CHAPTER XIV.
Occasionally in the life of man, as in the life of theworld--History--or in the course of a stream towards the sea, comequiet lapses, sunny and calm, reflecting nothing but the stillmotionless objects around, or the blue sky and moving clouds above.Often too we find that this tranquil expanse of silent water followsquickly after some more rapid movement, comes close upon some spotwhere a dashing rapid has diversified the scene, or a cataract, inroar and confusion and sparkling terror, has broken the course of thestream.
Such a still pause, silent of action--if I may use the term--followedthe events which I have related in the last chapter, extending over aperiod of nearly six months. Nothing happened worthy of any minutedetail. Peace and tranquillity dwelt in the various households which Ihave noticed in the course of this story, enlivened in that of SirPhilip Hastings by the gay spirit of Emily Hastings, although somewhatshadowed by the sterner character of her father; and in the householdof Mrs. Hazleton brightened by the light of hope, and the fairprospect of success in all her schemes which for a certain timecontinued to open before her.
Mr. Marlow only spent two days at her house, and then went away toLondon, but whatever effect her beauty might have produced upon him,his society, brief as it was, served but to confirm her feelingstowards him, and before he left her, she had made up her mind fullyand entirely, with her characteristic vigor and strength ofresolution, that her marriage with Mr. Marlow was an event which mustand should be. There was under this conviction, but not the lessstrong, not the less energetic, not the less vehement, for beingconcealed even from herself--a resolution that no sacrifice, no fear,no hesitation at any course, should stand in the way of her purpose.She did not anticipate many difficulties certainly; for Mr. Marlowclearly admired her; but the resolution was, that if difficultiesshould arise, she would overcome them at all cost. Hers was one ofthose characters of which the world makes its tragedies, having withinitself passions too strong and deep to be frequently excited--as themore profound waters which rise into mountains when once in motionrequire a hurricane to still them--together with that energetic will,that fixed unbending determination, which like the outburst of atorrent from the hills, sweeps away all before it. But let it be everremembered that her energies were exerted upon herself as well as uponothers, not in checking passion, not in limiting desire, but inguarding scrupulously every external appearance, guiding every thoughtand act with careful art towards its destined object. Mrs. Hazletonsuffered Mr. Marlow to be in London more than a month before shefollowed to conclude the mere matters of business between them. Itcost her a great struggle with herself, but in that struggle she wassuccessful, and when at length she went, she had several interviewswith him. Circumstances--that great enemy of schemes, was against her.Sometimes lawyers were present at their interviews, sometimesimpertinent friends; but Mrs. Hazleton did not much care: she trustedto the time he was speedily about to pass in the country, for the fulleffect, and in the mean time took care that nothing but the goldenside of the shield should be presented to her knight.
The continent was at that time open to Englishmen for a short period,and Mr. Marlow expressed his determination of going to the Court ofVersailles for a month or six weeks before he came down to takepossession of Hartwell place, everything now having been settledbetween them in regard to business.
Mrs. Hazleton did not like his determination, yet she did not muchfear the result; for Mr. Marlow was preeminently English, and neverlikely to wed a French woman. Still she resolved that he should seeher under another aspect before he went. She was a great favorite ofthe Court of those days; her station, her wealth, her beauty, and hergrace rendered her a brightness and an ornament wherever she came. Shewas invited to one of the more private though not less splendidassemblies at the Palace, and she contrived that Mr. Marlow should beinvited also, though neither by nature or habit a courtier. Sheobtained the invitation for him skilfully, saying to the RoyalPersonage of whom she asked it, that as he won a lawsuit against her,she wished to show him that she bore no malice. He went, and found herthe brightest in the brilliant scene; the great and the proud, thehandsome and the gay, all bending down and worshipping, all striving.for a smile, and obtaining it but scantily. She smiled upon him,however, not sufficiently to attract remark from others, but quitesufficiently to mark a strong distinction for his own eyes, if he hadchosen to use them. He went away to France, and Mrs. Hazleton,returned to the country; the winter passed with her in arranging hishouse for him; and, in so doing, she often had to write to him. Hisreplies were always prompt, kind, and grateful; and at length came thespring, and the pleasant tidings that he was on his way back to hisbeloved England.
Alas for human expectation! Alas for the gay day-dream ofyouth--maturity--middle age--old age--for they have all theirday-dreams! Every passion which besets man from the cradle to thegrave has its own visionary expectations. Each creature, each animal,from the tiger to the beetle, has its besetting insect, which preysupon it, gnaws it, irritates it, and so have all the ages of the souland of the heart. Alas for human speculation of all kinds! Alas forevery hope and aspiration! for those that are pure and high, but,growing out of earth, bear within themselves the bitter seeds ofdisappointment; and those that are dark or low produce the germ ofthe most poisonous hybrid, where disappointment is united withremorse.
Happy is the man that expecteth nothing, for verily he shall not bedisappointed! It is a quaint old saying; and could philosophy everstem the course of God's will, it would be one which, well followed,might secure to man some greater portion of mortal peace than hepossesses. But to aspire was the ordinance of God; and, viewedrightly, the withering of the flowers upon each footstep we have takenupwards, is no discouragement; for if we shape our path aright, thereis a wreath of bright blossoms crowning each craggy peak before us, aswe ascend to snatch the garland of immortal glory, placed just beyondthe last awful leap of death.
Mrs. Hazleton's aspirations, however, were all earthly. She thought oflittle beyond this life. She had never been taught so to think. Thereare some who are led astray from the path of noble daring, to othersas difficult and more intricate, by some loud shout of passion on theright or on the left--and seek in vain to return; some who, misled byan apparent similarity in the course of two paths, although the fingerpost says, "Thus shalt thou go!" think that the way so plainly beaten,and so seemingly easy, must surely lead them to the same point. Othersagain never learn to read the right path from the wrong (and she wasone), while others shut their eyes to all direction, fix their gazeupon the summit, and strain up, now amidst flowers and now amidstthorns, till they are cast back from the face of some steep precipice,to perish in the descent or at the foot.
Mrs. Hazleton's aspirations were all earthly; and that was the secretof her only want in beauty. That divine form, that resplendent face,beamed with every earthly grace, sparkled forth mind and intellect inevery glance, but they were wanting in soul, in spirit, and in heart.Life was there, but the life of life, the intense flame of immortal,over-earthly intelligence, was wanting. She might be the grandestanimal that ever was seen, the most bright and capable intellect thatever dealt with mortal things; but the fine golden chain which leadson the electric fire from intellectual eminence to spiritualpreeminence, from mind to soul, from earth to heaven, was wanting, orhad been broken. Her loveliness none could doubt, her charm of mannernone could deny, her intellectual superiority all admitted, herwomanly softness added a grace beyond them all; but there was onegrace wanting--the grace of a high, holy soul, which, in those whohave it, be they fair, be they ugly, pours forth as an emanation fromevery look and every action, and surrounds them with a cloud ofradiance, faintly imaged by the artist's glory round a saint.
Alas for human aspirations! Alas for the expectations of this fairfrail creature! How eagerly she thought of Mr. Marlow's return how shehad anticipated their meeting again! How she had calculated upon allthat would be said and done during the next few weeks! The first newsshe received was t
hat he had arrived, and with a few servants hadtaken possession of his new dwelling. She remained all day in her ownhouse; she ordered no carriage; she took no walk: she tried to read;she played upon various instruments of music; she thought each instanthe would come, at least for a few minutes, to thank her for all thecare she had bestowed to make his habitation comfortable. The sungilded the west; the melancholy moon rose up in solemn splendor; thehours passed by, and he came not.
The next morning, she heard that he had ridden over to the house ofSir Philip Hastings, and indignation warred with love in her bosom.She thought he must certainly come that day, and she resolved angrilyto upbraid him for his want of courtesy. Luckily, however, for her, hedid not come that day; and a sort of melancholy took possession ofher. Luckily, I say; for when passion takes hold of a scheme it isgenerally sure to shake it to pieces, and that melancholy loosens thegrasp of passion for a time. The next day he did come, and with an airso easy and unconscious of offence as almost to provoke her intovehemence again. He knew not what she felt--he had no idea of how hehad been looked for. He was as ignorant that she had ever thought ofhim as a husband, as she was that he had ever compared her in his mindto his own mother.
He talked quietly, indifferently, of his having been over to the houseof Sir Philip Hastings, adding merely--not as an excuse, but as asimple fact--that he had been unable to call there as he had promisedbefore leaving the country. He dilated upon the kind reception he hadmet with from Lady Hastings, for Sir Philip was absent upon business;and he went on to dwell rather largely upon the exceeding beauty andgreat grace of Emily Hastings.
Oh how Mrs. Hazleton hated her! It requires but a few drops of poisonto envenom a whole well.
He did worse: he proceeded to descant upon her character--upon theblended brightness and deep thought--upon the high-souled emotions andchildlike sparkle of her disposition--upon the simplicity andcomplexity, upon the many-sided splendor of her character, which, likethe cut diamond, reflected each ray of light in a thousand varied anddazzling hues. Oh how Mrs. Hazleton hated her--hated, because for thefirst time she began to fear. He had spoken to her in praise ofanother woman--with loud encomiums too, with a brightened eye, and alook which told her more than his words. These were signs not to bemistaken. They did not show in the least that he loved Emily Hastings,and that she knew right well; but they showed that he did not loveher; and there was the poison in the cup.
So painful, so terrible was the sensation, that, with all her masteryover herself, she could not conceal the agony under which she writhed.She became silent, grave, fell into fits of thought, which clouded thebroad brow, and made the fine-cut lip quiver. Mr. Marlow was surprisedand grieved. He asked himself what could be the matter. Something hadevidently made her sorrowful, and he could not trace the sorrow to itssource; for she carefully avoided uttering one word in depreciation ofEmily Hastings. In this she showed no woman's spirit. She could havestabbed her, had the girl been there in her presence; but she wouldnot scratch her. Petty spite was too low for her, too small for thecharacter of her mind. Hers was a heart capable of revenge, and wouldbe satisfied with nothing less.
Mr. Marlow soothed her, spoke to her kindly, tenderly, tried to leadher mind away, to amuse, to entertain her. Oh, it was all gall andbitterness to her. He might have cursed, abused, insulted her,without, perhaps, diminishing her love--certainly without inflictinghalf the anguish that was caused by his gentle words. It is impossibleto tell all the varied emotions that went on in her heart--at leastfor me. Shakspeare could have done it, but none less than Shakspeare.For a moment she knew not whether she loved or hated him; but she soonfelt and knew it was love; and the hate, like lightning striking arock, and glancing from the solid stone to rend a sapling, all turnedaway from him, to fall upon the head of poor unconscious EmilyHastings.
Though she could not recover from the blow she had received, yet shesoon regained command over herself, conversed, smiled, banishedabsorbing thoughts, answered calmly, pertinently, even spoke in herown bright, brilliant way, with a few more figures and ornaments ofspeech than usual; for figures are things rather of the head than ofthe heart, and it was from the head that she was now speaking.
At length Mr. Marlow took his leave, and for the first time in lifeshe was glad he was gone.
Mrs. Hazleton gave way to no burst of passion: she shed not a tear;she uttered no exclamation. That which was within her heart, was toointense for any such ordinary expression. She seated herself at atable, leaned her head upon her hand, and fixed her eyes upon onebright spot in the marquetry. There she sat for more than an entirehour, without a motion, and in the meantime what were the thoughtsthat passed through her brain? We have shown the feelings of her heartenough.
She formed plans; she determined her course; she looked around formeans. Various persons suggested themselves to her mind asinstruments. The three women, I have mentioned in a precedingchapter--the good sort of friends. But it was an agent she wanted, nota confidant. No, no, Mrs. Hazleton knew better than to have aconfidant. She was her own best council-keeper, and she knew it.Nevertheless, these good ladies might serve to act in subordinateparts, and she assigned to each of them their position in her schemewith wonderful accuracy and skill. As she did so, however, sheremembered that it was by the advice of Mrs. Warmington that she hadbrought Mr. Marlow to Hartwell Place; and in her heart's secretchamber she gave her fair friend a goodly benediction. She resolved touse her nevertheless--to use her as far as she could be serviceable;and she forgot not that she herself had been art and part in thescheme that had failed. She was not one to shelter herself from blameby casting the whole storm of disappointment upon another, She tookher own full share. "If she was a fool so to advise," said Mrs.Hazleton, "'twas a greater fool to follow her advice."
She then turned to seek for the agent. No name presented itself butthat of Shanks, the attorney; and she smiled bitterly when she thoughtof him. She recollected that Sir Philip Hastings had thrown himhead-foremost down the steps of the terrace, and that was verysatisfactory to her; for, although Mr. Shanks was a man who sometimesbore injuries very meekly, he never forgot them.
Nevertheless, she had somewhat a difficult part to play, for mostagents have a desire of becoming confidants also, and that Mrs.Hazleton determined her attorney should not be. The task was toinsinuate her purposes rather than to speak them--to act, withoutbetraying the motive of action--to make another act, withoutcommitting herself by giving directions.
Nevertheless, Mrs. Hazleton arranged it all to her own satisfaction;and as she did so, amongst the apparently extinct ashes of formerschemes, one small spark of hope began to glow, giving promise for thetime to come. What did she propose? At first, nothing more than todrive Sir Philip Hastings and his family from the country, minglingthe gratification of personal hatred with efforts for theaccomplishment of her own purposes. It was a bold attempt, but Mrs.Hazleton had her plan, and she sat down and wrote for Mr. Shanks, theattorney.
The Man in Black: An Historical Novel of the Days of Queen Anne Page 14