Mrs. Hazelton entered the carriage, I have said, at the end of the
last chapter, without the slightest appearance of agitation or
excitement. Although now and then a flush, and now and then a
paleness, had spread over her face during the conversation with Lady
Hastings, though her eye had emitted an occasional flash, and at other
times had seemed fixed and meaningless, such indications of internal
warfare were all banished when she left the room, the fair smooth
cheek had its natural color, the eye was as tranquil as that of
indifferent old age.
The coachman cracked his long whip, before four magnificent large
horses heaved the ponderous vehicle from its resting place, and Mrs.
Hazleton sank back in the carriage and gave herself up to thought--but
not to thought only. Then all the smothered agitation; then all the
strong contending passions broke forth in fierce and fiery warfare. It
is impossible to disentangle them and lay them out, as on a map,
before the reader's mind. It is impossible to say which at first
predominated, rage, or fear, or disappointment, or the thirst of
vengeance. One passion it is true--the one which might be called the
master passion of her nature--soon soared towering above the rest,
like one of those mighty spirits which rise to the dizzy and dangerous
pinnacle of power in the midst of the turbulence and tempest which
accompany great social earthquakes. But at first all was confusion.
"Never," she repeated to herself--"never!--it shall never be. If I
slay her with my own hand it shall never be--foiled--frustrated in
every thing; and by this mere empty, moody child, who has been my
stumbling block, my enemy, my obstruction, in all my paths. No, no, it
shall never be!"
A new strain of thought seemed to strike her; her head leaned forward;
her eyes closed, and her lips quivered.
There are many kinds of conscience, and every one has some sort, such
as it is. What I mean is, that there is almost in every heart a voice
of warning and reproof which counsels us to regret certain actions,
and which speaks in different tones to different men. To the
worldly--those who are habitually of the earth earthly--it holds out
the menace of earthly shame and misfortune and sorrow. It
recapitulates the mistakes we have committed, points to the evil
consequences of evil deeds, shows how the insincerities and falsehoods
of our former course have proved fruitless, and how the cunning
devices, and skilful contrivances, and artful stratagems, have ended
in mortification and reproach and contempt; while still the gloomy
prospects of detection and exposure and public contumely and personal
punishment, are held up before our eyes as the grim portrait of the
future.
I need not pause here to show how conscience affects those who,
however guilty, have a higher sense--those who have a cloudy belief in
a future state--who acknowledge in their own hearts a God of
justice--who look to judgment, and feel that there must be an
immortality of weal or woe. Mrs. Hazleton was of the former class. The
grave was a barrier to her sight, beyond which there was no seeing.
She had been brought up for this world, lived in this world, thought,
devised, schemed, plotted for this world. She never thought of another
world at all. She went to church regularly every Sunday, read the
prayers with every appearance of devotion, even listened to the sermon
if the preacher preached well, and went home more practically atheist
than many who have professed themselves so.
What were her thoughts, then, now? They were all earthly still. Even
conscience spoke to her in earthly language, as if there were no other
means of reaching her heart but that. Its very menaces were all
earthly. She reviewed her conduct for the last two or three years,
and bitterly reproached herself for several faults she discovered
therein--faults of contrivance, of design, of execution. She had made
mistakes; and for a time she gave herself up to bitter repentance for
that great crime.
"Caught in my own trap," she said; "frustrated by a girl--a
child!--ay! and with exposure, perhaps punishment, before me. How she
triumphs, doubtless, in that little malignant heart. How she will
triumph when she brings forward her proofs, and overwhelms me with
them--if she has them. Oh, yes, she has them! She is mighty careful
never to say any thing of which she is not certain. I have remarked
that in her from a child. She has them beyond doubt, and now she is
sitting anticipating the pleasure of crushing me--enjoying the
retrospect of my frustrated endeavors--thinking how she and Marlow
will laugh together over a whole list of attempts that have failed,
and purposes that I have not been able to execute. Yes, yes, they will
laugh loud and gaily, and at the very altar, perhaps, will think with
triumph that they are filling for me the last drop of scorn and
disappointment. Never, never, never! It shall never be. That is the
only way, methinks;" and she fell into dark and silent thought again.
The fit lasted some time, and then she spoke again, muttering the
words between her teeth as she had previously done. "They will never
marry with a mother's curse upon their union! Oh, no, no, I know her
too well. She will not do that. That weak poppet may die before she
recalls her opposition--must die--and then they will live on loving
and wretched. But it must be made as bitter as possible. It must not
stop there."
Again she paused and thought, and then said to herself, "That drug
which the Italian monk sold me would do well enough if I did but fully
know its effects. There are things which leave terrible signs behind
them--besides it is old, and may have lost its virtue. I must run no
risk of that--and it must be speedy as well as sure. I have but four
and twenty hours--the time is very short;" and relapsing into silence
again, she continued in deep and silent meditation till the carriage
stopped at her own gates.
Mrs. Hazleton sat in the library that night for two or three hours,
and studied diligently a large folio volume which she had taken down
herself. She read, and she seemed puzzled. A servant entered to ask
some unimportant question, and she waved him away impatiently. Then
leaning her head upon her hand she thought profoundly. She calculated
in her own mind what Emily knew--how much--how intimately, and how she
had learned it. Such a thing as remorse she knew not; but she had some
fear, though very little--a sort of shrinking from the commission of
acts more daring and terrible than any she had yet performed. There
was something appalling--there is always something appalling--in the
commission of a great new crime, and the turning back, as it were, of
the mind of Mrs. Hazleton from the search for means to accomplish a
deed determined, in order to calculate the necessity of that deed,
proceeded from this sort of awe at the next highest step of evil to
those which she had already committed.
"She must know all," said Mrs. Hazleton to herself, after having
considered the matter for some moments deeply. "And she must have
learned it accurately. I know her caution well. From whom can she have
learned it?"
"From that young villain Ayliffe," was the prompt reply. "I was too
harsh with him, and in his fit of rage he has gone away at once to
tell this girl--or perhaps that old fool Dixwell. Most likely he has
furnished her with evidence too, before he fled the country. Without
that I could have set Marlow's discoveries at naught. Yet I doubt his
having gone to Dixwell; he always despised him. Mean as he was
himself; he looked upon him as a meaner. He would not go to him to
whine and cant over him. He would go to the girl herself. Her he
always loved, even in the midst of his violence and his rage. He would
go to her or write to her beyond all doubt. She must be silenced. But
I must deal with another first. Come what will, this marriage shall
not take place. Besides, she is the most dangerous of the two. The
girl might be frightened or awed into secresy, and it will take longer
time to reach her, but nothing will keep that weak woman's tongue from
babbling, and in four and twenty hours her consent will be given to
this marriage. If I can but contrive it rightly, that at least may be
stopped, and a part of my revenge obtained at all events. It must be
so--it must be so."
She turned to the leaves of the book again, but nothing in the
contents seemed to give her satisfaction. "That will be too long," she
said, after having read about a third of a page. "Three or four days
to operate! Who could wait three or four days when the object is
security, tranquility, or revenge? Besides the case admits of no
delay. Before three of four days all will be over."
She read again, and was discontented with what she read. "That will
leave traces," she said. "It must be the Italian's dose, I believe,
after all. Those monks are very skilful men, and perhaps it may not
have lost its efficiency. It is easily tried," she exclaimed suddenly,
and ascending quietly to her own dressing-room, she sought out from
the drawer of an old cabinet a small packet of white powder, which she
concealed in the palm of her hand. Then descending to the library
again, she sat for a few minutes in dull, heavy thought, and then rang
a hand-bell which stood upon her table.
"Bring me a small quantity of meat cut fine for the dog," she said, as
soon as her servant appeared. "He seems ill; what has been the matter
with him?"
"Nothing, madam," said the man, looking under the table where lay a
beautiful small spaniel sound asleep. "He has been quite well all
day."
"He has had something like a fit," said Mrs. Hazleton.
"Dear me, perhaps he is going mad," replied the man. "Had I not better
kill him?"
"Kill him!" exclaimed Mrs. Hazleton; "on no account whatever. Bring me
a small plate of meat."
The man did as he was ordered, and on his return found the dog sitting
at his mistress's feet, looking up in her face.
"Ah, Dorset," she said, speaking to the animal in a kindly tone, "you
are better now, are you?"
The man seemed inclined to linger to see whether the dog would eat:
but Mrs. Hazleton took the plate from him, and threw the poor beast a
small piece, which he devoured eagerly.
"There that will do," said Mrs. Hazleton. "You may leave the room."
When she was alone again, she paused for a moment or two, then
deliberately unfolded the packet, and put a very small quantity of the
powder it contained upon a piece of the meat. This morsel she threw to
the poor animal, who swallowed it at once, and then she set down the
plate upon the ground, which he cleared in a moment. After that Mrs.
Hazleton turned to her reading again, and looked round once at the end
of about two minutes. The dog had resumed his sleeping attitude, and
she read on. Hardly a minute more had passed ere the poor brute
started up, ran round once or twice, as if seized with violent
convulsions, staggered for an instant to and fro, and fell over on its
side. Mrs. Hazleton rang the hell violently, and two servants ran in
at once. "He is dying," she cried; "he is dying."
"Keep out of his way, madam," exclaimed one of the men, evidently in
great fear himself, "there is no knowing what he may do."
The next instant the poor dog started once more upon his feet, uttered
a loud and terrific yell, and fell dead upon the floor.
"Poor thing," said Mrs. Hazleton. "Poor Dorset! He is dead; take him
away."
The two men seemed unwilling to touch him, but when quite satisfied
that there was no more life left in him, they carried him away, and
Mrs. Hazleton remained alone.
"Speedy enough," said the lady, replacing the large volume on the
shelf. "We need no distillations and compoundings. This is as
efficacious as ever. Now let me see. I must try and remember the size
of the bottle, and the color of the stuff that was in it." She thought
of these matters for some minutes, and then retired to rest.
Did she sleep well or ill that night? God knows. But if she slept
well, the friends of hell must sometimes have repose.
The next morning very early, Mrs. Hazleton walked out. As the reader
knows, she lived at no great distance from the little town, even by
the high-road, and that was shortened considerably by a path through
the park. There was a poor man in the place, an apothecary, who had
came down there in the hope of carrying away some of the practice of
good Mr. Short. He had not been very successful, and his stock of
medicines was not very great: but he had all that Mrs. Hazleton
wanted. Her demands indeed were simple enough--merely a little
logwood, a little saffron, and a little madder. Having obtained these
she asked to see some vials, and selected one containing somewhat less
than half a pint.
The good man packed all these up with zealous care, saying that he
would send them up to the house in a few minutes. Mrs. Hazleton,
however, said she would carry them herself; but the very idea of the
great lady carrying home a parcel, even through her own park, shocked
the little apothecary extremely, and he pressed hard to be permitted
to send his own boy, till Mrs. Hazleton replied in a rather peremptory
tone, "I always say what I mean, sir. Be so good as to give me the
parcel."
When she reached her own house, she ordered her carriage to be at the
door at half past twelve in order to convey her to the dwelling of Sir
Philip Hastings. Upon a very nice calculation the drive, commenced at
that hour, would bring her to the place of her destination shortly
after that precise period of the day when Lady Hastings was accustomed
to take an hour's sleep. But Mrs. Hazleton had laid out her plan, and
did not thus act by accident.
Almost every lady in those days acted the part of a Lady Bountiful in
her neighborhood, and gave, not alone assistance in food and money to
the cottagers and poor people about her, but medicine and sometimes
medical advice. Both the latter were very simple indeed; but the
preparation of these simple medicines entailed the necessity of what
was called a still-room in each great house. In fact to be a Lady
Bountiful, and to have a still-room, were two of the conventionalities
of the day, from which no lady, having more than a very moderate
fortune, could then hope to escape. Mrs. Hazleton was in the
still-room, then, when her dear friend, who had already on one
occasion given the death blow to her schemes upon Mr. Marlow's heart,
drove up to the door and asked to see her.
The servant replied that his mistress was busy in the still-room, but
that he would go and call her in a moment.
"Oh, dear, no," replied the lady, entering the house with an elastic
step; "I will go and join her there, and surprise her in her
charitable works. I know the way quite well--you needn't come--you
needn't come;" and on she went to the still-room, which she entered
without ceremony.
Mrs. Hazleton was, at that moment, in the act of pouring a purpleish
sort of fluid, out of a glass dish with a lip to it, into an
apothecary's vial. She turned round sharply at the sound of the
opening door, thinking that it was produced by a servant intruding
upon her uncalled. When she saw her friend, however, whose indiscreet
advice she had neither forgotten nor forgiven, her face for a moment
turned burning red, and then as pale as death; and she had nearly let
the glass fall from her hand.
What was said on either part matters very little. Mrs. Hazleton was
too wise to speak as sharply as she felt, and led the way from the
still-room as fast as possible; but her dear friend had in one
momentary glance seen every thing--the glass bowl, the vial, the
fluid, and--more particularly than all--Mrs. Hazleton's sudden changes
of complexion on her entrance.