Mrs. Warmington became a person of some importance with the people of
Hartwell. All thoughts were turned towards her house. Everybody wished
they could get in and see and hear more; for the news had spread
rapidly and wide, colored and distorted; but yet falling far short of
the whole terrible truth. When Mr. Short himself arrived in town, he
found three other magistrates had already assembled, and that Mr.
Atkinson and Sir Philip Hastings' groom, John, were already giving
them some desultory and informal information as to the apprehension of
Mrs. Hazleton and its causes. The first consideration after his
appearance amongst them, was what was to be done with the prisoner;
for one of the justices--a gentleman of old family in the county, who
had not much liked the appointment of the surgeon to the bench, and
had generally found motives for differing in opinion with him ever
since--objected to leaving Mrs. Hazleton, even for the night, in any
other place than the common jail. The more merciful opinion of the
majority, however, prevailed. Atkinson gave every assurance that the
constable whom he had placed in charge of the lady was perfectly to be
depended upon, and that the room in which she was locked up, was too
high to admit the possibility of escape. Thus it was determined that
Mrs. Hazleton should be left where she was for the night, and brought
before the magistrates for examination at an early hour on the
following morning.
Even after this decision was come to, however, the conversation or
consultation, if it may be so called, was prolonged for some time in a
gossiping, idle sort of way. Gentlemen sat upon the edge of the table
with their hats on, or leaned against the mantelpiece, beating their
boots with their riding-whips, and some marvelled, and some inquired,
and some expounded the law with the dignity and confidence, if not
with the sagacity and learning of a Judge. They were still engaged in
this discussion when the news of Emily's death was brought to
Hartwell, and produced a painful and terrible sensation in the breasts
of the lightest and most careless of those present. The man who
conveyed the intelligence brought also a summons to Mr. Short to
return immediately to Sir Philip Hastings, and only waiting to get a
fresh horse, the surgeon set out upon his return with a very sad and
sorrowful heart. He would not disturb Mr. Marlow; though he was
informed that he was in the library; but he remained with Sir Philip
Hastings himself during the greater part of the night, and only set
out for his own house to take a little repose before the meeting of
the magistrates, some quarter of an hour before the first dawn of day.
Full of painful thoughts he rode on at a quick pace, till the yellow
and russet hues of the morning began to appear in the east. He then
slackened his pace a little, and naturally, as he approached the house
of Mrs. Warmington, he raised his eye towards the windows of the room
in which he knew that the beautiful demon, who had produced so much
misery to others and herself, had been imprisoned.
Mr. Short was riding on but suddenly a sound met his ear, and as his
eyes ran down the building from the windows above, to a small plot of
grass which the lady of the house called the lawn, he drew up his
horse, and rode sharply up to the gate.
But it is time now to turn to Mrs. Hazleton. Lodged in the upper
chamber which had been decided upon as the one fittest for their
purpose, by Mr. Atkinson and the rest, with the constable from
Hartwell domiciled in the anteroom, and the door between locked, Mrs.
Hazleton gave herself up to despair; for her state of mind well
deserved that name, although her feelings were very different from
those which are commonly designated by that name. Surely to feel that
every earthly hope has passed away--to see that further struggle for
any object of desire is vain--to know that the struggles which have
already taken place have been fruitless--to feel that their objects
have been base, unworthy, criminal--to perceive no gleam of light on
either side of the tomb--to have the present a wilderness, the future
an abyss, the past and its memories a hell--surely this is despair! It
matters not with what firmness, or what fierceness it may be borne: it
matters not what fiery passions, what sturdy resolutions, what weak
regrets, what agonizing fears, mingle with the state. This is despair!
and such was the feeling of Mrs. Hazleton. She saw vast opportunities,
a splendid position in society, wealth, beauty, wit, mind,
accomplishments, all thrown away, and for the gratification of base
passions exchanged for disgrace, and crime, and a horrible death. It
was a bad bargain; but she felt she had played her whole for revenge
and had lost; and she abode the issue resolutely.
All these advantages which I have enumerated, and many more, Mrs.
Hazleton had possessed; but she wanted two things which are absolutely
necessary to human happiness and human virtue--heart and principle.
The one she never could have obtained; for by nature she was
heartless. The other might have been bestowed upon her by her parents.
But they had failed to do so; for their own proper principles had been
too scanty for them to bestow any on their daughter. Yet, strange to
say, the lack of heart somewhat mitigated the intensity of the lady's
sufferings now. She felt not her situation as bitterly as other
persons with a greater portion of sensibility would inevitably have
done. She had so trained herself to resist all small emotions, that
they had in reality become obliterated. Fiery passions she could feel;
for the earthquake rends the granite which the chisel will not touch,
and these affected her now as much as ever.
At that very moment, as she sat there, with her head resting on her
hand, what is the meaning of that stern, knitted brow, that fixed,
steadfast gaze forward, that tight compression of the lips and teeth
At that moment Nero's wish was in the bosom of Mrs. Hazleton. Could
she have slaughtered half the human race to blot out all evidence of
her crimes, and to escape the grinning shame which she knew awaited
her, she would have done it without remorse. Other feelings, too, were
present. A sense of anger at herself for having suffered herself to be
in the slightest degree moved or agitated by any thing that had
occurred; a determined effort, too, was there--I will not call it a
struggle--to regain entire command of herself--to be as calm, as
graceful, as self-possessed, as dignified as when in high prosperity
with unsullied fame. It might be, in a certain sense, playing a part,
and doubtless the celebrated Madame Tiquet did the same; but she was
playing a part for her own eyes, as well as those of others. She
resolved to be firm, and she was firm. "Death," she said, "is before
me: for that I am prepared. It cannot agitate a nerve, or make a limb
shake. All other evils are trifles compared with this. Why then should
I suffer them to affect me in the least? No, no, they shall not see me
quail!"
After she had thus thought for some two hours, gaining more and more
self-command every moment, as she turned and re-turned all the points
of her situation in her own mind, and viewed them in every different
aspect, she rose to retire to rest, lay down, and tried to sleep. At
first importunate thought troubled her. The same kind of ideas went
on--the same reasonings upon them--and slumber for more than one hour
would not visit her eyelids. But she was a very resolute woman, and at
length she determined that she would not think: she would banish
thought altogether; she would not let the mind rest for one moment
upon any subject whatsoever; and she succeeded. The absence of thought
is sleep; and she slept; but resolution ended where sleep begun, and
the images she had banished waking, returned to the mind in slumber.
Her rest was troubled. Growing fancies seemed to come thick upon her
mind; though the eyes remained closed, the features were agitated; the
lips moved. Sometimes she laughed; sometimes she moaned piteously;
sometimes tears found their way through her closed eyelids; and sobs
struggled in her bosom.
At length, between three and four o'clock in the morning, Mrs.
Hazleton rose up in bed. She opened her eyes, too; but there was a
dull glassy look about them--a fixed leaden stare, not natural to her
waking hours. Slowly she got out of bed, approached the table, took up
a candle which she had left burning there, and which was now nearly
down to the socket, and walked straight to the door, saying aloud,
"Very dark--very dark--every thing is dark."
She tried the door, but found it locked; and the constable slept on.
She then returned to the table, seated herself, and for some five or
ten minutes continued to twist her long hair round her fingers. She
then rose again, and went straight to the window, threw it up, and
seemed to look out. "Chilly--chilly," she said. "I most walk to warm
myself."
The sill of the window was somewhat high, but that was no obstacle;
for there was a chair near, and Mrs. Hazleton placed it for herself
with as much care as if she had been wide awake. When this was done
she stepped lightly upon it, and put her knee upon the window-sill,
raised herself suddenly upright, and struck her head sharply against
the upper part of the window. It is probable that the blow woke her,
but at all events it destroyed her balance, and she fell forward at
once out of the window.
There was a loud shriek, and then a deep groan. But the constable
slept on, and no one knew the fate that had befallen her 'till Mr.
Short, the surgeon, passing the house, was attracted to the spot where
she had fallen, by a moan, and the sight of a white object lying
beneath the window.
A loud ringing of the bell, and knocking at the door, soon roused the
inhabitants of the house, and the mangled form of Mrs. Hazleton was
carried in and stretched upon a bed. She was not dead; and although
almost every bone was broken, except the skull, and the terrible
injuries she had received precluded all possibility of recovery, she
regained her senses before three o'clock of the same day, and
continued to linger for somewhat more than a fortnight in agonies both
of mind and body, too terrible to be described. With the rapid, though
gradual weakening of the corporeal frame, the powers of the mind
became enfeebled--the vigorous resolution failed--the self-command
abandoned her. Half an hour's death she could have borne with stoical
firmness, but a fortnight's was too much. The thoughts she could shut
out in vigorous health, forced themselves upon her as she lay there
like a crushed worm, and the tortures of hell got hold upon her, long
before the spirit departed. Yet a sparkle of the old spirit showed
itself even to her last hour. That she was conscious of an eternity,
that she was convinced of after judgment, of the reward of good, and
of the punishment of evil, that she believed in a God, a hell, a
heaven, there can be no doubt--indeed her words more than once implied
it--and the anguish of mind under which she seemed to writhe proved
it. But yet, she refused all religious consolation; expressed no
penitence: no sorrow for what she had done, and scoffed at the surgeon
when he hinted that repentance might avail her even then. It seemed
that, as with the earthly future, she had made up her mind at once,
when first detected, to meet her fate boldly; so with the judgment of
the immortal future, she was resolute to encounter it unbending. When
urged, nearly at her last hour, to show some repentance, she replied,
in the weak and faltering voice of death, but in as determined a tone
as ever, "It is all trash. An hour's repentance could do no good even
if I could repent. But I do not. Nobody does repent. They regret their
failure, are terrified by their punishment; but they and I would do
exactly the same again if we hoped for success and impunity. Talk to
me no more of it. I do not wish to think of hell till it has hold upon
me, if that should ever be."
She said no more from that moment forward, and in about an hour after,
her spirit went to meet the fate she had so boldly dared.
But few persons remain to be noticed in this concluding chapter, and
with regard to their after history, the imagination of the reader
might perhaps be left to deal, without further information. A few
words, however, may be said, merely to give a clue to their after
fate.
The prosecution of Mr. Shanks, the attorney, was carried on but
languidly, and it is certain that he was not convicted of the higher
offence of forgery. On some charge, however, it would seem he was
sentenced to two years' imprisonment, and the last that is heard of
him, shows him blacking shoes at the inn in Carrington, then a very
old man, in the reign of George the First.
Sir Philip Hastings never recovered his senses, not did he seem to
have any recollection of the horrible events with which his earthly
history may be said to have closed; but his life was not far extended.
For about six months he continued in the same lamentable state in
which we have last depicted him, sometimes singing, sometimes
laughing, and sometimes absorbed in deep melancholy. At the end of
that period, another paralytic stroke left him in a state of complete
fatuity, from which, in two years, he was relieved by death.
If the reader will look into the annals of the reign of Queen Anne, he
will find frequent mention in the campaigns of Marlborough and Eugene,
of a Major, a Colonel, and a General Marlow. They were all the same
person; and they will find that officer often reported as severely
wounded. I cannot trace his history much farther; but the genealogies
of those times show, that in 1712, one Earl of Launceston died at the
age of eighty-seven, and was succeeded by the eighth Earl, who only
survived three years, and the title with him became extinct, as it is
particularly marked that he died unmarried. As this last of the race
is distinguished by the title of Lieutenant-General, the Earl of
Launceston, there can be no doubt that this was the lover and promised
husband of poor Emily Hastings.
It is a sad tale, and rarely perhaps has any such tragedy darkened the
page of domestic history in England. A whole family were swept away,
and most of those connected with them, in a very short space of time;
but it is not the number of deaths within that period that gives its
gloominess to the page--for every domestic history is little but a
record of deaths--but the circumstances. Youth, beauty, virtue,
gentleness, kindness, honor, integrity, punctilious rectitude: reason,
energy, wisdom, sometimes, nay often, have no effect as a screen from
misfortune, sorrow, and death. Were this world all, what a frightful
chaos would human life be. But the very sorrows and adversities of the
good, prove that there is a life beyond, where all will be made even.
THE END.