CHAPTER XXIV.
We must go back a little, for we have somewhat anticipated our tale.Never did summons strike more joyfully on the ear of mortal than camethat of her recall home to Emily Hastings. As so often happens to allin life, the expected pleasure had turned to ashes on the lip, and hervisit to Mrs. Hazleton offered hardly one point on which memory couldrest happily. Nay, more, without being able definitely to say why,when she questioned her own heart, the character of her beautifulhostess had suffered by close inspection. She was not the same inEmily's esteem as she had been before. She could not point out whatMrs. Hazleton had said or done to produce such an impression; but shewas less amiable,--less reverenced. It was not alone that thetrappings in which a young imagination had decked her were strippedoff; but it was that a baser metal beneath had here and there showndoubtfully through the gilding with which she concealed her realcharacter.
If the summons was joyful to Emily, it was a surprise and anunpleasant one to Mrs. Hazleton. Not that she wished to keep her youngguest with her long; for she was too keen and shrewd not to perceivethat Emily would not be worked upon so easily as she had imagined; andthat under her very youthfulness there was a strength of characterwhich must render one part of the plans against her certainlyabortive. But Mrs. Hazleton was taken by surprise. She could havewished to guard against construction of some parts of her conductwhich must be the more unpleasant, because the more just. She hadfancied she would have time to give what gloss she chose to herconduct in Emily's eyes, and to prevent dangerous explanations betweenthe father and the daughter. Moreover, the suddenness of the callalarmed her and raised doubts. Wherever there is something to beconcealed there is something to be feared, and Mrs. Hazleton askedherself if Emily had found means to communicate to Sir Philip Hastingswhat had occurred with John Ayliffe.
That, however, she soon concluded was impossible. Some knowledge ofthe facts, nevertheless, might have reached him from other sources,and Mrs. Hazleton grew uneasy. Sir Philip's letter to his daughter,which Emily at once suffered her hostess to see, threw no light uponthe subject. It was brief, unexplicit, and though perfectly kind andtender, peremptory. It merely required her to return to the Hall, assome business rendered her presence at home necessary.
Little did Mrs. Hazleton divine the business to which Sir Philipalluded. Had she known it, what might have happened who can say? Therewere terribly strong passions within that fair bosom, and there weremoments when those strong passions mastered even strong worldly senseand habitual self-control.
There was not much time, however, for even thought, and less forpreparation. Emily departed, after having received a few words ofaffectionate caution from Mrs. Hazleton, delicately and skilfully put,in such a manner as to produce the impression that she was speaking ofsubjects personally indifferent to herself--except in so much as heryoung friend's own happiness was concerned.
Shall we say the truth? Emily attended but little. Her thoughts werefull of her father's letter, and of the joy of returning to a homewhere days passed peacefully in an even quiet course, very differentfrom that in which the stream of time had flowed at Mrs. Hazleton's.The love of strong emotions--the brandy-drinking of the mind--is anacquired taste. Few, very few have it from nature. Poor Emily, shelittle knew how many strong emotions were preparing for her.
Gladly she saw the carriage roll onward through scenes more and morefamiliar at every step. Gladly she saw the forked gates appear, andmarked the old well-known hawthorns as they flitted by her; and thelook of joy with which she sprang into her fathers arms, might haveconvinced any heart that there was but one home she loved.
"Now go and dress for dinner at once, my child," said Sir Philip, "wehave delayed two hours for you. Be not long."
Nor was Emily long; she could not have been more rapid had she knownthat Marlow was waiting eagerly for her appearance. Well pleased,indeed, was she to see him, when she entered the drawing-room; but forthe first time since she had known him--from some cause or other--amomentary feeling of embarrassment--of timidity, came upon her; andthe color rose slightly in her cheek. Her eyes spoke, however, morethan her lips could say, and Marlow must have been satisfied, iflovers ever could be satisfied.
Lady Hastings was lying languidly on a couch, not knowing how tointimate to her daughter her disapproval of a suit yet unknown toEmily herself. She could not venture to utter openly one word inopposition; for Sir Philip Hastings had desired her not to do so, andshe had given a promise to forbear, but she thought it would beperfectly consistent with that promise, and perfectly fair and rightto show in other ways than by words, that Mr. Marlow was not the manshe would have chosen for her daughter's husband, and even toinsinuate objections which she dare not state directly.
In her manner to Marlow therefore, Lady Hastings, though perfectlycourteous and polite--for such was Sir Philip's pleasure--was as coldas ice, always added "Sir" to her replies, and never forgot herself sofar as to call him by his name.
Emily remarked this demeanor; but she knew--I should rather have saidshe was aware; for it was a matter more of sensation than thought,--aconviction that had grown up in her mind without reflection--she wasaware that her mother was somewhat capricious in her friendships. Shehad seen it in the case of servants and of some of the governesses shehad had when she was quite young. One day they would be all that wasestimable and charming in Lady Hastings' eyes, and another, from someslight offence--some point of demeanor which she did not like--or somemoody turn of her own mind, they would be all that was detestable. It,had often been the same, too, with persons of a higher station; andtherefore it did not in the least surprise her to find that Mr.Marlow, who had been ever received by Lady Hastings before as afamiliar friend, should now be treated almost as a stranger.
It grieved her, nevertheless, and she thought that Marlow must feelher mother's conduct painfully. She would fain have made up for it byany means in her power, and thus the demeanor of Lady Hastings had aneffect the direct reverse of that which she intended. Nor did herinnuendos produce any better results, for she soon saw that theygrieved and offended her husband, while her daughter showed marvellousstupidity, as she thought, in not comprehending them.
Full of love, and now full of hope likewise, Marlow, it must beconfessed, thought very little of Lady Hastings at all. He was one ofthose men upon whom love sits well--they are but few in the world--andwhatever agitation he might feel at heart, there was none apparent inhis manner. His attention to Emily was decided, pointed, not to bemistaken by any one well acquainted with such matters; but he wasquite calm and quiet about it; there was no flutter about it--noforgetfulness of proprieties; and his conversation had never seemed toEmily so agreeable as that night, although the poor girl knew not whatwas the additional charm. Delightful to her, however, it was; and inenjoying it she forgot altogether that she had been sent for aboutbusiness--nay, even forgot to wonder what that business could be.
Thus passed the evening; and when the usual time for retiring came,Emily was a little surprised that there was no announcement of Mr.Marlow's horse, or Mr. Marlow's carriage, as had ever been the casebefore, but that Mr. Marlow was going to spend some days at the hall.
When Lady Hastings rose to go to rest, and her daughter rose to gowith her, another thing struck Emily as strange. Sir Philip, as hiswife passed him, addressed to her the single word "Beware!" with avery marked emphasis. Lady Hastings merely bowed her head, in reply;but when she and Emily arrived at her dressing-room, where thedaughter had generally stayed to spend a few minutes with her motheralone, Lady Hastings kissed her, and wished her good night, declaringthat she felt much fatigue, and would ring for her maid at once.
Lady Hastings was a very good woman, and wished to obey her husband'sinjunctions to the letter, but she felt afraid of herself, and wouldnot trust herself with Emily alone.
Dear Emily lay awake for half an hour after she had sought her pillow,but not more, and then she fell into a sleep as soft and calm as thatof childhood, and the next morning ros
e as blooming as the flower ofJune. Sir Philip was up when she went down stairs, and walking on theterrace with Marlow. Lady Hastings sent word that she would breakfastin her own room, when she had obtained a few hours' rest, as she hadnot slept all night. Thus Emily had to attend to the breakfast-tablein her mother's place; but in those days the lady's functions at themorning meal were not so various and important as at present; and thebreakfast passed lightly and pleasantly. Still there was no mention ofthe business which had caused Emily to be summoned so suddenly, andwhen the breakfast was over, Sir Philip retired to his library,without asking Emily to follow, and merely saying, "You had better notdisturb your mother, my dear child. If you take a walk I will join youere long."
For the first time, a doubt, a notion--for I must not call it asuspicion--came across the mind of Emily, that the business for whichshe had been sent might have something to do with Mr. Marlow. How herlittle heart beat! She sat quite still for a minute or two, for shedid not know, if she rose, what would become of her.
At length the voice of Marlow roused her from her gently-troubledreverie, as he said. "Will you not come out to take a walk?"
She consented at once, and went away to prepare. Nor was she long, forin less than ten minutes, she and Marlow were crossing the park,towards the older and thicker trees amidst which they had rambled oncebefore. But it was Marlow who now led her on a path which he chosehimself. I know not whether it was some memory of his walk with Mrs.Hazleton, or whether it was that instinct which leads love to seekshady places, or whether, like a skilful general, he had previouslyreconnoitred the ground; but something or other in his own breastinduced him to deviate from the more direct track which they hadfollowed on their previous walk, and guide his fair companion acrossthe short dry turf towards the thickest part of the wood, throughwhich there penetrated, winding in and out amongst the trees, a smallpath, just wide enough for two, bowered overhead by crossing branches,and gaining sweet woodland scenes of light and shade at every step, asthe eye dived into the deep green stillness between the large oldtrunks, carefully freed from underwood, and with their feet carpetedwith moss, and flowers, and fern. It was called the deer's track, fromthe fact that along it, morning and evening, all the bucks and doeswhich had herded on that side of the park might be seen walkingstately down to or from a bright, clear-running trout-stream, thatwandered along about a quarter of a mile farther on; and often, in thehot weather, a person standing half way down the walk might see a tallantlered fellow standing with his forefeet in the water and hishind-quarters raised upon the bank, gazing at himself in the liquidmirror below, with all his graceful beauties displayed to theuttermost by a burst of yellow light, which towards noon always pouredupon the stream at that place.
Marlow and Emily, however, were quite alone upon the walk. Not even ahind or hart was there; and after the first two or three steps, Marlowasked his fair companion to take his arm. She did so, readily; for sheneeded it, not so much because the long gnarled roots of the treescrossed the path from time to time, and offered slight impediments,for usually her foot was light as air, but because she felt anunaccountable languor upon her, a tremulous, agitated sort of unknownhappiness unlike any thing else she had ever before experienced.
Marlow drew her little hand through his arm then, and she rested uponit, not with the light touch of a mere acquaintance, but with a gentleconfiding pressure which was very pleasant to him, and yet thecapricious man must needs every two or three minutes, change thatkindly position as the trees and irregularities of the walk affordedan excuse. Now he placed Emily on the one side, now on the other, andif she had thought at all (but by this time she was far past thought,)she might have fancied that he did so solely for the purpose of oncemore taking her hand in his to draw it through his arm again.
At the spot where the walk struck the stream, and before it proceededonward by the bank, there was a little irregular open space not twentyyards broad in any direction, canopied over by the tall branches of anoak, and beneath the shade about twelve yards from the margin of thestream, was a pure, clear, shallow well of exceedingly cold water,which as it quietly flowed over the brink went on to join the rivuletbelow. The well was taken care of, kept clean, and basined in plainflat stones; but there was, no temple over it, Gothic or Greek. On theside farthest from the stream was a plain wooden bench placed for theconvenience of persons who came to drink the waters which weresupposed to have some salutary influence, and there by tacit consentMarlow and Emily seated themselves side by side.
They gazed into the clear little well at their feet, seeing all theround variegated pebbles at the bottom glistening like jewels as thebranches above, moved by a fresh wind that was stirring in the sky,made the checkered light dance over the surface. There was a greenleaf broken by some chance from a bough above which floated about uponthe water as the air fanned it gently, now hither, now thither, nowgilded by the sunshine, now covered with dim shadow. After pausing insilence for a moment or two, Marlow pointed to the leaf with a lightand seemingly careless smile, saying, "See how it floats about, Emily.That leaf is like a young heart full of love."
"Indeed," said Emily, looking full in his face with a look of inquiry,for perhaps she thought that in his smile she might find aninterpretation of what was going on in her own bosom. "Indeed! Howso?"
"Do you not see," said Marlow, "how it is blown about by the softestbreath, which stirs not the less sensitive things around, how it iscarried by any passing air now into bright hopeful light, now into dimmelancholy shadow?"
"And is that like love?" asked Emily. "I should have thought it wasall brightness."
"Ay, happy love--love returned," replied Marlow, "but where there isuncertainty, a doubt, there hope and fear make alternately the lightand shade of love, and the lightest breath will bear the heart fromthe one extreme to the other--I know it from the experience of thelast three days, Emily; for since last we met I too have fluctuatedbetween the light and shade. Your father's consent has given amomentary gleam of hope, but it is only you who can make the lightpermanent."
Emily shook, and her eyes were bent down upon the water; but sheremained silent so long that Marlow became even more agitated thanherself. "I know not what I feel," she murmured at length,--"it isvery strange."
"But hear me, Emily," said Marlow, taking her unresisting hand, "I donot ask an immediate answer to my suit. If you regard me with anyfavor--if I am not perfectly indifferent to you, let me try to improveany kindly feelings in your heart towards me in the bright hope ofwinning you at last for my own, my wife. The uncertainty may bepainful--must be painful; but--"
"No, no, Marlow," cried Emily, raising her eyes to his face for aninstant with her cheek all glowing, "there must be no uncertainty. Doyou think I would keep you--you, in such a painful state as you havementioned? Heaven forbid!"
"Then what am I to think?" asked Marlow pressing closer to her sideand gliding his arm round her. "I am almost mad to dream of suchhappiness, and yet your tone, your look, my Emily, make me so rash.Tell me then--tell me at once, am I to hope or to despair?--Will yoube mine?"
"Of course," she answered, "can you doubt it?"
"I can almost doubt my senses," said Marlow; but he had no occasion todoubt them.
They sat there for nearly half an hour; they then wandered on, withmarvellous meanderings in their course, for more than an hour and ahalf more, and when they returned, Emily knew more of love than evercould be learned from books. Marlow drew her feelings forth and gavethem definite form and consistency. He presented them to her bytelling what he himself felt in a plain and tangible shape, whichrequired no long reverie--none of their deep fits of thoughtfulness toinvestigate and comprehend. From the rich store of his ownimagination, and the treasury of deep feeling in his breast, he pouredforth illustrations that brightened as if with sunshine everysensation which had been dark and mysterious in her bosom before;and ere they turned their steps back towards the house, Emilybelieved--nay, she felt; and that is much more--that without knowingi
t, she had loved him long.
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