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The Man in Black: An Historical Novel of the Days of Queen Anne

by G. P. R. James · English · Gutenberg #51174 · 857,129 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Man in Black: An Historical Novel of the Days of Queen Anne

Author: G. P. R. James


        
Release date: February 11, 2016 [eBook #51174]
                Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MAN IN BLACK: AN HISTORICAL NOVEL OF THE DAYS OF QUEEN ANNE ***

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      (University of Minnesota)
   2. The diphthong oe is represented by [oe].


THE MAN IN BLACK.

AN

Historical Novel of the Days of Queen Anne.

BY

----------------------------------------------------------------------
G. P. R. JAMES, ESQ.

AUTHOR OF "LORD MONTAGU'S PAGE," "THE CAVALIER," "ARRAN NEIL," "EVA
ST. CLAIR," "MARY OF BURGUNDY," "PHILIP AUGUSTUS," ETC., ETC.
----------------------------------------------------------------------

-----------------------
COMPLETE IN ONE VOLUME.
-----------------------



Philadelphia:
T. B. PETERSON AND BROTHERS,
306 CHESTNUT STREET.





----------------------------------------------------------------------
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1860, by

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS,

In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States, to
and for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania.
----------------------------------------------------------------------






THE MAN IN BLACK.




CHAPTER I.


Let me take you into an old-fashioned country house, built by
architects of the early reign of James the First. It had all the
peculiarities--I might almost say the oddities--of that particular
epoch in the building art. Chimneys innumerable had it. Heaven only
knows what rooms they ventilated; but their name must have been
legion. The windows were not fewer in number, and much more irregular:
for the chimneys were gathered together in some sort of symmetrical
arrangement, while the windows were scattered all over the various
faces of the building, with no apparent arrangement at all. Heaven
knows, also, what rooms they lighted, or were intended to light, for
they very little served the purpose, being narrow, and obstructed by
the stone mullions of the Elizabethan age. Each, too, had its label of
stone superincumbent, and projecting from the brick-work, which might
leave the period of construction somewhat doubtful--but the gables
decided the fact.

They, too, were manifold; for although the house had been built all at
once, it seemed, nevertheless, to have been erected in detached
masses, and joined together as best the builder could; so that there
were no less than six gables, turning north, south, east, and west,
with four right angles, and flat walls between them. These gables were
surmounted--topped, as it were, by a triangular wall, somewhat higher
than the acute roof, and this wall was constructed with a row of
steps, coped with freestone, on either side of the ascent, as if the
architect had fancied that some man or statue would, one day or
another, have to climb up to the top of the pyramid, and take his
place upon the crowning stone.

It was a gloomy old edifice: the bricks had become discolored; the
livery of age, yellow and gray lichen, was upon it; daws hovered round
the chimney tops; rooks passed cawing over it, on the way to their
conventicle hard by; no swallow built under the eaves; and the trees,
as if repelled by its stern, cold aspect, retreated from it on three
sides, leaving it alone on its own flat ground, like a moody man
amidst a gay society. On the fourth side, indeed, an avenue--that is
to say, two rows of old elms--crept cautiously up to it in a winding
and sinuous course, as if afraid of approaching too rapidly; and at
the distance of some five or six hundred yards, clumps of old trees,
beeches, and ever-green oaks, and things of sombre foliage, dotted the
park, only enlivened by here and there a herd of deer.

Now and then, a milk-maid, a country woman going to church or market,
a peasant, or at game-keeper, might be seen traversing the dry brown
expanse of grass, and but rarely deviating from a beaten path, which
led from one stile over the path wall to another. It was all sombre
and monotonous: the very spirit of dulness seemed to hang over it; and
the clouds themselves--the rapid sportive clouds, free denizens of the
sky, and playmates of the wind and sunbeam--appeared to grow dull and
tardy, as they passed across the wide space open to the view, and to
proceed with awe and gravity, like timid youth in the presence of
stern old age.

Enough of the outside of the house. Let me take you into the interior,
reader, and into one particular room--not the largest and the finest;
but one of the highest. It was a little oblong chamber, with one
window, which was ornamented--the only ornament the chamber had--with
a decent curtain of red and white checked linen. On the side next the
door, and between it and the western wall, was a small bed. A
walnut-tree table and two or three chairs were near the window. In one
corner stood a washing-stand, not very tidily arranged, in another
chest of drawers; and opposite the fire-place, hung from nails driven
into the wall, two or three shelves of the same material as the table,
each supporting a row of books, which, by the dark black covers, brown
edges, and thumbed corners, seemed to have a right to boast of some
antiquity and much use.

At the table, as you perceive, there is seated a boy of some fifteen
years of age, with pen and ink and paper, and an open book. If you
look over his shoulder, you will perceive that the words are Latin.
Yet he reads it with ease and facility, and seeks no aid from the
dictionary. It is the "Cato Major" of Cicero. Heaven! what a book for
a child like that to read! Boyhood studying old age!

But let us turn from the book, and examine the lad himself more
closely. See that pale face, with a manlike unnatural gravity upon it.
Look at that high broad brow, towering as a monument above the eyes.
Remark those eyes themselves, with their deep eager thought; and then
the gleam in them--something more than earnestness, and less than
wildness--a thirsty sort of expression, as if they drank in that they
rested on, and yet were unsated.

The brow rests upon the pale fair hand, as if requiring something to
support the heavy weight of thoughts with which the brain is burdened.
He marks nothing but the lines of that old book. His whole soul is in
the eloquent words. He hears not the door open; he sees not that tall,
venerable, but somewhat stiff and gaunt figure, enter and approach
him. He reads on, till the old man's Geneva cloak brushes his arm, and
his hand is upon his shoulder. Then he starts up--looks around--but
says nothing. A faint smile, pleasant yet grave, crosses his finely
cut lip; but that is the only welcome, as he raises his eyes to the
face that bends over him. Can that boy in years be already aged in
heart?

It is clear that the old man--the old clergyman, for so he evidently
is--has no very tender nature. Every line of his face forbids the
supposition. The expression itself is grave, not to say stern. There
is powerful thought about it, but small gentleness. He seems one of
those who have been tried and hardened in some one of the many fiery
furnaces which the world provides for the test of men of strong minds
and strong hearts. There has been much persecution in the land; there
have been changes, from the rigid and severe to the light and
frivolous--from the light and frivolous to the bitter and cruel. There
have been tyrants of all shapes and all characters within the last
forty years, and fools, and knaves, and madmen, to cry them on in
every course of evil. In all these chances and changes, what fixed and
rigid mind could escape the fangs of persecution and wrong? He had
known both; but they had changed him little. His was originally an
unbending spirit: it grew more tough and stubborn by the habit of
resistance; but its original bent was still the same.

Fortune--heaven's will--or his own inclination, had denied him wife or
child; and near relation he had none. A friend he had: that boy's
father, who had sheltered him in evil times, protected him as far as
possible against the rage of enemies, and bestowed upon him the small
living which afforded him support. He did his duty therein
conscientiously, but with a firm unyielding spirit, adhering to the
Calvinistic tenets which he had early received, in spite of the
universal falling off of companions and neighbors. He would not have
yielded an iota to have saved his head.

With all his hardness, he had one object of affection, to which all
that was gentle in his nature was bent. That object wits the boy by
whom he now stood, and for whom he had a great--an almost parental
regard. Perhaps it was that he thought the lad not very well treated;
and, as such had been his own case, there was sympathy in the matter.
But besides, he had been intrusted with his education from a very
early period, had taken a pleasure in the task, had found his scholar
apt, willing, and affectionate, with a sufficient touch of his own
character in the boy to make the sympathy strong, and yet sufficient
diversity to interest and to excite.

The old man was tenderer toward him than toward any other being upon
earth; and he sometimes feared that his early injunctions to study and
perseverance were somewhat too strictly followed--even to the
detriment of health. He often looked with some anxiety at the
increasing paleness of the cheek, at the too vivid gleam of the eye,
at the eager nervous quivering of the lip, and said within himself,
"This is overdone."

He did not like to check, after he had encouraged--to draw the rein
where he had been using the spur. There is something of vanity in us
all, and the sternest is not without that share which makes man shrink
from the imputation of error, even when made by his own heart. He did
not choose to think that the lad had needed no urging forward and yet
he would fain have had him relax a little more, and strove at times to
make him do so. But the impulse had been given: it had carried the
youth over the difficulties and obstacles in the way to knowledge, and
now he went on to acquire it, with an eagerness, a thirst, that had
something fearful in it. A bent, too, had been given to his mind--nay,
to his character, partly by the stern uncompromising character of him
to whom his education had been solely intrusted, partly by his own
peculiar situation, and partly by the subjects on which his reading
had chiefly turned.

The stern old Roman of the early republic; the deeds of heroic
virtue--as virtue was understood by the Romans; the sacrifice of all
tender affections, all the sensibilities of our nature to the rigid
thought of what is right; the remorseless disregard of feelings
implanted by God, when opposed to the notion of duties of man's
creation, excited his wonder and his admiration, and would have
hardened and perverted his heart, had not that heart been naturally
full of kindlier affections. As it was, there often existed a
struggle--a sort of hypothetical struggle--in his bosom, between the
mind and the heart. He asked himself sometimes, if he could sacrifice
any of those he knew and loved--his father, his mother, his brother,
to the good of his country, to some grave duty; and he felt pained and
roused to resistance of his own affections when he perceived what a
pang it would cost him.

Yet his home was not a very happy one; the kindlier things of domestic
life had not gathered green around him. His father was varying and
uneven in temper, especially toward his second son; sometimes stern
and gloomy, sometimes irascible almost to a degree of insanity.
Generous, brave, and upright, he was; but every one said, that a wound
he had received on the head in the wars, had marvelously increased the
infirmities of his temper.

The mother, indeed, was full of tenderness and gentleness; and
doubtless it was through her veins that the milk of human kindness had
found its way into that strange boy's heart. But yet she loved her
eldest son best, and unfortunately showed it.

The brother was a wild, rash, reckless young man, some three years
older; fond of the other, yet often pleased to irritate--or at least
to try, for he seldom succeeded. He was the favorite, however,
somewhat spoiled, much indulged; and whatever was done, was done for
him. He was the person most considered in the house; his were the
parties of pleasure: his the advantages. Even now the family was
absent, in order to let him see the capital of his native land, to
open his mind to the general world, to show him life on a more
extended scale than could be done in the country; and his younger
brother was left at home, to pursue his studies in dull solitude.

Yet he did not complain; there was not even a murmur at his heart. He
thought it all quite right. His destiny was before him. He was to
form his fortune for himself, by his own abilities, his own learning,
his own exertions. It was needful he should study, and his greatest
ambition for the time was to enter with distinction at the University;
his brightest thoughts of pleasure, the comparative freedom and
independence of a collegiate life.

Not that he did not find it dull; that gloomy old house, inhabited by
none but himself and few servants. Sometimes it seemed to oppress him
with a sense of terrible loneliness; sometimes it drove him to think
of the strange difference of human destinies, and why it should be
that--because it had pleased Heaven one man should be born a little
sooner or a little later than another, or in some other place--such a
wide interval should be placed between the different degrees of
happiness and fortune.

He felt, however, that such speculations were not good; they led him
beyond his depth; he involved himself in subtilties more common in
those days than in ours; he lost his way; and with passionate
eagerness flew to his books, to drive the mists and shadows from his
mind. Such had been the case even now: and there he sat, unconscious
that a complete and total change was coming over his destiny.

Oh, the dark workshop of Fate! what strange things go on therein,
affecting human misery and joy, repairing or breaking shackles for the
mind, the means of carrying us forward in a glorious cause, the
relentless weights which hurry us down to destruction! While you sit
there and read--while I sit here and write, who can say what strange
alterations, what combinations in the must discrepant things may be
going on around--without our will, without our knowledge--to alter the
whole course of our future existence? Doubtless, could man make his
own fate, he would mar it; and the impossibility of doing so is good.
The freedom of his own actions is sufficient, nay, somewhat too much;
and it is well for the world, aye, and for himself--that there is an
overruling Providence which so shapes circumstances around him, that
he cannot go beyond his limit, flutter as he will.

There is something in that old man's face more than is common with
him--a deeper gravity even than ordinary, yet mingled with a
tenderness that is rare. There is something like hesitation,
too--ay, hesitation even in him who during a stormy life has seldom
known what it is to doubt or to deliberate: a man of strict and ready
preparation, whose fixed, clear, definite mind was always prompt and
competent to act.

"Come, Philip, my son," he said, laying his hand, as I have stated, on
the lad's shoulder, "enough of study for to-day. You read too hard.
You run before my precepts. The body must have thought as well as the
mind; and if you let the whole summer day pass without exercise, you
will soon find that under the weight of corporeal sickness the
intellect will flag and the spirit droop. I am going for a walk. Come
with me; and we will converse of high things by the way."

"Study is my task and my duty, sir." replied the boy; "my father tells
me so, you have told me so often, and as for health I fear not. I seem
refreshed when I get up from reading, especially such books as this.
It is only when I have been out long, riding or walking, that I feel
tired."

"A proof that you should ride and walk the more," replied the old man.
"Come, put on your hat and cloak. You shall read no more to-day. There
are other thoughts before you; you know, Philip," he continued, "that
by reading we get but materials, which we must use to build up an
edifice in our own minds. If all our thoughts are derived from others
gone before us, we are but robbers of the dead, and live upon labors
not our own."

"Elder sons," replied the boy, with a laugh, "who take an inheritance
for which they toiled not."

"Something worse than that," replied the clergyman, "for we gather
what we do not employ rightly--what we have every right to possess,
but upon the sole condition of using well. Each man possessed of
intellect is bound to make his own mind, not to have it made for him;
to adapt it to the times and circumstances in which he lives, squaring
it by just rules, and employing the best materials he can find."

"Well, sir, I am ready," replied the youth, after a moment of deep
thought; and he and his old preceptor issued forth together down the
long staircase, with the slant sunshine pouring through the windows
upon the unequal steps, and illuminating the motes in the thick
atmosphere we breathe, like fancy brightening the idle floating things
which surround us in this world of vanity.

They walked across the park toward the stile. The youth was silent,
for the old man's last words seemed to have awakened a train of
thought altogether new.

His companion was silent also; for there was something working within
him which embarrassed and distressed him. He had something to tell
that young man, and he knew not how to tell it. For the first time in
his life he perceived, from the difficulty he experienced in deciding
upon his course, how little he really knew of his pupil's character.
He had dealt much with his mind, and that he comprehended well--its
depth, its clearness, its powers; but his heart and disposition he had
not scanned so accurately. He had a surmise, indeed, that there were
feelings strong and intense within; but he thought that the mind ruled
them with habitual sway that nothing could shake. Yet he paused and
pondered; and once he stopped, as if about to speak, but went on again
and said nothing.

At length, as they approached the park wall, he laid his finger on his
temple, muttering to himself, "Yes, the quicker the better. 'Tis well
to mingle two passions. Surprise will share with grief--if much grief
there be." Then turning to the young man, he said, "Philip, I think
you loved your brother Arthur?"

He spoke loudly, and in plain distinct tones; but the lad did not seem
to remark the past tense he used. "Certainly, sir," he said, "I love
him dearly. What of that?"

"Then you will be very happy to hear," replied the old man, "that he
had been singularly fortunate--I mean that he has been removed from
earth and all its allurements--the vanities, the sins, the follies of
the world in which he seemed destined to move, before he could be
corrupted by its evils, or his spirit receive a taint from its vices."

The young man turned and gazed on him with inquiring eyes, as if still
he did not comprehend what he meant.

"He was drowned," said the clergyman, "on Saturday last, while sailing
with a party of pleasure on the Thames;" and Philip fell at his feet
as senseless as if he had shot him.




CHAPTER II.


I must not dwell long upon the youthful scenes of the lad I have just
introduced to the reader; but as it is absolutely needful that his
peculiar character should be clearly understood, I must suffer it to
display itself a little farther before I step from his boyhood to his
maturity.

We left Philip Hastings senseless upon the ground, at the feet of his
old preceptor, struck down by the sudden intelligence he had received,
without warning or preparation.

The old man was immeasurably shocked at what he had done, and he
reproached himself bitterly; but he had been a man of action all his
life, who never suffered thought, whether pleasant or painful, to
impede him. He could think while he acted, and as he was a strong man
too, he had no great difficulty in taking the slight, pale youth up in
his arms, and carrying him over the park stile, which was close at
hand, as the reader may remember. He had made up his mind at once to
bear his young charge to a small cottage belonging to a laborer on the
other side of the road which ran under the park wall; but on reaching
it, he found that the whole family were out walking in the fields, and
both doors and windows were closed.

This was a great disappointment to him, although there was a very
handsome house, in modern taste, not two hundred yards off. But there
were circumstances which made him unwilling to bear the son of Sir
John Hastings to the dwelling of his next neighbor. Next neighbors are
not always friends; and even the clergyman of the parish may have his
likings and dislikings.

Colonel Marshal and Sir John Hastings were political opponents. The
latter was of the Calvinistic branch of the Church of England--not
absolutely a non-juror, but suspected even of having, a tendency that
way. He was sturdy and stiff in his political opinions, too, and had
but small consideration for the conscientious views and sincere
opinions of others. To say the truth, he was but little inclined to
believe that any one who differed from him had conscientious views or
sincere opinions at all; and certainly the demeanor, if not the
conduct, of the worthy Colonel did not betoken any fixed notion or
strong principles. He was a man of the Court--gay, lively, even witty,
making a jest of most things, however grave and worthy of reverence.
He played high, generally won, was shrewd, complaisant, and particular
in his deference to kings and prime ministers. Moreover, he was of the
very highest of the High Church party--so high, indeed, that those who
belonged to the Low Church party, fancied he must soon topple over
into Catholicism.

In truth, I believe, had the heart of the Colonel been very strictly
examined, it would have been found very empty of anything like real
religion. But then the king was a Roman Catholic, and it was pleasant
to be as near him as possible.

It may be asked, why then did not the Colonel go the same length as
his Majesty? The answer is very simple. Colonel Marshal was a shrewd
observer of the signs of the times. At the card table, after the three
first cards were played, he could tell where every other card in the
pack was placed. Now in politics he was nearly as discerning; and he
perceived that, although King James had a great number of honors in
his hand, he did not hold the trumps, and would eventually lose the
game. Had it been otherwise, there is no saying what sort of religion
he might have adopted. There is no reason to think that
Transubstantiation would have stood in the way at all; and as for the
Council of Trent, he would have swallowed it like a roll for his
breakfast.

For this man, then, Sir John Hastings had both a thorough hatred and a
profound contempt, and he extended the same sensations to every member
of the family. In the estimation of the worthy old clergyman the
Colonel did not stand much higher; but he was more liberal toward the
Colonel's family. Lady Annabelle Marshal, his wife, was, when in the
country, a very regular attendant at his church. She had been
exceedingly beautiful, was still handsome, and she had, moreover, a
sweet, saint-like, placid expression, not untouched by melancholy,
which was very winning, even in an old man's eyes. She was known, too,
to have made a very good wife to a not very good husband; and, to say
the truth, Dr. Paulding both pitied and esteemed her. He went but
little to the house, indeed, for Colonel Marshal was odious to him;
and the Colonel returned the compliment by never going to the church.

Such were the reasons which rendered the thought of carrying young
Philip Hastings up to The Court--as Colonel Marshal's house was
called--anything but agreeable to the good clergyman. But then, what
could he do? He looked in the boy's face. It was like that of a
corpse. Not a sign of returning animation showed itself. He had heard
of persons dying under such sudden affections of the mind; and so
still, so death-like, was the form and countenance before him, as he
laid the lad down for a moment on the bench at the cottage door, that
his heart misgave him, and a trembling feeling of dread came over his
old frame. He hesitated no longer, but after a moment's pause to gain
breath, caught young Hastings up in his arms again, and hurried away
with him toward Colonel Marshal's house.

I have said that is was a modern mansion; that is to imply, that it
was modern in that day. Heaven only knows what has become of it now;
but Louis Quatorze, though he had no hand in the building of it, had
many of its sins to answer for--and the rest belonged to Mansard. It
was the strangest possible contrast to the old-fashioned country seat
of Sir John Hastings, who had his joke at it, and at the owner
too--for he, too, could jest in a bitter way--and he used to say that
he wondered his neighbor had not added his own name to the building,
to distinguish it from all other courts; and then it would have been
Court Marshal. Many were the windows of the house; many the ornaments;
pilasters running up between the casements, with sunken panels,
covered over with quaint wreaths of flowers, as if each had an
embroidered waistcoat on; and a large flight of steps running down
from the great doorway, decorated with Cupids and cornucopias running
over with this most indigestible kind of stone-fruit.

The path from the gates up to the house was well graveled, and ran in
and out amongst sundry parterres, and basins of water, with the
Tritons, &c., of the age, all spouting away as hard as a large
reservoir on the top of the neighboring slope could make them. But for
serviceable purposes these basins were vain, as the water was never
suffered to rise nearly to the brim; and good Dr. Paulding gazed on
them without hope, as he passed on toward the broad flight of steps.

There, however, he found something of a more comfortable aspect. The
path he had been obliged to take had one convenience to the dwellers
in the mansion. Every window in that side of the house commanded a
view of it, and the Doctor and his burden were seen by one pair of
eyes at least.

Running down the steps without any of the frightful appendages of the
day upon her head, but her own bright beautiful hair curling wild like
the tendrils of a vine, came a lovely girl of fourteen or fifteen,
just past the ugly age, and blushing in the spring of womanhood. There
was eagerness and some alarm in her face: for the air and haste of the
worthy clergyman, as well as the form he carried in his arms, spoke as
plainly as words could have done that some accident had happened; and
she called to him, at some distance, to ask what was the matter.

"Matter, child! matter!" cried the clergyman, "I believe I have half
killed this poor boy."

"Killed him!" exclaimed the girl, with a look of doubt as well as
surprise.

"Ay, Mistress Rachael," replied the old man, "killed him by unkindly
and rashly telling him of his brother's death, without preparation."

"You intended it for kind, I am sure," murmured the girl in a sweet
low tone, coming down the steps, and gazing on his pale face, while
the clergyman carried the lad up the steps.

"There, Miss Marshal, do not stay staring," said Dr. Paulding; "but
pray call some of the lackeys, and bid them bring water or hartshorn,
or something. Your lady-mother must have some essences to bring
folks out of swoons. There is nothing but swooning at Court, I am
told--except gaming, and drinking, and profanity."

The girl was already on her way, but she looked back, saying, "My
father and mother are both out; but I will soon find help."

When the lad opened his eyes, there was something very near, which
seemed to him exceedingly beautiful--rich, warm coloring, like that of
a sunny landscape; a pair of liquid, tender eyes, deeply fringed and
full of sympathy; and the while some sunny curls of bright brown hair
played about his cheek, moved by the hay-field breath of the sweet
lips that bent close over him.

"Where am I?" he said. "What is the matter? What has happened? Ah! now
I recollect. My brother--my poor brother! Was it a dream?"

"Hush, hush!" said a musical voice. "Talk to him, sir. Talk to him,
and make him still."

"It is but too true, my dear Philip," said the old clergyman; "your
brother is lost to us. But recollect yourself, my son. It is weak to
give way in this manner. I announced your misfortune somewhat
suddenly, it is true, trusting that your philosophy was stronger than
it is--your Christian fortitude. Remember, all these dispensations are
from the hand of the most merciful God. He who gives the sunshine,
shall he not bring the clouds? Doubt not that all is merciful; and
suffer not the manifestations of His will to find you unprepared or
unsubmissive."

"I have been very weak," said the young man, "but it was so sudden!
Heaven! how full of health and strength he looked when he went away!
He was the picture of life--almost of immortality. I was but as a reed
beside him--a weak, feeble reed, beside a sapling oak."

"'One shall be taken, and the other left,'" said the sweet voice of
the young girl; and the eyes both of the youth and the old clergyman
turned suddenly upon her.

Philip Hastings raised himself upon his arm, and seemed to meditate
for a moment or two. His thoughts were confused and indistinct. He
knew not well where he was. The impression of what had happened was
vague and indefinite. As eyes which have been seared by the lightning,
his mind, which had lost the too vivid impression, now perceived
everything in mist and confusion.

"I have been very weak," he said, "too weak. It is strange. I thought
myself firmer. What is the use of thought and example, if the mind
remains thus feeble? But I am better now I will never yield thus
again;" and flinging himself off the sofa on which they had laid him,
he stood for a moment on his feet, gazing round upon the old clergyman
and that beautiful young girl, and two or three servants who had been
called to minister to him.

We all know--at least, all who have dealt with the fiery things of
life--all who have felt and suffered, and struggled and conquered, and
yielded and grieved, and triumphed in the end--we all know how
short-lived are the first conquests of mind over body, and how much
strength and experience it requires to make the victory complete. To
render the soul the despot, the tyranny must be habitual.

Philip Hastings rose, as I have said, and gazed around him. He
struggled against the shock which his mere animal nature had received,
shattered as it had been by long and intense study, and neglect of all
that contributes to corporeal power. But everything grew hazy to his
eyes again. He felt his limbs weak and powerless; even his mind
feeble, and his thoughts confused. Before he knew what was coming, he
sunk fainting on the sofa again, and when he woke from the dull sort
of trance into which he had fallen, there were other faces around him;
he was stretched quietly in bed in a strange room, a physician and a
beautiful lady of mature years were standing by his bedside, and he
felt the oppressive lassitude of fever in every nerve and in every
limb.

But we must turn to good Doctor Paulding. He went back to his rectory
discontented with himself, leaving the lad in the care of Lady
Annabelle Marshal and her family. The ordinary--as the man who carried
the letters, was frequently called in those days--was to depart in an
hour, and he knew that Sir John Hastings expected his only remaining
eon in London to attend the body of his brother down to the family
burying place. It was impossible that the lad could go, and the old
clergyman had to sit down and write an account of what had occurred.

There was nothing upon earth, or beyond the earth, which would have
induced him to tell a lie. True, his mind might be subject to such
self-deceptions as the mind of all other men. He might be induced to
find excuses to his own conscience for anything he did that was
wrong--for any mistake or error in judgment; for, willfully, he never
did what was wrong; and it was only by the results that he knew it.
But yet he was eagerly, painfully upon his guard against himself. He
knew the weakness of human nature--he had dealt with it often, and
observed it shrewdly, and applied the lesson with bitter severity to
his own heart, detecting its shrinking from candor, its hankering
after self-defense, its misty prejudices, its turnings and windings to
escape conviction; and he dealt with it as hardly as he would have
done with a spoiled child.

Calmly and deliberately he sat down to write to Sir John Hastings a
full account of what had occurred, taking more blame to himself than
was really his due. I have his feet, gazing round upon the old
clergyman called it a full account, though it occupied but one page of
paper, for the good doctor was anything but profuse of words; and
there are some men who can say much in small space. He blamed himself
greatly, anticipating reproach; but the thing which he feared the most
to communicate was the fact that the lad was left ill at the house of
Colonel Marshal, and at the house of a man so very much disliked by
Sir John Hastings.

There are some men--men of strong mind and great abilities--who go
through life learning some of its lessons, and totally neglecting
others--pre-occupied by one branch of the great study, and seeing
nothing in the course of scholarship but that. Dr. Paulding had no
conception of the change which the loss of their eldest son had
wrought in the heart of Sir John and Lady Hastings. The second--the
neglected one--had now become not only the eldest, but the only one.
His illness, painfully as it affected them, was a blessing to them. It
withdrew their thoughts from their late bereavement. It occupied their
mind with a new anxiety. It withdrew it from grief and from
disappointment. They thought little or nothing of whose house he was
at, or whose care he was under; but leaving the body of their dead
child to be brought down by slow and solemn procession to the country,
they hurried on before, to watch over the one that was left.

Sir John Hastings utterly forgot his ancient feelings toward Colonel
Marshal. He was at the house every day, and almost all day long, and
Lady Hastings was there day and night.

Wonderful how--when barriers are broken down--we see the objects
brought into proximity under a totally different point of view from
that in which we beheld them at a distance. There might be some
stiffness in the first meeting of Colonel Marshal and Sir John
Hastings, but it wore off with exceeding rapidity. The Colonel's
kindness and attention to the sick youth were marked. Lady Annabelle
devoted herself to him as to one of her own children. Rachael Marshal
made herself a mere nurse. Hard hearts could only withstand such
things. Philip was now an only child, and the parents were filled with
gratitude and affection.




CHAPTER III.


The stone which covered the vault of the Hastings family had been
raised, and light and air let into the cold, damp interior. A ray of
sunshine, streaming through the church window, found its way across
the mouldy velvet of the old coffins as they stood ranged along in
solemn order, containing the dust of many ancestors of the present
possessors of the manor. There, too, apart from the rest were the
coffins of those who had died childless; the small narrow
resting-place of childhood, where the guileless infant, the father's
and mother's joy and hope, slept its last sleep, leaving tearful eyes
and sorrowing hearts behind, with naught to comfort but the blessed
thought that by calling such from earth, God peoples heaven with
angels; the coffins, too, of those cut off in the early spring of
manhood, whom the fell mower had struck down in the flower before the
fruit was ripe. Oh, how his scythe levels the blossoming fields of
hope! There, too, lay the stern old soldier, whose life had been given
up to his country's service, and who would not spare one thought or
moment to soften domestic joys; and many another who had lived,
perhaps and loved, and passed away without receiving love's reward.

Amongst these, close at the end of the line, stood two tressels, ready
for a fresh occupant of the tomb, and the church bell tolled heavily
above, while the old sexton looked forth from the door of the church
toward the gates of the park, and the heavy clouded sky seemed to
menace rain.

"Happy the bride the sun shines upon: happy the corpse the heaven
rains upon!" said the old man to himself. But the rain did not come
down; and presently, from the spot where he stood, which overlooked
the park-wall, he saw come on in slow and solemn procession along the
great road to the gates, the funeral train of him who had been lately
heir to all the fine property around. The body had been brought from
London after the career of youth had been cut short in a moment of
giddy pleasure, and father and mother, as was then customary, with a
long line of friends, relations, and dependents, now conveyed the
remains of him once so dearly loved, to the cold grave.

Only one of all the numerous connections of the family was wanting on
this occasion, and that was the brother of the dead; but he lay slowly
recovering from the shock he had received, and every one had been told
that it was impossible for him to attend. All the rest of the family
had hastened to the hall in answer to the summons they had received,
for though Sir John Hastings was not much loved, he was much respected
and somewhat feared--at least, the deference which was paid to him, no
one well knew why, savored somewhat of dread.

It is a strange propensity in many old persons to hang about the grave
to which they are rapidly tending, when it is opened for another, and
to comment--sometimes even with a bitter pleasantry--upon an event
which must soon overtake themselves. As soon as it was known that the
funeral procession had set out from the hall door, a number of aged
people, principally women, but comprising one or two shriveled men,
tottered forth from the cottages, which lay scattered about the
church, and made their way into the churchyard, there to hold
conference upon the dead and upon the living.

"Ay, ay!" said one old woman, "he has been taken at an early time; but
he was a fine lad, and better than most of those hard people."

"Ay, Peggy would praise the devil himself if he were dead," said an
old man, leaning on a stick, "though she has never a good word for the
living. The boy is taken away from mischief, that is the truth of it.
If he had lived to come down here again, he would have broken the
heart of my niece's daughter Jane, or made a public shame of her. What
business had a gentleman's son like that to be always hanging about a
poor cottage girl, following her into the corn-fields, and luring her
out in the evenings?"

"Faith! she might have been proud enough of his notice," said an old
crone; "and I dare say she was, too, in spite of all your conceit,
Matthew. She is not so dainty as you pretend to be; and we may see
something come of it yet."

"At all events," said another, "he was better than this white-faced,
spiritless boy that is left, who is likely enough to be taken earlier
than his brother, for he looks as if breath would blow him away."

"He will live to do something yet, that will make people talk of him;"
said a woman older than any of the rest, but taller and straighter;
"there is a spirit in him, be it angel or devil, that is not for death
so soon."

"Ay! they're making a pomp of it, I warrant," said another old woman,
fixing her eyes on the high road under the park wall, upon which the
procession now entered. "Marry, there are escutcheons enough, and
coats of arms! One would think he was a lord's son, with all this to
do! But there is a curse upon the race anyhow; this man was the last
of eleven brothers, and I have heard say, his father died a bad death.
Now his eldest son must die by drowning--saved the hangman something,
perchance--we shall see what comes of the one that is left. 'Tis a
curse upon them ever since Worcester fight, when the old man, who is
dead and gone, advised to send the poor fellows who were taken, to
work as slaves in the colonies."

As she spoke, the funeral procession advanced up the road, and
approached that curious sort of gate with a penthouse over it, erected
probably to shelter the clergyman of the church while receiving the
corpse at the gate of the burial-ground, which was then universally to
be found at the entrance to all cemeteries. She broke off abruptly, as
if there was something still on her mind which she had not spoken, and
ranging themselves on each side of the church-yard path, the old men
and women formed a lane down which good Dr. Paulding speedily moved
with book in hand. The people assembled, whose numbers had been
increased by the arrival of some thirty or forty young and
middle-aged, said not a word as the clergymen marched on, but when the
body had passed up between them, and the bereaved father followed as
chief-mourner, with a fixed, stern, but tearless eye, betokening more
intense affliction perhaps, in a man of his character, than if his
cheeks had been covered with drops of womanly sorrow, several voices
were heard saying aloud. "God bless and comfort you, Sir John."

Strange, marvelously strange it was, that these words should come from
tongues, and from those alone, which had been so busily engaged in
carping censure and unfeeling sneers but the moment before. It was the
old men and women alone who had just been commenting bitterly upon the
fate, history, and character of the family, who now uttered the unfelt
expressions of sympathy in a beggar-like, whining tone. It was those
who really felt compassion who said nothing.

The coffin had been carried into the church, and the solemn rites, the
beautiful service of the Church of England, had proceeded some way,
when another person was added to the congregation who had not at first
been there. All eyes but those of the father of the dead and the lady
who sat weeping by his side, turned upon the new-comer, as with a face
as pale as death, and a faltering step, he took his place on one of
the benches somewhat remote from the rest. There was an expression of
feeble lassitude in the young man's countenance, but of strong
resolution, which overcame the weakness of the frame. He looked as if
each moment he would have fainted, but yet he sat out the whole
service of the Church, mingled with the crowd when the body was
lowered into the vault, and saw the handful of earth hurled out upon
the velvet coffin, as if in mockery of the empty pride of all the pomp
and circumstance which attended the burial of the rich and high.

No tear came into his eyes--no sob escaped from his bosom; a slight
quivering of the lip alone betrayed that there was strong agitation
within. When all was over, and the father still gazing down into the
vault, the young lad crept quietly back into a pew, covered his face
with his hand, and wept.

The last rite was over. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust were committed.
Sir John Hastings drew his wife's arm through his own, and walked with
a heavy, steadfast, and unwavering step down the aisle. Everybody drew
back respectfully as he passed; for generally, even in the hardest
hearts, true sorrow finds reverence. He had descended the steps from
the church into the burying ground, and had passed half way along the
path toward his carriage, when suddenly the tall upright old woman
whom I have mentioned thrust herself into his way, and addressed him
with a cold look and somewhat menacing tone--

"Now, Sir John Hastings," she said, "will you do me justice about that
bit of land? By your son's grave I ask it. The hand of heaven has
smitten you. It may, perhaps, have touched your heart. You know the
land is mine. It was taken from my husband by the usurper because he
fought for the king to whom he had pledged his faith. It was given to
your father because he broke his faith to his king and brought evil
days upon his country. Will you give me back the land, I say? Out man!
It is but a garden of herbs, but it is mine, and in God's sight I
claim it."

"Away out of my path," replied Sir John Hastings angrily. "Is this a
time to talk of such things? Get you gone, I say, and choose some
better hour. Do you suppose I can listen to you now?"

"You have never listened, and you never will," replied the old woman,
and suffering him to pass without further opposition, she remained
upon the path behind him muttering to herself what seemed curses
bitter and deep, but the words of which were audible only to herself.

The little crowd gathered round her, and listened eagerly to catch the
sense of what she said, but the moment after the old sexton laid his
hand upon her shoulder and pushed her from the path, saying, "Get
along with you, get along with you, Popish Beldam. What business have
you here scandalizing the congregation, and brawling at the church
door? You should be put in the stocks!"

"I pity you, old worm," replied the old woman, "you will be soon among
those you feed upon," and with a hanging head and dejected air she
quitted the church-yard.

In the meanwhile Dr. Paulding had remained gazing down into the vault,
while the stout young men who had come to assist the sexton withdrew
the broad hempen bands by which the coffin had been lowered, from
beneath it, arranged it properly upon the tressels in its orderly
place among the dead, and then mounted by a ladder into the body of
the church, again preparing to replace the stone over the mouth of the
vault. He then turned to the church door and looked out, and then
quietly approached a pew in the side aisle.

"Philip, this is very wrong," he said; "your father never wished or
intended you should be here."

"He did not forbid me," replied the young man. "Why should I only be
absent from my brother's funeral?"

"Because you are sick. Because, by coming, you may have risked your
life," replied the old clergyman.

"What is life to a duty?" replied the lad. "Have you not taught me,
sir, that there is no earthly thing--no interest of this life, no
pleasure, no happiness, no hope, that ought not to be sacrificed at
once to that which the heart says is right?"

"True--true," replied the old clergyman, almost impatiently; "but in
following precept so severely, boy, you should use some
discrimination. You have a duty to a living father, which is of more
weight than a mere imaginary one to a dead brother. You could do no
good to the latter; as the Psalmist wisely said, 'You must go to him,
but he can never come back to you.' To your father, on the contrary,
you have high duties to perform; to console and cheer him in his
present affliction; to comfort and support his declining years. When a
real duty presents itself, Philip, to yourself, to your fellow men, to
your country, or to your God--I say again, as I have often said, do it
in spite of every possible affection. Let it cut through everything,
break through every tie, thrust aside every consideration. There,
indeed, I would fain see you act the old Roman, whom you are so fond
of studying, and be a Cato or a Brutus, if you will. But you must make
very sure that you do not make your fancy create unreal duties, and
make them of greater importance in your eyes than the true ones. But
now I must get you back as speedily as possible, for your mother, ere
long, will be up to see you, and your father, and they must not find
you absent on this errand."

The lad made no reply, but readily walked back toward the court with
Dr. Paulding, though his steps were slow and feeble. He took the old
man's arm, too, and leaned heavily upon it; for, to say the truth, he
felt already the consequences of the foolish act he had committed; and
the first excitement past, lassitude and fever took possession once
more of every limb, and his feet would hardly bear him to the gates.

The beautiful girl who had been the first to receive him at that
house, met the eyes both of the young man and the old one, the moment
they entered the gardens. She looked wild and anxious, and was
wandering about with her head uncovered; but as soon as she beheld the
youth, she ran toward him, exclaiming, "Oh, Philip, Philip, this is
very wrong and cruel of you. I have been looking for you everywhere.
You should not have done this. How could you let him, Dr. Paulding?"

"I did not let him, my dear child," replied the old man, "he came of
his own will, and would not be let. But take him in with you; send him
to bed as speedily as may be; give him a large glass of the
fever-water he was taking, and say as little as possible of this rash
act to any one."

The girl made the sick boy lean upon her rounded arm, led him away
into the house, and tended him like a sister. She kept the secret of
his rashness, too, from every one; and there were feelings sprang up
in his bosom toward her during the next few hours which were never to
be obliterated. She was so beautiful, so tender, so gentle, so full of
all womanly graces, that he fancied, with his strong imagination, that
no one perfection of body or mind could be wanting; and he continued
to think so for many a long year after.




CHAPTER IV.


Enough of boyhood and its faults and follies. I sought but to show the
reader, as in a glass, the back of a pageant that has past. Oh, how I
sometimes laugh at the fools--the critics--God save the mark! who see
no more in the slight sketch I choose to give, than a mere daub of
paint across the canvas, when that one touch gives effect to the whole
picture. Let them stand back, and view it as a whole; and if they can
find aught in it to make them say "Well done," let them look at the
frame. That is enough for them; their wits are only fitted to deal
with "leather, and prunella."

I have given you, reader--kind and judicious reader--a sketch of the
boy, that you may be enabled to judge rightly of the man. Now, take
the lad as I have moulded him--bake him well in the fiery furnace of
strong passion, remembering still that the form is of hard
iron--quench and harden him in the cold waters of opposition, and
disappointment, and anxiety--and bring him forth tempered, but too
highly tempered for the world he has to live in--not pliable--not
elastic; no watch-spring, but like a graver's tool, which must cut
into everything opposed to it, or break under the pressure.

Let us start upon our new course some fifteen years after the period
at which our tale began, and view Philip Hastings as that which he had
now become.

Dr. Paulding had passed from this working day world to another and a
better--where we hope the virtues of the heart may be weighed against
vices of the head--a mode of dealing rare here below. Sir John
Hastings and his wife had gone whither their eldest son had gone
before them; and Philip Hastings was no longer the boy. Manhood had
set its seal upon his brow only too early; but what a change had come
with manhood!--a change not in the substance, but in its mode.

Oh, Time! thy province is not only to destroy! Thou worker-out of
human destinies--thou new-fashioner of all things earthly--thou
blender of races--thou changer of institutions--thou discoverer--thou
concealer--thou builder up--thou dark destroyer; thy waters as they
flow have sometimes a petrifying, sometimes a solvent power, hardening
the soft, melting the strong, accumulating the sand, undermining the
rock! What had been thine effect upon Philip Hastings?

All the thoughts had grown manly as well as the body. The slight
youth had been developed into the hardy and powerful man; somewhat
inactive--at least so it seemed to common eyes--more thoughtful than
brilliant, steady in resolution, though calm in expression, giving way
no more to bursts of boyish feeling, somewhat stern, men said somewhat
hard, but yet extremely just, and resolute for justice. The poetry of
life--I should have said the poetry of young life--the brilliancy of
fancy and hope, seemed somewhat dimmed in him--mark, I say seemed, for
that which seems too often is not; and he might, perhaps, have learnt
to rule and conceal feelings which he could not altogether conquer or
resist.

Still there were many traces of his old self visible: the same love of
study, the same choice of books and subjects of thought, the same
subdued yet strong enthusiasms. The very fact of mingling with the
world, which had taught him to repress those enthusiasms, seemed to
have concentrated and rendered them more intense.

The course of his studies; the habits of his mind; his fondness for
the school of the stoics, it might have been supposed, would rather
have disgusted him with the society in which he now habitually
mingled, and made him look upon mankind--for it was a very corrupt
age--with contempt, if not with horror.

Such, however, was not the case. He had less of the cynic in him than
his father--indeed he had nothing of the cynic in him at all. He loved
mankind in his own peculiar way. He was a philanthropist of a certain
sort; and would willingly have put a considerable portion of his
fellow-creatures to death, in order to serve, and elevate, and improve
the rest.

His was a remarkable character--not altogether fitted for the times in
which he lived; but one which in its wild and rugged strength,
commanded much respect and admiration even then. Weak things clung to
it, as ivy to an oak or a strong wall: and its power over them was
increased by a certain sort of tenderness--a protecting pity, which
mingled strangely with his harder and ruder qualities. He seemed to be
sorry for everything that was weak, and to seek to console and comfort
it, under the curse of feebleness. It seldom offended him--he rather
loved it, it rarely came in his way; and his feeling toward it might
approach contempt but never rose to anger.

He was capable too of intense and strong affections, though he could
not extend them to many objects. All that was vigorous and powerful in
him concentrated itself in separate points here and there; and general
things were viewed with much indifference.

See him as he walks up and down there before the old house, which I
have elsewhere described. He has grown tall and powerful in frame: and
yet his gait is somewhat slovenly and negligent, although his step is
firm and strong. He is not much more than thirty-one years of age; but
he looks forty at the least; and his hair is even thickly sprinkled
with gray. His face is pale, with some strong marked lines and
indentations in it; yet, on the whole, it is handsome, and the slight
habitual frown, thoughtful rather than stern, together with the
massive jaw, and the slight drawing down of the corners of the mouth,
give it an expression of resolute firmness, that is only contradicted
by the frequent variation of the eye, which is sometimes full of deep
thought, sometimes of tenderness; and sometimes is flashing with a
wild and almost unearthly fire.

But there is a lady hanging on his arm which supports her somewhat
feeble steps. She seems recovering from illness; the rose in her cheek
is faint and delicate; and an air of languor is in her whole face and
form. Yet she is very beautiful, and seems fully ten years younger
than her husband, although, in truth, she is of the same age--or
perhaps a little older. It is Rachael Marshal, now become Lady
Hastings.

Their union did not take place without opposition; all Sir John
Hastings' prejudices against the Marshal family revived as soon as his
son's attachment to the daughter of the house became apparent. Like
most fathers, he saw too late; and then sought to prevent that which
had become inevitable. He sent his son to travel in foreign lands; he
even laid out a scheme for marrying him to another, younger, and as he
thought fairer. He contrived that the young man should fall into the
society of the lady he had selected, and he fancied that would be
quite sufficient; for he saw in her character, young as she was,
traits, much more harmonious, as he fancied, with those of his son,
than could be found in the softer, gentler, weaker Rachael Marshal.
There was energy, perseverance, resolution, keen and quick
perceptions--perhaps a little too much keenness. More, he did not stay
to inquire; but, as is usual in matters of the heart, Philip Hastings
loved best the converse of himself. The progress of the scheme was
interrupted by the illness of Sir John Hastings, which recalled his
son from Rome. Philip returned, found his father dead, and married
Rachael Marshal.

They had had several children; but only one remained; that gay, light,
gossamer girl, like a gleam darting along the path from sunny rays
piercing through wind-borne clouds. On she ran with a step of light
and careless air, yet every now and then she paused suddenly, gazed
earnestly at a flower, plucked it, pored into its very heart with her
deep eyes, and, after seeming to labor under thought for a moment,
sprang forward again as light as ever.

The eyes of the father followed her with a look of grave, thoughtful,
intense affection. The mother's eyes looked up to him, and then
glanced onward to the child.

She was between nine and ten years old--not very handsome, for it is
not a handsome age. Yet there were indications of future beauty--fine
and sparkling eyes, rich, waving, silky hair, long eyelashes, a fine
complexion, a light and graceful figure, though deformed by the stiff
fashions of the day.

There was a sparkle too in her look--that bright outpouring of the
heart upon the face which is one of the most powerful charms of youth
and innocence. Ah! how soon gone by! How soon checked by the thousand
loads which this heavy laboring world casts upon the buoyancy of
youthful spirits--the chilling conventionality--the knowledge, and the
fear of wrong--the first taste of sorrow--the anxieties, cares,
fears--even the hopes of mature life, are all weights to bear down the
pinions of young, lark-like joy. After twenty, does the heart ever
rise up from her green sod and fling at Heaven's gate as in childhood?
Never--eh, never! The dust of earth is upon the wing of the sky
songster, and will never let her mount to her ancient pitch.

That child was a strange combination of her father and her mother. She
was destined to be their only one; and it seemed as if nature had
taken a pleasure in blending the characters of both in one. Not that
they were intimately mingled, but that they seemed like the twins of
Laconia, to rise and set by turns.

In her morning walk: in her hours of sportive play; when no subject of
deep thought, no matter that affected the heart or the imagination was
presented to her, she was light and gay as a butterfly; the child--the
happy child was in every look, and word, and movement. But call her
for a moment from this bright land of pleasantness--present something
to her mind or to her fancy which rouses sympathies, or sets the
energetic thoughts at work, and she was grave, meditative, studious,
deep beyond her years.

She was a subject of much contemplation, some anxiety, some wonder to
her father. The brightness of her perceptions, her eagerness in the
pursuit of knowledge, her vigorous resolution even as a child, when
convinced that she was right, showed him his own mind reflected in
hers. Even her tenderness, her strong affections, he could comprehend;
for the same were in his own heart, and though he believed them to be
weaknesses, he could well understand their existence in a child and in
a woman.

But that which he did not understand--that which made him marvel--was
her lightness, her gayety, her wild vivacity--I might almost say, her
trifling, when not moved by deep feeling or chained down by thought.

This was beyond him. Yet strange! the same characteristics did not
surprise nor shook him in her mother--never had surprised or shocked
him; indeed he had rather loved her for those qualities, so unlike his
own. Perhaps it was that he thought it strange, his child should, in
any mood, be so unlike himself; or perhaps it was the contrast between
the two sides of the same character that moved his wonder when he saw
it in his child, he might forget that her mother was her parent as
well as himself; and that she had an inheritance from each.

In his thoughtful, considering, theoretical way, he determined
studiously to seek a remedy for what he considered the defect in his
child--to cultivate with all the zeal and perseverance of paternal
affection, supported by his own force of character, those qualities
which were most like his own--those, in short, which were the least
womanly. But nature would not be baffled. You may divert her to a
certain degree; but you cannot turn her aside from her course
altogether.

He found that he could not--by any means which his heart would let him
employ--conquer what he called, the frivolity of the child. Frivolity!
Heaven save us! There were times when she showed no frivolity, but on
the contrary, a depth and intensity far, far beyond her years. Indeed,
the ordinary current of her mind was calm and thoughtful. It was but
when a breeze rippled it that it sparkled on the surface. Her father,
too, saw that this was so; that the wild gayety was but occasional.
But still it surprised and pained him--perhaps the more because it was
occasional. It seemed to hie eyes an anomaly in her nature. He would
have had her altogether like himself. He could not conceive any one
possessing so much of his own character, having room in heart and
brain for aught else. It was a subject of constant wonder to him; of
speculation, of anxious thought.

He often asked himself if this was the only anomaly in his child--if
there were not other traits, yet undiscovered, as discrepant as this
light volatility with her general character: and he puzzled himself
sorely.

Still he pursued her education upon his own principles; taught her
many things which women rarely learned in those days; imbued her mind
with thoughts and feelings of his own; and often thought, when a
season of peculiar gravity fell upon her, that he made progress in
rendering her character all that he could wish it. This impression
never lasted long, however; for sooner or later the bird-like spirit
within her found the cage door open, and fluttered forth upon some gay
excursion, leaving all his dreams vanished and his wishes
disappointed.

Nevertheless he loved her with all the strong affection of which his
nature was capable; and still he persevered in the course which he
thought for her benefit. At times, indeed, he would make efforts to
unravel the mystery of her double nature, not perceiving that the only
cause of mystery was in himself: that what seemed strange in his
daughter depended more upon his own want of power to comprehend her
variety than upon anything extraordinary in her. He would endeavor to
go along with her in her sportive moods--to let his mind run free
beside hers in its gay ramble to find some motive for them which he
could understand; to reduce them to a system; to discover the rule by
which the problem was to be solved. But he made nothing of it, and
wearied conjecture in vain.

Lady Hastings sometimes interposed a little; for in unimportant things
she had great influence with her husband. He let her have her own way
wherever he thought it not worth while to oppose her; and that was
very often. She perfectly comprehended the side of her daughter's
character which was all darkness to the father; and strange to say,
with greater penetration than his own, she comprehended the other side
likewise. She recognized easily the traits in her child which she knew
and admired in her husband, but wished them heartily away in her
daughter's case, thinking such strength of mind, joined with whatever
grace and sweetness, somewhat unfeminine.

Though she was full of prejudices, and where her quickness of
perception failed her, altogether unteachable by reason, yet she was
naturally too virtuous and good to attempt even to thwart the objects
of the father's efforts in the education of his child. I have said
that she interfered at times, but it was only to remonstrate against
too close study, to obtain frequent and healthful relaxation, and to
add all those womanly accomplishments on which she set great value. In
this she was not opposed. Music, singing, dancing, and a knowledge of
modern languages, were added to other branches of education, and Lady
Hastings was so far satisfied.




CHAPTER V.


The Italian singing-master was a peculiar man, and well worthy of a
few words in description. He was tall and thin, but well built; and
his face had probably once been very handsome, in that Italian style,
which, by the exaggeration of age, grows so soon into ugliness. The
nose was now large and conspicuous, the eyes bright, black, and
twinkling, the mouth good in shape, but with an animal expression
about it, the ear very voluminous.

He was somewhat more than fifty years of age, and his hair was
speckled with gray; but age was not apparent in wrinkles and furrows,
and in gait he was firm and upright.

At first Sir Philip Hastings did not like him at all. He did not like
to have him there. It was against the grain he admitted him into the
house. He did it, partly because he thought it right to yield in some
degree to the wishes of his wife; partly from a grudging deference to
the customs of society.

But the Signor was a shrewd and world-taught man, accustomed to
overcome prejudices, and to make his way against disadvantages; and he
soon established himself well in the opinion of both father and
mother. It was done by a peculiar process, which is well worth the
consideration of all those who seek _les moyens de parvenir_.

In his general and ordinary intercourse with his fellow-men, he had a
happy middle tone,--a grave reticent manner, which never compromised
him to anything. A shrewd smile, without an elucidatory remark, served
to harmonize him with the gay and vivacious; a serious tranquillity,
unaccompanied by any public professions, was enough to make the sober
and the decent rank him amongst themselves. Perhaps that class of
men--whether pure at heart or not--have always overestimated decency
of exterior.

All this was in public however. In private, in a _tête-à-tête_, Signor
Guardini was a very different man. Nay more, in each and every
_tête-à-tête_ he was a different man from what he appeared in the other.
Yet, with a marvelous art, he contrived to make both sides of his
apparent character harmonize with his public and open appearance. Or
rather perhaps I should say that his public demeanor was a middle tint
which served to harmonize the opposite extremes of coloring displayed
by his character. Nothing could exemplify this more strongly than the
different impressions he produced on Sir Philip and Lady Hastings. The
lady was soon won to his side. She was predisposed to favor him; and a
few light gay sallies, a great deal of conventional talk about the
fashionable life of London, and a cheerful bantering tone of
persiflage, completely charmed her. Sir Philip was more difficult to
win. Nevertheless, in a few short sentences, hardly longer than those
which Sterne's mendicant whispered in the ear of the passengers, he
succeeded in disarming many prejudices. With him, the Signor was a
stoic; he had some tincture of letters, though a singer, and had read
sufficient of the history of his own land, to have caught all the
salient points of the glorious past.

Perhaps he might even feel a certain interest in the antecedents of
his decrepit land--not to influence his conduct, or to plant ambitious
or nourish pure and high hopes for its regeneration--but to waken a
sort of touchwood enthusiasm, which glowed brightly when fanned by the
stronger powers of others. Yet before Sir Philip had had time to
communicate to him one spark of his own ardor, he had as I have said
made great progress in his esteem. In five minutes' conversation he
had established for himself the character of one of a higher and
nobler character whose lot had fallen in evil days.

"In other years," thought the English gentleman, "this might have been
a great man--the defender unto death of his country's rights--the
advocate of all that is ennobling, stern, and grand."

What was the secret of all this? Simply that he, a man almost without
character, had keen and well-nigh intuitive perceptions of the
characters of others; and that without difficulty his pliable nature
and easy principles would accommodate themselves to all.

He made great progress then in the regard of Sir Philip, although
their conversations seldom lasted above five minutes. He made greater
progress still with the mother. But with the daughter he made
none--worse than none.

What was the cause, it may be asked. What did he do or say--how did he
demean himself so as to produce in her bosom a feeling of horror and
disgust toward him that nothing could remove?

I cannot tell. He was a man of strong passions and no principles: that
his after--perhaps his previous--life would evince. There is a
touchstone for pure gold in the heart of an innocent and high-minded
woman that detects all baser metals: they are discovered in a moment:
they cannot stand the test.

Now, whether his heart-cankering corruption, his want of faith,
honesty, and truth, made themselves felt, and were pointed out by the
index of that fine barometer, without any overt act at all--or whether
he gave actual cause of offense, I do not know--none has ever known.

Suddenly, however, the gay, the apparently somewhat wayward girl, now
between fifteen and sixteen, assumed a new character in her father's
and mother's eyes. With a strange frank abruptness she told them she
would take no more singing lessons of the Italian; but she added no
explanation.

Lady Hastings was angry, and expostulated warmly; but the girl was
firm and resolute. She heard her mother's argument, and answered in
soft and humble tones that she would not,--could not learn to sing any
longer--that she was very sorry to grieve or to offend her mother; but
she had learned long enough, and would learn no more.

More angry than before, with the air of indignant pride in which
weakness so often takes refuge, the mother quitted the room; and the
father then, in a calmer spirit, inquired the cause of her resolution.

She blushed like the early morning sky; but there was a sort of
bewildered look upon her face as she replied, "I know no cause--I can
give no reason, my dear father; but the man is hateful to me. I will
never see him again."

Her father sought for farther explanation, but he could obtain none.
Guardini had not said anything nor done anything, she admitted, to
give her offense; but yet she firmly refused to be his pupil any
longer.

There are instincts in fine and delicate minds, which, by signs and
indications intangible to coarser natures discover in others thoughts
and feelings, wishes and designs, discordant--repugnant to themselves.
They are instincts, I say, not amenable to reason, escaping analysis,
incapable of explanation--the warning voice of God in the heart,
bidding them beware of evil.

Sir Philip Hastings was not a man to allow aught for such impulses--to
conceive or understand them in the least. He had been accustomed to
delude himself with reasons, some just, others very much the reverse,
but he had never done a deed or entertained a thought for which he
could not give some reason of convincing power to his own mind.

He did not understand his daughter's conduct at all; but he would not
press her any farther. She was in some degree a mysterious being to
him. Indeed, as I have before shown, she had always been a mystery;
for he had no key to her character in his own. It was written in the
unknown language.

Yet, did he love or cherish her the less? Oh no! Perhaps a deeper
interest gathered round his heart for her, the chief object of his
affections. More strongly than ever he determined to cultivate and
form her mind on his own model, in consequence of what he called a
strange caprice, although he could not but sometimes hope and fancy
that her resolute rejection of any farther lessons from Signor
Guardini arose from her distaste to what he himself considered one of
the frivolous pursuits of fashion.

Yet she showed no distaste for singing: for somehow every day she
would practice eagerly, till her sweet voice, under a delicate taste,
acquired a flexibility and power which charmed and captivated her
father, notwithstanding his would-be cynicism. He was naturally fond
of music; his nature was a vehement one, though curbed by such strong
restraints; and all vehement natures are much moved by music. He
would sit calmly, with his eyes fixed upon a book, but listening all
the time to that sweet voice, with feelings working in him--emotions,
thrilling, deep, intense, which he would have felt ashamed to expose
to any human eye.

All this however made her conduct toward Guardini the more mysterious;
and her father often gazed upon her beautiful face with a look of
doubting inquiry, as one may look on the surface of a bright lake, and
ask, What is below?

That face was now indeed becoming very beautiful. Every feature had
been refined and softened by time. There was soul in the eyes, and a
gleam of heaven upon the smile, besides the mere beauties of line and
coloring. The form too had nearly reached perfection. It was full of
symmetry and grace, and budding charms; and while the mother marked
all these attractions, and thought how powerful they would prove in
the world, the father felt their influence in a different manner: with
a sort of abstract admiration of her loveliness, which went, no
farther than a proud acknowledgment to his own heart that she was
beautiful indeed. To him her beauty was as a gem, a picture, a
beautiful possession, which he had no thought of ever parting
with--something on which his eyes would rest well pleased until they
closed forever. How blessed he might have been in the possession of
such a child could he have comprehended her--could he have divested
his mind of the idea that there was something strange and inharmonious
in her character! Could he have made his heart a woman's heart for but
one hour, all mystery would have been dispelled; but it was
impossible, and it remained.

No tangible effect did it produce at the time; but preconceptions of
another's character are very dangerous things. Everything is seen
through their medium, everything is colored and often distorted. That
which produced no fruit at the time, had very important results at an
after period.

But I must turn now to other scenes and more stirring events, having I
trust made the reader well enough acquainted with father, mother, and
daughter, at least sufficiently for all the purposes of this tale. It
is upon the characters of two of them that all the interest if there
be any depends. Let them be marked then and remembered, if the reader
would derive pleasure from what follows.




CHAPTER VI.


Reader, can you go back for twenty years? You do it every day. You
say, "Twenty years ago I was a boy--twenty years ago I was a
youth--twenty years ago I played at peg-top and at marbles--twenty
years ago I wooed--was loved--I sinned--I suffered!"

What is there in twenty years that should keep us from going back
over them? You go on so fast, so smoothly, so easily on the forward
course--why not in retrogression? But let me tell you: it makes a very
great difference whether Hope or Memory drives the coach.

But let us see what we can do. Twenty years before the period at which
the last chapter broke off, Philip Hastings, now a father of a girl of
fifteen, was a lad standing by the side of his brother's grave. Twenty
years ago Sir John Hastings was the living lord of these fine lands
and broad estates. Twenty years ago he passed, from the mouth of the
vault in which he had laid the clay of the first-born, into the open
splendor of the day, and felt sorrow's desolation in the sunshine.
Twenty years age, he had been confronted on the church-yard path by a
tall old woman, and challenged with words high and stern, to do her
right in regard to a paltry rood or two of land. Twenty years ago he
had given her a harsh, cold answer, and treated her menaces with
impatient scorn.

Do you remember her, reader? Well, if you do, that brings us to the
point I sought to reach in the dull flat expanse of the far past; and
we can stand and look around us for awhile.

That old woman was not one easily to forget or lightly to yield her
resentments. There was something perdurable in them as well as in her
gaunt, sinewy frame. As she stood there menacing him, she wanted but
three years of seventy. She had battled too with many a storm--wind
and weather, suffering and persecution, sorrow and privation, had beat
upon her hard--very hard. They had but served to stiffen and wither
and harden, however.

Her corporeal frame, shattered as it seemed, was destined to outlive
many of the young and fair spirit-tabernacles around it--to pass over,
by long years, the ordinary allotted space of human life; and it
seemed as if even misfortune had with her but a preserving power. It
is not wonderful, however, that, while it worked thus upon her body,
it should likewise have stiffened and withered and hardened her heart.

I am not sure that conscience itself went untouched in this searing
process. It is not clear at all that even her claim upon Sir John
Hastings was not an unjust one; but just or unjust his repulse sunk
deep and festered.

Let us trace her from the church-yard after she met him. She took her
path away from the perk and the hamlet, between two cottages, the
ragged boys at the doors of which called her "Old Witch," and spoke
about a broomstick.

She heeded them little: there were deeper offences rankling at her
heart.

She walked on, across a corn-field and a meadow, and then she came
upon some woodlands, through which a little sandy path wound its way,
round stumps of old trees long cut down, amidst young bushes and
saplings just springing up, and catching the sunshine here and there
through the bright-tinted foliage overhead. Up the hill it went, over
the slope on which the copse was scattered, and then burst forth again
on the opposite side of wood and rise, where the ground fell gently
the other way, looking down upon the richly-dressed grounds of Colonel
Marshall, at the distance of some three miles.

Not more than a hundred yards distant was a poor man's cottage, with
an old gray thatch which wanted some repairing, and was plentifully
covered with herbs, sending the threads of their roots into the straw.
A. little badly-cultivated garden, fenced off from the hill-side by a
loose stone wall, surrounded the horse, and a gate without hinges gave
entrance to this inclosed space.

The old woman went in and approached the cottage door. When near it
she stopped and listened, lifting one of the flapping ears of her
cotton cap to aid the dull sense of hearing. There were no voices
within; but there was a low sobbing sound issued forth as if some one
were in bitter distress.

"I should not wonder if she were alone," said the old woman; "the
ruffian father is always out; the drudging mother goes about this time
to the town. They will neither stay at home, I wot, to grieve for him
they let too often into that door, nor to comfort her he has left
desolate. But it matters little whether they be in or out. It were
better to talk to her first. I will give her better than
comfort--revenge, if I judge right. They must play their part
afterwards."

Thus communing with herself, she laid her hand upon the latch and
opened the door. In an attitude of unspeakable grief sat immediately
before her a young and exceedingly beautiful girl, of hardly seventeen
years of age.

The wheel stood still by her side; the spindle had fallen from her
hands; her head was bowed down as with sorrow she could not bear up
against; and her eyes were dropping tears like rain.

The moment she heard the door open she started, and looked up with
fear upon her face, and strove to dash the tears from her eyes; but
the old women bespoke her softly, saying, "Good even, my dear; is your
mother in the place?"

"No," replied the girl; "she has gone to sell the lint, and father is
out too. It is very lonely, and I get sad here."

"I do not wonder at it, poor child," said the old woman; "you have had
a heavy loss, my dear, and may well cry. You can't help what is past,
you know; but we can do a good deal for what is to come, if we but
take care and make up our minds in time."

Many and strange were the changes of expression which came upon the
poor girl's face as she heard these few simple words. At first her
cheek glowed hot, as with the burning blush of shame; then she turned
pale and trembled, gazing inquiringly in her visitor's face, as if she
would have asked, "Am I detected?" and then she cast down her eyes
again, still pale as ashes, and the tears rolled forth once more and
fell upon her lap.

The old woman sat down beside her, and talked to her tenderly; but,
alas! very cunningly too. She assumed far greater knowledge than she
possessed. She persuaded the poor girl that there was nothing to
conceal from her; and what neither father nor mother knew, was told
that day to one comparatively a stranger. Still the old woman spoke
tenderly--ay, very tenderly; excused her fault--made light of her
fears--gave her hope--gave her strength. But all the time she
concealed her full purpose. That was to be revealed by degrees.
Whatever had been the girl's errors, she was too innocent to be made a
party to a scheme of fraud and wrong and vengeance at once. All that
the woman communicated was blessed comfort to a bruised and bleeding
heart; and the poor girl leaned her head upon her old companion's
shoulder, and, amidst bitter tears and sobs and sighs, poured out
every secret of her heart.

But what is that she says, which makes the old woman start with a look
of triumph?

"Letters!" she exclaimed; "two letters: let me see them, child--let me
see them! Perhaps they may be more valuable than you think."

The girl took them from her bosom, where she kept them as all that she
possessed of one gone that day into the tomb.

The old woman read them with slow eyes, but eager attention; and then
gave them back, saying, "That one you had better destroy as soon as
possible--it tells too much. But this first one keep, as you value
your own welfare--as you value your child's fortune, station, and
happiness. You can do much with this. Why, here are words that may
make your father a proud man. Hark! I hear footsteps coming. Put them
up--we must go to work cautiously, and break the matter to your
parents by degrees."

It was the mother of the girl who entered; and she seemed faint and
tired. Well had the old woman called her a drudge, for such she was--a
poor patient household drudge, laboring for a hard, heartless, idle,
and cunning husband, and but too tenderly fond of the poor girl whose
beauty had been a snare to her.

She seemed somewhat surprised to see the old woman there; for they
were of different creeds, and those creeds made wide separation in the
days I speak of. Perhaps she was surprised and grieved to see the
traces of tears and agitation on her daughter's face; but of that she
took no notice; for there were doubts and fears at her heart which she
dreaded to confirm. The girl was more cheerful, however, than she had
been for the last week--not gay, not even calm; but yet there was a
look of some relief.

Often even after her mother's entrance, the tears would gather thick
in her eyes when she thought of the dead; but it was evident that hope
had risen up: that the future was not all darkness and terror. This
was a comfort to her; and she spoke and looked cheerfully. She had
sold all the thread of her and her daughter's spinning, and she had
sold it well. Part she hid in a corner to keep a pittance for bread
from her husband's eyes; part she reserved to give up to him for the
purchase of drink: but while she made all these little arrangements,
she looked somewhat anxiously at the old woman, from time to time, as
if she fain would have asked, "What brought you here?"

The crone was cautious, however, and knew well with whom she had to
deal. She talked in solemn and oracular tones, as if she had possessed
all the secrets of fate, but she told nothing, and when she went away
she said in a low voice but authoritative manner, "Be kind to your
girl--be very kind; for she will bring good luck and fortune to you
all." The next day she laid wait for the husband, found and forced him
to stop and hear her. At first he was impatient, rude, and brutal;
swore, cursed, and called her many and evil names. But soon he
listened eagerly enough: looks of intelligence and eager design passed
between the two, and ere they parted they perfectly understood each
other.

The man was then, on more than one day, seen going down to the hall.
At first he was refused admission to Sir John Hastings; for his
character was known. The next day, however, he brought a letter,
written under his dictation by his daughter, who had been taught at a
charitable school of old foundation hard by; and this time he was
admitted. His conversation with the Lord of the Manor was long; but no
one knew its import. He came again and again, and was still admitted.

A change came over the cottage and its denizens. The fences were put
in order, the walls were repaired, the thatch renewed, another room or
two was added; plenty reigned within; mother and daughter appeared in
somewhat finer apparel; and money was not wanting.

At the end of some months there was the cry of a young child in the
house. The neighbors were scandalized, and gossips spoke censoriously
even in the father's ears; but he stopped them fiercely, with proud
and mysterious words; boasted aloud of what they had thought his
daughter's shame; and claimed a higher place for her than was
willingly yielded to her companions. Strange rumors got afloat, but
ere a twelvemonth had passed, the father had drank himself to death.
His widow and her daughter and her grandson moved to a better house,
and lived at ease on money none knew the source of, while the cottage,
now neat and in good repair, became the dwelling of the old woman, who
had been driven with scorn from Sir John's presence. Was she
satisfied--had she sated herself? Not yet.




CHAPTER VII.


There was a lady, a very beautiful lady indeed, came to a lonely
house, which seemed to have been tenanted for several years by none
but servants, about three years after the death of Sir John Hastings.
That house stood some miles to the north of the seat of that
gentleman, which now had passed to his son; and it was a fine-looking
place, with a massive sort of solemn brick-and-mortar grandeur
about it, which impressed the mind with a sense of the wealth and
long-standing of its owners.

The plural has slipped from my pen, and perhaps it is right; for the
house looked as if it had had many owners, and all of them had been
rich.

Now, there was but one owner,--the lady who descended from that
lumbering, heavy coach, with the two great leathern wings on each side
of the door. She was dressed in widow's weeds, and she had every right
to wear them. Though two-and-twenty only, she stood there orphan,
heiress, and widow. She had known many changes of condition, but not
of fate, and they did not seem to have affected her much. Of high-born
and proud parentage, she had been an only child for many years before
her parents' death. She had been spoiled, to use a common, but not
always appropriate phrase; for there are some people who cannot be
spoiled, either because the ethereal essence within them is
incorruptible, or because there is no ethereal essence to spoil at
all. However, she had been spoiled very successfully by fate, fortune,
and kind friends. She had never been contradicted in her life; she had
never been disappointed--but once. She had travelled, seen strange
countries--which was rare in those days with women--had enjoyed many
things. She had married a handsome, foolish man, whom she chose--few
knew rightly why. She had lost both her parents not long after; got
tired of her husband, and lost him too, just when the loss could leave
little behind but a decent regret, which she cultivated as a slight
stimulant to keep her mind from stagnating. And now, without husband,
child, or parents, she returned to the house of her childhood, which
she had not seen for five long years.

Is that all her history? No, not exactly all. There is one little
incident which may as well be referred to here. Her parents had
entered into an arrangement for her marriage with a very different man
from him whom she afterwards chose,--Sir Philip Hastings; and
foolishly they had told her of what had been done, before the
young man's own assent had been given. She did not see much of
him--certainly not enough to fall in love with him. She even thought
him a strange, moody youth; but yet there was something in his
moodiness and eccentricity which excited her fancy. The reader knows
that he chose for himself; and the lady also married immediately
after.

Thus had passed for her a part of life's pageant; and now she came to
her own native dwelling, to let the rest march by as it might. At
first, as she slowly descended from the carriage, her large, dark,
brilliant eyes were fixed upon the ground. She had looked long at the
house as she was driving towards it, and it seemed to have cast her
into a thoughtful mood. It is hardly possible to enter a house where
we have spent many early years, without finding memory suddenly seize
upon the heart and possess it totally. What a grave it is! What a long
line of buried ancestors may not _the present_ always contemplate
there.

Nor are there many received into the tomb worth so much respect as one
dead hour. All else shall live again: lost hours have no resurrection.

There were old servants waiting around, to welcome her, new ones
attending upon her orders; but for a moment or two she noticed no one,
till at length the old housekeeper, who knew her from a babe, spoke
out, saying, "Ah, madam I do not wonder to see you a little sad on
first coming to the old place again, after all that has happened."

"Ah, indeed, Arnold," replied the lady, "many sad things have happened
since we parted. But how are you, Goody? You look blooming:" and
walking into the house, she heard the reply in the hall.

From the hall, the old housekeeper led her lady through the house, and
mightily did she chatter and gossip by the way. The lady listened
nearly in silence; for Mrs. Arnold was generous in conversation, and
spared her companion all expense of words. At length, however,
something she said seemed to rouse her mistress, and she exclaimed
with a somewhat bitter laugh, "And so the good people declared I was
going to be married to Sir Philip Hastings?"

"_Mr_. Hastings he was then, madam," answered the housekeeper "to be
sure they did. All the country around talked of it, and the tenants
listened at church to hear the banns proclaimed."

The lady turned very red, and the old woman went on to say, "Old Sir
John seemed quite sure of it; but he reckoned without his host, I
fancy."

"He did indeed," said the lady with an uncheerful smile, and there the
subject dropped for the time. Not long after, however, the lady
herself brought the conversation back to nearly the same point, asked
after Sir Philip's health and manner of living, and how he was liked
in the neighborhood, adding, "He seemed a strange being at the time I
saw him, which was only once or twice--not likely to make a very
pleasant husband, I thought."

"Oh dear, yes, madam, he does," answered Mrs. Arnold, "many a worse, I
can assure you. He is very fond of his lady indeed, and gives up more
to her than one would think. He is a little stern, they say, but very
just and upright; and no libertine fellow, like his brother who was
drowned--which I am sure was a providence, for if he was so bad when
he was young, what would he have been when he was old?"

"Better, perhaps," replied her mistress, with a quiet smile; "but was
he so very wicked? I never heard any evil of him."

"Oh dear me, madam! do not you know?" exclaimed the old woman; and
then came the whole story of the cotter's daughter on the hill, and
how she and her father and old Mother Danby--whom people believed to
be a witch--had persuaded or threatened Sir John Hastings into making
rich people of them.

"Persuaded or threatened Sir John Hastings!" said the lady in a tone
of doubt. "I knew him better than either of his sons; and never did I
see a man so little likely to yield to persuasion or to bow to menace;"
and she fell into a deep fit of musing, which lasted long, while the
old housekeeper rambled on from subject to subject, unlistened to, but
very well content.

Let us dwell a little on the lady, and on her character. There is
always something to interest, something to instruct, in the character
of a woman. It is like many a problem in Euclid, which seems at first
sight as plain and simple as the broad sunshine; but when we come to
study it, we find intricacies beneath which puzzle us mightily to
resolve. It is a fine, curious, delicate, complicated piece of
anatomy, a woman's heart. I have dissected many, and I know the fact.
Take and lay that fibre apart--take care, for heaven's sake! that you
do not tear the one next to it; and be sure you do not dissever the
fragments which bind those most opposite parts together! See, here
lies a muscle of keen sensibility; and there--what is that? A
cartilage, hard as a nether millstone. Look at those light, irritable
nerves, quivering at the slightest touch; and then see those tendons,
firm, fixed, and powerful as the resolution of a martyr. Oh, that
wonderful piece of organization who can describe it accurately?

I must not pretend to do so; but I will give a slight sketch of the
being before me.

There she stands, somewhat above the usual height, but beautifully
formed, with every line rounded and flowing gracefully into the
others. There is calmness and dignity in the whole air, and in every
movement; but yet there is something very firm, very resolute, very
considerate, in the fall of that small foot upon the carpet. She
cannot intend her foot to stay there for ever; and yet, when she sets
it down, one would be inclined to think she did. Her face is very
beautiful--every feature finely cut--the eyes almost dazzling in their
dark brightness. How chaste, how lovely the fine lines of that mouth.
Yet do you see what a habit she has of keeping the pearly teeth close
shut--one pure row pressed hard against the other. The slight
sarcastic quiver of the upper lip does not escape you; and the
expanded nostril and flash of the eye, contradicted by the fixed
motionless mouth.

Such is her outward appearance, such is she too within--though the
complexion there is somewhat darker. Much that, had it been cultivated
and improved, would have blossomed into womanly virtue; a capability
of love, strong, fiery, vehement, changeless--not much tenderness--not
much pity,--no remorse--are there. Pride, of a peculiar character, but
strong, ungovernable, unforgiving, and a power of hate and thirst of
vengeance, which only pride can give, are there likewise. Super-add a
shrewdness--a policy--a cunning--nay, something greater--something
approaching the sublime--a divination, where passion is to be
gratified, that seldom leads astray from the object.

Yes, such is the interior of that fair temple, and yet, how calm,
sweet, and promising it stands.

I have omitted much perhaps; for the human heart is like the caldron
of the witches in Macbeth, and one might go on throwing in ingredients
till the audience became tired of the song. However, what I have said
will be enough for the reader's information; and if we come upon any
unexplained phenomena, I must endeavor to elucidate them hereafter.

Let us suppose the lady's interview with her housekeeper at an
end--all her domestic arrangements made--the house restored to its air
of habitation--visits received and paid. Amongst the earliest visitors
were Sir Philip and Lady Hastings. He came frankly, and in one of his
most happy moods, perfectly ignorant that she had ever been made aware
of there having been a marriage proposed between himself and her and
she received him and his fair wife with every appearance of
cordiality. But as soon as these visits and all the ceremonies were
over, the lady began to drive much about the country, and to collect
every tale and rumor she could meet with of all the neighboring
families. Her closest attention, however, centred upon those affecting
the Hastings' race; and she found the whole strange story of the
cottage girl confirmed, with many another particular added. She smiled
when she heard this--smiled blandly--it seemed to give her pleasure.
She would fain have called upon the girl and her mother too. She
longed to do so, and to draw forth with skill, of which she possessed
no small share, the key secret of the whole. But her station, her
reputation, prevented her from taking a step which she knew might be
noised abroad and create strange comments.

She resolved upon another move, however, which she thought would do as
well. There would be no objection to her visiting her poorer
neighbors, to comfort, to relieve; and she went to the huts of many.
At length one early morning, on a clear autumn day, the carriage was
left below on the high road, and the lady climbed the hill alone
towards the cottage, where the girl and her parents formerly lived.
She found the old woman, who was now its occupant, busily cooking her
morning meal; and sitting down, she entered into conversation with
her. At first she could obtain but little information; the old woman
was in a sullen mood, and would not speak of any thing she did not
like. Money was of no avail to unlock her eloquence.

She had never asked or taken charity, the old woman said, and now she
did not need it.

The lady pondered for a few minutes, considering the character of her
ancient hostess, trying it by her experience and intuition; and thus
she boldly asked her for the whole history of young John Hastings and
the cottage girl.

"Tell me all," she said, "for I wish to know it--I have an interest in
it."

"Ay?" said the old woman, gazing at her, "then you are the pretty lady
Sir Philip was to have married, but would not have her?"

"The same," replied the visitor, and for an instant a bright red spot
arose upon her cheek--a pang like a knife passed through her heart.

That was the price she paid for the gratification of her curiosity.
But it probably was gratified, for she stayed nearly an hour and a
half in the cottage--so long, indeed, that her servants, who were with
the carriage, became alarmed, and one of the footmen walked up the
hill. He met his lady coming down.

"Poor thing," she said, as if speaking of the old woman she had just
left, "her senses wander a little; but she is poor, and has been much
persecuted. I must do what I can for her. Whenever she comes to the
house, see she is admitted."

The old woman did come often, and always had a conference with the
lady of the mansion; but here let us leave them for the present. They
may appear upon the stage again.




CHAPTER VIII.


"MY DEAR SIR PHILIP:

"I have not seen you or dear Lady Hastings for many months; nor your
sweet Emily either, except at a distance, when one day she passed my
carriage on horseback, sweeping along the hill-side like a gleam of
light. My life is a sad, solitary one here; and I wish my friends
would take more compassion upon me and let me see human faces
oftener--especial faces that I love.

"But I know that you are very inexorable in these respects, and,
sufficient to yourself, cannot readily conceive how a lone woman can
pine for the society of other more loving friends than books or
nature. I must, therefore, attack the only accessible point I know
about you, meaning your compassion, which you never refuse to those
who really require it. Now I do require it greatly; for I am at this
present engaged in business of a very painful and intricate nature,
which I cannot clearly understand, and in which I have no one to
advise me but a country attorney, whose integrity as well as ability I
much doubt. To whom can I apply so well as to you, when I need the
counsel and assistance of a friend, equally kind, disinterested, and
clear-headed? I venture to do so, then, in full confidence, and ask
you to ride over as soon as you can, to give me your advice, or rather
to decide for me, in a matter where a considerable amount of property
is at stake, and where decision is required immediately. I trust when
you do come you will stay all night, as the business is, I fear, of so
complicated a nature, that it may occupy more than one day of your
valuable time in the affairs of

   Your faithful and obliged servant,
   CAROLINE HAZLETON."

"Is Mrs. Hazleton's messenger waiting?" asked Sir Philip Hastings,
after having read the letter and mused for a moment.

The servant answered in the affirmative; and his master rejoined,
"Tell him I will not write an answer, as I have some business to
attend to; but I beg he will tell his mistress that I will be with her
in three hours."

Lady Hastings uttered a low-toned exclamation of surprise. She did not
venture to ask any question--indeed she rarely questioned her husband
on any subject; but when anything excited her wonder, or, as was more
frequently the case, her curiosity, she was accustomed to seek for
satisfaction in a somewhat indirect way, by raising her beautiful
eyebrows with a doubtful sort of smile, or, as in the present
instance, by exclaiming, "Good gracious! Dear me!" or giving voice to
some other little vocative, with a note of interrogation strongly
marked after it.

In this case there was more than one feeling at the bottom of her
exclamation. She was surprised; she was curious; and she was,
moreover, in the least degree in the world, jealous. She had her share
of weaknesses, as I have said; and one of them was of a kind less
uncommon than may be supposed. Of her husband's conduct she had no
fear--not the slightest suspicion. Indeed, to have entertained any
would have been impossible--but she could not bear to see him liked,
admired, esteemed, by any woman--mark, me, I say by _any woman_; for
no one could feel more triumphant joy than she did when she saw him
duly appreciated by men. She was a great monopolizer: she did not wish
one thought of his to be won away from her by another woman; and a
sort of irritable feeling came upon her even when she saw him seated
by any young and pretty girl, and paying her the common attentions of
society. She was too well bred to display such sensations except by
those slight indications, or by a certain petulance of manner, which
he was not close observer enough of other people's conduct to remark.

Not to dwell too long on such things, Sir Philip Hastings, though
perfectly unconscious of what was going on in her heart, rarely kept
her long in suspense, when he saw any signs of curiosity. He perhaps
might think it a point of Roman virtue to spoil his wife, although she
had very little of the Portia in her character. On the present
occasion, he quietly handed over to her the letter of Mrs. Hazleton;
and then summoned a servant and gave orders for various preparations.

"Had not I and Emily better go with you?" asked Lady Hastings,
pointing out to him the passage in the letter which spoke of the long
absence of all the family.

"Not when I am going on business," replied her husband gravely, and
quitted the room.

An hour after, Philip Hastings was on horseback with a servant
carrying a valise behind him, and riding slowly through the park. The
day was far advanced, and the distance was likely to occupy about an
hour and a half in travelling; but the gentleman had fallen into a
reverie, and rode very slowly. They passed the park gates; they took
their way down the lane by the church and near the parsonage. Here Sir
Philip pulled in his horse suddenly, and ordered the man to ride on
and announce that he would be at Mrs. Hazleton's soon after. He then
fastened his horse to a large hook, put up for the express purpose on
most country houses of that day in England, and walked up to the door.
It was ajar, and without ceremony he walked in, as he was often
accustomed to do, and entered the little study of the rector.

The clergyman himself was not there; but there were two persons in the
room, one a young and somewhat dashing-looking man, one or two and
twenty years of age, exceedingly handsome both in face and figure;
the other personage past the middle age, thin, pale, eager and
keen-looking, in whom Sir Philip instantly recognized a well known,
but not very well reputed attorney, of a country town about twenty
miles distant. They had one of the large parish books before them, and
were both bending over it with great appearance of earnestness.

The step of Sir Philip Hastings roused them, and turning round, the
attorney bowed law, saying, "I give you good day, Sir Philip. I hope I
have the honor of seeing you well."

"Quite so," was the brief reply, and it was followed by an inquiry for
the pastor, who it seemed had gone into another room for some papers
which were required.

In the mean time the younger of the two previous occupants of the room
had been gazing at Sir Philip Hastings with a rude, familiar stare,
which the object of it did not remark; and in another moment the
clergyman himself appeared, carrying a bundle of old letters in his
hand.

He was a heavy, somewhat timid man, the reverse of his predecessor in
all things, but a very good sort of person upon the whole. On seeing
the baronet there, however, something seemed strangely to affect
him--a sort of confused surprise, which, after various stammering
efforts, burst forth as soon as the usual salutation was over, in the
words, "Pray, Sir Philip, did you come by appointment?"

Sir Philip Hastings, as the reader already knows, was a somewhat
unobservant man of what was passing around him in the world. He had
his own deep, stern trains of thought, which he pursued with a
passionate earnestness almost amounting to monomania. The actions,
words, and even looks of those few in whom he took an interest, he
could sometimes watch and comment on in his own mind with intense
study. True, he watched without understanding, and commented wrongly;
for he had too little experience of the motives of others from outward
observation, and found too little sympathy with the general motives of
the world, in his own heart, to judge even those he loved rightly. But
the conduct, the looks, the words of ordinary men, he hardly took the
trouble of remarking; and the good parson's surprise and hesitation,
passed like breath upon a mirror, seen perhaps, but retaining no hold
upon his mind for a moment. Neither did the abrupt question surprise
him; nor the quick, angry look which it called up on the face of the
attorney attract his notice; but he replied quietly to Mr. Dixwell, "I
do not remember having made any appointment with you."

The matter was all well so far; and would have continued well; but the
attorney, a meddling fellow, had nearly spoiled all, by calling the
attention of Philip Hastings more strongly to the strangeness of the
clergyman's question.

"Perhaps," said the man of law, interrupting the baronet in the midst,
"Perhaps Mr. Dixwell thought, Sir Philip, that you came here to speak
with me on the business of the Honorable Mrs. Hazleton. She told me
she would consult you, and I can explain the whole matter to you."

But the clergyman instantly declared that he meant nothing of the
kind; and at the same moment Sir Philip Hastings said, "I beg you will
not, sir. Mrs. Hazleton will explain what she thinks proper to me,
herself. I desire no previous information, as I am now on my way to
her. Why my good friend here should suppose I came by appointment, I
cannot tell. However, I did not; and it does not matter. I only wish,
Mr. Dixwell, to say, that I hear the old woman Danley is ill and
dying. She is a papist, and the foolish people about fancy she is a
witch. Little help or comfort will she obtain from them, even if they
do not injure or insult her. As I shall be absent all night, and
perhaps all to-morrow, I will call at her cottage as I ride over to
Mrs. Hazleton's and inquire into her wants. I will put down on paper,
and leave there, what I wish my people to do for her; but there is one
thing which I must request you to do, namely, to take every means, by
exhortation and remonstrance, to prevent the ignorant peasantry from
troubling this poor creature's death-bed. Her sad errors in matters of
faith should only at such a moment make us feel the greater compassion
for her."

Mr. Dixwell thought differently, for though a good man, he was a
fanatic. He did not indeed venture to think of disobeying the
injunction of the great man of the parish--the man who now held both
the Hastings and the Marshal property; but he would fain have detained
Sir Philip to explain and make clear to him the position--as clear as
a demonstration in Euclid to his own mind--that all Roman Catholics
ought to be, at the very least, banished from the country for ever.

But Sir Philip Hastings was not inclined to listen, and although the
good man began the argument in a solemn tone, his visitor, falling
into a fit of thought, walked slowly out of the room, along the
passage, through the door, and mounted his horse, without effectually
hearing one word, though they were many which Mr. Dixwell showered
upon him as he followed.

At his return to his little study, the parson found the young man and
the lawyer, no longer looking at the book, but conversing together
very eagerly, with excited countenances and quick gestures. The moment
he entered, however, they stopped, the young man ending with an oath,
for which the clergyman reproved him on the spot.

"That is very well, Mr. Dixwell," said the attorney, "and my young
friend here will be much the better for some good admonition; and for
sitting under your ministry, as I trust he will, some day soon; but we
must go I fear directly. However, there is one thing I want to say;
for you had nearly spoiled every thing to-day. No person playing at
cards--"

"I never touch them," said the parson, with a holy horror in his face.

"Well, others do," said the attorney, "and those who do never show
their hand to their opponent. Now, law is like a game of cards--"

"In which the lawyer is sure to get the odd trick," observed the young
man.

"And we must not have Sir Philip Hastings know one step that we are
taking," continued the lawyer. "If you have conscience, as I am sure
you have, and honor, as I know you have, you will not suffer any thing
that we have asked you, or said to you, to transpire; for then, of
course, Sir Philip would take every means to prevent our obtaining
information."

"I do not think it," said the parson.

"And justice and equity would be frustrated," proceeded the attorney,
"which you are bound by your profession to promote. We want nothing
but justice, Mr. Dixwell: justice, I say; and no one can tell what
card Sir Philip may play."

"I will trump it with the knave," said the young man to himself; and
having again cautioned the clergyman to be secret, not without some
obscure menaces of danger to himself, if he failed, the two gentlemen
left him, and hurried down, as fast as they could go, to a small
alehouse in the village, where they had left their horses. In a few
minutes, a well known poacher, whose very frequent habitation was the
jail or the cage, was seen to issue forth from the door of the
ale-house, then to lead a very showy looking horse from the stable,
and then to mount him and take his way over the hill. The poacher had
never possessed a more dignified quadruped than a dog or a donkey in
his life; so that it was evident the horse could not be his. That he
was not engaged in the congenial but dangerous occupation of stealing
it, was clear from the fact of the owner of the beast gazing quietly
at him out of the window while he mounted; and then turning round to
the attorney, who sat at a table hard by, and saying, "he is off, I
think."

"Well, let him go," replied the lawyer, "but I do not half like it,
Master John. Every thing in law should be cool and quiet. No
violence--no bustle."

"But this is not a matter of law," replied the younger man, "it is a
matter of safety, you fool. What might come of it, if he were to have
a long canting talk with the old wretch upon her death-bed?"

"Very little," replied the attorney, in a calm well-assured tone, "I
know her well. She is as hard as a flint stone. She always was, and
time has not softened her. Besides, he has no one with him to take
depositions, and if what you say is true, she'll not live till
morning."

"But I tell you, she is getting frightened, as she comes near death!"
exclaimed the young man. "She has got all sorts of fancies into her
head; about hell, and purgatory, and the devil knows what; and she
spoke to my mother yesterday about repentance, and atonement, and a
pack of stuff more, and wanted extreme unction, and to confess to a
priest. It would be a fine salve, I fancy, that could patch up the
wounds in her conscience; but if this Philip Hastings were to come to
her with his grave face and solemn tone, and frighten her still more,
he would get any thing out of her he pleased."

"I don't think it," answered the lawyer deliberately; "hate, Master
John, is the longest lived passion I know. It lasts into the grave,
as I have often seen in making good men's wills when they were
dying--sanctified, good men, I say. Why I have seen a man who has
spent half his fortune in charity, and built alms-houses, leave a
thoughtless son, or a runaway daughter, or a plain-spoken nephew, to
struggle with poverty all his life, refusing to forgive him, and
comforting himself with a text or a pretence. No, no; hate is the only
possession that goes out of the world with a man: and this old witch,
Danby, hates the whole race of Hastings with a goodly strength that
will not decay as her body does. Besides, Sir Philip is well-nigh as
puritanical as his father--a sort of cross-breed between an English
fanatic and an old Roman cynic. She abominates the very sound of his
voice, and nothing would reconcile her to him but his taking the mass
and abjuring the errors of Calvin. Ha! ha! ha! However, as you have
sent the fellow, it cannot be helped. Only remember I had nothing to
do with it if violence follows. That man is not to be trusted, and I
like to keep on the safe side of the law."

"Ay, doubtless, doubtless," answered the youth, somewhat thoughtfully;
"it is your shield; and better stand behind than before it. However, I
don't doubt Tom Cutter in the least. Besides, I only told him to
interrupt them in their talk, and take care they had no private
gossip; to stick there till he was gone, and all that."

"Sir Philip is not a man to bear such interruption," said the
attorney, gravely; "he is as quiet looking as the deep sea on a
summer's day; but there can come storms, I tell you, John, and then
woe to those who have trusted the quiet look."

"Then, if he gets in a passion, and mischief comes of it," replied the
young man, with a laugh, "the fault is his, you know, Shanks."

"True," answered the attorney, meditating, "and perhaps, by a little
clever twisting and timing, we might make something of it if he did,
were there any other person concerned but this Tom Cutter, and we had
a good serviceable witness or two. But this man is such a rogue that
his word is worth nothing; and to thrash him--though the business of
the beadle--would be no discredit to the magistrate. Besides, he is
sure to give the provocation, and one word of Sir Philip's would be
worth a thousand oaths of Tom Cutter's, in any court in the kingdom."

"As to thrashing him, that few can do," replied the youth; "but only
remember, Shanks, that I gave no orders for violence."

"I was not present," replied the attorney, with a grin; "you had
better, by a great deal, trust entirely to me, in these things, Master
John. If you do, I will bring you safely through, depend upon it; but
if you do not, nobody can tell what may come. Here comes Folwell, the
sexton. Now hold your tongue, and let me manage him, sir. You are not
acquainted with these matters."




CHAPTER IX.


Did you ever examine an ant-hill, dear reader? What a wonderful little
cosmos it is--what an epitome of a great city--of the human race! See
how the little fellows run bustling along upon their several
businesses--see how some get out of each other's way, how others
jostle, and others walk over their fellows' heads! But especially mark
that black gentleman, pulling hard to drag along a fat beetle's leg
and thigh, three times as large as his own body. He cannot get it on,
do what he will; and yet he tugs away, thinking it a very fine haunch
indeed. He does not perceive, what is nevertheless the fact, that
there are two others of his own race pulling at the other end, and
thus frustrating all his efforts.

And thus it is with you, and me, and every one in the wide world. We
work blindly, unknowing the favoring or counteracting causes that are
constantly going on around us, to facilitate or impede our endeavors.
The wish to look into futurity is vain, irrational, almost impious;
but what a service would it be to any man if he could but get a sight
into Fate's great workshop, and see only that part in which the events
are on the anvil that affect our own proceedings. Still, even if we
did, we might not understand the machinery after all, and only burn or
pinch our fingers in trying to put pieces together which fate did not
intend to fit.

In the mean time--that is to say while the attorney and his companion
were talking together at the alehouse--Sir Philip Hastings rode
quietly up the hill to the cottage I have before described, and
therefore shall not describe again, merely noticing that it now
presented an appearance of neatness and repair which it had not before
possessed. He tied his horse to the palings, walked slowly up the
little path, gazing right and left at the cabbages and carrots on
either side, and then without ceremony went in.

The cottage had two tenants at this time, the invalid old woman, and
another, well-nigh as old but less decrepit, who had been engaged to
attend upon her in her sickness. How she got the money to pay her no
one knew, for her middle life and the first stage of old age had been
marked by poverty and distress; but somehow money seems to have a
natural affinity for old age. It grows upon old people, I think, like
corns; and certainly she never wanted money now.

There she was, lying in her bed, a miserable object indeed to see. She
was like a woman made of fungus--not of that smooth, putty-like,
fleshy fungus which grows in dank places, but of the rough, rugged,
brown, carunculated sort which rises upon old stumps of trees and
dry-rot gate-posts. Teeth had departed nearly a quarter of a century
before, and the aquiline features had become more hooked and beaky for
their loss; but the eyes had now lost their keen fire, and were dull
and filmy.

The attorney was quite right. Hate was the last thing to go out in the
ashes where the spark of life itself lingered, but faintly. At first
she could not see who it was entered the cottage; for the sight now
reached but a short distance from her own face. But the sound of his
voice, as he inquired of the other old woman how she was going on, at
once showed her who it was, and hate at least roused "the dull cold
ear of death."

For a moment or two she lay muttering sounds which seemed to have no
meaning; but at length she said, distinctly enough, "Is that Philip
Hastings?"

"Yes, my poor woman," said the baronet; "is there any thing I can do
for you?"

"Come nearer, come nearer," she replied, "I cannot see you plainly."

"I am close to you, nevertheless," he answered. "I am touching the bed
on which you lie."

"Let me feel you," continued she--"give me your hand."

He did as she asked him; and holding by his hand, she made a great
struggle to raise herself in bed; but she could not, and lay exhausted
for a minute before she spoke again.

At length, however, she raised her voice louder and shriller than
before--"May a curse rest upon this hand and upon that head!" she
exclaimed; "may the hand work its own evil, and the head its own
destruction! May the child of your love poison your peace, and make
you a scoff, and a by-word, and a shame! May the wife of your bosom
perish by----"

But Sir Philip Hastings withdrew his hand suddenly, and an unwonted
flush came upon his cheek.

"For shame!" he said, in a low stern tone, "for shame!"

The next moment, however, he recovered himself perfectly; and turning
to the nurse he added, "Poor wretch! my presence only seems to excite
evil feelings which should long have passed away, and are not fit
counsellors for the hour of death. If there be any thing which can
tend to her bodily comfort that the hall can supply, send up for it.
The servants have orders. Would that any thing could be done for her
spiritual comfort; for this state is terrible to witness."

"She often asks for a priest, your worship," said the nurse. "Perhaps
if she could see one she might think better before she died."

"Alas, I doubt it," replied the visitor; "but at all events we cannot
afford her that relief. No such person can be found here."

"I don't know, Sir Philip," said the old woman, with a good deal of
hesitation; "they do say that at Carrington, there is--there is what
they call a seminary."

"You do not mean a papist college!" exclaimed the baronet, with
unfeigned surprise and consternation.

"Oh, dear, no sir," replied the nurse, "only a gentleman--a
seminary--a seminary priest, I think they call it; a papist certainly;
but they say he is a very good gentleman, all but that."

Sir Philip mused for a minute or two, and then turned to the door,
saying, "Methinks it is hard that a dying woman cannot have the
consolations of the rites of her own faith--mummery though they be. As
a magistrate, my good woman, I can give no authority in this business.
You must do as you think fit. I myself know of no priest in this
neighborhood, or I should be bound to cause his apprehension. I shall
take no notice of your word, however, and as to the rest, you must, as
I have said, act as you think fit. I did not make the laws, and I may
think them cruel. Did I make them, I would not attempt to shackle the
conscience of any one. Farewell," and passing through the door, he
remounted his horse and rode away.

It was in the early autumn time of the year, and the scene was
peculiarly lovely. I have given a slight description of it before, but
I must pause and dwell upon it once more, even as Sir Philip Hastings
paused and dwelt upon its loveliness at that moment, although he had
seen and watched it a thousand times before. He was not very
impressible by fine scenery. Like the sages of Laputa, his eyes were
more frequently turned inwards than outwards; but there was something
in that landscape which struck a chord in his heart, that is sure to
vibrate easily in the heart of every one of his countrymen.

It was peculiarly English--I might say singularly English; for I have
never seen any thing of exactly the same character anywhere else but
in Old England--except indeed in New England, where I know not whether
it be from the country having assimilated itself to the people, or
from the people having chosen the country from the resemblance to
their own paternal dwelling place, many a scene strikes the eye which
brings back to the wandering Englishman all the old, dear feelings of
his native land, and for a moment he may well forget that the broad
Atlantic rolls between him and and the home of his youth.

But let me return to my picture. Sir Philip Hastings sat upon his
horse's back, very nearly at the summit of the long range of hills
which bisected the county in which he dwelt. I have described, in
mentioning his park, the sandy character of the soil on the opposite
slope of the rise; but here higher up, and little trodden by
pulverizing feet, the sandstone rock itself occasionally broke out in
rugged maps, diversifying the softer characteristics of the scene.
Wide, and far away, on either hand, the eye could wander along the
range, catching first upon some bold mass of hill, or craggy piece of
ground, assuming almost the character of a cliff, seen in hard and
sharp distinctness, with its plume of trees and coronet of yellow
gorse, and then, proceeding onward to wave after wave, the sight
rested upon the various projecting points, each softer and softer as
they receded, like the memories of early days, till the last lines of
the wide sweep left the mind doubtful whether they were forms of earth
or clouds, or merely fancy.

Such was the scene on either hand, but straightforward it was very
different, but still quite English. Were you ever, reader, borne to
the top of a very high wave in a small boat, and did you ever, looking
down the watery mountain, mark how the steep descent, into the depth
below, was checkered by smaller waves, and these waves again by
ripples? Such was the character of the view beneath the feet of the
spectator. There was a gradual, easy descent from the highest point of
the whole county down to a river-nurtured valley, not unbroken, but
with lesser and lesser waves of earth, varying the aspect of the
scene. These waves again were marked out, first by scattered and
somewhat stunted trees, then by large oaks and chestnuts, not
undiversified by the white and gleaming bark of the graceful birch. A
massive group of birches here and there was seen; a scattered cottage,
too, with its pale bluish wreath of smoke curling up over the
tree-tops. Then, on the lower slope of all, came hedgerows of elms,
with bright green rolls of verdant turf between; the spires of
churches; the roofs and white walls of many sorts of man's
dwelling-places, and gleams of a bright river, with two or three
arches of a bridge. Beyond that again appeared a rich wide valley--I
might almost have called it a plain, all in gay confusion, with
fields, and houses, and villages, and trees, and streams, and towns,
mixed altogether in exquisite disorder, and tinted with all the
variety of colors and shades that belong to autumn and to sunset.

Down the descent, the eye of Sir Philip Hastings could trace several
roads and paths, every step of which he knew, like daily habits. There
was one, a bridle-way from a town about sixteen miles distant, which,
climbing the hills almost at its outset, swept along the whole range,
about midway between the summit and the valley. Another, by which he
had come, and along which he intended to proceed, traversed the crest
of the hills ere it reached the cottage, and then descended with a
wavy line into the valley, crossing the bridle-path I have mentioned.
A wider path--indeed it might be called a road, though it was not a
turnpike--came over the hills from the left, and with all those easy
graceful turns which Englishmen so much love in their highways, and
Frenchmen so greatly abhor, descended likewise into the valley, to the
small market-town, glimpses of which might be caught over the tops of
the trees. As the baronet sat there on horseback, and looked around,
more than one living object met his eye. To say nothing of some sheep
wandering along the uninclosed part of the hill, now stopping to
nibble the short grass, now trotting forward for a sweeter bite,--not
to notice the oxen in the pastures below, there was a large cart
slowly winding its way along an open part of the road, about half a
mile distant, and upon the bridle-path which I have mentioned, the
figure of a single horseman was seen, riding quietly and easily along,
with a sauntering sort of air, which gave the beholder at once the
notion that he was what Sterne would have called a "picturesque
traveller," and was enjoying the prospect as he went.

On the road that came over the hill from the left, was another rider
of very different demeanor, going along at a rattling pace, and
apparently somewhat careless of his horse's knees.

The glance which Sir Philip Hastings gave to either of them was but
slight and hasty. His eyes were fixed upon the scene before him,
feeling, rather than understanding, its beauties, while he commented
In his mind, after his own peculiar fashion. I need not trace the
procession of thought through his brain. It ended, however, with the
half uttered words,

"Strange, that such a land should have produced so many scoundrels,
tyrants, and knaves!"

He then slowly urged his horse forward, down the side of the hill,
soon reached some tall trees, where the inclosures and hedgerows
commenced, and was approaching the point at which the road he was
travelling, crossed the bridle-path, when he heard some loud, and as
it seemed to him, angry words, passing between two persons he could
not see.

"I will soon teach you that;" cried a loud, coarse tongue, adding an
exceedingly blasphemous oath, which I will spare the reader.

"My good friend," replied another milder voice, "I neither desire to
be taught any thing, just now, nor would you be the teacher I should
chose, if I did, though perchance, in case of need, I might give you a
lesson, which would be of some service to you."

Sir Philip rode on, and the next words he heard were spoken by the
first voice, to the following effect; "Curse me, if I would not try
that, only my man might get off in the mean time; and I have other
business in hand than yours. Otherwise I would give you such a licking
in two minutes, you would be puzzled to find a white spot on your skin
for the neat month."

"Two minutes would not detain you long," replied the calmer voice,
"and, as I have never had such a beating, I should like to see, first,
whether you could give it, and secondly, what it would be like."

"Upon my soul, you are cool!" exclaimed the first speaker with another
oath.

"Perfectly," replied the second; and, at the same moment, Sir Philip
Hastings emerged from among the trees, at the point where the two
roads crossed, and where the two speakers were face to face before his
eyes.

The one, who was in truth the sauntering traveller whom he has seen
wending along the bridle-path, was a tall, good-looking young man, of
three or four and twenty years of age. In the other, the Baronet had
no difficulty in recognizing at once, Tom Cutter, the notorious
poacher and bruiser, whom he had more than once had the satisfaction
of committing to jail. To see him mounted on a very fine powerful
horse, was a matter of no slight surprise to Sir Philip; but,
naturally concluding that he had stolen it, and was making off with
his prize for sale to the neighboring town, he rode forward and put
himself right in the way, determined to stop him.

"Ay, ay! Here is my man!" cried Tom Cutter, as soon as he saw him. "I
will settle with him first, and then for you, my friend."

"No, no, to an old proverb, first come must be first served," replied
the traveller, pushing his horse forward a few steps.

"Keep the peace, in the King's name!" exclaimed Sir Philip Hastings.
"I, as a magistrate, charge you, sir, to assist me in apprehending
this man!--Thomas Cutter, get off that horse!"

The only reply was a coarse and violent expletive, and a blow with a
thick heavy stick, aimed right at Sir Philip's head. The magistrate
put up his arm, which received the blow, and was nearly fractured by
it; but at the same moment, the younger traveller spurred forward his
horse upon the ruffian, and with one sweep of his arm struck him to
the ground.

Tom Cutter was upon, his feet again in a moment. He was accustomed to
hard blows, and like the immortal hero of Butler, could almost tell
the quality of the stick he was beat withal. He was not long in
discovering, therefore, that the fist which struck him was of no
ordinary weight, and was directed with skill as well as with vigor;
but he was accustomed to make it his boast, that he had never taken a
licking "from any man," which vanity caused him at once to risk such
another blow, in the hope of having his revenge.

Rushing upon the young stranger then, stick in hand, he prepared to
knock him from his horse; for the other appeared to have no defensive
arms, but a slight hazel twig, pulled from a hedge.

"He will jump off the other side of his horse," thought Tom Cutter;
"and then, if he do, I'll contrive to knock the nag over upon him. I
know that trick, well enough."

But the stranger disappointed him. Instead of opposing the horse
between him and his assailant, he sprung with one bound out of the
saddle, on the side next to the ruffian himself, caught the uplifted
stick with one hand, and seized the collar of the bruiser's coat with
the other.

Tom Cutter began to suspect he had made a mistake; but, knowing that
at such close quarters the stick would avail him little, and that
strength of thews and sinews would avail him much, he dropped the
cudgel, and grappled with the stranger in return.

It was all the work of a moment. Sir Philip Hastings had no time to
interfere. There was a momentary struggle, developing the fine
proportions and great strength and skill of the wrestlers; and then,
Tom Cutter lay on his back upon the ground. The next instant, the
victor put his foot upon his chest, and kept the ruffian forcibly
down, notwithstanding all his exclamations of "Curse me, that isn't
fair! When you give a man a fall, let him get up again!"

"If he is a fair fighter, I do," replied the other; "but when he plays
pirate, I don't--" Then turning to Sir Philip Hastings, who had by
this time dismounted, he said, "What is to be done with this fellow,
sir? It seems he came here for the express purpose of assaulting you,
for he began his impertinence, with asking if you had passed, giving a
very accurate description of your person, and swearing you should find
every dog would have his day."

"His offence towards myself," replied the Baronet, "I will pass over,
for it seems to me, he has been punished enough in his own way; but I
suspect he has stolen this horse. He is a man of notoriously bad
character, who can never have obtained such an animal by honest
means."

"No, I didn't steal him, I vow and swear," cried the ruffian, in a
piteous tone; for bullies are almost always cravens; "he was lent to
me by Johny Groves--some call him another name; but that don't
signify.--He lent him to me, to come up here, to stop your gab with
the old woman, Mother Danty; and mayhap to give you a good basting
into the bargain. But I didn't steal the horse no how; and there he
is, running away over the hill-side, and I shall never catch him; for
this cursed fellow has well nigh broken my back."

"Served you quite right, my friend," replied the stranger, still
keeping him tightly down with his foot. "How came you to use a cudgel
to a man who had none? Take my advice, another time, and know your man
before you meddle with him."

In the mean time Sir Philip Hastings had fallen into a profound
reverie, only repeating to himself the words "John Groves." Now the
train of thought which was awakened in his mind, though not quite new,
was unpleasant to him; for the time when he first became familiar with
that name was immediately subsequent to the opening of his father's
will, in which had been found a clause ordering the payment of a
considerable sum of money to some very respectable trustees, for the
purpose of purchasing an annuity in favor of one John Groves, then a
minor.

There had been something about the clause altogether which the son and
heir of Sir John Hastings could not understand, and did not like.
However, the will enjoined him generally to make no inquiry whatsoever
into the motives of any of the bequests, and with his usual stern
rigidity in what he conceived right, he had not only asked no
questions, but had stopped bluntly one of the trustees, who was about
to enter into some explanations. The money was paid according to
directions received, and he had never heard the name of John Groves
from that moment till it issued from the lips of the ruffian upon the
present occasion.

"What the man says may be true," said Sir Philip Hastings, at length;
"there is a person of the name he mentions. I know not how I can have
offended him. It may be as well to let him rise and catch his horse if
he can; but remember, Master Cutter, my eye is upon you; two competent
witnesses have seen you in possession of that horse, and if you
attempt to sell him, you will hang for it."

"I know better than to do that," said the bruiser, rising stiffly from
the ground as the stranger withdrew his foot; "but I can tell you, Sir
Philip, others have their eyes upon you, so you had better look to
yourself. You hold your head mightily top high, just now: but it may
chance to come down."

Sir Philip Hastings did not condescend to reply, even by a look; but
turning to the stranger, as if the man's words had never reached his
ear, he said, "I think we had better ride on, sir. You seem to be
going my way. Night is falling fast, and in this part of the country
two is sometimes a safer number to travel with than one."

The other bowed his head gravely, and remounting their horses they
proceeded on the way before them, while Tom Cutter, after giving up
some five minutes to the condemnation of the eyes, limbs, blood, and
soul of himself and several other persons, proceeded to catch the
horse which he had been riding as fast as he could. But the task
proved a difficult one.




CHAPTER X.


The two horsemen rode on their way. Neither spoke for several minutes.
Sir Philip Hastings pondering sternly on all that had passed, and his
younger companion gazing upon the scene around flooded with the
delicious rays of sunset, as if nothing had passed at all.

Sir Philip, as I have shown the reader, had a habit of brooding over
any thing which excited much interest in his breast--nay more, of
extracting from it, by a curious sort of alchemy, essence very
different from its apparent nature, sometimes bright, fine, and
beneficial, and others dark and maleficent. The whole of the
transaction just past disturbed him much; it puzzled him; it set his
imagination running upon a thousand tracks, and most of them wrong
ones; and thought was not willing to be called from her vagaries to
deal with any other subject than that which preoccupied her.

The young stranger, on the other hand, seemed one of those characters
which take all things much more lightly. In the moment of action, he
had shown skill, resolution, and energy enough, but as he sat there on
his horse's back, looking round at every point of any interest to an
admirer of nature with an easy, calm and unconcerned air, no one who
saw him could have conceived that he had been engaged the moment
before in so fierce though short a struggle. There was none of the
heat of the combatant or the triumph of the victor in his air or
countenance, and his placid and equable expression of face contrasted
strongly with the cloud which sat upon the brow of his companion.

"I beg your pardon, sir, for my gloomy silence," said Sir Philip
Hastings, at length, conscious that his demeanor was not very
courteous, "but this affair troubles me. Besides certain relations
which it bears to matters of private concernment, I am not satisfied
as to how I should deal with the ruffian we have suffered to depart so
easily. His assault upon myself I do not choose to treat harshly; but
the man is a terror to the country round, committing many an act to
which the law awards a very insufficient punishment, but with cunning
sufficient to keep within that line, the passage beyond which would
enable society to purge itself of such a stain upon it; how to deal
with him, I say, embarrasses me greatly. I have committed him two or
three times to prison already; and I am inclined to regret that I did
not, on this occasion, when he was in the very act of breaking the
law, send my sword through him, and I should have been well justified
in doing so."

"Nay, sir, methinks that would have been too much," replied his
companion; "he has had a fall, which, if I judge rightly, will be a
sufficient punishment for his assault upon you. According to the very
_lex talionis_, he has had what he deserves. If he has nearly broke
your arm, I think I have nearly broken his back."

"It is not his punishment for any offence to myself, sir, I seek,"
replied the baronet; "it is a duty to society to free it from the load
of such a man whenever he himself affords the opportunity of doing so.
Herein the law would have justified me, but even had it not been so, I
can conceive many cases where it may be necessary for the benefit of
our country and society to go beyond what the law will justify, and to
make the law for the necessity."

"Brutus, and a few of his friends, did so," replied the young stranger
with a smile, "and we admire them very much for so doing, but I am
afraid we should hang them, nevertheless, if they were in a position
to try the thing over again. The illustration of the gibbet and the
statue might have more applications than one, for I sincerely believe,
if we could revive historical characters, we should almost in all
cases erect a gallows for those to whom we now raise a monument."

Sir Philip Hastings turned and looked at him attentively, and saw his
face was gay and smiling. "You take all these things very lightly
sir," he said.

"With a safe lightness," replied the stranger.

"Nay, with something more," rejoined his companion; "in your short
struggle with that ruffian, you sprang upon him, and overthrew him
like a lion, with a fierce activity which I can hardly imagine really
calmed down so soon."

"O yes it is, my dear sir," replied the stranger, "I am somewhat of a
stoic in all things. It is not necessary that rapidity of thought and
action, in a moment of emergency, should go one line beyond the
occasion, or sink one line deeper than the mere reason. The man who
suffers his heart to be fluttered, or his passions to be roused, by
any just action he is called upon to do, is not a philosopher.
Understand me, however; I do not at all pretend to be quite perfect in
my philosophy; but, at all events, I trust I schooled myself well
enough not to suffer a wrestling match with a contemptible animal like
that, to make my pulse beat a stroke quicker after the momentary
effort is over."

Sir Philip Hastings was charmed with the reply; for though it was a
view of philosophy which he could not and did not follow, however much
he might agree to it, yet the course of reasoning and the sources of
argument were so much akin to those he usually sought, that he fancied
he had at length found a man quite after his own heart. He chose to
express no farther opinion upon the subject, however, till he had seen
more of his young companion; but that more he determined to see. In
the mean time he easily changed the conversation, saying, "You seemed
to be a very skilful and practised wrestler, sir."

"I was brought up in Cornwall," replied the other, "though not a
Cornish man, and having no affinity even with the Terse and the
Tees--an Anglo Saxon, I am proud to believe, for I look upon that race
as the greatest which the world has yet produced."

"What, superior to the Roman?" asked Sir Philip.

"Ay, even so," answered the stranger, "with as much energy, as much
resolution, less mobility, more perseverance, with many a quality
which the Roman did not possess. The Romans have left us many a fine
lesson which we are capable of practising as well as they, while we
can add much of which they had no notion."

"I should like much to discuss the subject with you more at large,"
said Sir Philip Hastings, in reply; "but I know not whether we have
time sufficient to render it worth while to begin."

"I really hardly know, either," answered the young stranger; "for, in
the first place, I am unacquainted with the country, and in the next
place, I know not how far you are going. My course tends towards a
small town called Hartwell--or, as I suspect it ought to be Hartswell,
probably from some fountain a which hart and hind used to come and
drink."

"I am going a little beyond it," replied Sir Philip Hastings, "so that
our journey will be for the next ten miles together;" and with this
good space of time before him, the baronet endeavored to bring his
young companion back to the subject which had been started, a very
favorite one with him at all times.

But the stranger seemed to have his hobbies as well as Sir Philip, and
having dashed into etymology in regard to Hartwell, he pursued it with
an avidity which excluded all other topics.

"I believe," he said, not in the least noticing Sir Philip's
dissertation on Roman virtues--"my own belief is, that there is not a
proper name in England, except a few intruded upon us by the Normans,
which might not easily be traced to accidental circumstances in the
history of the family or the place. Thus, in the case of Aylesbury, or
Eaglestown, from which it is derived, depend upon it the place has
been noted as a resort for eagles in old times, coming thither
probably for the ducks peculiar to that place. Bristol, in Anglo
Saxon, meaning the place of a bridge, is very easily traceable; and
Costa, or Costaford, meaning in Anglo Saxon the tempter's ford,
evidently derives its name from monk or maiden having met the enemy of
man or womankind at that place, and having had cause to rue the
encounter. All the Hams, all the Tons, and all the Sons, lead us at
once to the origin of the name, to say nothing of all the points of
the compass, all the colors of the rainbow, and every trade that the
ingenuity of man has contrived to invent."

In vain Sir Philip Hastings for the next half hour endeavored to bring
him back to what he considered more important questions. He had
evidently had enough of the Romans for the time being, and indulged
himself in a thousand fanciful speculations upon every other subject
but that, till Sir Philip, who at one time had rated his intellect
very highly, began to think him little better than a fool. Suddenly,
however, as if from a sense of courtesy rather than inclination, the
young man let his older companion have his way in the choice of
subject, and in his replies showed such depth of thought, such a
thorough acquaintance with history, and such precise and definite
views, that once more the baronet changed his opinion, and said to
himself, "This is a fine and noble intellect indeed, nearly spoiled by
the infection of a corrupt and frivolous world, but which might be
reclaimed, if fortune would throw him in the way of those whose
principles have been fixed and tried."

He pondered upon the matter for some short time. It was now completely
dark, and the town to which the stranger was going distant not a
quarter of a mile. The little stars were looking out in the heavens,
peering at man's actions like bright-eyed spies at night; but the moon
had not risen, and the only light upon the path was reflected from the
flashing, dancing stream that ran along beside the road, seeming to
gather up all the strong rays from the air, and give them back again
with interest.

"You are coming very near Hartwell," said Sir Philip, at length; "but
it is somewhat difficult to find from this road, and being, but little
out of my way, I will accompany you thither, and follow the high road
onwards."

The stranger was about to express his thanks, but the Baronet stopped
him, saying, "Not in the least, my young friend. I am pleased with
your conversation, and should be glad to cultivate your acquaintance
if opportunity should serve. I am called Sir Philip Hastings, and
shall be glad to see you at any time, if you are passing near my
house."

"I shall certainly wait upon you, Sir Philip, if I stay any time in
this county," replied the other. "That, however, is uncertain, for I
come here merely on a matter of business, which may be settled in a
few hours--indeed it ought to be so, for it seems to me very simple.
However, it may detain me much longer, and then I shall not fail to
take advantage of your kind permission."

He spoke gravely, and little more was said till they entered the small
town of Hartwell, about half through which a large gibbet-like bar was
seen projecting from the front of a house, suspending a large board,
upon which was painted a star. The light shining from the windows of
an opposite house fell upon the symbol, and the stranger, drawing in
his rein, said, "Here is my inn, and I will now wish you good night,
with many thanks, Sir Philip."

"Methinks it is I should thank you," replied the Baronet, "both for a
pleasant journey, and for the punishment you inflicted on the ruffian
Cutter."

"As for the first," said the stranger, "that has been more than
repaid, if indeed it deserved thanks at all; and as for the other,
that was a pleasure in itself. There is a great satisfaction to me in
breaking down the self-confidence of one of these burly bruisers."

As he spoke, he dismounted, again wishing Sir Philip good night, and
the latter rode on upon his way. His meditations, as he went, were
altogether upon the subject of the young stranger; for, as I have
shown, Sir Philip rarely suffered two ideas to get any strong grasp of
his mind at the same time. He revolved, and weighed, and dissected
every thing the young man had said, and the conclusion that he came to
was even more favorable than at first. He seemed a man after his own
heart, with just sufficient differences of opinion and diversities of
character to make the Baronet feel a hankering for some opportunity of
moulding and modelling him to his own standard of perfection. Who he
could be, he could not by any means divine. That he was a gentleman in
manners and character, there could be no doubt. That he was not rich,
Sir Philip argued from the fact of his not having chosen the best inn
in the little town, and he might also conclude that he was of no very
distinguished family, as he had not thought fit to mention his own
name in return for the Baronet's frank invitation.

Busy with these thoughts Sir Philip rode on but slowly, and took
nearly half an hour to reach the gates of Mrs. Hazleton's park, though
they stood only two miles' distance from the town. He arrived before
them at length, however, and rang the bell. The lodge-keeper opened
them but slowly, and putting his horse to a quicker pace, Sir Philip
trotted up the avenue towards the house. He had not reached it,
however, when he heard the sound of horses feet behind him, and, as he
was dismounting at the door, his companion of the way rode quickly up
and sprang to the ground, saying, with a laugh--

"I find, Sir Philip, that we are both to enjoy the same quarters
to-night, for, on my arrival at Hartwell, I did not expect to visit
this house till to-morrow morning. Mrs. Hazleton, however, has very
kindly had my baggage brought up from the inn, and therefore I have no
choice but to intrude upon her to-night."

As he spoke the doors of the house were thrown open, servants came
forth to take the horses, and the two gentlemen were ushered at once
into Mrs. Hazleton's receiving-room.




CHAPTER XI.


Mrs. Hazleton was looking as beautiful as she had been at
twenty--perhaps more so; for the few last years before the process of
decay commences, sometimes adds rather than detracts from woman's
loveliness. She was dressed with great skill and taste too; nay, even
with peculiar care. The hair, which had not yet even one silver thread
in its wavy mass, was so arranged as to hide, in some degree, that
height and width of forehead which gave almost too intellectual an
expression to her countenance--which, upon some occasions, rendered
the expression (for the features were all feminine) more that of a man
than that of a woman. Her dress was very simple in appearance though
costly in material; but it had been chosen and fitted by the nicest
art, of colors which best harmonized with her complexion, and in forms
rather to indicate beauties than to display them.

Thus attired, with grace and dignity in every motion, she advanced to
meet Sir Philip Hastings, frankly holding out her hand to him, and
beaming on him one of her most lustrous smiles. It was all thrown away
upon him indeed; but that did not matter. It had its effect in another
quarter. She then turned to the younger gentleman with a greater
degree of reserve in manner, but yet, as she spoke to him and welcomed
him to her house, the color deepened on her cheek with a blush that
would not have been lost to Sir Philip if he had been at all in the
custom of making use of them. They had evidently met before, but not
often and her words, "Good evening, Mr. Marlow, I am glad to see you
at my house at length," were said in the tone if one who was really
glad, but did not wish to show it too plainly.

"You have come with my friend, Sir Philip Hastings," she added; "I did
not know you were acquainted."

"Nor were we, my dear madam, till this evening," replied the Baronet,
speaking for himself and his companion of the road, "till we met by
accident on the hill-side on our way hither. We had a somewhat
unpleasant encounter with a notorious personage of the name of Tom
Cutter, which brought us first into acquaintance; though, till you
uttered it, my young friend's name was unknown to me."

"Tom Cutter! is that the man who poaches all my game?" said the lady,
in a musing tone.

Nor was she musing of Tom Cutter, or the lost game, or of the sins and
iniquities of poaching; neither one or the other. The exclamation and
inquiry taken together were only one of those little half-unconscious
stratagems of human nature, by which we often seek to amuse the other
parties in conversation--and sometimes amuse our own outward man
too--while the little spirit within is busily occupied with some
question which we do not wish our interlocutors to have any thing to
do with. She was asking herself, in fact, what had been the
conversation with which Sir Philip Hastings and Mr. Marlow had
beguiled the way--whether they had talked of her--whether they had
talked of her affairs--and how she could best get some information on
the subject without seeming to seek it.

She soon had an opportunity of considering the matter more at leisure,
for Sir Philip Hastings, with some remark as to "dusty dresses not
being fit for ladies' drawing-rooms," retired for a time to the
chamber prepared for him. The fair lady of the house detained Mr.
Marlow indeed for a few minutes, talking with him in a pleasant and
gentle tone, and making her bright eyes do their best in the way of
captivating. She expressed regret that she had not seen him more
frequently, and expressed a hope, in very graceful terms, that even
the painful question, which those troublesome men of law had started
between them, might be a means of ripening their acquaintance into
friendship.

The young gentleman replied with all gallantry, but with due
discretion, and then retired to his room to change his dress. He
certainly was a very good-looking young man; finely formed, and with a
pleasing though not regularly handsome countenance; and perhaps he
left Mrs. Hazleton other matters to meditate of than the topics of his
conversation with Sir Philip Hastings. Certain it is, that when the
baronet returned very shortly after, he found his beautiful hostess in
a profound reverie, from which his sudden entrance made her start with
a bewildered look not common to her.

"I am very glad to talk to you for a few moments alone, my dear
friend," said Mrs. Hazleton, after a moment's pause. "This Mr. Marlow
is the gentleman who claims the very property on which you now stand;"
and she proceeded to give her hearer, partly by spontaneous
explanations, partly by answers to his questions, her own view of the
case between herself and Mr. Marlow; laboring hard and skilfully to
prepossess the mind of Sir Philip Hastings with a conviction of her
rights as opposed to that of her young guest.

"Do you mean to say, my dear madam," asked Sir Philip, "that he claims
the whole of this large property? That would be a heavy blow indeed."

"Oh, dear, no," replied the lady; "the great bulk of the property is
mine beyond all doubt, but the land on which this house stands, and
rather more than a thousand acres round it, was bought by my poor
father before I was born, I believe, as affording the most eligible
site for a mansion. He never liked the old house near your place, and
built this for himself. Mr. Marlow's lawyers now declare that his
grand-uncle, who sold the land to my father, had no power to sell it;
that the property was strictly entailed."

"That will be easily ascertained," said Sir Philip Hastings; "and I am
afraid, my dear madam, if that should prove the case, you will have no
remedy but to give up the property."

"But is not that very hard?" asked Mrs. Hazleton, "the Marlows
certainly had the money."

"That will make no difference," replied Sir Philip, musing; "this
young man's grand-uncle may have wronged your father; but he is not
responsible for the act, and I am very much afraid, moreover, that his
claim may not be limited to the property itself. Back rents, I
suspect, might be claimed."

"Ay, that is what my lawyer, Mr. Shanks, says," replied Mrs. Hazleton,
with a bewildered look; "he tells me that if Mr. Marlow is successful
in the suit, I shall have to pay the whole of the rents of the land.
But Shanks added that he was quite certain of beating him if we could
retain for our counsel Sargeant Tutham and Mr. Doubledo."

"Shanks is a rogue," said Sir Philip Hastings, in a calm, equable
tone; "and the two lawyers you have named bear the reputation of being
learned and unscrupulous men. The first point, my dear madam, is to
ascertain whether this young gentleman's claim is just, and then to
deal with him equitably, which, in the sense I affix to the term, may
be somewhat different from legal."

"I really do not know what to do," cried Mrs. Hazleton, with a slight
laugh, as if at her own perplexity. "I Was never in such a situation
in my life;" and then she added, very rapidly and in a jocular tone,
as if she were afraid of pausing upon or giving force to any one word,
"if my poor father had been alive, he would have settled it all after
his own way soon enough. He was a great match-maker you know, Sir
Philip, and he would have proposed, in spite of all obstacles, a
marriage between the two parties, to settle the affair by matrimony
instead of by law," and she laughed again as if the very idea was
ridiculous.

Unlearned Sir Philip thought so too, and most improperly replied, "The
difference of age would of course put that out of the question;" nor
when he had committed the indiscretion, did he perceive the red spot
which came upon Mrs. Hazleton's fair brow, and indicated sufficiently
enough the effect his words had produced. There was an ominous silent
pause, however, for a minute, and then the Baronet was the person to
resume the discourse in his usual calm, argumentative tone. "I do not
think," he said, "from Mr. Marlow's demeanor or conversation, that he
is likely to be very exacting in this matter. His claim, however, must
be looked to in the first place, before we admit any thing on your
part. If the property was really entailed, he has undoubtedly a right
to it, both in honesty and in law; but methinks there he might limit
his claim if his sense of real equity be strong; but the entail must
be made perfectly clear before you can admit so much as that."

"Well, well, sir," said Mrs. Hazleton, hastily, for she heard a step
on the outer stairs, "I will leave it entirely to you, Sir Philip, I
am sure you will take good care of my interests."

Sir Philip did not altogether like the word interests, and bowing his
head somewhat stiffly, he added, "and of your honor, my dear madam."

Mrs. Hazleton liked his words as little as he did hers, and she
colored highly. She made no reply, indeed, but his words that night
were never forgotten.

The next moment Mr. Marlow entered the room with a quiet, easy air,
evidently quite unconscious of having been the subject of
conversation. During the evening he paid every sort of polite
attention to his fair hostess, and undoubtedly showed signs and
symptoms of thinking her a very beautiful and charming woman. Whatever
was her game, take my word for it, reader, she played it skilfully,
and the very fact of her retiring early, at the very moment when she
had made the most favorable impression, leaving Sir Philip Hastings to
entertain Mr. Marlow at supper, was not without its calculation.

As soon as the lady was gone, Sir Philip turned to the topic of Mrs.
Hazleton's business with his young companion, and managed the matter
more skilfully than might have been expected. He simply told him that
Mrs. Hazleton had mentioned a claim made upon her estate by his
lawyers, and had thought it better to leave the investigation of the
affair to her friend, rather than to professional persons.

A frank good-humored smile came upon Mr. Marlow's face at once. "I am
not a rich man, Sir Philip," he said, "and make no professions of
generosity, but, at the same time, as my grand-uncle undoubtedly had
this money from Mrs. Hazleton's father, I should most likely never
have troubled her on the subject, but that this very estate is the
original seat of our family, on which we can trace our ancestors back
through many centuries. The property was undoubtedly entailed, my
father and my uncle were still living when it was sold, and performed
no disentailing act whatever. This is perfectly susceptible of proof,
and though my claim may put Mrs. Hazleton to some inconvenience, I am
anxious to avoid putting her to any pain. Now I have come down with a
proposal which I confidently trust you will think reasonable. Indeed,
I expected to find her lawyer here rather than an independent friend,
and I was assured that my proposal would be accepted immediately, by
persons who judged of my rights more sanely perhaps than I could."

"May I hear what the proposal is?" asked Sir Philip.

"Assuredly," replied Mr. Marlow, "it is this: that in the first place
Mrs. Hazleton should appoint some gentleman of honor, either at the
bar or not, as she may think fit, to investigate my claim, with myself
or some other gentleman on my part, with right to call in a third as
umpire between them. I then propose that if my claim should be
distinctly proved, Mrs. Hazleton should surrender to me the lands in
question, I repaying her the sum which my grand-uncle received, and--"

"Stay," said Sir Philip Hastings, "are you aware that the law would
not oblige you to do that?"

"Perfectly," replied Mr. Marlow, "and indeed I am not very sure that
equity would require it either, for I do not know that my father ever
received any benefit from the money paid to his uncle. He may have
received a part however, without my knowing it, for I would rather err
on the right side than on the wrong. I then propose that the rents of
the estate, as shown by the leases, and fair interest upon the value
of the ground surrounding this house, should be computed during the
time that it has been out of our possession, while on the other hand
the legal interest of the money paid for the property should be
calculated for the same period, the smaller sum deducted from the
larger, and the balance paid by me to Mrs. Hazleton or by Mrs.
Hazleton to me, so as to replace every thing in the same state as if
this unfortunate sale had never taken place."

Sir Philip Hastings mused without reply for more than one minute. That
is a long time to muse, and many may be the thoughts and feelings
which pass through the breast of man during that space. They were many
in the present instance, and it would not be very easy to separate or
define them. Sir Philip thought of all the law would have granted to
the young claimant under the circumstances of the case: the whole
property, all the back rents, every improvement that had been made,
the splendid mansion in which they were then standing, without the
payment on his part of a penny: he compared these legal rights with
what he now proposed, and he saw that he had indeed gone a great way
on the generous side of equity. There was something very fine and
noble in this conduct, something that harmonized well with his own
heart and feelings. There was no exaggeration, no romance about it: he
spoke in the tone of a man of business doing a right thing well
considered, and the Baronet was satisfied in every respect but one.
Mrs. Hazleton's words I must not say had created a suspicion, but had
suggested the idea that other feelings might be acting between her and
his young companion, notwithstanding the difference of age which he
had so bluntly pointed out, and he resolved to inquire farther.

In the mean time, however, Mr. Marlow somewhat misinterpreted his
silence, and he added, after waiting longer than was pleasant, "Of
course you understand, Sir Philip, that if two or three honest men
decide that my case is unfounded--although I know that cannot be the
case--I agree to drop it at once and renounce it for ever. My
solicitors and counsel in London judged the offer a fair one at
least."

"And so do I," said Sir Philip Hastings, emphatically; "however, I
must speak with Mrs. Hazleton upon the subject, and express my opinion
to her. Pray, have you the papers regarding your claim with you?"

"I have attested copies," replied Mr. Marlow, "and I can bring them to
you in a moment. They are so unusually clear, and seem to put the
matter so completely beyond all doubt, that I brought them down to
satisfy Mrs. Hazleton and her solicitor, without farther trouble, that
my demand at least had some foundation in justice."

The papers were immediately brought, and sitting down deliberately,
Sir Philip Hastings went through them with his young friend, carefully
weighing every word. They left not even a doubt on his mind; they
seemed not to leave a chance even for the chicanery of the law, they
were clear, precise, and definite. And the generosity of the young
man's offer stood out even more conspicuously than before.

"For my part, I am completely satisfied," said Sir Philip Hastings,
when he had done the examination, "and I have no doubt that Mrs.
Hazleton will be so likewise. She is an excellent and amiable person,
as well as a very beautiful woman. Have you known her long? have you
seen her often?"

"Only once, and that about a year ago," replied Mr. Marlow; "she is
indeed very beautiful as you say--for a woman of her period of life
remarkably so; she puts me very much in mind of my mother, whom I in
the confidence of youthful affection used to call 'my everlasting.' I
recollect doing so only three days before the hand of death wrote upon
her brow the vanity of all such earthly thoughts."

Sir Philip Hastings was satisfied. There was nothing like passion
there. Unobservant as he was in most things, he was more clear-sighted
in regard to matters of love, than any other affection of the human
mind. He had himself loved deeply and intensely, and he had not
forgotten it.

It was necessary, before any thing could be concluded, to wait for
Mrs. Hazleton's rising on the following morning; and, bidding Mr.
Marlow good night with a warm grasp of the hand, Sir Philip Hastings
retired to his room and passed nearly an hour in thought, pondering
the character of his new acquaintance, recalling every trait he had
remarked, and every word he had heard. It was a very satisfactory
contemplation. He never remembered to have met with one who seemed so
entirely a being after his own heart. There might be little flaws,
little weaknesses perhaps, but the confirming power of time and
experience would, he thought, strengthen all that was good, and
counsel and example remedy all that was weak or light.

"At all events," thought the Baronet, "his conduct on this occasion
shows a noble and equitable spirit. We shall see how Mrs. Hazleton
meets it to-morrow."

When that morrow came, he had to see the reverse of the picture, but
it must be reserved for another chapter.




CHAPTER XII.


Mrs. Hazleton was up in the morning early. She was at all times an
early riser, for she well knew what a special conservator of beauty is
the morning dew, but on this occasion certain feelings of impatience
made her a little earlier than usual. Besides, she knew that Sir
Philip Hastings was always a matutinal man, and would certainly be in
the library before she was down. Nor was she disappointed. There she
found the Baronet reaching up his hand to take down Livy, after having
just replaced Tacitus.

"It is a most extraordinary thing, my dear madam," said Sir Philip,
after the salutation of the morning, "and puzzles me more than I can
explain."

Mrs. Hazleton fancied that her friend had discovered some very knotty
point in the case with Mr. Marlow, and she rejoiced, for her object
was not, to emulate but to entangle. Sir Philip, however, went on to
put her out of all patience by saying, "How the Romans, so sublimely
virtuous at one period of their history, could fall into so debased
and corrupt a state as we find described even by Sallust, and depicted
in more frightful colors still by the latter historians of the
empire."

Mrs. Hazleton, as I have said, was out of all patience, and ladies in
that state sometimes have recourse to homely illustration. "Their
virtue got addled, I suppose," she replied, "by too long keeping.
Virtue is an egg that won't bear sitting upon--but now do tell me, Sir
Philip, had you any conversation with Mr. Marlow last night upon this
troublesome affair of mine?"

"I had, my dear madam," replied Sir Philip, with a very faint smile,
for Sir Philip could not well bear any jesting on the Romans. "I did
not only converse with Mr. Marlow on the subject, but I examined
carefully the papers he brought down with him, and perceived at once
that you have not the shadow of a title to the property in question."

Mrs. Hazleton's brow grew dark, and she replied in a somewhat sullen
tone, "You decided against me very rapidly, Sir Philip. I hope you did
not let Mr. Marlow see your strong prepossession--opinion I mean to
say--in his favor."

"Entirely," replied Sir Philip Hastings.

Mrs. Hazleton was silent, and gazed down upon the carpet as if she
were counting the threads of which it was composed, and finding the
calculation by no means satisfactory.

Sir Philip let her gaze on for some time, for he was not very easily
moved to compassion in cases where he saw dishonesty of purpose as
well as suffering. At length, however, he said, "My judgment is not
binding upon you in the least; I tell you simply, my dear madam, what
is my conclusion, and the law will tell you the same."

"We shall see," muttered Mrs. Hazleton between her teeth; but then
putting on a softer air she asked, "Tell me, Sir Philip, would you, if
you were in my situation, tamely give up a property which was honestly
bought and paid for, without making one struggle to retain it?"

"The moment I was convinced I had no legal right to it," replied Sir
Philip. "However, the law is still open to you, if you think it better
to resist; but before you take your determination, you had better hear
what Mr. Marlow proposes, and you will pardon me for expressing to you
what I did not express to him: an opinion that his proposal is founded
upon the noblest view of equity."

"Indeed," said Mrs. Hazleton, with her eyes brightening, "pray let me
hear this proposal."

Sir Philip explained it to her most distinctly, expecting that she
would be both surprised and pleased, and never doubted that she would
accept it instantly. Whether she was surprised or not, did not appear,
but pleased she certainly was not to any great extent, for she did not
wish the matter to be so soon concluded. She began to make objections
immediately. "The enormous expense of building this house has not been
taken into consideration at all, and it will be very necessary to have
the original papers examined before any thing is decided. There are
two sides to every question, my dear Sir Philip, and we cannot tell
that other papers may not be found, disentailing this estate before
the sale took place."

"This is impossible," answered Sir Philip Hastings, "if the papers
exhibited to me are genuine, for this young gentleman, on whom, as his
father's eldest son, the estate devolved by the entail, was not born
when the sale took place. By his act only could it be disentailed, and
as he was not born, he could perform no such act."

He pressed her hard in his cold way, and it galled her sorely.

"Perhaps they are not genuine," she said at length.

"They are all attested," replied Sir Philip, "and he himself proposes
that the originals should be examined as the basis of the whole
transaction."

"That is absolutely necessary," said Mrs. Hazleton, well satisfied to
put off decision even for a time. But Sir Philip would not leave her
even that advantage.

"I think," he said; "you must at once decide whether you accept his
proposal, on condition that the examination of the papers proves the
justice of his claim to the satisfaction of those you may appoint to
examine it. If there are any doubts and difficulties to be raised
afterwards, he might as well proceed by law at once."

"Then let him go to law," exclaimed Mrs. Hazleton with a flashing eye.
"If he do, I will defend every step to the utmost of my power."

"Incur enormous expense, give yourself infinite pain and
mortification, and ruin a fine estate by a spirit of unnecessary and
unjust resistance," added Sir Philip, in a calm and somewhat
contemptuous tone.

"Really, Sir Philip, you press me too hard," exclaimed Mrs. Hazleton
in a tone of angry mortification, and, sitting down to the table, she
actually wept.

"I only press you for your own good," answered the Baronet, not at all
moved, "you are perhaps not aware that if this gentleman's claim is,
just, and you resist it, the whole costs will fall upon you. All that
could be expected of him was to submit his claim to arbitration, but
he now does more; he proposes, if arbitration pronounce it just, to
make sacrifices of his legal rights to the amount of many thousand
pounds. He is not bound to refund one penny paid for this estate, he
is entitled to back rents for a considerable number of years, and yet
he offers to repay the money, and far from demanding the back rents,
to make compensation for any loss of interest that may have been
sustained by this investment. There are few men in England, let me
tell you, who would have made such a proposal, and if you refuse it
you will never have such another."

"Do not you think, Sir Philip," asked Mrs. Hazleton sharply, "that he
never would have made such a proposal if he had not known there was
something wrong about his title?"

Now there was something in this question which doubly provoked Sir
Philip Hastings. He never could endure a habit which some ladies have
of recurring continually to points previously disposed of, and
covering the reiteration by merely putting objections in a new form.
Now the question as to the validity of Mr. Marlow's title, he looked
upon as entirely disposed of by the proposal of investigation and
arbitration. But there was something more than this; the very question
which the lady put showed an incapacity for conceiving any generous
motive, which thoroughly disgusted him, and, turning with a quiet step
to the window, he looked down upon the lawn which spread far away
between two ranges of tall fine wood, glowing in the yellow sunshine
of a dewy autumnal morning. It was the most favorable thing he could
have done for Mrs. Hazleton. Even the finest and the strongest and the
stoutest minds are more frequently affected unconsciously by external
things than any one is aware of. The sweet influences or the
irritating effects of fine or bad weather, of beautiful or tame
scenery, of small cares and petty disappointments, of pleasant
associations or unpleasant memories, nay of a thousand accidental
circumstances, and even fancies themselves, will affect considerations
totally distinct and apart, as the blue or yellow panes of a stained
glass window cast a melancholy hue or a yellow splendor upon the
statue and carvings of the cold gray stone.

As Sir Philip gazed forth upon the fair scene before his eyes, and
thought what a lovely spot it was, how calm, how peaceful, how
refreshing in its influence, he said to himself, "No wonder she is
unwilling to part with it."

Then again, there was a hare gambolling upon the lawn, at a distance
of about a hundred yards from the house, now scampering along and
beating up the dew from the morning grass, now crouched nearly flat so
as hardly to be seen among the tall green blades, then hopping quietly
along with an awkward, shuffling gait, or sitting up on its hind legs,
with raised ears, listening to some distant sound; but still as it
resumed its gambols, again going round and round, tracing upon the
green sward a labyrinth of meandering lines. Sir Philip watched it for
several moments with a faint smile, and then said to himself, "It is
the beast's nature--why not a woman's?"

Turning himself round he saw Mrs. Hazleton, sitting at the table with
her head leaning in a melancholy attitude upon her hand, and he
replied to her last words, though he had before fully made up his mind
to give them no answer whatever.

"The question in regard to title, my dear madam," he said, "is one
which is to be decided by others. Employ a competent person, and he
will insure, by full investigation, that your rights are maintained
entire. Your acceptance of Mr. Marlow's proposals contingent on the
full recognition of his claim, will be far from prejudicing your case,
should any flaw in your title be discovered. On the contrary, should
the decision of a point Of law be required, it will put you well with
the court. By frankly doing so, you also meet him in the same spirit
in which I am sure he comes to you; and as I am certain he has a very
high sense of equity, I think he will be well inclined to enter into
any arrangement which may be for your convenience. From what he has
said himself, I do not believe he can afford to keep such an
establishment as is necessary for this house, and if you cling to it,
as you may well do, doubtless it may remain your habitation as long as
you please at a very moderate rent. Every other particular I think may
be settled in the same manner, if you will but show a spirit of
conciliation, and--"

"I am sure I have done that," said Mrs. Hazleton, interrupting him.
"However, Sir Philip, I will leave it all to you. You must act for me
in this business. If you think it right, I will accept the proposal
conditionally as you mention, and the title can be examined fully
whenever we can fix upon the time and the person. All this is very
hard upon me, I do think; but I suppose I must submit with a good
grace."

"It is certainly the best plan," replied Sir Philip; and while Mrs.
Hazleton retired to efface the traces of tears from her eyelids, the
Baronet walked into the drawing-room, where he was soon after joined
by Mr. Marlow. He merely told him, however, that he had conversed with
the lady of the house, and that she would give him her answer in
person. Now, whatever were Mrs. Hazleton's wishes or intentions, she
certainly was not well satisfied with the precise and rapid manner in
which Sir Philip brought matters of business to an end. His last
words, however, had afforded her a glimmering prospect of somewhat
lengthy and frequent communication between herself and Mr. Marlow, and
one thing is certain, that she did not at all desire the transaction
between them to be concluded too briefly. At the same time, it was not
her object to appear otherwise than in the most favorable light to his
eyes; and consequently, when she entered the drawing-room she held out
her hand to him with a gracious though somewhat melancholy smile,
saying, "I have had a long conversation with Sir Philip this morning,
Mr. Marlow, concerning the very painful business which brought you
here. I agree at once to your proposal in regard to the arbitration
and the rest;" and she then went on to speak of the whole business as
if she had made not the slightest resistance whatever, but had been
struck at once by the liberality of his proposals, and by the sense of
equity which they displayed. Sir Philip took little notice of all
this; for he had fallen into one of his fits of musing, and Mr. Marlow
had quitted the room to bring some of the papers for the purpose of
showing them to Mrs. Hazleton, before the Baronet awoke out of his
reverie. The younger gentleman returned a moment after, and he and Sir
Philip and Mrs. Hazleton were busily looking at a long list of
certificates of births, deaths and marriages, when the door opened,
and Mr. Shanks, the attorney, entered the room, booted, spurred, and
dusty as if from a long ride. He was a man to whom Sir Philip had a
great objection; but he said nothing, and the attorney with a tripping
step advanced towards Mrs. Hazleton.

The lady looked confused and annoyed, and in a hasty manner put back
the papers into Mr. Marlow's hand. But Mr. Shanks was one of the keen
and observing men of the world. He saw every thing about him as if he
had been one of those insects which have I do not know how many
thousand pair of lenses in each eye. He had no scruples or hesitation
either; he was all sight and all remark, and a lady of any kind was
not at all the person to inspire him with reverence.

He was, in short, all law, and loved nothing, respected nothing, but
law.

"Dear me, Mrs. Hazleton," he exclaimed, "I did not expect to find you
so engaged. These seem to be law papers--very dangerous, indeed,
madam, for unprofessional persons to meddle with such things. Permit
me to look at them;" and he held out his hand towards Mr. Marlow, as
if expecting to receive the papers without a word of remonstrance. But
Mr. Marlow held them back, saying, in a very calm, civil tone, "Excuse
me, sir! We are conversing over the matter in a friendly manner; and I
shall show them to a lawyer only at Mrs. Hazleton's request."

"Very improper--that is, I mean to say very unprofessional!" exclaimed
Mr. Shanks, "and let me say very hazardous too," rejoined the lawyer
abruptly; but Mrs. Hazleton herself interposed, saying in a marked
tone and with an air of dignity which did not always characterize her
demeanor towards her "right hand man," as she was accustomed sometimes
to designate Mr. Shanks, "We do not desire any interference at this
moment, my good sir. I appointed you at twelve o'clock. It is not yet
nine."

"O I can see, I can see," replied Mr. Shanks, while Sir Philip
Hastings advanced a step or two, "his worship here never was a friend
of mine, and has no objection to take a job or two out of my hands at
any time."

"We have nothing to do with jobs, sir," said Sir Philip Hastings, in
his usual dry tone, "but at all events we do not wish you to make a
job where there is none."

"I must take the liberty, however, of warning that lady, sir," said
Mr. Shanks, with the pertinacity of a parrot, which he so greatly
resembled, "as her legal adviser, sir, that if----"

"That if she sends for an attorney, she wants him at the time she
appoints," interposed Sir Philip; "that was what you were about to
say, I suppose."

"Not at all, sir, not at all," exclaimed the lawyer; for very shrewd
and very oily lawyers will occasionally forget their caution and their
coolness when they see the prospect of a loss of fees before them. "I
was going to say no such thing. I was going to warn her not to meddle
with matters of business of which she can understand nothing, by the
advice of those who know less, and who may have jobs of their own to
settle while they are meddling with hers."

"And I warn you to quit this room, sir," said Sir Philip Hastings, a
bright spot coming into his usually pale cheek; "the lady has already
expressed her opinion upon your intrusion, and depend upon it, I will
enforce mine."

"I shall do no such thing, sir, till I have fully----"

He said no more, for before he could conclude the sentence, the hand
of Sir Philip Hastings was upon his collar with the grasp of a giant,
and although he was a tall and somewhat powerful man, the Baronet
dragged him to the door in despite of his half-choking struggles, as a
nurse would haul along a baby, pulled him across the stone hall, and
opening the outer door with his left hand, shot him down the steps
without any ceremony; leaving him with his hands and knees upon the
terrace.

This done, the Baronet returned into the house again, closing the door
behind him. He then paused in the hall for an instant, reproaching
himself for certain over-quick beatings of the heart, tranquillized
his whole look and demeanor, and then returning to the drawing-room,
resumed the conversation with Mrs. Hazleton, as if nothing had ever
occurred to interrupt it.




CHAPTER XIII.


Mrs. Hazleton was or affected to be a good deal flustered by the event
which had just taken place, but after a number of certain graceful
attitudes, assumed without the slightest appearance of affectation,
she recovered her calmness, and proceeded with the business in hand.
That business was soon terminated, so far as the full and entire
acceptance of Mr. Marlow's proposal went, and immediately after the
conclusion of breakfast, Sir Philip Hastings ordered his horses to
depart. Mrs. Hazleton fain would have detained him, for she foresaw
that his going might be a signal for Mr. Marlow's going also, and it
was not a part of her policy to assume the matronly character so
distinctly as to invite him to remain in her house alone. Sir Philip
however was inexorable, and returned to his own dwelling, renewing his
invitation to his new acquaintance.

Mrs. Hazleton bade him adieu, with the greatest appearance of
cordiality; but I am very much afraid, if one had possessed the power
of looking into her heart, one would have a picture very different
from that presented by her face. Sir Philip Hastings had said and done
things since he had entered her dwelling the night before, which Mrs.
Hazleton was not a woman to forget or forgive. He had thwarted her
schemes, he had mortified her vanity, he had wounded her pride; and
she was one of those women who bide their time, but have a strong
tenacity of resentments.

When he was gone, however, she played a new game with Mr. Marlow. She
insisted upon his remaining for the day, but with a fine sense of
external proprieties, she informed him that she expected a charming
elderly lady of her acquaintance to pass a few days with her, to whom
she should particularly like to introduce him.

This was false, be it remarked; but she immediately took measures to
make it true. Now, there is in every neighborhood more than one of
that class called good creatures. For this office, an abundant store
of real or assumed soft stupidity is required; but it is a somewhat
difficult part to play, for with this stupidity there must also be a
considerable portion of fine tact, to guard the performer against any
of those blunders into which good-natured people are continually
plunging. Drill and discipline are also necessary, in order to be
always on the look out for hints, to appreciate them properly, to
comprehend that friends may say one thing and mean another, and to ask
no questions of any kind. There were no less than three of these good
creatures in this Mrs. Hazleton's immediate neighborhood; and during a
few moments' retreat to her own little writing-room, she laid her
finger upon her fair temple, and thought them well over. Mrs. Winifred
Edgeby was the first who suggested herself to the mind of the fair
lady. She had many of the requisites. She dressed well, talked well,
and had an air of style and fashion about her; was perfectly
innocuous, and skilful in divining the purposes and wishes of a friend
or patron; but there was an occasional touch of subacrid humor about
her which Mrs. Hazleton did not half like. It gave an impression of
seeing too clearly, of perceiving much more than she pretended to
perceive.

The second was Mrs. Warmington, a widow, not very rich, and not indeed
very refined; gay, talkative, somewhat boisterous, yet full of a sound
discretion in never committing herself or a friend. She had also much
experience, for she had been twice married, and twice a widow, and
thus had had her misfortunes. The third was a Miss Goodenough, the
most silent, quiet, stilly person in the world, moving about the house
with the step of a cat, and a face of infinite good nature to the
whole human race. She was to all appearance the pink of gentleness and
weak good nature; but her silence was invaluable.

After some consideration Mrs. Hazleton decided upon the widow, and
instantly dispatched a note with her own carriage, begging Mrs.
Warmington to come over immediately and spend a few days with her, as
a young gentleman had arrived upon a visit, and it would be indecorous
to entertain him alone.

Mrs. Warmington understood it all in an instant. She said to her. If,
"Ho, ho! a young gentleman come to stay--wanted a duenna! Matrimony in
the wind! Heigho! she must be six and thirty--six and thirty from two
and fifty leave sixteen points against me, and long odds. Well,
well,--I have had my share;" and Mrs. Warmington laughed aloud.
However, she would neither keep Mrs. Hazleton's carriage waiting, nor
Mrs. Hazleton herself in suspense, for there were various little
comforts and conveniences in the good will of that lady which Mrs.
Warmington was eager to cultivate. She had, too, a shrewd suspicion
that the enmity of Mrs. Hazleton might become a thing to be seriously
dreaded; and therefore, whichever side of the question she looked at,
she saw reasons for seeking the beautiful widow's good graces. Her
maid was called, her clothes packed up, and she entered the carriage
and drove away, while in the mean time Mrs. Hazleton had been
expatiating to Mr. Marlow upon all the high qualities and points of
excellence in her friend Mrs. Warmington. She was too skilful,
moreover, to bring her good taste and judgment into question with her
young friend, by raising expectations which might be disappointed. She
therefore threw in insinuations of a few faults and failings in dear
Madam Warmington's manner and demeanor. But then she said she was such
a good creature at heart, that although the very fastidious affected
to censure, she herself forgot all little blemishes in the inherent
excellence of the person.

Moreover, upon the plea of looking at the ground which was the subject
of Mr. Marlow's claim, she led him out for a long, pleasant ramble
through the park. She took him amongst old hawthorn trees, through
groves of chestnuts by the banks of the stream, and along paths where
the warm sunshine played through the brown and yellow leaves above,
gilding their companions which had fallen earlier than themselves to
the sward below. It was a very lover-like walk indeed--one where
nature speaks to the heart, wakening sweet influences, and charming
the spirit up from hard and cold indifference. Mrs. Hazleton felt sure
that Mr. Marlow would not forget that walk, and she took care to
impress it as deeply as possible upon his memory. Nor did she want any
of the means to do so. Her mind was highly cultivated for the age in
which she lived, her taste fine, her information extensive. She could
discourse of foreign lands, of objects and scenes of deep interest,
great beauty, and rich associations,--of courts and cities far away,
of music, painting, flowers in other lands, of climates rich in
sunshine and of genial warmth; and through the whole she had the art
to throw a sort of magic glow from her own mind which brightened all
she spoke of.

She was very charming that day, indeed, and Mr. Marlow felt the spell,
but he did not fall in love.

Now what was the object of using all these powers upon him? Was Mrs.
Hazleton a person very susceptible, or very covetous of the tender
passion? Since her return to England she had refused some half-dozen
very eligible offers from handsome, agreeable, estimable men, and the
world in general had set her down for a person as cold as a stone. It
might be so, but there are some stones, which, when you heat them,
acquire intense fervor, and retain it longer than any other substance.
Every body in the world has his peculiarities, his whims, caprices,
crochets if you will. Mrs. Hazleton had gazed over the handsome, the
glittering and the gay, with the most perfect indifference. She had
listened to professions of love with a tranquil, easy balance power,
which weighed to a grain the advantages of matrimony and widowhood,
without suffering the dust of passion to give even a shake to the
scale. Before the preceding night she had only seen Mr. Marlow once,
but the moment she set eyes upon him--the moment she heard his voice,
she had said to herself, "If ever I marry again, that is the man."
There is no explaining these sympathetic attractions, impulses, or
whatever they may be called; but I think, from some observation of
human nature, it will be found that in those persons where they are
the least frequent, they are the most powerful and persevering when
they do exist.

Not long after their first meeting, some intimation occurred
of a claim on the part of Mr. Marlow to a portion of the lady's
property--that portion that she loved best. The very idea of parting
with it at all, of being forced to give it up, was most painful and
distressing to her. Yet that made no difference whatever in her
feelings towards Mr. Marlow. Communications of various kinds took
place between lawyers, and the opposite counsel were as firm as a
rock. Mrs. Hazleton thought it very hard, very unjust, very wrong; but
that changed not in the least her feelings towards Mr. Marlow. Nay
more, with that delicate art of combination in which ladies are formed
to excel, she conceived and manipulated with great dexterity a scheme
for bringing herself and Mr. Marlow into frequent personal
communication, and for causing somebody to suggest to him a marriage
with her own beautiful self, as the best mode of settling the disputed
claim.

O those fine and delicate threads of intrigue, how frail they are, and
how much depends upon every one of them, be it in the warp or the woof
of a scheme! We have seen that in this case, one of them gave way
under the rough handling of Sir Philip Hastings, and the whole fabric
was in imminent danger of running down and becoming nothing but a
raveled skein. Mrs. Hazleton was resolved that it should not be so,
and now she was busily engaged in the attempt to knot together the
broken thread, and to lay all the others straight and in right order
again. This was the secret of the whole matter.

She exerted all her charms, and could Waller but have seen her we
should have had such an account of the artillery of her eyes, the
insidious attack of her smile, and the whole host of powerful
adversaries brought to bear against the object of her assault in her
gracefully moving form and heaving bosom, that Saccharissa would have
melted away like a wet lump of sugar in the comparison.

Then again when she had produced an effect, and saw clear and
distinctly that he thought her lovely, and very charming too, she
seemed to fall into a pleasant sort of languid melancholy, which was
even more charming still. The brook was bubbling and murmuring at
their feet, dashing clear and bright over its stony bed, and changing
the brown rock, the water weed, or the leaf beneath, into gems by the
magic of its own brightness. The boughs were waving over head, covered
with many-colored foliage, and the sun, glancing through, not only
enriched the tints above, but checkered the mossy path along which
they wandered like a chess-board of brown and gold. Some of the late
autumn birds uttered their short sweet songs from the copse hard by,
and the musical wind came sighing up from the valley, as if nature had
furnished Eolus with a harp. It was in short quite a scene, and a
moment for a widow to make love to a young man. They were silent for
some little time, and then Mrs. Hazleton said, with her soft, sweet,
round voice, "Is not all this very charming, Mr. Marlow?"

Her tone was quite a sad one, but not with that sort of pleasant
sadness which often mingles with our happiest moments, giving them
even a higher zest, like the flattened notes when a fine piece of
music passes gently from the major into the minor key, but really sad,
profoundly sad.

"Very charming, indeed," replied her young companion, looking round to
her face with some surprise.

"And what am I to do without it, when you turn me out of my house!"
said the lady, answering his glance with a melancholy smile.

"Turn you out of your house!" exclaimed Mr. Marlow; "I hope you do not
suppose, my dear madam, that I could dream of such a thing. Oh, no! I
would not for the world deprive such a scene of its brightest
ornament. Some arrangement can be easily effected, even if my claim
should prove satisfactory to those you appoint to investigate it, by
which the neighborhood will not be deprived of the happiness of your
presence."

Mrs. Hazleton felt that she had made a great step, and as she well
knew that there was no chance of his proposing then and there, she
resolved not to risk losing ground by any farther advance, even while
she secured some present benefits from that which was gained. "Well,
well," she said, "Mr. Marlow, I am quite sure you are very kind and
very generous, and we can talk of that matter hereafter. Only there is
one thing you must promise me, which is, that in regard to any
arrangements respecting the house you will not leave them to be
settled by cold lawyers or colder friends, who cannot enter into my
feelings in regard to this place, or your own liberal and kindly
feelings eith

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