CHAPTER L.
Sir Philip Hastings, I have said, was reading a Greek book when Mr.Short entered the library. His face was grave, and very stern; but alltraces of the terrible agitation with which he had quited the side ofhis wife's death-bed, were now gone from his face. He hardly looked upwhen the surgeon entered. He seemed not only reading, but absorbed bywhat he read. Mr. Short thought the paroxysm of grief was passed, andthat the mind of Sir Philip Hastings, settling down into a calmmelancholy, was seeking its habitual relief in books. He knew, asevery medical man must know, the various whimsical resources to whichthe heart of man flies, as if for refuge, in moments of greataffliction. The trifles with which some will occupy themselves--theintense abstraction for which others will labor--the imaginations, thevisions, the fancies to which others again will apply, not forconsolation, not for comfort; but for escape from the one darkpredominant idea. He said a few words to Sir Philip then, of a kindlybut somewhat commonplace character, and the baronet looked up, gazingat him across the candles which stood upon the library table. Had Mr.Short's attention been particularly called to Sir Philip'scountenance, he would have perceived at once, that the pupils of theeyes were strangely and unnaturally contracted, and that from time totime a certain nervous twitching of the muscles curled the lip, andindented the cheek. But he did not remark these facts: he merely sawthat Sir Philip was reading: that he had recovered his calmness; andhe judged that that which might be strange in other men, might not bestrange in him. In regard to what he believed the great cause of SirPhilip's grief, his wife's death, he thought it better to say nothing;but he naturally concluded that a father would be anxious to hear of adaughter's health under such circumstances, and therefore he told himthat Emily was better and more composed.
Sir Philip made a slight, but impatient motion of the hand, but Mr.Short went on to say, "As she was so severely and terribly affected,Sir Philip, I have given Mistress Emily a composing draught, which hasalready had the intended effect of throwing her into profound slumber.It will insure her, I think, at least six, if not seven hours of calmrepose, and I trust she will rise better able to bear her grief thanshe would be now, were she conscious of it."
Sir Philip mattered something between his teeth which the surgeon didnot hear, and Mr. Short proceeded, saying, "Will you permit me tosuggest, Sir Philip, that it would be better for you too, my dear sir,to take something which would counteract the depressing effect ofsorrow."
"I thank you, sir, I thank you," replied Sir Philip, laying his handupon the book; "I have no need. The mind under suffering seeksmedicines for the mind. The body is not affected. It is well--toowell. Here is my doctor;" and he raised his hand and let it fall uponthe book again.
"Well then, I will leave you for to-night, Sir Philip," said thesurgeon; "to-morrow I must intrude upon you on business of greatimportance. I will now take my leave."
Sir Philip rose ceremoniously from his chair and bowed his head;gazing upon the surgeon as he left the room and shut the door, with akeen, cunning, watchful look from under his overhanging eyebrows.
"Ha!" he said, when the surgeon had left the room, "he thought tocatch me--to find out what I intended to do--slumber!--calm, tranquilrepose--so near a murdered mother! God of heaven!" and he bent downhis head till his forehead touched the pages of the book, and remainedwith his face thus concealed for several minutes.
It is to be remarked that not one person, with a single exception, towhom the circumstances of Lady Hastings' death were known, evendreamed of suspecting Emily. They all knew her, comprehended hercharacter, loved her, had faith in her, except her own unhappy father.But with him, if the death of his unhappy wife were terrible, hissuspicions of his daughter were a thousand fold more so. To hisdistorted vision a multitude of circumstances brought proof allpowerful. "She has tried to destroy her father," he thought, "and shehas not scrupled to destroy her mother. In the one case there seemedno object. In the other there was the great object of revenge, withothers perhaps more mean, but not less potent. Try her cause what wayI will, the same result appears. The mother opposes the daughter'smarriage to the man she loves--threatens to frustrate the dearest wishof her heart,--and nothing but death will satisfy her. This is, theend then of all these reveries--these alternate fits of gloom andlevity. The ill balanced mind has lost its equipoise, and all hasgiven way to passion. But what must I do---oh God! what must I do?"
His thoughts are here given, not exactly as they presented themselves;for they were more vague, confused, and disjointed; but such was thesum and substance of them. He raised his head from the book andlooked up, and after thinking for a moment or two he said, "ThisJosephus--this Jew--gives numerous instances, if I remember right, ofjustice done by fathers upon their children--ay, and by the expresscommand of God. The priest of the Most High was punished for yieldingto human weakness in the case of his sons. The warrior Jephtha sparednot his best beloved. What does the Roman teach? Not to show pity tothose the nearest to us by blood, the closest in affection, wherejustice demands unwavering execution. It mast be so. There is but thechoice left, to give her over to hands of strangers, to add publicshame, and public punishment to that which justice demands, or to dothat myself which they must inevitably do. She must die--such amonster must not remain upon the earth. She has plotted against herfather's life--she has colleagued with his fraudulent enemies--she hasbetrayed the heart that fondly trusted her--she has visited secretlythe haunts of a low, vulgar ruffian--she has aided and abetted thosewho have plundered her own parents--she has ended by the murder of themother who so fondly loved her. I--I am bound, by every duty tosociety, to deliver it from one, who for my curse, and its bane, Ibrought into the world. She must be put to death; and no hand but minemust do it."
He gazed gloomily down upon the table for several minutes, and thenpaced the room rapidly with agony in every line of his face. He wrunghis hands hard together. He lifted up his eyes towards heaven, andoften, often, he cried out, "Oh God! Oh God! Is there no hope?--nodoubt?--no opening for pause or hesitation?"
"None, none, none," he said at length, and sank down into his chairagain.
His eye wandered round the room, as if seeking some object hecould not see, and then he murmured, "So beautiful--so young--soengaging--just eighteen summers; and yet such a load of crime!"
He bent his head again, and a few drops of agony fell from his eyesupon the table. Then clasping his forehead tight with his hand, heremained for several minutes thoughtful and silent. He seemed to growcalmer; but it was a deceitful seeming; and there was a wild,unnatural light in his eyes which, notwithstanding all the apparentshrewdness of his reasoning--the seeming connection and clearness ofhis argument, would have shown to those expert in such matters, thatthere was something not right within the brain.
At length he said to himself in a whisper, as if he was afraid thatsome one should hear him, "She sleeps--the man said she sleeps--now isthe time--I must not hesitate--I must not falter--now is the time!"and he rose and approached the door.
Once, he stopped for a moment--once, doubt and irresolution tookpossession of him. But then he cast them off; and moved on again.
With a slow step, but firm and noiseless tread, he crossed the halland mounted the stairs. No one saw him: the servants were scattered:there was no one to oppose his progress, or to say, "Forbear!"
He reached his daughter's room, opened the door quietly, went in, andclosed it. Then he gazed eagerly around. The curtains were withdrawn:his fair, sweet child lay sleeping calmly as an infant. He could seeall around. Father and child were there. There was no one else.
Still he gazed around, seeking perhaps for something with which to dothe fatal deed! His eye rested on a packet of papers upon the table.It contained those which Marlow had left with poor gentle Emily tojustify her to her father in case of need.
Oh, would he but take them up! Would he but read the words within!
He turns away--he steals toward the bed! Drop the curtain! I can writeno more. Emily is gone!
The Man in Black: An Historical Novel of the Days of Queen Anne Page 50