Emily Hastings was not three hundred yards from the house when Mrs.
Hazleton drove away from the house door. She had never been more than
three hundred yards from it during that day. She had gathered no
herbs, she had wandered through no fields; but, at her mother's
earnest request, she had gone out to breathe the fresh air for half an
hour, and had ascended through the gardens to a little terrace on the
hill, where she had continued to walk up and down under the shade of
some tall trees; had seen Mrs. Hazleton arrive, and saw her depart.
The scene which the terrace commanded was very beautiful in itself,
and the house below, the well-cultivated gardens, a fountain here and
there, neat hedge-rows, and trim, well-ordered fields, gave the whole
an air of home comfort, and peaceful affluence, such as few countries
but England can display.
I have shown, or should have shown, that Emily was somewhat of an
impressible character, and the brightness and the pleasant character
of the scene had its usual effect in cheering. Certainly, to any one
who had stood near her, looking over even that fair prospect, she
herself would have been the loveliest object in it. Every year had
brought out some new beauty in her face, and without diminishing one
charm of extreme youth, had expanded her fair form into womanly
richness. The contour of every limb was perfect: the whole in symmetry
complete; and her movements, as she walked to and fro, upon the
terrace, were all full of that easy, floating grace, which requires a
combination of youth and health, and fine proportion, and a pure, high
mind. If there was a defect it was that she was somewhat pale that
day; for she had not slept at all during the preceding night from
agitated feelings, and busy thoughts that would not rest. But the
slight degree of languor, which watching and anxiety had given, was
not without its own peculiar charm, and the liquid brightness of her
eyes seemed but the more dazzling for the drooping of the eyelid, with
its long sweeping fringe.
There was a mixture, too, strange as it may seem to say so, of sadness
and cheerfulness, in the expression of her face that day--perhaps I
should say an alternation of the two expressions; but the change from
the one to the other was too rapid for distinctness; and the well of
feelings from which the expressions flowed, was of very mingled
waters. The scene of death and suffering which she had lately
witnessed at the cottage, her father's wild and gloomy manner, her
mother's sickness, the displeasure of one parent, however unjust, and
the opposition of another, to her dearest wishes, however
unreasonable, naturally produced anxiety and sadness. But then again,
on the other hand, Marlow's letter had cheered and comforted her much;
the prospect of seeing him so speedily, rejoiced her more than she had
even anticipated, and the certainty that a few short hours would
remove for ever all doubts as to her conduct, her thoughts and her
feelings, from the mind of both her parents, and especially from that
of her father, gave her strength and happy confidence.
Poor Emily! How lovely she looked as she walked along there with the
ever varying expressions fluttering over her face, and her rich
nut-brown hair, free and uncovered, floating in curls on the sportive
breath of the breeze.
When first she came out the general tone of her feelings was sad; but
the bright hopes seemed to in vigor in the open air, and her mind
fixed more and more gladly on the theme of Marlow's letter. As it did
so she extracted fresh motives of comfort from it. He had given her
many details in regard to his late proceedings. He had openly and
plainly spoken of the conduct of Mrs. Hazleton, and told her he could
prove the facts which he asserted. He had not even hinted at an
injunction to secrecy, and although her first impulse had been to wait
for his arrival and let him explain the whole himself, yet, as it was
now getting late in the day, and he had not come--as the obligation to
secrecy, laid upon her by John Ayliffe, might not be removed till the
following morning, and her mother was evidently anxious and uneasy for
want of all explanations--Emily thought she might be fully justified
in reading more of Marlow's letter to Lady Hastings than she had
hitherto done, and showing her that she had asserted nothing without
reasonable cause. The sight of Mrs. Hazleton's carriage arriving
confirmed her in this intention. She knew that fair lady to possess
very great influence over her mother's mind. She believed that
influence to have been always exerted balefully, and she judged it
better, much better, to cut it short at once, rather than suffer it to
endure even for another day.
When she saw the carriage drive away, then, she returned rapidly to
the house, went to her room to get Marlow's letter, and then proceeded
to her mother's chamber.
"Mrs. Hazleton has been here, my love," said Lady Hastings, as soon as
Emily approached, "and really, she has been very strange and
disagreeable. She seems, not to have the slightest consideration for
me; but even in my weak state, says every thing that can agitate and
annoy me."
"I trust, my dear mother, that you will see her no more," said Emily.
"The full proofs of what I told you concerning her. I cannot yet give;
but Marlow lays me under no injunction to secrecy, and I have brought
his letter to read you the part in which he speaks of her. That will
show you quite enough to convince you that Mrs. Hazleton should never
be permitted within these doors again."
"Oh read it, pray read it, my dear," said Lady Hastings. "I am all
anxiety to know the facts; for really one does not know how to behave
to this woman, and I feel in a very awkward position towards her."
Emily sat down by the bedside and read, word for word, all that Marlow
had written in reference to Mrs. Hazleton, which was interspersed,
here and there, with many kindly and respectful expressions towards
Lady Hastings and her husband, which he knew well would be gratifying
to her whom he addressed. His statements were all clear and precise,
and from them Lady Hastings learned he had obtained proof, from
various different sources, that her seeming friend had knowingly and
willingly supplied John Ayliffe with the means of carrying on his
fraudulent suit against Sir Philip Hastings: that she had been his
counsel and cooperator in all his proceedings, and had suggested many
of the most criminal steps he had taken. The last passage which Emily
read was remarkable: "To see into the dark abyss of that woman's
heart, my dearest Emily," he said, "is more than I can pretend to do;
but it is perfectly clear that she has been moved in all her
proceedings for some years, by bitter personal hatred towards Sir
Philip, Lady Hastings, and yourself. Mere self-interest--to which she
is by no means insensible on ordinary occasions--has been sacrificed
to the gratification of malice, and she has even gone so far as to
place herself in a situation of considerable peril for the purpose of
ruining your excellent father, and making your mother and yourself
unhappy. What offence has been committed by any of your family to
merit such persevering and ruthless hatred, I cannot tell. I only know
that it must have been unintentional; but that it has not been the
less bitterly revenged. Perhaps the disclosures which must be made as
soon as I return, may give us some insight into the cause; but at
present I can only tell you the result."
"My dear Emily," said Lady Hastings, "your father should know this
immediately. He has been very sad and gloomy since his return. I
really cannot tell what is the matter with him; but something weighs
upon his spirits, evidently; but this news will give him relief, or,
at all events, will divert his thoughts. It was very natural, my dear
girl, that you should first tell your mother, but I really think that
we must now take him into our councils."
"I will go and ask him to come here, at once," said Emily. "I think my
dear father has not understood me rightly lately, and has chilled me
by cold looks and words when I would fain have spoken to him, and
poured my whole thoughts into his bosom. Oh, I shall be glad to do any
thing to regain his confidence; and although I know it must be
regained in a very, very short space of time, yet I would gladly do
any thing to prevent its being withheld from me even a moment longer."
She took a step towards the door as she spoke; but Lady Hastings;
unhappily, called her back. "Stay, my Emily," she said. "Come hither,
my dear child; I have something to say that will cheer you and comfort
you, and give you strength to meet any little crosses of your father's
with patience and resignation. He has been sorely tried, and is much
troubled. But I was going to say, dear Emily," and she threw her arms
round her daughter's neck as she leaned over her, "that I have been
thinking much of all that was said the other day, in regard to your
marriage with Marlow. I see that your heart is set upon it, and that
you can only be happy in a union with him. I know him to be a good and
excellent young man; and after all that he has done to serve us, I
must not interpose your wishes any longer; although, perhaps, I might
have chosen differently for you had the choice rested with me. I give
you, therefore, my full and free consent, Emily, and trust you will be
as happy as you deserve, my dear girl. I think you might very well
have made a higher alliance, but----"
"But none that would have made me half so happy," replied Emily,
embracing her mother. "Oh, dear mother, if you could know the load you
take from my heart, you would be amply repaid for any sacrifice of
opinion you make to your child's happiness. I cannot conceive any
situation more painful to be placed in than a conflict between two
duties. My positive promise to Marlow, my obedience to you, are now
reconciled, and I thank you a thousand thousand times for having thus
relieved me from so terrible a struggle."
The tears rose in her eyes as she spoke, and Lady Hastings made her
sit down by her bedside, saying--"Nay, my dear child, do not suffer
yourself to be so much agitated. I did not know till the other day,"
she said, feeling some self-reproach at having been brought to play
the part she had acted lately, "I did not know till the other day that
you were really so much in love, my Emily. But I have known what such
feelings are, and can sympathize with you. Indeed I should have
yielded long ago if it had not been for the persuasions of that horrid
Mrs. Hazleton. She always stood in the way of every thing I wanted to
do, and would not even let me know the truth about your real
feelings--pretending all the time to be my friend too!"
"She has been a friend to none of us, I fear," replied Emily, "and to
me especially an enemy; although I cannot at all tell what I ever did
to merit such pertinacious hatred as she seems to feel towards me."
"Do you know, my child," said Lady Hastings, with a meaning smile, "I
have been sometimes inclined to think that she wished to marry Marlow
herself?"
Emily started and looked aghast, and then that delicate feeling, that
sensitiveness for the dignity of woman's nature, which none, I
suspect, but woman's heart can clearly comprehend, caused her cheek to
glow like a rose with shame at the very thought of a woman loving
unloved, and seeking unsought. She felt, however, at once, that there
might be--that there probably was--much truth in what her mother said,
that she had touched the true point, and had discovered one at least
of the causes of Mrs. Hazleton's strange conduct. Nevertheless, she
answered, "Oh, dear mother, I hope it is not so. Sure I am that Marlow
would never trifle with any woman's love, and I cannot think that Mrs.
Hazleton would so degrade herself as even to dream of a man who never
dreamt of her; besides, she is old enough to be his mother."
"Not quite, my child, not quite," replied Lady Hastings. "She is, I
believe, younger than I am; and though old enough to be your mother,
Emily, I could not have been Marlow's, unless I had married at ten
years old. Besides, she is very beautiful, and she knows it, and may
have thought that such beauty as hers, and her great wealth, might
well make up for a small difference of years."
"Perhaps you are right," replied Emily, thoughtfully, as many a
circumstance flashed upon her memory, which had seemed, to her dark
and mysterious in times past; but to which the cause suggested by her
mother seemed now to afford a key. "But if it was me, only, she
hated," added Emily, "why should she so persecute my father and
yourself?"
"Perhaps," replied Lady Hastings, speaking with a clear-sighted wisdom
which she seldom evinced, "perhaps because she knew that the most
terrible blows are those which are aimed at us through those we love.
Besides, one cannot tell what offence your father may have given. He
is very plain spoken, and not accustomed to deal very tenderly. Now
Mrs. Hazleton is not well pleased to hear plain truths, nor to bear
with patience any sharpness or abruptness of manner. Moreover, my
child, I have heard that it was old Sir John Hastings' wish, when we
were all young and free, that your father should marry Mrs. Hazleton.
But he preferred another, perhaps less worthy of him in every
respect."
"Oh, no, no." cried Emily, with eager affection. "More worthy of him a
thousand times in all ways. More good--more kind--more beautiful."
"Nay, nay, flatterer," said Lady Hastings, with a smile. "I was well
enough to look at once, Emily, and more to his taste. That is enough.
My glass tells me clearly that I cannot compete with Mrs. Hazleton
now. But it is growing dark, my dear, I must have lights."
"I will ring for them, and then go and seek my father," replied Emily.
She rang, and the maid appeared from the anteroom, just as Lady
Hastings was saying that it was time to take her medicine. Emily took
up the vial and the spoon, poured out the quantity prescribed, with a
steady hand, very unlike that with which Mrs. Hazleton had held the
same bottle an hour before, and having put the dose into a wine-glass,
handed it to her mother.
"Bring lights," said Lady Hastings, addressing her maid; and the
moment after, she raised the glass to her lips, and drank the
contents.
"It tastes very odd, Emily," she said, "I think it must be spoiled by
the heat of the room."
"Indeed," said Emily. "That is very strange. The last vial kept quite
well. But Mr. Short will be here to-night, and we will make him send
some more."
She paused for a moment or two, and then added, "Now, shall I go for my
father?"
"No," said Lady Hastings, somewhat faintly; "wait till the girl comes
back with the lights."
She was silent for a few moments, and then raised herself suddenly on
her arm, saying in a tone of great alarm, "Emily, Emily! I feel very
ill.--Good God, I feel very ill!"
Emily sprang to her side and threw her arm round her; but the next
instant Lady Hastings uttered a fearful scream, like the cry of a
sea-bird, and her head fell back upon her daughter's arm.
Emily rang the bell violently: ran to the door and shrieked loudly for
aid; for she saw too well that her mother was dying.
The maid, several of the other servants, and Sir Philip Hastings
himself, rushed into the room. Lights were brought: Mr. Short was sent
for; but ere the servant had well passed the gates, Lady Hastings,
after a few convulsive sobs, had yielded up her spirit.