worthy of
desire--here, what the heart might well yearn for, and mourn to find
impossible.
Oh, that fountain of youth, what might it not give back! The easy
pliancy of limb: the light activity of body: the calm, sweet sleep:
the power of enjoyment and acquisition: the freshness of the heart:
the brightness of the fancy: the brilliant dreams: the glorious
aspirations: the beauty and the gentleness: the innocence: the love.
We, who stand upon the shoal of memory, and look back in our faint
dreams, to the brighter land left far behind, may well long for that
sweet fountain which could renew--not life--but youth.
Oh youth--youth! Give me but one year of youth again. And it shall
come. I see it there, beyond the skies, that fountain of youth, in the
land where all flowers are immortal.
It is very strange, however, that with some men, when youth is gone,
its very memories die also. They can so little recollect the feelings
of that brighter time, that they cannot comprehend them in others:
that they become a mystery--a tale written in a tongue they have
forgotten.
It was so with Philip Hastings, and so also with his wife. Neither
seemed to comprehend the feelings of Marlow and Emily; but her father
understood them least. He had consented to their union: he approved of
her choice; but yet it seemed strange and unpleasant to him, that her
thoughts should be so completely given to her lover. He could hardly
believe that the intense affection she felt for another, was
compatible with love towards her parent. He knew not, or seemed to
have forgotten that the ordinance to leave all and cleave unto her
husband, is written in woman's heart as plainly as in the Book.
Nevertheless, that which he felt was not the least like
jealousy--although I have seen such a thing even in a parent towards a
child. It was a part of the problem of Emily's character, which he was
always trying to solve without success.
"Here," he thought, "she has known this young man, but a short
time--no years--not very many months; and yet, it is clear, that in
that short space, she has learned to love him better than those to
whom she is bound by every tie of long enduring affection and
tenderness."
Had he thought of comparing at all, her conduct and feelings with
those of his own youth, he would still have marvelled; for he would
have said, "I had no tenderness shown me in my young days--I was not
the companion, the friend, the idol, the peculiar loved one of father
or mother, so long as my elder brother lived. I loved her who first
really loved me. From _my parents_, I had met small affection, and but
little kindness. It was therefore natural that I should fix my love
elsewhere, as they had fixed theirs. But with my child, the case is
very different."
Yet he loved Marlow well--was fond of his society--was well pleased
that he was to be his daughter's husband; but even in his case, Mr.
Hastings was surprised in a certain degree; for Marlow did not, and
could not conceal that he loved Emily's society better than her
father's--that he would rather a great deal be with her than with
Brutus himself or Cato.
This desire on the part of Marlow to be ever by her side, was a great
stumbling-block in the way of Mr. Hastings' schemes for re-educating
Marlow, and giving that strength and vigor to his character of which
his future father-in-law had thought it susceptible. He made very
little progress, and perhaps Marlow's society might even have had some
influence upon him--might have softened--mitigated his character; but
that there were counteracting influences continually at work.
All that had lately happened--the loss of fortune and of station--the
dark and irritating suspicions which had been instilled into his mind
in regard to his child's conduct--the doubts which had been produced
of her frankness and candor--the fact before his eyes, that she loved
another better, far better, than himself, with a kind word, now and
then, from Mrs. Hazleton, spoken to drive the dart deeper into his
heart, had rendered him somewhat morose and gloomy,--apt to take a bad
view of other people's actions, and to judge less fairly than he
always wished to judge. When Marlow hastened away from him to rejoin
Emily, and paint, with her, in all the brightest colors of
imagination, a picture of the glowing future, her father would walk
solitary and thoughtful, giving himself up to dark and unprofitable
reveries.
Mrs. Hastings in the mean time would take counsel with Mrs. Hazleton,
and they would settle between them that the father was already
dissatisfied with the engagement he had aided to bring about, and that
a little persevering opposition on the part of the mother, would
ultimately bring that engagement to an end.
Mrs. Hastings, too, thought--or rather seemed to feel, for she did not
reduce it to thought--that she had now a greater right to exercise
some authority in regard to her daughter's marriage, as Emily's whole
fortune must proceed from her own property. She ventured to oppose
more boldly, and to express her opinion against the marriage, both to
her husband and her child. It was against the advice of Mrs. Hazleton
that she did so; for that lady knew Mr. Hastings far better than his
own wife knew him; and while Emily's cheek burned, and her eye swam in
tears, Mr. Hastings replied in so stern and bitter a tone that Mrs.
Hastings shrunk back alarmed at what she herself had done.
But the word had been spoken: the truth revealed. Both Mr. Hastings
and Emily were thenceforth aware that she wished the engagement
between her daughter and Marlow broken off--she was opposed to the
marriage; and would oppose it.
The effect of this revelation of her views upon her child and her
husband, was very different. Emily had colored with surprise and
grief--not, as her father thought, with anger; and she resolved
thenceforth to endeavor to soften her mother's feelings towards him
she loved, and to win her consent to that upon which all her own
happiness depended; but in which her own happiness could not be
complete without a mother's approbation.
Mr. Hastings, on the contrary, entertained no expectation that his
wife would ever change her views, even if she changed her course. Some
knowledge--some comprehension of her character had been forced upon
him during the many years of their union; and he believed that, if all
open remonstrance, and declared opposition had been crushed by his
sharp and resolute answer, there would nevertheless be continual or
ever recurring efforts on Mrs. Hastings' part, to have her own way,
and thwart both his purposes and Emily's affection. He prepared to
encounter that sort of irritating guerrilla warfare of last words, and
sneers, and innuendoes, by which a wife sometimes endeavors to
overcome a husband's resolutions; and he hardened himself to resist.
He knew that she could not conquer in the strife; but he determined to
put an end to the warfare, either by some decided expression of his
anger at such proceedings, or by uniting Emily to Marlow, much sooner
than he had at first proposed.
The latter seemed the easiest method, and there was a great chance of
the marriage, which it had been agreed should be delayed till Emily
was nineteen, taking place much earlier, when events occurred which
produced even a longer delay.
One of the first steps taken by Mr. Hastings to show his wife that her
unreasonable opposition would have no effect upon him, was not only to
remove the prohibition of those lovers' rambles which Mrs. Hastings
had forbidden, but to send his daughter and her promised husband forth
together on any pretext that presented itself. He took the opportunity
of doing so, first, when his wife was present, and on the impulse of
the moment, she ventured to object. One look--one word from her
husband, however, silenced her; for they were a look and word too
stern to be trifled with, and Emily went to dress for her walk; but
she went with the tears in her eyes. She was grieved to find that all
that appertained to her happiness was likely to become a cause of
dissension between her father and her mother. Had Marlow not been
concerned--had his happiness not been also at stake--she would have
sacrificed any thing--every thing--to avoid such a result; but she
felt she had no right to yield to caprice, where he was to suffer as
well as herself.
The walk took place, and it might have been very sweet to both, had
not the scene which had immediately preceded poured a drop of
bitterness into their little cup of joy. Such walks were often renewed
during the month that followed; but Emily was not so happy as she
might have been; for she saw that her father assumed a sterner, colder
tone towards his wife, and believed that she might be the unwilling
cause of this painful alienation. She knew not that it proceeded
partly from another source--that Mr. Hastings had discovered, or
divined, that his wife had some feeling of increased power and
authority from the fact of his having lost his large estates, and of
her property being all that remained to them both.
Poor Emily! Marlow's love, that dream of joy, seemed destined to
produce, for a time at least, nothing but grief and anxiety. Her
reveries became more frequent, and more deep, and though her lover
could call her from them in a moment, no one else had the power.
One day, Marlow and his Emily--for whom every day his love increased;
for he knew and comprehended her perfectly, and he was the only
one--had enjoyed a more happy and peaceful ramble than usual, through
green lanes, and up the hill, and amidst the bright scenery which lay
on the confines of the two counties, and they returned slowly towards
the house, not anticipating much comfort there. As they approached,
they saw from the road a carriage standing before the door, dusty, as
if from a long journey, but with the horses still attached. There were
three men, too, with the carriage, besides the driver, and they were
walking their horses up and down the terrace, as if their stay was to
be but short. It was an unusual number of attendants, even in those
days, to accompany a carriage in the country, except upon some visit
of great ceremony; and the vehicle itself--a large, old, rumbling
coach, which had seen better days--gave no indication of any great
state or dignity on the part of its owner.
Why, she knew not, but a feeling of fear, or at least anxiety, came
over Emily as she gazed, and turning to Marlow, she said, "Who can
these visitors be?"
"I know not, indeed, dear love," he answered, "but the equipage is
somewhat strange. Were we in France," he added, with a laugh, "I
should think it belonged to an exempt, bearing a _lettre de cachet_."
Emily smiled also, for the idea of her, father having incurred the
anger of any government or violated any law seemed to her quite out of
the question.
When they approached the door, however, they were met by a servant,
with a grave and anxious countenance, who told her that her father
wished to see her immediately in the dining hall.
"Is there any one with him?" asked Emily, in some surprise.
"Yes, Mistress Emily," replied the man, "there is a strange gentleman
with him. But you had better go in at once; for I am afraid things are
not going well."
Marlow drew her arm through his, and pressed it gently to make her
feel support; and then went into the eating-room, as it was usually
called, by her side.
When they entered they found the scene a strange and painful one. Mr.
Hastings was seated near a window, with his hat on, and his cloak cast
down on a chair beside him. His wife was placed near him, weeping
bitterly; and at the large table in the middle of the room was a
coarse-looking man, in the garb of a gentleman, but with no other
indication but that of dress of belonging to a superior class. He was
very corpulent, and his face, though shadowed by an enormous wig, was
large and bloated. There was food and wine before him, and to both he
seemed to be doing ample justice, without taking any notice of the
master of the house or his weeping lady.
Mr. Hastings, however, rose and advanced towards his daughter, as soon
as she entered, and in an instant the eye of the gormandizing guest
was raised from his plate and turned towards the party, with a look of
eager suspicion.
"Oh, my dear father, what is this?" exclaimed Emily, running towards
him.
"One of those accidents of life, my child," replied Mr. Hastings, "from
which I had hoped to be exempt--most foolishly. But it seems," he
continued, "no conduct, however reserved, can shield one from the
unjust suspicions of princes and governments."
"Very good cause for suspicion, sir," said the man at the table,
quaffing a large glass of wine. "Mr. Secretary would not have signed a
warrant without strong evidence. Vernon is a cautious man, sir, a very
cautious man."
"And who is this person?" asked Marlow pointing to the personage who
spoke.
"A messenger of the powers that be," replied Mr. Hastings; "it seems
that because Sir John Fenwick dined here a short time ago, and has
since been accused of some practices against the state, his Majesty's
advisers have thought fit to connect me with his doings, or their own
suspicions, though they might as well have sent down to arrest my
butler or my footman, and I am now to have the benefit of a journey to
the Tower of London under arrest."
"Or to Newgate," said the messenger, significantly.
"To London, at all events," replied Mr. Hastings.
"I will go with you," said Marlow, at once; but before the prisoner
could answer, the messenger interfered, saying, "That I cannot allow."
"I am afraid you must allow it," replied Marlow, "whether it pleases
you or not."
"I will have no one in the carriage with my prisoner," said the
messenger, striking the table gently with the haft of his knife.
"That may be," answered Marlow; "but you will not, I presume, pretend
to prevent my going where I please in my own carriage; and when once
in London, I shall find no difficulty, knowing Mr. Vernon well."
The latter announcement made a great change in the messenger's
demeanor, and he became much more tame and docile from the moment it
struck his ear.
Mr. Hastings indeed would fain have persuaded his young friend to
remain where he was, and looked at Emily with some of that tenderer
feeling of a parent which so often prompts to every sacrifice for a
child's sake. But Emily thanked Marlow eagerly for proposing to go;
and Mrs. Hastings, even, expressed some gratitude.
The arrangements were soon made. There being no time to send for
Marlow's own carriage and horses, it was agreed that he should take a
carriage belonging to Mr. Hastings, with his horses, for the first
stage; the prisoner's valet was to accompany his friend, and immediate
orders were given for the necessary preparations.
When all was ready, Emily asked some question of her father, in a low
tone, to which he replied, "On no account, my child. I will send for
you and your mother should need be; but do not stir before I do. This
is a mere cloud--a passing shower, which will soon be gone, and leave
the sky as bright as ever. We do not live in an age when kings of
England can play at foot-ball with the heads of innocent men, and I,
as you all know, am innocent."
He then embraced his wife and child with more tenderness than he was
wont to show, and entering the carriage first, was followed by the
messenger. The other men mounted their horses, and Marlow did not
linger long behind the sad cavalcade.