Philip Hastings had calculated much upon his Roman firmness; and he
could have borne death, or any great and sudden calamity, with
fortitude; but small evils often affect us more than great ones. He
knew not what it is to suffer long imprisonment, to undergo the
wearing, grinding process of life within a prison's walls. He knew not
the effect of long suspense either, of the fretful impatience for some
turn in our fate, of the dull monotony of long continued expectation
and protracted disappointment, of the creeping on of leaden despair,
which craves nothing in the end but some change, be it for better or
for worse.
They took him to Newgate--the prison of common felons, and there, in a
small room, strictly guarded, he remained for more than two months. At
first he would send for no lawyer, for he fancied that there must
either be some error on the part of the government, or that the
suspicion against him must be so slight as to be easily removable. But
day went by on day, and hour followed hour, without any appearance of
a change in his fate. There came a great alteration, however, in his
character. He became morose, gloomy, irritable. Every dark point in
his own fate and history--every painful event which had occurred for
many years--every doubt or suspicion which had spread gloom and
anxiety through his mind, was now magnified a thousand-fold by long,
brooding, solitary meditation. He pondered such things daily, hourly,
in the broad day, in the dead, still night, when want of exercise
deprived him of sleep, till his brain seemed to turn, and his whole
heart was filled with stern bitterness.
Marlow, who visited him every day by permission of the Secretary of
State, found him each day much changed, both in appearance and
manner; and even his conversation gave but small relief. He heard with
small emotion the news of the day, or of his own family. He read the
letters of his wife and daughter coldly. He heard even the
intelligence that Sir John Fenwick was condemned for high treason, and
to die on a scaffold, without any appearance of interest. He remained
self-involved and thoughtful.
At length, after a long interval--for the government was undecided how
to proceed in his and several other cases connected with that famous
conspiracy--a day was appointed for his first examination by the
Secretary of State; for matters were then conducted in a very
different manner from that in which they are treated at present; and
he was carried under guard to Whitehall.
Vernon was a calm and not unamiable man; and treating the prisoner
with unaffected gentleness, he told him that the government was very
anxious to avoid the effusion of any more blood, and expressed a hope
that Mr. Hastings would afford such explanations of his conduct as
would save the pain of proceeding against him. He did not wish by any
means, he said, to induce him to criminate himself; but merely to give
such explanations as he might think fit.
Philip Hastings replied, with stern bitterness, that before he could
give any explanations, he must learn what there was in his conduct to
explain. "It has ever been open, plain, and straightforward," he said.
"I have taken no part in conspiracies, very little part in politics. I
have nothing to fear from any thing I myself can utter; for I have
nothing to conceal. Tell me what is the charge against me, and I will
answer it boldly. Ask what questions you please; and I will reply at
once to those to which I can find a reply in my own knowledge."
"I thought the nature of the charge had been made fully known to you,"
replied Vernon. "However, it is soon stated. You are charged, Mr.
Hastings, with having taken a most decided part in the criminal
designs, if not in the criminal acts, of that unfortunate man Sir John
Fenwick. Nay, of having first suggested to him the darkest of all his
designs, namely, the assassination of his Majesty."
"I suggest the assassination of the King!" exclaimed Mr. Hastings. "I
propose such an act! Sir, the charge is ridiculous. Has not the only
share I ever took in politics been to aid in placing King William upon
the throne, and consistently to support his government since? What the
ministers of the crown can seek by bringing such a charge against me,
I know not; but it is evidently fictitious, and of course has an
object."
Vernon's cheek grew somewhat red, and he replied warmly, "That is an
over-bold assertion, sir. But I will soon satisfy you that it is
unjust, and that the crown has not acted without cause. Allow me,
then, to tell you, that no sooner had the conspiracy of Sir John
Fenwick been detected, and his apprehension been made known, than
information was privately given--from your own part of the country--to
the following effect;" and he proceeded try to read from a paper,
which had evidently been folded in the form of a letter, the ensuing
words: "That on the ---- day of May last, when walking in the gardens
of his own house, called 'The Court,' he--that is yourself, sir--used
the following language to Sir John Fenwick: 'When no other means can
be found of obtaining justice, freedom, and security, I see no reason
why a king should not be put to death as well as any other man. He who
does the deed merits a monument rather than a gibbet.' Such was the
information, sir, on which government first acted in causing your
apprehension."
The Secretary paused, and for a few moments Mr. Hastings remained
gazing down in silence, like a man utterly confounded. Vernon thought
he had touched him home; but the emotions in the prisoner's bosom,
though very violent, were very different from those which the
Secretary attributed to him. He remembered the conversation well, but
he remembered also that the only one who, besides Sir John Fenwick,
was with him at the moment, was his own child. I will not dwell upon
his feelings, but they absorbed him entirely, till the Secretary went
on, saying--"Not satisfied with such slender information, Mr.
Hastings, the government caused that unhappy criminal, Sir John
Fenwick, to be asked, after his fate was fixed, if he recollected your
having used those words to him, and he replied, something very like
them.'"
"And I reply the same," exclaimed Philip Hastings, sternly. "I did use
those words, or words very like them. But, sir, they were in
connection with others, which, had they been repeated likewise, would
have taken all criminal application from them. May I be permitted to
look at that letter in your hand, to see how much was really told, how
much suppressed?"
"I have read it all to you," said Mr. Vernon, "but you may look at it
if you please," and he handed it to him across the table. Philip
Hastings spread it out before him, trembling violently, and then drew
another letter from his pocket, and laid them aide by side. He ran his
eye from one to the other for a moment or two, and then sunk slowly
down, fainting upon the floor.
While a turnkey and one of the messengers raised him, and some efforts
were made to bring him back to consciousness, Mr. Vernon walked round
the table and looked at the two letters which were still lying on it.
He compared them eagerly, anxiously. The handwriting of the one was
very similar to that of the other, and in the beginning of that which
Mr. Hastings had taken from his pocket, the Secretary found the words,
"My dear father." It was signed, "Emily Hastings;" and Vernon
instantly comprehended the nature of the terrible emotion he had
witnessed.
He was really, as I have said, a kind and humane man, and he felt very
much for the prisoner, who was speedily brought to himself again, and
seated in a chair before the table.
"Perhaps, Mr. Hastings," said Vernon, "we had better not protract this
conversation today. I will see you again to-morrow, at this hour, if
you would prefer that arrangement."
"Not at all, sir," answered the prisoner, "I will answer now, for
though the body be weak, the spirit is strong. Remember, however, that
I am not pleading for life. Life is valueless to me. The block and axe
would be a relief. I am only pleading to prevent my own character from
being stained, and to frustrate this horrible design. I used the words
imputed to me; but if I recollect right, with several qualifications,
even in the sentence which has been extracted. But before that, many
other words had passed which entirely altered the whole bearing of the
question. The conversation began about the regicides of the great
rebellion, and although my father was of the party in arms against the
King, I expressed my unqualified disapprobation of their conduct in
putting their sovereign to death. I then approached as a mere matter
of abstract reasoning, in which, perhaps, I am too apt to indulge, the
subject of man's right to resist by any means an unendurable tyranny,
and I quoted the example of Brutus and William Tell; and it was in the
course of these abstract remarks, that I used the words which have
been cited. I give you my word, however, and pledge my honor, that I
entertained no thought, and had no cause whatever to believe that Sir
John Fenwick who was dining with me as an old acquaintance,
entertained hostile designs against the government of his native
land."
"Your admitted opinions, Mr. Hastings," said Vernon, "seem to me to be
very dangerous ones."
"That may be," replied the prisoner, "but in this country at least,
sir, you cannot kill a man for opinions."
"No; but those opinions, expressed in conversation with others who
proceed to acts," replied Vernon, "place a man in a very dangerous
position, Mr. Hastings. I will not conceal from you that you are in
some peril; but at the same time I am inclined to think that the
evidence, without your admissions this day, might prove insufficient,
and it is not my intention to take advantage of any thing you have
said. I shall report to his Majesty accordingly; but the proceedings
of the government will be guided by the opinion of the law officers of
the crown, and not by mine. I therefore can assure you of nothing
except my sincere grief at the situation in which you are placed."
"I little heed the result of your report, sir," replied Mr. Hastings;
"life, I say, is valueless to me, and if I am brought to trial for
words very innocently spoken, I shall only make the same defence I
have done this day, and I shall call no witness; the only witness of
the whole," he added with stern, concentrated bitterness, "is probably
on the side of the crown."
Mr. Hastings was then removed to Newgate, leaving the two letters on
the table behind him, and as soon as he was gone, Mr. Vernon sent a
messenger to an inn near Charing Cross, to say he should be glad to
speak for a few moments with Mr. Marlow. In about half an hour Marlow
was there, and was received by Vernon as an old acquaintance. The door
was immediately closed, and Marlow seated himself near the table,
turning his eyes away, however, as an honorable man from the papers
which lay on it.
"I have had an interview with your friend, Mr. Marlow," said the
Secretary, "and the scene has been a very gainful one. Mr. Hastings
has been more affected than I expected, and actually fainted."
Marlow's face expressed unutterable astonishment, for the idea of
Philip Hastings fainting under any apprehension whatever, could never
enter into the mind of any one who knew him.
"Good God!" he exclaimed, "what could be the cause of that! Not fear,
I am sure."
"Something more painful than even fear, I believe," replied Mr.
Vernon; "Mr. Hastings has a daughter, I believe?"
"Yes, sir, he has," replied Marlow, somewhat stiffly.
"Do you know her handwriting?" asked the Secretary.
"Yes, perfectly well," answered Marlow.
"Then be so good as to take up that letter next you," said Vernon,
"and tell me if it is in her hand."
Marlow took up the paper, glanced at it, and at once said, "Yes;" but
the next instant he corrected himself, saying, "No, no--it is very
like Emily's hand--very, very like; but more constrained."
"May not that proceed from an attempt to disguise her hand?" asked
Vernon.
"Or from an attempt on the part of some other to imitate it," rejoined
Marlow; "but this is very strange, Mr. Vernon; may I read this
through?"
"Certainly," replied the Secretary, and Marlow read every word three
or four times over with eager attention. They seemed to affect him
very much, for notwithstanding the Secretary's presence, he started up
and paced the room for a minute or two in thought.
"I must unravel this dark mystery," he said at length. "Mr. Vernon,
there have been strange things taking place lately in the family of
Mr. Hastings. Things which have created in my mind a suspicion that
some secret and external agency is at work to destroy his peace as
well as to ruin his happiness, and still more, I fear, to ruin the
happiness of his daughter. This letter is but one link in a long chain
of suspicious facts, and I am resolved to sift the whole matter to the
bottom. The time allowed me to do so, must depend upon the course you
determine to pursue towards Mr. Hastings. If you resolve to proceed
against him I must lose no time--although I think I need hardly say,
there is small chance of your success upon such evidence as this;" and
he struck the letter with his fingers.
"We have more evidence, such as it is," replied Vernon, "and he
himself admits having used those words."
Marlow paused thoughtfully, and then replied, "He may have used
them--he is very likely to have used them; but it must have been quite
abstractedly, and with no reference to any existing circumstance. I
remember the occasion on which Sir John Fenwick dined with him,
perfectly. I was there myself. Now let me see if I can recall all the
facts. Yes, I can, distinctly. During the whole of dinner--during the
short time we sat after dinner, those words were never used; nor were
conspiracies and treason ever thought of. I remember, too, from a
particular circumstance, that when we went out into the gardens Mr.
Hastings took his daughter's arm, and walked up and down the terrace
with Sir John Fenwick at his side. That must have been the moment. But
I need hardly point out to you, Mr. Vernon, that such was not a time
when any man in his senses, and especially a shrewd, cunning, timid
man, like Sir John Fenwick, would have chosen for the development of
treasonable designs."
"Were any other persons near?" asked Vernon; "the young lady might
have been in the conspiracy as well as her father."
Marlow laughed. "There were a dozen near," he answered; "they were
subject to interruption at any moment--nay, they could not have gone
on for three minutes; for that space of time did not elapse after the
gentlemen entered the garden where the ladies were, before I was at
Emily's side, and not one word of this kind was spoken afterwards."
"Then what could have induced her to report those words to the
government?" asked Mr. Vernon.
"She never did so," replied Marlow, earnestly; "this is not her
handwriting, though the imitation is very good--and now, sir," he
continued, "if it be proper, will you explain to me what course you
intend to pursue, that I may act accordingly? For as I before said, I
am resolved to search this mystery out into its darkest recesses. It
has gone on too long already."
Vernon smiled. "You are asking a good deal," he said, "but yet my
views are so strong upon the subject, that I think I may venture to
state them, even if the case against Mr. Hastings should be carried a
step or two farther--which might be better, in order to insure his not
being troubled on an after occasion. I shall strongly advise that a
_nolle prosequi_ be entered, and I think I may add that my advice will
be taken."
"You think I have asked much already, Mr. Vernon," said Marlow, "but I
am now going to ask more. Will you allow me to have this letter? I
give you my word of honor that it shall only be used for the purposes
of justice. You have known me from my boyhood, my dear sir; you can
trust me."
"Perfectly, my young friend," replied Vernon, "but you must not take
the letter to-day. In two days the action of the government will be
determined, and if it be such as I anticipate you shall have the
paper, and I trust it will lead to some discovery of the motives and
circumstances of this strange transaction. Most mysterious it
certainly is; for one can hardly suppose any one but a fiend thus
seeking to bring a father's life into peril."
"A fiend!" exclaimed Marlow, with a scoff, "much more like an angel,
my dear sir."
"You seem to think so," said Vernon, smiling, "and I trust, though
love is blind, he may have left you clear-sighted in this instance."
"I think he has," answered Marlow, "and as this young lady's fate is
soon to be united to mine, it is very necessary I should see clearly.
I entertain no doubt, indeed, and I say boldly, that Emily never wrote
this letter. It will give me, however, a clue which perhaps may lead
me to the end of the labyrinth, though as yet I hardly see my way. But
a strong resolution often does much.
"Might it not be better for you," asked Vernon, "to express your
doubts in regard to this letter to Mr. Hastings himself? He was
terribly affected, as well he might be, when he saw this document, and
believed it to be his own child's writing."
Marlow mused for some time ere he replied. "I think not," he answered
at length; "he is a man of peculiar disposition; stern, somewhat
gloomy, but honorable, upright, and candid. Now what I am going to say
may make me appear as stern as himself, but if he is suffering from
doubts of that dear girl, knowing her as well as he does, he is
suffering from his own fault, and deserves it. However, my object is
not to punish him, but thoroughly, completely, and for ever to open
his eyes, and to show him so strongly that he has done his child
injustice, as to prevent his ever doing the like again. This can only
be done by bringing all the proofs upon him at once, and my task is
now to gather them together. To my mere opinion regarding the
handwriting, he would not give the slightest heed, but he will not
shut his eyes to proofs. May I calculate upon having the letter in two
days?"
"I think you may," replied Vernon.
"Then when will Mr. Hastings be set free?" asked Marlow; "I should
wish to have some start of him into the country."
"That will depend upon various circumstances," replied the Secretary;
"I think we shall take some steps towards the trial before we enter
the _nolle prosequi_. It is necessary to check in some way the
expression of such very dangerous opinions as he entertains."
Marlow made no reply but by a smile, and they soon after parted.