CHAPTER XXI.
Marlow reasoned with his own heart. For the first time in his life ithad proved rebellious. It would have its own way. It would give noaccount of its conduct,--why it had beat so, why it had thrilled so,why it had experienced so many changes of feeling when he saw JohnAyliffe sitting beside Emily Hastings, and when Emily Hastings hadrisen with so joyous a smile to greet him--it would not explain atall. And now he argued the point with it systematically, with adetermination to get to the bottom of the matter one way or another.He asked it, as if it had been a separate individual, if it was inlove with Emily Hastings. The question was too direct, and the heartsaid it "rather thought not."
Was it quite sure? he asked again. The heart was silent, and seemed tobe considering. Was it jealous? he inquired. "Oh dear no, not in theleast."
Then why did it go on in such a strange, capricious, unaccountableway, when a good-looking, vulgar young man was seen sitting besideEmily?
The heart said it "could not tell; that it was its nature to do so."
Marlow was not to be put off. He was determined to know more, and heargued, "If it be your nature to do so, you of course do the same whenyou see other young men sitting by other young women." The heart waspuzzled, and did not reply; and then Marlow begged a definite answerto this question. "If you were to hear to-morrow that Emily Hastingsis going to be married to this youth, or to any other man, young orold, what would you do then?"
"Break!" said the heart, and Marlow asked no more questions. Knowinghow dangerous it is to enter into such interrogations on horseback,when the pulse is accelerated and the nervous system all in a flutter,he had waited till he got into his own dwelling, and seated himself inhis chair, that he might deal with the rebellious spirit in his breaststately, and calmly likewise; but as he came to the end of theconversation, he rose up, resolving to order a fresh horse, and rideinstantly away, to confer with Sir Philip Hastings. In so doing helooked round the room. It was not very well or very fully furnished.The last proprietor before Mrs. Hazleton had not been very fond ofbooks, and had never thought of a library. When Marlow brought his ownbooks down he had ordered some cases to be made by a countrycarpenter, which fitted but did not much ornament the room. They gaveit a raw, desolate aspect, and made him, by a natural projection ofthought, think ill of the accommodation of the whole house, as soon ashe began to entertain the idea of Emily Hastings ever becoming itsmistress. Then he went on to ask himself, "What have I to offer forthe treasure of her hand? What have I to offer but the hand of a verysimple, undistinguished country gentleman--quite, quite unworthy ofher? What have I to offer Sir Philip Hastings as an alliance worthy ofeven his consideration?--A good, unstained name; but no rank, and afortune not above mediocrity. Marry! a fitting match for the heiressof the Hastings and Marshall families."
He gazed around him, and his heart fell.
A little boy, with a pair of wings on his shoulders, and the end of abow peeping up near his neck, stood close behind Marlow, and whisperedin his ear, "Never mind all that--only try."
And Marlow resolved he would try; but yet he hesitated how to do so.Should he go himself to Sir Philip? But he feared a rebuff. Should hewrite? No, that was cowardly. Should he tell his love to Emily first,and strive to win her affections, ere he breathed to her father? No,that would be dishonest, if he had a doubt of her father's consent. Atlength he made up his mind to go in person to Sir Philip, but thediscussion and the consideration had been so long that it was too lateto ride over that night, and the journey was put off till thefollowing day. That day, as early as possible, he set out. He calledit as early as possible, and it was early for a visit; but the momentone fears a rebuff from any lady one grows marvellously punctilious.When his horse was brought round he began to fancy that he should betoo soon for Sir Philip, and he had the horse walked up and down forhalf an hour.
What would he have given for that half hour, when, on reaching SirPhilip's door, he found that Emily's father had gone out, and was notexpected back till late in the day. Angry with himself, and a gooddeal disappointed, he returned to his home, which, somehow, looked farless cheerful than usual. He could take no pleasure in his books, orin his pictures, and even thought was unpleasant to him, for under theinfluence of expectation it became but a calculation of chances, forwhich he had but scanty data. One thing, indeed, he learned from thepassing of that evening, which was, that home and home happiness waslost to him henceforth without Emily Hastings.
The following day saw him early in the saddle, and riding away as ifsome beast of the chase were before him. Indeed, man's love, when itis worth any thing, has always a smack of the hunter in it. He carednot for highlands or bypaths--hedges and ditches offered smallimpediments. Straight across the country he went, till he approachedthe end of his journey; but then he suddenly pulled in his rein, andbegan to ask himself if he was a madman. He was passing over theMarshall property at the time, the inheritance of Emily's mother, andthe thought of all that she was heir to cooled his ardor with doubtand apprehension. He would have given one half of all that hepossessed that she had been a peasant-girl, that he might have livedwith her upon the other.
Then he began to think of all that he should say to Sir PhilipHastings, and how he should say it; and he felt very uneasy in hismind. Then he was angry with himself for his own sensations, and triedphilosophy and scolded his own heart. But philosophy and scolding hadno effect; and then cantering easily through the park, he stopped atthe gate of the house and dismounted.
Sir Philip was in this time; and Marlow was ushered into the littleroom where he sat in the morning, with the library hard by, that hemight have his books at hand. But Sir Philip was not reading now; onthe contrary, he was in a fit of thought; and, if one might judge bythe contraction of his brow, and the drawing down of the corners ofhis lips, it was not a very pleasant one.
Marlow fancied that he had come at an inauspicious moment, and thefirst words of Sir Philip, though kind and friendly, were not at allharmonious with the feeling of love in his young visitor's heart.
"Welcome, my young friend," he said, looking up. "I have been thinkingthis morning over the laws and habits of different nations, ancientand modern; and would fain satisfy myself if I am right in theconclusion that we, in this land, leave too little free action toindividual judgment. No man, we say, must take law in his own hands;yet how often do we break this rule--how often are we compelled tobreak it. If you, with a gun in your hand, saw a man at fifty or sixtypaces about to murder a child or a woman, without any means ofstopping the blow except by using your weapon, what would you do?"
"Shoot him on the spot," replied Marlow at once, and then added, "if Iwere quite certain of his intention."
"Of course--of course," replied Sir Philip. "And yet, my good friend,if you did so, without witnesses---supposing the child too young totestify, or the woman sleeping at whom the blow was aimed--you wouldbe hung for your just, wise, charitable act."
"Perhaps so," said Marlow, abruptly; "but I would do it,nevertheless."
"Right, right," replied Sir Philip, rising and shaking his hand;"right, and like yourself! There are cases when, with a clearconsciousness of the rectitude of our purpose, and a strong confidencein the justice of our judgment, we must step over all human laws, bethe result to ourselves what it may. Do you remember a man--oneCutter--to whom you taught a severe lesson on the very first day I hadthe pleasure of knowing you? I should have been undoubtedly justified,morally, and perhaps even legally also, in sending my sword throughhis body, when he attacked me that day. Had I done so I should havesaved a valuable human life, spared the world the spectacle of a greatcrime, and preserved an excellent husband and father to his wife andchildren. That very man has murdered the game-keeper of the Earl ofSelby; and being called to the spot yesterday, I had to commit him forthat crime, upon evidence which left not a doubt of his guilt. Ispared him when he assaulted me from a weak and unworthy feeling ofcompassion, although I knew the man's character, and dimly foresaw hisca
reer. I have regretted it since; but never so much as yesterday.This, of course, is no parallel case to that which I just nowproposed; but the one led my mind to the other."
"Did the wretched man admit his guilt?" asked Marlow.
"He did not, and could not deny it," answered Sir Philip; "during theexamination he maintained a hard, sullen silence; and only said, whenI ordered his committal, that I ought not to be so hard upon him forthat offence, as it was the best service he could have done me; forthat he had silenced a man whose word could strip me of all Ipossessed."
"What could he mean?" asked Marlow, eagerly.
"Nay, I know not," replied Sir Philip, in an indifferent tone;"crushed vipers often turn to bite. The man he killed was the son ofthe former sexton here--an honest, good creature too, for whom Iobtained his place; his murderer a reckless villain, on whose wordthere is no dependence. Let us give no thought to it. He has held somesuch language before; but it never produced a fear that my propertywould be lost, or even diminished. We do not hold our fee simples onthe tenure of a rogue's good pleasure--why do you smile?"
"For what will seem at first sight a strange, unnatural reason for afriend to give, Sir Philip," replied Marlow, determined not to losethe opportunity; "for your own sake and for your country's, I am boundto hope that your property may never be lost or diminished; but everyselfish feeling would induce me to wish it were less than it is."
Sir Philip Hastings was no reader of riddles, and he looked puzzled;but Marlow walked frankly round and took him by the hand, saying, "Ihave not judged it right, Sir Philip, to remain one day after Idiscovered what are my feelings towards your daughter, withoutinforming you fully of their nature, that you may at once decide uponyour future demeanor towards one to whom you have hitherto shown muchkindness, and who would on no account abuse it. I was not at all awareof how this passion had grown upon me, till the day before yesterday,when I saw your daughter at Mrs. Hazleton's, and some accidentalcircumstance revealed to me the state of my own heart."
Sir Philip looked as if surprised; but after a moment's thought, heinquired, "And what says Emily, my young friend?"
"She says nothing, Sir Philip," replied Marlow; "for neither by wordnor look, as far as I know, have I betrayed my own feelings towardsher. I would not, between us, do so, till I had given you anopportunity of deciding, unfettered by any consideration for her,whether you would permit me to pursue my suit or not."
Sir Philip was in a reasoning mood that day, and he tortured Marlow byasking, "And would you always think it necessary, Marlow, to obtain aparent's consent, before you endeavored to gain the affection of agirl you loved?"
"Not always," replied the young man; "but I should think it alwaysnecessary to violate no confidence, Sir Philip. You have been kind tome--trusted me--had no doubt of me; and to say one word to Emily whichmight thwart your plans or meet your disapproval, would be to showmyself unworthy of your esteem or her affection."
Sir Philip mused, and then said, as if speaking to himself, "I hadsome idea this might turn out so, but not so soon. I fancy, however,"he continued, addressing Marlow, "that you must have betrayed yourfeelings more than you thought, my young friend; for yesterday I foundEmily in a strange, thoughtful, abstracted mood, showing that somestrong feelings were busy at her heart."
"Some other cause," said Marlow quickly; "I cannot even flatter myselfthat she was thinking of me. When I saw her the day before, there wasa young man sitting with her and Mrs. Hazleton--John Ayliffe, I think,is his name--and I will own I thought his presence seemed to annoyher."
"John Ayliffe at Mrs. Hazleton's!" exclaimed Sir Philip, his browgrowing very dark; "John Ayliffe in my daughter's society! Well mightthe poor child look thoughtful--and yet why should she? She knowsnothing of his history. What is he like, Marlow--how does he bearhimself?"
"He is certainly handsome, with fine features and a good figure,"replied Marlow; "indeed, it struck me that there was some resemblancebetween him and yourself; but there is a want I cannot well define inhis appearance, Sir Philip--in his air--in his carriage, whether stillor in motion, which fixes upon him what I am accustomed to call aclass-mark, and that not of the best. Depend upon it, however, that itwas annoyance at being brought into society which she disliked thataffected your daughter as you have mentioned. My love for her she is,and must be, ignorant of; for I stayed there but a few minutes; andbefore that day, I saw it not myself. And now, Sir Philip, what sayyou to my suit? May I--as some of your words lead me to hope--may Ipursue that suit and strive to win your dear daughter's love?"
"Of course," replied Sir Philip, "of course. A vague fancy has longbeen floating in my brain, that it might be so some day. She is tooyoung to marry yet; and it will be sad to part with her when the timedoes come; but you have my consent to seek her affection if she cangive it you. She must herself decide."
"Have you considered fully," asked Marlow, "that I have neitherfortune nor rank to offer her, that I am by no means--"
Sir Philip waved his hand almost impatiently. "What skills it talkingof rank or wealth?" he said. "You are a gentleman by birth, education,manners. You have easy competence. My Emily will desire no more forherself, and I can desire no more for her. You will endeavor, I know,to make her happy, and will succeed, because you love her. As formyself, were I to choose out of all the men I know, you would be theman. Fortune is a good adjunct; but it is no essential. I do notpromise her to you. That she must do; but if she says she will giveyou her hand, it shall be yours."
Marlow thanked him, with joy such as may be conceived; but SirPhilip's thoughts reverted at once to his daughter's situation at Mrs.Hazleton's. "She must stay there no longer, Marlow," he said; "I willsend for her home without delay. Then you will have plenty ofopportunity for the telling of your own tale to her ear, and seeinghow you may speed with her; but, at all events, she must stay nolonger in a house where she can meet with John Ayliffe. Mrs. Hazletonmakes me marvel--a woman so proud--so refined!"
"It is but justice to say," replied Marlow, thoughtfully, "that I havesome vague recollection of Mrs. Hazleton having intimated that theymet that young gentleman by chance upon some expedition of pleasure.But had I not better communicate my hopes and wishes to Lady Hastings,my dear sir?"
"That is not needful," replied Emily's father, somewhat sternly; "Ipromise her to you, if she herself consents. My good wife will notoppose my wishes or my daughter's happiness; for do I sufferopposition upon occasions of importance. I will tell Lady Hastings mydetermination myself."
Marlow was too wise to say another word, but agreed to come on thefollowing day to dine and sleep at the hall, and took his leave forthe time. It was not, indeed, without some satisfaction that he heardSir Philip order a horse to be saddled and a man to prepare to carry aletter to Mrs. Hazleton; for doubts were rapidly possessing themselvesof his mind--not in regard to Emily--but in reference to Mrs. Hazletonherself.
The letter was dispatched immediately after his departure, recallingEmily to her father's house, and announcing that the carriage would besent for her early on the following morning. That done, Sir Philiprepaired to his wife's drawing-room, and informed her that he hadgiven his consent to his young friend Marlow's suit to their daughter.His tone was one that admitted no reply, and Lady Hastings made none;but she entered her protest quite as well, by falling into a violentfit of hysterics.