CHAPTER XXXIX.
"I am very ill indeed this morning," said Lady Hastings, addressingher maid about eleven o'clock. "I feel as if I were dying. Call myhusband and my daughter to me."
"Lord, my lady," said the maid, "had I not better send for the doctortoo? You do not look as if you were dying at all. You look a good dealbetter, I think, my lady."
"Do I?" said Lady Hastings in a hesitating tone. But she did not wantthe doctor to be sent for immediately, and repeated her order to callher husband and her daughter.
Emily was with her in an instant, but Sir Philip Hastings was somewhere absent in the grounds, and nearly half an hour elapsed before hewas found. When he entered he gazed in his wife's face with somesurprise--more surprise indeed, than alarm; for he knew that she wasnervous and hypondriacal, and as the maid had said, she did notlook as if she were dying at all. There was no sharpening of thefeatures--no falling in of the temples--none of that pale ashy color,or rather that leaden grayness, which precedes dissolution. He satdown, however, by her bedside, gazing at her with an inquiring look,while Emily stood on the other side of the bed, and the maid at theend; and after speaking a few kind but somewhat rambling words, he wassending for some restoratives, saying "I think, my dear, you alarmyourself without cause."
"I do not indeed, Philip," replied Lady Hastings. "I am sure I shalldie, and that before very long--but do not send for any thing. I wouldrather not take it. It will do me more good a great deal to speak whatI have upon my mind--what is weighing me down--what is killing me."
"I am sorry to hear there is any thing," said Sir Philip, whosethoughts, intensely busy with other things, were not yet fullyrecalled to the scene before him.
"Oh, Philip, how can you say so?" said Lady Hastings, "when you knowthere is. You need not go," she continued, speaking to the maid whowas drawing back as if to quit the room, "I wish to speak to myhusband and my daughter before some one who will remember what I say."
Sir Philip however quietly rose, opened the door, and motioned to thegirl to quit the room, for such public exhibitions were quite contraryto his notions of domestic economy. "Now, my dear," he said, "what isit you wish to tell me? If there be any thing that you wish done, Iwill do it if it is in my power."
"It is in your power, Philip," replied Lady Hastings; "you know andEmily knows quite well that her engagement to Mr. Marlow was againstmy consent, and I must say the greatest shock I ever received in mylife. I have never been well since, and every day I see more and morereason to object. It is in the power of either of you, or both, torelieve my mind in this respect--to break off this unhappy engagement,and at least to let me die in peace, with the thought that my daughterhas not cast herself away. It is in your power, Philip, to--"
"Stay a moment," said her husband, "it is not in my power."
"Why, are you not her father?" asked Lady Hastings, interrupting him."Are you not her lawful guardian? Have you not the disposal of herhand?"
"It is not in my power," repeated Sir Philip coldly, "to break myplighted word, to violate my honor, or to live under a load of shameand dishonor."
"Why in such a matter as this," said Lady Hastings, "there is no suchdisgrace. You can very well say you have thought better of it."
"In which ease I should tell a lie," said Sir Philip dryly.
"It is a thing done every day," argued Lady Hastings.
"I am not a man to do any thing because there are others who do itevery day," answered her husband. "Men lie, and cheat, and swindle,and steal, and betray their friends, and relations, and parents, but Ican find no reason therein for doing the same. It is not in my power,I repeat. I cannot be a scoundrel, whatever other men may be, andviolate my plighted word, or withdraw from my most solemn engagements.Moreover, when Marlow heard of the misfortunes which have befallen us,and learned that Emily would not have one-fourth part of that whichshe had at one time a right to expect, he showed no inclination towithdraw from his word, even when there was a good excuse, and I willnever withdraw from mine, so help me God."
Thus speaking he turned his eyes towards the ground again and fellinto a deep reverie. While this conversation had been passing, Emilyhad sunk upon her knees, trembling in every limb, and hid her face inthe coverings of the bed. To her, Lady Hastings now turned. Whether itwas that remorse and some degree of shame affected her, when she sawthe terrible agitation of her child, I cannot tell, but she paused fora moment as if in hesitation.
She spoke at length, saying "Emily, my child, to you I must appeal, asyour father is so obdurate."
Emily made no answer, however, but remained weeping, and Lady Hastingsbecoming somewhat irritated, went on in a sharper tone. "What! willnot my own child listen to the voice of a dying mother?" she askedrather petulantly than sorrowfully, although she tried hard to makeher tone gravely reproachful; "will she not pay any attention to hermother's last request?"
"Oh, my mother," answered Emily, raising her head, and speaking morevehemently than was customary with her, "ask me any thing that isjust; ask me any thing that is reasonable; but do not ask me to dowhat is wrong and what is unjust. I have made a promise--do not ask meto break it. There is no circumstance changed which could give even anexcuse for such a breach of faith. Marlow has only shown himself moretrue more faithful, more sincere. Should I be more false, morefaithless, more ungenerous than he thought me? Oh no! it isimpossible--quite impossible," and she hid her streaming eyes in thebedclothes again, clasping her hands tightly together over herforehead.
Her father, with his arms crossed upon his chest, had kept his eyesfixed upon her while she spoke with a look of doubt and inquiry. Wellmight he doubt--well might he doubt his own suspicions. There was atruth, a candor, a straightforwardness, in that glowing face whichgave the contradiction, plain and clear, to every foul, dishonestcharge which had been fabricated against his child. It was impossiblein fact that she could have so spoken and so looked, unless she had sofelt. The best actress that ever lived could not have performed thatpart. There would have been something too much or too little.something approaching the exaggerated or the tame. With Emily therewas nothing. What she said seemed but the sudden outburst of herheart, pressed for a reply; and as soon as it was spoken she sunk downagain in silence, weeping bitterly under the conflict of two strongbut equally amiable feelings.
For a moment the sight seemed to rouse Sir Philip Hastings. "Sheshould not, if she would," he said; "voluntarily, and knowing what shedid, she consented to the promise I have made, and she neither can norshall retract. To Marlow, indeed, I may have a few words to say, andhe shall once more have the opportunity of acting as he pleases; butEmily is bound as well as myself, and by that bond we must abide."
"What have you to say to Marlow?" asked Lady Hastings in a tone ofcommonplace curiosity, which did not at all indicate a sense of thatterrible situation in which she assumed she was placed.
"That matters not," answered Sir Philip. "It will rest between him andme at his return. How he may act I know not--what he may think I knownot; but he shall be a partaker of my thoughts and the master of hisown actions. Do not let us pursue this painful subject further. If youfeel yourself ill, my love, let us send for further medical help. I dohope and believe that you are not so ill as you imagine; but if youare so there is more need that the physician should be here, and thatwe should quit topics too painful for discussion, where discussion isaltogether useless."
"Well, then, mark me," said Lady Hastings with an air of assumedmelancholy dignity, which being quite unnatural to her, borderedsomewhat on the burlesque; "mark me, Philip--mark me, Emily! yourwife, your mother, makes it her last dying request--her last dyinginjunction, that you break off this marriage. You may or you may notgive me the consolation on this sick bed of knowing that my requestwill be complied with; but I do not think that either of you will becareless, will be remorseless enough to carry out this engagementafter I am gone. I will not threaten, Emily--I will not even attemptto take away from you the wealth for which this young man
doubtlessseeks you--I will not attempt to deter you by bequeathing you my curseif you do not comply with my injunctions; but I tell you, if you donot make me this promise before I die, you have embittered yourmother's last moments, and--"
"Oh, forbear, forbear," cried Emily, starting up. "For God's sake,dear mother, forbear," and clasping her hands wildly over her eyes,she rushed frantically out of the room.
Sir Philip Hastings remained for nearly half an hour longer, and thendescended the stairs and passed through the drawing-room. Emily wasseated there with her handkerchief upon her eyes, and her whole frameheaving from the agonized sobs which rose from her bosom. Sir Philippaused and gazed at her for a moment or two, but Emily did not say aword, and seemed indeed totally unconscious of his presence. Somemovements of compassion, some feeling of sympathy, some doubts of hispreconceptions might pass through the bosom of Sir Philip Hastings;but the dark seeds of suspicion had been sown in his bosom--hadgerminated, grown up, and strengthened--had received confirmationstrong and strange, and he murmured to himself as he stood and gazedat her, "Is it anger or sorrow? Is it passion or pain? All this isstrange enough. I do not understand it. Her resolution is taken, andtaken rightly. Why should she grieve? Why should she be thus moved,when she knows she is doing that which is just, and honest, andfaithful?"
He measured a cloud by an ell wand. He gauged her heart, hersensibilities, her mind, by the rigid metre of his own, and he foundthat the one could not comprehend the other. Turning hastily awayafter he had finished his contemplation, without proffering one wordof consolation or support, he walked away into his library, andringing a bell, ordered his horse to be saddled directly. While thatwas being done, he wrote a hasty note to Mr. Short, the surgeon, andwhen the horse was brought round gave it to a groom to deliver. Thenmounting on horseback, he rode away at a quick pace, without havingtaken any further notice of his daughter.
Emily remained for about half an hour after his departure, exactly inthe same position in which he had left her. She noticed nothing thatwas passing around her; she heard not a horse stop at the door; andwhen her own maid entered the room and said,--"Doctor Short has come,ma'am, and is with my lady. Sir Philip sent Peter for him; but Peterluckily met him just down beyond the park gates;" Emily hardly seemedto hear her.
A few minutes after, Mr. Short descended quietly from the room of LadyHastings, and looked into the drawing-room as he passed. Seeing thebeautiful girl seated there in that attitude of despondency, heapproached her quietly, saying, "Do not, my dear mistress Emily,suffer yourself to be alarmed without cause. I see no reason for theleast apprehension. My good lady, your mother is nervous and excited,but there are no very dangerous symptoms about her--certainly nonethat should cause immediate alarm; and I think upon the whole, thatthe disease is more mental than corporeal."
Emily had raised her eyes when he had just begun to speak, and sheshook her head mournfully at his last words, saying, "I can do nothingto remedy it, Mr. Short--I would at any personal sacrifice, but thisinvolves more--I can do nothing."
"But I have done my best," said Mr. Short with a kindly smile; for hewas an old and confidential friend of the whole family, and upon Emilyherself had attended from her childhood, during all the littlesicknesses of early life. "I asked your excellent mother what had somuch excited her, and she told me all that has passed this morning. Ithink, my dear young lady, I have quieted her a good deal."
"How? how?" exclaimed Emily eagerly. "Oh tell me how, Mr. Short, and Iwill bless you!"
The good old surgeon seated himself beside her and took her hand inhis. "I have only time to speak two words," he said, "but thinkthey will give you comfort. Your mother explained to me that therehad been a little discussion this morning when she thought herselfdying--though that was all nonsense--and it must have been verypainful to you, my dear Mistress Emily. She told me what it was abouttoo, and seemed half sorry already for what she had said. So, as Iguessed how matters went--for I know that the dear lady is fond oftitles and rank, and all that, and saw she had a great deal mistakenMr. Marlow's position--I just ventured to tell her that he is the heirof the old Earl of Launceston--that is to say, if the Earl does notmarry again, and he is seventy-three, with a wife still living. Shehad never heard any thing about it, and it seemed to comfort heramazingly. Nevertheless she is in a sad nervous state, and somewhatweak. I do not altogether like that cough she has either; and so, mydear young lady, I will send her over a draught to-night, of which youmust give her a tablespoonful every three hours. Give it to her withyour own hands; for it is rather strong, and servants are apt to makemistakes. But I think if you go to her now, you will find her in avery different humor from that which she was in this morning. Goodbye, good bye. Don't be cast down, Mistress Emily. All will go wellyet."