The Man in Black: An Historical Novel of the Days of Queen Anne

by G. P. R. James

  CHAPTER XV.

  Decorum came in with the house of Hanover. I know not whether men andwomen in England were more virtuous before--I think not--but theycertainly were more frank in both their virtues and their vices. Therewere fewer of those vices of conventionality thrown around the humanheart--fewer I mean to say of those cold restraints, those gildedchains of society, which, like the ornaments that ladies wear upontheir necks and arms, seem like fetters; but, I fear me, restrain butlittle human action, curb not passion, and are to the strong will butas the green rushes round the limbs of the Hebrew giant. Decorum cameinto England with the house of Hanover; but I am speaking of a periodbefore that, when ladies were less fearful of the tongue of scandal,when scandal itself was fearful of assailing virtue, when honesty ofpurpose and purity of heart could walk free in the broad day, and mendid not venture to suppose evil acts perpetrated whenever, by apossibility, they could be committed.

  Emily Hastings walked quietly along by the side of Mr. Marlow, throughher father's park. There was no one with him, no keen matron's ear tolisten to and weigh their words, no brother to pretend to accompanythem, and either feel himself weary with the task or lighten it byseeking his own amusement apart. They were alone together, and theytalked without restraint. Ye gods, how they did talk! The dear girlwas in one of her brightest, gayest moods. There was nothing that didnot move her fancy or become a servant to it. The clouds as they shotacross the sky, the blue fixed hills in the distance, the red andyellow and green coloring of the young budding oaks, the dancing ofthe stream, the song of the bird, the whisper of the wind, the mistyspring light which spread over the morning distance, all hadillustrations for her thoughts. It seemed that day as if she could notspeak without a figure--as if she revelled in the flowers ofimagination, like a child tossing about the new mown grass in ahay-field. And he, with joyous sport, took pleasure in furnishing herat every moment with new material for the bounding joy of fancy.

  They had not known each other long; but there was something in theyoung man's manner--nay, let me go farther--in his character, whichinvited confidence, which besought the hearts around to throw off allstrange disguise, and promised that he would take no base advantage oftheir openness. That something was perhaps his earnestness: one feltthat he was true in all he said or did or looked: that his words werebut his spoken feelings: his countenance a paper on which the heart atonce recorded its sensations. But let me not be mistaken. Do not letit be supposed that when I say he was earnest, I mean that he was evengrave. Oh no! Earnestness can exist as well in the merriest as in thesoberest heart. One can be as earnest, as truthful, even as eager injoy or sport, as in sorrow or sternness. But he was earnest in allthings, and it was this earnestness which probably found a way for himto so many dissimilar hearts.

  Emily knew not at all what it was doing with hers; but she felt thathe was one before whom she had no need to hide a thought: that if shewere gay, she might be gay in safety: that if she were inclined tomuse, she might muse on in peace.

  Onward they walked, talking of every thing on earth but love. It wasin the thoughts of neither. Emily knew nothing about it: the tranquilexpanse of life had never for her been even rippled by the wing ofpassion. Marlow might know more; but for the time he was lost in theenjoyment of the moment. The little enemy might be carrying on the waragainst the fortress of each unconscious bosom; but if so, it was bythe silent sap and mine, more potent far than the fierce assault orthundering cannonade--at least in this sort of warfare.

  They were wending their way towards a gate, at the very extreme limitof the park, which opened upon a path leading by a much shorter way toMr. Marlow's own dwelling than the road he usually pursued. He hadthat morning come to spend but an hour at the house of Sir PhilipHastings, and he had an engagement at his own house at noon. He hadspent two hours instead of one with Emily and her mother, andtherefore short paths were preferable to long ones for his purpose.Emily had offered to show him the way to the gate, and her company wassure to shorten the road, though it might lengthen the time it took totravel.

  Now in describing the park of Sir Philip Hastings, I have said thatthere was a wide open space around the mansion; but I have also said,that at some distance the trees gathered thick and sombre. Thosenearest the house gathered together in clumps, confusing the eye in awilderness of hawthorns, and bushes, and evergreen oaks, while beyondappeared a dense mass of wood; and, through the scattered tufts oftrees and thick woodland at the extreme of the park ran several pathstraced by deer, and park-keepers, and country folk. Thus for variousreasons some guidance was needful to Marlow on his way, and for morereasons still he was well pleased that the guide should be EmilyHastings. In the course of their walk, amongst many other subjectsthey spoke of Mrs. Hazleton, and Marlow expatiated warmly on herbeauty, and grace, and kindness of heart. How different was the effectof all this upon Emily Hastings from that which his words in herpraise had produced upon her of whom he spoke! Emily's heart was free.Emily had no schemes, no plans, no purposes. She knew not that therewas one feeling in her bosom with which praise of Mrs. Hazleton couldever jar. She loved her well. Such eyes as hers are not practised inseeing into darkness. She had divined the Italian singer--perhaps byinstinct, perhaps by some distinct trait, which occasionally willbetray the most wily. But Mrs. Hazleton was a fellow-woman--a woman ofgreat brightness and many fine qualities. Neither had she anysuperficial defects to indicate a baser metal or a harder within. Ifshe was not all gold, she was doubly gilt.

  Emily praised her too, warmed with the theme; and eagerly exclaimed,"She always seems to me like one of those dames of fairy tales, uponwhom some enchanter has bestowed a charm that no one can resist. It isnot her beauty; for I feel the same when I hear her voice and shut myeyes. It is not her conversation; for I feel the same when I look ather and she is silent. It seems to breathe from her presence like theodor of a flower. It is the same when she is grave as when she isgay."

  "Aye, and when she is melancholy," replied Marlow. "I never felt itmore powerfully than a few days ago when I spent an hour with her, andshe was not only grave but sad."

  "Melancholy!" exclaimed Emily. "I never saw her so. Grave I have seenher--thoughtful, silent--but never sad; and I do not know that she hasnot seemed more charming to me in those grave, stiller moods, than inmore cheerful ones. Do you know that in looking at the beautifulstatues which I have seen in London, I have often thought they mightlose half their charm if they would move and speak? Thus, too, withMrs. Hazleton; she seems to me even more lovely, more full of grace,in perfect stillness than at any other time. My father," she added,after a moment's pause, "is the only one who in her presence seemsspell-proof."

  Her words threw Marlow into a momentary fit of thought. "Why," heasked himself, "was Sir Philip Hastings spell-proof when all otherswere charmed?"

  Men have a habit of depending much upon men's judgment, whether justlyor unjustly I will not stop to inquire. They rely less upon woman'sjudgment in such matters; and yet women are amongst the keenestdiscerners--when they are unbiassed by passion. But are they often so?Perhaps it is from a conviction that men judge less frequently fromimpulse, decide more generally from cause, that this presumption oftheir accuracy exists. Woman--perhaps from seclusion, perhaps fromnature--is more a creature of instincts than man, They are given herfor defence where reason would act too slowly; and where they do actstrongly, they are almost invariably right. Man goes through theslower process, and naturally relies more firmly on the result; forreason demonstrates where instinct leads blindfold. Marlow judged SirPhilip Hastings by himself, and fancied that he must have some causefor being spell-proof against the fascinations of Mrs. Hazleton. Thisroused the first doubt in his mind as to her being all that sheseemed. He repelled the doubt as injurious, but it returned from timeto time in after days, and at length gave him a clue to an intricatelabyrinth.

  The walk came to an end, too soon he thought. Emily pointed out thegate as soon as it appeared in sight, shook hands with him andreturned ho
meward. He thought more of her after they had parted, thanwhen she was with him. There are times when the most thoughtful do notthink--when they enjoy. But now, every word, every look of her whohad just left him, came back to memory. Not that he would admit tohimself that there was the least touch of love in his feelings. Ohno! He had known her too short a time for such a serious passion aslove to have any thing to do with his sensations. He only thought ofher--mused--pondered--recalled all she had said and done, because shewas so unlike any thing he had seen or heard of before--a somethingnew--a something to be studied.

  She was but a girl--a mere child, he said; and yet there was somethingmore than childish grace in that light, but rounded form, where beautywas more than budding, but not quite blossomed, like a moss-rose inits loveliest state of loveliness. And her mind too; there was nothingchildish in her thoughts except their playfulness. The morningdew-drops had not yet exhaled; but the day-star of the mind was wellup in the sky.

  She was one of those, on whom it is dangerous for a man afraid of loveto meditate too long. She was one the effect of whose looks and wordsis not evanescent. That of mere beauty passes away. How many a face dowe see and think it the loveliest in the world; yet shut the eyes anhour after, and try to recall the features--to paint them to themind's eye. You cannot. But there are others that link themselves withevery feeling of the heart, that twine themselves with constantlyrecurring thoughts, that never can be effaced--never forgotten--onwhich age or time, disease or death, may do its work without effectingone change in the reality embalmed in memory. Destroy the die, breakthe mould, you may; but the medal and the cast remain. Had Marlowlived a hundred years--had he never seen Emily Hastings again, not oneline of her bright face, not one speaking look, would have passed fromhis memory. He could have painted a portrait of her had he been anartist. Did you ever gaze long at the sun, trying your eyes againstthe eagle's? If so, you have had the bright orb floating before youreyes the whole day after. And so it was with Marlow: throughout thelong hours that followed, he had Emily Hastings ever before him. Butyet he did not love her. Oh dear no, not in the least. Love he thoughtwas very different from mere admiration. It was a plant of slowergrowth. He was no believer in love at first sight. He was an infidelas to Romeo and Juliet, and he had firmly resolved if ever he did fallin love, it should be done cautiously.

  Poor man! he little knew how deep he was in already.

  In the meanwhile, Emily walked onward. She was heart-whole at least.She had never dreamed of love. It had not been one of her studies. Herfather had never presented the idea to her. Her mother had oftentalked of marriage, and marriages good and bad; but always put them inthe light of alliances--compacts--negotiated treaties. Although LadyHastings knew what love is as well as any one, and had felt it asdeeply, yet she did not wish her daughter to be as romantic as she hadbeen, and therefore the subject was avoided. Emily thought a good dealof Mr. Marlow, it is true. She thought him handsome, graceful,winning--one of the pleasantest companions she had ever known. Sheliked him better than any one she had ever seen; and his words rang inher ears long after they were spoken. But even imagination, wickedspinner of golden threads as she is, never drew one link between hisfate and hers. The time had not yet come, if it was to come.

  She walked on, however, through the wood; and just when she wasemerging from the thicker part into the clumps and scattered trees,she saw a stranger before her, leaning against the stump of an oldhawthorn, and seeming to suffer pain. He was young, handsome,well-dressed, and there was a gun lying at his feet. But as Emily drewnearer, she saw blood slowly trickling from his arm, and falling onthe gray sand of the path.

  She was not one to suffer shyness to curb humanity; and she exclaimedat once, with a look of alarm, "I am afraid you are hurt, sir. Had younot better come up to the house?"

  The young man looked at her, fainted, and answered in a low tone, "Thegun has gone off, caught by a branch, and has shattered my arm. Ithought I could reach the cottage by the park gates, but I feelfaint."

  "Stay, stay a moment," cried Emily, "I will run to the hall and bringassistance--people to assist you upon a carriage."

  "No, no!" answered the stranger quickly, "I cannot go there--I willnot go there! The cottage is nearer," he continued more calmly. "Ithink with a little help I could reach it, if I could staunch theblood.

  "Let me try," exclaimed Emily; and with ready zeal, she tied herhandkerchief round his arm, not without a shaking hand indeed, butwith firmness and some skill.

  "Now lean upon me," she said, when she had done; "the cottage isindeed nearer, but you would have better tendance if you could reachthe hall."

  "No, no, the cottage," replied the stranger, "I shall do well there."

  The cottage was perhaps two hundred yards nearer to the spot on whichthey stood than the hall; but there was an eagerness about the youngman's refusal to go to the latter, which Emily remarked. Suspicionindeed was alive to her mind; but those were days when laws concerninggame, which have very year been becoming less and less strict, werehardly less severe than in the time of William Rufus. Every day, inthe country life which she led, she heard some tale of poaching or itspunishment. The stranger had a gun with him; she had found him in herfather's park; he was unwilling even in suffering and need of help togo up to the hall for succor; and she could not but fancy that forsome frolic, perhaps some jest, or some wild whim, he had beentrespassing upon the manor in pursuit of game. That he was an ordinarypoacher she could not suppose; his dress, his appearance forbade sucha supposition.

  But there was something more.

  In the young man's face--more in its expression than its featuresperhaps--more in certain marking lines and sudden glances than in thegeneral whole--there was something familiar to her--something thatseemed akin to her. He was handsomer than her father; of a moreperfect though less lofty character of beauty; and yet there was astrange likeness, not constant, but flashing occasionally upon herbrow, in what, when, she could hardly determine.

  It roused another sort of sympathy from any she had felt before; andonce more she asked him to go up to the hall.

  "If you have been taking your sport," she said, "where perhaps youought not, I am sure my father will look over it without a word, whenhe sees how you are hurt. Although people sometimes think he is sternand severe, that is all a mistake. He is kind and gentle, I assureyou, when he does not feel that duty requires him to be rigid."

  The stranger gave a quick start, and replied in a tone which wouldhave been haughty and fierce, had not weakness subdued it, "I havebeen shooting only where I have a right to shoot. But I will not go upto the hall, till--but I dare say I can get down to the cottagewithout help, Mistress Emily. I have been accustomed to do withouthelp in the world;" and he withdrew his arm from that which supportedhim. The next moment, however, he tottered, and seemed ready to fall,and Emily again hurried to help him. There were no more words spoken.She thought his manner somewhat uncivil; she would not leave him, andthe necessity for her kindness was soon apparent. Ere they were withina hundred yards of the cottage, he sunk slowly down. His face grewpale and death-like, and his eyes closed faintly as he lay upon theturf. Emily ran on like lightning to the cottage, and called out theold man who lived there. The old man called his son from the littlegarden, and with his and other help, carried the fainting man in.

  "Ay, master John, master John," exclaimed the old cottager, as he laidhim in his own bed; "one of your wild pranks, I warrant!"

  His wife, his son, and he himself tended the young man with care; anda young boy was sent off for a surgeon.

  Emily did not know what to do; but compassion kept her in the cottagetill the stranger recovered his consciousness, and then afterinquiring how he felt, she was about to withdraw, intending to senddown further aid from the hall. But the stranger beckoned her faintlyto come nearer, and said in tones of real gratitude, "Thank you athousand times, Mistress Emily; I never thought to need such kindnessat your hands. But now do me another, and say not a word to a
ny one atthe mansion of what has happened. It will be better for me, for you,for your father, that you should not speak of this business."

  "Do not! do not! Mistress Emily!" cried the old man, who was standingnear. "It will only make mischief and bring about evil."

  He spoke evidently under strong apprehension, and Emily was muchsurprised, both to find that one quite a stranger to her knew her atonce, and to find the old cottager, a long dependant upon her family,second so eagerly his strange injunction.

  "I will say nothing unless questions are asked me," she replied; "thenof course I must tell the truth."

  "Better not," replied the young man gloomily.

  "I cannot speak falsely," replied the beautiful girl "I cannot dealdoubly with my parents or any one," and she was turning away.

  But the stranger besought her to stop one moment, and said, "I havenot strength to explain all now; but I shall see you again, and then Iwill tell you why I have spoken as you think strangely. I shall seeyou again. In common charity you will come to ask if I am alive ordead. If you knew how near we are to each other, I am sure you wouldpromise!"

  "I can make no such promise," replied Emily; but the old cottagerseemed eager to end the interview; and speaking for her, he exclaimed,"Oh, she will come, I am sure, Mistress Emily will come;" and hurriedher away, seeing her back to the little gate in the park wall.