CHAPTER XLIV.
Sir Philip Hastings sat at breakfast with his daughter the morning ofthe same day on which Mrs. Hazleton in the still-room was subjected toher dear friend's unpleasant intrusion. He was calmer than he hadbeen since his return; but it was a gloomy, thoughtful sort ofcalmness--that sort of superficial tranquility which is sometimesdisplayed under the influence of overpowering feelings, as the sea, sosailors tell us, is sometimes actually beaten down by the force of thewinds that sweep over it. His brow was contracted with a deep frown,but it was by no means varied. It was stern, fixed, immoveable. To hisdaughter he spoke not a word, except when she bade him good morning,and asked after his health; and then he only replied "Well."
When breakfast was nearly over, a servant brought in some letters, andhanded two to his master and one to Emily. Sir Philip's were soonread; but Emily's was longer, and she was still perusing it, withapparently much emotion, when the servant returned to the room. SirPhilip, during the half hour they had been previously together, hadabstained from turning his eyes towards her. He had looked at thetable cloth, or straight at the wall; but now he was gazing at her sointently, with a strange, eager, haggard expression of countenancethat he did not even notice the entrance of the servant till the manspoke to him.
"Please your worship" said the servant "Master Atkinson of the Hillfarm, near Hartwell, wishes to speak to you on some justice business."
Sir Philip started, and murmured between his teeth. "Justice--ay,justice!--who did you say?"
The man repeated what he had said before, and his master replied,"shew him in."
He then remained for a moment or two with his head leaning on hishand, and seemingly making an effort to recall his thoughts from somedistant point; and when Mr. Atkinson entered, he spoke to himtranquilly enough.
"Pray be seated, Mr. Atkinson," he said, "what is it you want? I havemeddled little with magisterial affairs lately."
"I want a warrant, sir," replied Mr. Atkinson. "And against a nearneighbor and relation of yours; so I am sure you are not a man torefuse me justice."
"Not if it were my nearest and my dearest," replied Sir Philip, in adeep and hollow tone. "Who is the person?"
"A young man calling himself Sir John Hastings," said Mr. Atkinson."We are afraid of his getting out of the country. He knows he has beenfound out, and he is hiding somewhere not very far off; but I and aconstable will find him."
Emily had lain down her letter by her side, and was listeningattentively. It was clear she was greatly moved by what she heard. Herface turned white and red. Her lip quivered as if she would fain havespoken; but she hesitated and remained silent for a moment. Shethought of the unhappy young man lying on his death bed; for she hadas yet received no intimation of his death from Mr. Dixwell, and ofhis seeing himself seized upon by the officers of justice, his lastthoughts disturbed, all his anxious strivings after penitence, all hiscommunings with his own heart, all his efforts to prepare for meetingwith death, and God, and judgment, scattered by worldly shame andearthly anguish--she felt for him--she would fain have petitioned forhim; but she was misunderstood, and, what was worse, she knew it--shefelt it--she could not speak--she dare not say any thing, though herheart seemed as if it would break, and her only consolation was thatall would be explained, that her motives, her conduct, would all beclear and comprehended in a a very few short hours. She knew, however,that she could not bear much more without weeping; for the letterwhich she had received from Marlow, telling her that he had arrived inLondon, and would set off to see her, as soon as some needfulbusiness, in the capital had been transacted, had agitated her much,and even pleasureable emotions will often shake the unnervous so as toweaken rather than strengthen us when called upon to contend withothers of a different kind.
She rose then and left the room with a sad look and wavering step, andSir Philip gazed at her as she passed with a look impossible todescribe, saying to himself, "So--is it so?"
The next instant, however, he turned to the farmer, who was a man of asuperior class to the ordinary yeomen of that day, saying, "What isyour charge, sir?"
"Oh, plenty of charges, sir," replied the man; "fraud, conspiracy,perjury, forgery, in regard to all which I am ready to giveinformation on my oath."
Sir Philip leaned his head upon his hand, and thought bitterly for twoor three minutes. Then raising his eyes full to Atkinson's face, hesaid, "Were this young man my own child, were he my son, or were he mybrother, were he a very dear friend, I should not have the slightesthesitation, Mr. Atkinson. I would take the information, and grant youa warrant at once--nay; I will do so still, if you insist upon it; forit shall never be said that any consideration made me refuse justice.But I would have you remember that Sir John Hastings is my enemy; thathe has, justly or unjustly, deprived me of fortune and station, andthroughout the only transactions we have had together, has shown aspirit of malignity against me which might well make men believe thatI must entertain similar feelings towards him. To sign a warrantagainst him, therefore, would be very painful to me, although Ibelieve him to be capable of the crimes with which you charge him, andknow you to be too honest a man to make such an accusation without areasonable confidence in its truth. But I would have you considerwhether it may not bring suspicion upon all your proceedings, if yourvery first step therein is to obtain a warrant against this man fromhis known and open enemy."
"But what am I to do, Sir Philip?" asked the farmer. "I am afraid hewill escape. I know that he is hiding in this very neighborhood, inthis very parish, within half a mile of this house."
A groan burst from the heart of Sir Philip Hastings. He had spoken hisremonstrance clearly, slowly, and deliberately, forcibly bending histhoughts altogether to the subject before him; but he had been deeplyand terribly moved all the time, and this direct allusion to thehiding place of John Ayliffe, to the very house which his daughter hadvisited on the previous day, roused all the terrible feelings, thejealous anger, the indignation, the horror, the contempt which hadbeen stirred up in him, by what he thought her indecent, if notcriminal act. It was too much for his self-command, and that groanburst forth in the struggle against himself.
He recovered himself speedily, however, and he replied, "Apply to Mr.Dixwell: he is a magistrate, and lives hardly a stone's throw fromthis house. You will lose but little time, save me from great pain,and both you and me from unjust imputations."
"Oh, I am not afraid of any imputations," said Mr. Atkinson. "I havepersonally no interest in the matter. You have, Sir, a great interestin it and if you would just hear what the case is, you would see thatno one should look more sharply than you to the matter, in order thatno time may be lost."
"I would rather not hear the case at all," replied Sir Philip. "If Ihave a personal interest in it, as you say, it would ill befit me tomeddle. Go to Mr. Dixwell, my good friend. Explain the whole to him,and although perhaps he is not the brightest man that ever lived, yethe is a good man and an honest man, who will do justice in thismatter."
"Very well, sir, very well," replied the farmer, a little mortified;for to say the truth, he had anticipated some little accession ofimportance from lending a helping hand to restore Sir Philip Hastingsto the rights of which he had been unjustly deprived, and taking hisleave he went away, thinking the worthy baronet the most impracticableman he had ever met with in his life. "I always knew that he wascrotchety," he said to himself, "and carried his notions of right andwrong to a desperate great length; but I did not know that he went sofar as this. I don't believe that if he saw a man running away withhis own apples, he would stop him without a warrant from anotherjustice. Yet he can be severe enough when he is not concerned himself,as we all know. He'd hang every poacher in the land for that matter,saying, as I have heard him many a time, that it is much worse tosteal any thing that is unprotected, than if it is protected."
With these thoughts he rode straight away to the house of Mr. Dixwell,but to his mortification he found that the worthy clergyman was out."Can you tell me
where he is?" he asked of the servant, "I want him onbusiness of the greatest importance."
The woman hesitated for a moment, but the expression of perplexity andanxiety on the good farmer's face overcame her scruples, and shereplied, "I did not exactly hear him say where he was going, but I sawhim take the foot-path down to Jenny Best's."
Atkinson turned his horse's head at once, and rode along the road tillhe reached the cottage. There he fastened his horse to a tree, andwent in. The outer room was vacant; but through the partition he hearda voice speaking in a slow, measured tone, as if in prayer; and afterwaiting and hesitating for a moment or two, he struck upon the tablewith his knuckles to call attention to his presence.
The moment after, the door opened slowly and quietly, and Jenny Bestherself first put out her head, and then came into the room with acurtsy, closing the door behind her.
"Good day, Jenny," said the farmer; "is Mr. Dixwell here?"
"Yes, Master Atkinson," replied the good dame; "he is in there,praying with a sick person."
"Why how is that?" asked Mr. Atkinson. "Best is not ill, I hope, noryour son."
"No, sir," answered the old woman; "it is a young man who broke hisleg close by our door the other day;" and seeing him about to askfurther questions, which she might have had difficulty in parrying,she added, "I will call the parson to you, sir."
Thus saying, she retreated again into the inner room, and in a fewmoments Mr. Dixwell himself appeared.
"God day, Atkinson," he said; "you have been absent on a journey, Ihear."
"Yes, your Reverence," replied the farmer, "and it is in consequenceof that journey that I come to you now. I want a warrant from you, Mr.Dixwell; and that as quick as possible."
"Why, I cannot give you a warrant here," said the clergyman,hesitating. "I have no clerk with me, nor any forms of warrants, and Icannot very well go home just now. It can, do no harm waiting an houror two, I suppose."
"It may do a great deal of harm," replied the farmer, "for as great arogue and as bad a fellow as ever lived may escape from justice if itis not granted immediately."
"Can't you go to Mr. Hastings?" said the clergyman. "He would give youone directly, if the case justifies it."
"He sent me to your Reverence," replied the farmer. "In one word, thecase is this, Mr. Dixwell. I have to charge a man, whom, I suppose, Imust call a gentleman, upon oath, with fraud, perjury, and forgery.Shanks, one of the conspirators we have got already. But thisman--this fellow who calls himself Sir John Hastings, I mean, ishiding away here--in this very cottage, sir, I am told--and may makehis escape at any minute. Now that I am here, and a magistrate withme, I tell you fairly, sir, I will not quit the place till I have himin custody."
He spoke in a very sharp and decided tone; for to say the truth he hada vague suspicion that Mr. Dixwell, whose good-nature was well known,knew very well where John Ayliffe was, and might be trying to converthim, with the full intention of afterwards aiding him to escape. Theclergyman answered at once, however, "he is here, Master Atkinson, buthe is very ill, and will soon be in sterner custody than yours."
There was a good deal of the bull-dog spirit of the English yeoman inthe good farmer's character, and he replied tartly, "I don't care forthat. He shall be in my custody first."
Mr. Dixwell looked pained and offended. His brow contracted a gooddeal, and laying his hand upon the farmer's wrist, he led him towardsthe door of the inner room, saying, "You are hard and incredulous,sir. But come with me, and you shall see his state with your owneyes."
The farmer suffered himself to be led along, and Mr. Dixwell openedthe door, and entered the room with a quiet and reverent step. Thesunshine was streaming through the little window upon the floor, andby its cheerful light, contrasting strangely with the gray darkness ofthe face which lay upon the bed of death. There was not a sound, butthe footfalls of the two persons who entered; for the old woman hadseated herself by the bedside, and was gazing silently at the face ofthe sick man.
At first, Mr. Atkinson thought that he was dead; and life indeedlingered on with but the very faintest spark. He seemed utterlyunconscious; for the eyes even did not move at the sound of theopening door, and the farmer was a good deal shocked at the hardnessof his judgment. He was not one, however, to give up his purposeeasily, and when Mr. Dixwell said, "you can now see and judge foryourself--is he likely to escape, do you think?" Atkinson answered ina low but determined tone, "No, but I do not think I ought to leavehim as long as there is any life in him."
"You can do as you please," said Mr. Dixwell, in a tone of muchdispleasure. "Only be silent. There is a seat;" and leaving him, hetook his place again by the dying man's side.
Though shocked, and feeling perhaps a little ashamed, Mr. Atkinson.with that dogged sort of resolution which I have before spoken of;resisted his own feelings, and would not give up the field. He thoughthe was doing his duty, and that is generally quite sufficient for anEnglishman. Nothing could move him, so long as breath was in the bodyof the unhappy young man. He remained seated there, perfectly stilland silent, as hour after hour slipped away, with his head bent down,and his arms crossed upon his chest.
The approach of death was very slow with John Ayliffe: he lingeredlong after all the powers of the body seemed extinct. Hand or foot hecould not move--his sunken eyes remained half closed--the hue of deathwas upon his face, but yet the chest heaved, the breath came and went,sometimes rapidly, sometimes very slowly; and for along time Mr.Dixwell could not tell whether he was conscious at all or not. At theend of two hours, however, life seemed to make an effort against thegreat enemy, though it was a very feeble one, and intellect had noshare in it. He began to mutter a few words from time to time, butthey were wild and incoherent, and the faint sounds referred to dogsand horses, to wine and money. He seemed to think himself talking tohis servants, gave orders, and asked questions, and told them to lighta fire, he was so cold. This went on till the shades of evening beganto fall, and then Mr. Short, the surgeon, came in and felt his pulse.
"It is very strange," said the surgeon, "that this has lasted so long.But it must be over in a few minutes now. I can hardly feel apulsation."
Mr. Dixwell did not reply, and the surgeon remained gazing on thedying man's face till it was necessary to ask for a light. Jenny Bestbrought in a solitary candle, and whether it was the effect of thesudden though feeble glare, I cannot tell, John Ayliffe opened hiseyes, and said, more distinctly than before, "I am going--I amgoing--this is death--yes, this is death! Pray for me, Mr.Dixwell--pray for me--I do repent--yes, I have hope."
The jaw quivered a little as he uttered the last words, but at thesame moment John Best, the good woman's husband, entered the room witha hurried step, drew Mr. Short, the surgeon, aside, and whisperedsomething in his ear.
"Good Heaven!" exclaimed the surgeon. "Impossible, Best! Has the mangot a horse? mine's at the farm."
"Yes, sir, yes!" replied the man, eagerly. "He has 'got a horse; butyou had better make haste."
Mr. Short dashed out of the room; but before he left it, John Ayliffewas a corpse.