CHAPTER LI.
When Mr. Short, the surgeon, left the presence of Sir Philip Hastings,he found the butler seated in an arm-chair in the hall, cogitatingsadly over all the lamentable events of the day. He was an oldservant of the family, and full of that personal interest in everymember of it which now, alas, in these times of improvement andutilitarianism (or as it should be called, selfishness reduced torule), when it seems to be the great object of every one to bring mendown to the level of a mere machine, is no longer, or very rarely, metwith. He rose as soon as the surgeon appeared, and inquired eagerlyafter his poor master. "I am afraid he is touched here, sir," he said,laying his finger on his forehead. "He has not been at all right eversince he came back from London, and I am sure, when he came downto-night, calling out in such a way about gathering herbs, I thoughthe had gone clean crazy."
"He has become quite calm and composed now," replied Mr. Short;"though of course he is very sad: but as I can do no good by stayingwith him, I must go down to the farm for my horse, and ride away wheremy presence is immediately wanted."
"They have brought your horse up from the farm, sir," said the butler."It is in the stable-yard."
Thither Mr. Short immediately proceeded, mounted, and rode away. Whenhe had gone about five miles, or perhaps a little more, he perceivedthat two horsemen were approaching him rapidly, and he looked sharptowards them, thinking they might be Mr. Atkinson and the groom. Asthey came near, the outlines of the figures showed him that such wasnot the case; but the foremost of the two pulled up suddenly as he waspassing, and Marlow's voice exclaimed, "Is that Mr. Short?"
"Yes, sir, yes, Mr. Marlow," replied the surgeon. "I am very gladindeed you have come; for there has been terrible work this day at thehouse of poor Sir Philip Hastings. Lady Hastings is no more, and--"
"I have heard the whole sad history," replied Marlow, "and am ridingas fast as possible to see what can be done for Sir Philip, and mypoor Emily. I only stopped to tell you that Mrs. Hazleton has beentaken, the vial of medicine found upon her, and that she has boldlyconfessed the fact of having poisoned poor Lady Hastings. You willfind her and Atkinson, the high constable, at the house of Mrs.Warmington.--Good night, Mr. Short; good night;" and Marlow spurred onagain.
The delay had been very short, but it was fatal.
When Marlow reached the front entrance of the court, he threw his reinto the groom and without the ceremony of ringing, entered the house.There was a lamp burning in the hall, which was vacant; but Marlowheard a step upon the great staircase, and looked up. A dark shadowyfigure was coming staggering down, and as it entered the sphere of thelight in the hall, Marlow recognized the form, rather than thefeatures, of Sir Philip Hastings. His face was ashy pale: not a traceof color was discernible in any part: the very lips were white; andthe gray hair stood ragged and wild upon his head. His haggard andsunken eye fell upon Marlow; but he was passing onward to the library,as if he did not know him, tottering and reeling like a drunken man,when Marlow, very much shocked, stopped him, exclaiming, "Good God,Sir Philip, do you not know me?"
The unhappy man started, turned round, and grasped him tightly by thewrist, saying, in a hoarse whisper, and looking over his shouldertowards the staircase, "Do not go there, do not go there--comehither--you do not know what has happened."
"I do, indeed, Sir Philip," replied Marlow, in a soothing tone, "Ihave heard--"
"No, no, no, no!" said Sir Philip Hastings. "No one knows but I--therewas no one there--I did it all myself.--Come hither, I say!" and hedrew Marlow on towards the library.
"He has lost his senses," thought Marlow. "I must try and soothe himbefore I see my Poor Emily. I will try and turn his mind to otherthings;" and, suffering himself to be led forward, he entered thelibrary with Sir Philip Hastings, who instantly cast himself into achair, and pressed his hands before his eyes.
Marlow stood and gazed at him for a moment in silent compassion, andthen he said, "Take comfort, Sir Philip. Take comfort. I bring you agreat store of news; and what I have to tell will require great bodilyand mental exertions from you, to deal with all the painfulcircumstances in which you are placed. I have followed out everythread of the shameful conspiracy against you--not a turning of thewhole rascally scheme is undiscovered."
"She had her share in that too," said Sir Philip, looking up in hisface, with a wild, uncertain sort of questioning look.
"I know it," replied Marlow, thinking he spoke of Mrs. Hazleton, "Shewas the prime mover in it all."
Sir Philip wrung his hands tight, one within the other, murmuring "Oh,God; oh, God!"
"But," continued Marlow, "she will soon expiate her crimes; for shehas been taken, and proofs of her guilt found upon her, so strong andconvincing, that she did not think fit even to conceal the fact, butconfessed her crime at once."
Sir Philip started, and grasped both the arms of the chair in which hesat, tight in his thin white hands, gazing at Marlow with a look ofbewildered horror that cannot be described. Marlow went on, however,saying, "I had previously told her, indeed, that I had discovered allher dark and treacherous schemes--how she had labored to make thiswhole family miserable--how she had attempted to blacken the characterof my dear Emily--imitated her handwriting--induced you tomisunderstand her whole conduct, and thrown dark hints and suspicionsin your way. She knew that she could not escape this charge, even ifshe could conceal her guilt of to-day, and she confessed the whole."
"Who--who--who?" cried Sir Philip Hastings, almost in a scream. "Ofwhom are you talking, man?"
"Of Mrs. Hazleton," replied Marlow. "Were you not speaking of her?"
Sir Philip Hastings stretched forth his hands, as if to push himfarther from him; but his only reply was a deep groan, and, after amoment's pause, Marlow proceeded, "I, thought you were speaking ofher--of her whose task it has been, ever since poor Emily'sill-starred visit to her house, to calumniate and wrong thatdear innocent girl--to make you think her guilty of bitterindiscretions, if not great crimes--who, more than any one, aided towrong you, and who now openly avows that she placed the poison in yourpoor wife's room in order to destroy her."
"And I have killed her!--and I have killed her!" cried Sir PhilipHastings, rising up erect and tall--"and I have killed her!"
"Good God, whom?" exclaimed Marlow, with his heart beating as if itwould burst through his side. "Whom do you mean, sir?"
Sir Philip remained silent for a moment, pressing his hands tight uponhis temples, and then, answered in a slow, solemn voice, "YourEmily--my Emily--my own sweet--" but he did not finish the sentence;for ere the last words could be uttered, he fell forward on the floorlike a dead man.
For an instant, stupified and horror-struck, Marlow remainedmotionless, hardly comprehending, hardly believing what he had heard.The next instant, however, he rushed out of the library, and found thebutler with the late Lady Hastings' maid, passing through the back ofthe house towards the front staircase.
"Which is Emily's room?" he cried,--"Which is Emily's room?"
"She is asleep, sir," said the maid.
"Which is her room?" cried Marlow, vehemently. "He is mad--he ismad--your master is mad--he says he has killed her. Which is herroom?" and he darted up the staircase.
"The third on the right, sir," cried the butler, following with themaid, as fast as possible; and Marlow darted towards the door.
A fit of trembling, however, seized him as he laid his hand upon thelock. "He must have exaggerated," he said to himself. "He has beenunkind--harsh--he calls that killing her--I will open it gently," andhe and the two servants entered it nearly together.
All was quiet. All was still. The light was burning on the table.There was a large heavy pillow cast down by the side of the bed, andthe bed coverings were in some disorder.
No need of such a stealthy pace, Marlow! You may tread firm andboldly. Even your beloved step will not wake her. The body sleeps tillthe day of judgment. The spirit has gone where the wicked cease fromtroubling, and the weary are at rest.
&n
bsp; The beautiful face was calm and tranquil; though beneath each of theclosed eyes was a deep bluish mark, and the lips had lost theirredness. The fair delicate hands grasped the bed-clothes tightly, andthe whole position of the figure showed that death had not taken placewithout a convulsive struggle. Marlow tried, with trembling hands, tounclasp the fingers from the bed-clothes, and though he could not doit, he fancied he felt warmth in the palms of the hands. A momentarygleam of hope came upon him. More assistance was called: every effortthat could be suggested was made; but it was all in vain.Consciousness--breath--life--could never be restored. There was not adry eye amongst all those around, when the young lover, giving up thehopeless task, cast himself on his knees by the bedside, and pressedhis face upon the dead hand of her whom he had loved so well.
Just at that moment the voice of Sir Philip Hastings was heard belowsinging a stanza of some light song. It was the most horrible soundthat ever was heard!
Two of the servants ran down in haste, and the sight of the living wasas terrible as that of the dead. Philip Hastings had recovered fromhis fit without assistance, had raised himself, and was now walkingabout the room with the same sort of zigzag, tottering step with whichhe bad met Marlow on his return. A stream of blood from a wound whichhe had inflicted on his forehead when he fell, was still pouring downhis face, rendering its deathlike paleness only the more ghastly. Hismouth was slightly drawn aside, giving a strange sinister expressionto his countenance; but from his eyes, once so full of thought andintellect, every trace of reason had vanished. He held his handsbefore him, and the fingers of the one beat time upon the back of theother to the air that he was singing, and which he continued to singeven after the entrance of the servants. He uttered not a word to themon their appearance: he took not the slightest notice of them till thebutler, seeing his condition, took him by the arm, and asked if he hadnot better go to bed.
Then, Sir Philip attempted to answer, but his words when spoken wereindistinct as well as confused, and it became evident that he had astroke of palsy. The servants knew hardly what to do. Marlow they didnot dare to disturb in his deep grief: the surgeon was by this timefar away: their mistress, and her fair unhappy daughter were dead:their master had become an idiot. It was the greatest possible reliefto them when they beheld Mr. Dixwell the clergyman enter the library.Some boy employed about the stables or the kitchen, had carried down avague tale of the horrors to the Rectory; and the good clergyman,though exhausted with all the fatigues and anxiety of the day, hadhurried down at once to see what could be done for the survivors ofthat doomed family. He comprehended the situation of Sir PhilipHastings in a moment; but he put many questions to the butler as towhat preceded the terrible event, the effects of which he beheld. Theold servant answered little. To most of the questions he merely shookhis heal sadly; but that mute reply was sufficient; and Mr. Dixwell,taking Sir Philip by the hand, said, "You had better retire to rest,sir--you are not well."
Sir Philip Hastings gave an unmeaning smile, but followed theclergyman mildly, and having seen him to a bedroom, and left him inthe hands of his servants, Mr. Dixwell turned his step towards thechamber of poor Emily.
Marlow had risen from his knees; but was still standing by the bedsidewith his arms folded on his chest. His face was stern and sorrowful;but perfectly calm.
Mr. Dixwell approached quietly, and in a melancholy tone, addressed tohim some words of consolation--commonplace enough indeed, but wellintended.
Marlow laid his hand upon the clergyman's arm, and pointed to Emily'sbeautiful but ghastly face. He only added, "In vain!--Do what isneedful--Do what is right--I am incapable;" and leaving the room, hedescended to the library, where he closed the door, and remained insilence and solitude till day broke on the following morning.
CHAPTER LII.
Mrs. Warmington became a person of some importance with the people ofHartwell. All thoughts were turned towards her house. Everybody wishedthey could get in and see and hear more; for the news had spreadrapidly and wide, colored and distorted; but yet falling far short ofthe whole terrible truth. When Mr. Short himself arrived in town, hefound three other magistrates had already assembled, and that Mr.Atkinson and Sir Philip Hastings' groom, John, were already givingthem some desultory and informal information as to the apprehension ofMrs. Hazleton and its causes. The first consideration after hisappearance amongst them, was what was to be done with the prisoner;for one of the justices--a gentleman of old family in the county, whohad not much liked the appointment of the surgeon to the bench, andhad generally found motives for differing in opinion with him eversince--objected to leaving Mrs. Hazleton, even for the night, in anyother place than the common jail. The more merciful opinion of themajority, however, prevailed. Atkinson gave every assurance that theconstable whom he had placed in charge of the lady was perfectly to bedepended upon, and that the room in which she was locked up, was toohigh to admit the possibility of escape. Thus it was determined thatMrs. Hazleton should be left where she was for the night, and broughtbefore the magistrates for examination at an early hour on thefollowing morning.
Even after this decision was come to, however, the conversation orconsultation, if it may be so called, was prolonged for some time in agossiping, idle sort of way. Gentlemen sat upon the edge of the tablewith their hats on, or leaned against the mantelpiece, beating theirboots with their riding-whips, and some marvelled, and some inquired,and some expounded the law with the dignity and confidence, if notwith the sagacity and learning of a Judge. They were still engaged inthis discussion when the news of Emily's death was brought toHartwell, and produced a painful and terrible sensation in the breastsof the lightest and most careless of those present. The man whoconveyed the intelligence brought also a summons to Mr. Short toreturn immediately to Sir Philip Hastings, and only waiting to get afresh horse, the surgeon set out upon his return with a very sad andsorrowful heart. He would not disturb Mr. Marlow; though he wasinformed that he was in the library; but he remained with Sir PhilipHastings himself during the greater part of the night, and only setout for his own house to take a little repose before the meeting ofthe magistrates, some quarter of an hour before the first dawn of day.
Full of painful thoughts he rode on at a quick pace, till the yellowand russet hues of the morning began to appear in the east. He thenslackened his pace a little, and naturally, as he approached the houseof Mrs. Warmington, he raised his eye towards the windows of the roomin which he knew that the beautiful demon, who had produced so muchmisery to others and herself, had been imprisoned.
Mr. Short was riding on but suddenly a sound met his ear, and as hiseyes ran down the building from the windows above, to a small plot ofgrass which the lady of the house called the lawn, he drew up hishorse, and rode sharply up to the gate.
But it is time now to turn to Mrs. Hazleton. Lodged in the upperchamber which had been decided upon as the one fittest for theirpurpose, by Mr. Atkinson and the rest, with the constable fromHartwell domiciled in the anteroom, and the door between locked, Mrs.Hazleton gave herself up to despair; for her state of mind welldeserved that name, although her feelings were very different fromthose which are commonly designated by that name. Surely to feel thatevery earthly hope has passed away--to see that further struggle forany object of desire is vain--to know that the struggles which havealready taken place have been fruitless--to feel that their objectshave been base, unworthy, criminal--to perceive no gleam of light oneither side of the tomb--to have the present a wilderness, the futurean abyss, the past and its memories a hell--surely this is despair! Itmatters not with what firmness, or what fierceness it may be borne: itmatters not what fiery passions, what sturdy resolutions, what weakregrets, what agonizing fears, mingle with the state. This is despair!and such was the feeling of Mrs. Hazleton. She saw vast opportunities,a splendid position in society, wealth, beauty, wit, mind,accomplishments, all thrown away, and for the gratification of basepassions exchanged for disgrace, and crime, and a horrible death. Itwas a bad bargain; but she felt
she had played her whole for revengeand had lost; and she abode the issue resolutely.
All these advantages which I have enumerated, and many more, Mrs.Hazleton had possessed; but she wanted two things which are absolutelynecessary to human happiness and human virtue--heart and principle.The one she never could have obtained; for by nature she washeartless. The other might have been bestowed upon her by her parents.But they had failed to do so; for their own proper principles had beentoo scanty for them to bestow any on their daughter. Yet, strange tosay, the lack of heart somewhat mitigated the intensity of the lady'ssufferings now. She felt not her situation as bitterly as otherpersons with a greater portion of sensibility would inevitably havedone. She had so trained herself to resist all small emotions, thatthey had in reality become obliterated. Fiery passions she could feel;for the earthquake rends the granite which the chisel will not touch,and these affected her now as much as ever.
At that very moment, as she sat there, with her head resting on herhand, what is the meaning of that stern, knitted brow, that fixed,steadfast gaze forward, that tight compression of the lips and teethAt that moment Nero's wish was in the bosom of Mrs. Hazleton. Couldshe have slaughtered half the human race to blot out all evidence ofher crimes, and to escape the grinning shame which she knew awaitedher, she would have done it without remorse. Other feelings, too, werepresent. A sense of anger at herself for having suffered herself to bein the slightest degree moved or agitated by any thing that hadoccurred; a determined effort, too, was there--I will not call it astruggle--to regain entire command of herself--to be as calm, asgraceful, as self-possessed, as dignified as when in high prosperitywith unsullied fame. It might be, in a certain sense, playing a part,and doubtless the celebrated Madame Tiquet did the same; but she wasplaying a part for her own eyes, as well as those of others. Sheresolved to be firm, and she was firm. "Death," she said, "is beforeme: for that I am prepared. It cannot agitate a nerve, or make a limbshake. All other evils are trifles compared with this. Why then shouldI suffer them to affect me in the least? No, no, they shall not see mequail!"
After she had thus thought for some two hours, gaining more and moreself-command every moment, as she turned and re-turned all the pointsof her situation in her own mind, and viewed them in every differentaspect, she rose to retire to rest, lay down, and tried to sleep. Atfirst importunate thought troubled her. The same kind of ideas wenton--the same reasonings upon them--and slumber for more than one hourwould not visit her eyelids. But she was a very resolute woman, and atlength she determined that she would not think: she would banishthought altogether; she would not let the mind rest for one momentupon any subject whatsoever; and she succeeded. The absence of thoughtis sleep; and she slept; but resolution ended where sleep begun, andthe images she had banished waking, returned to the mind in slumber.Her rest was troubled. Growing fancies seemed to come thick upon hermind; though the eyes remained closed, the features were agitated; thelips moved. Sometimes she laughed; sometimes she moaned piteously;sometimes tears found their way through her closed eyelids; and sobsstruggled in her bosom.
At length, between three and four o'clock in the morning, Mrs.Hazleton rose up in bed. She opened her eyes, too; but there was adull glassy look about them--a fixed leaden stare, not natural to herwaking hours. Slowly she got out of bed, approached the table, took upa candle which she had left burning there, and which was now nearlydown to the socket, and walked straight to the door, saying aloud,"Very dark--very dark--every thing is dark."
She tried the door, but found it locked; and the constable slept on.She then returned to the table, seated herself, and for some five orten minutes continued to twist her long hair round her fingers. Shethen rose again, and went straight to the window, threw it up, andseemed to look out. "Chilly--chilly," she said. "I most walk to warmmyself."
The sill of the window was somewhat high, but that was no obstacle;for there was a chair near, and Mrs. Hazleton placed it for herselfwith as much care as if she had been wide awake. When this was doneshe stepped lightly upon it, and put her knee upon the window-sill,raised herself suddenly upright, and struck her head sharply againstthe upper part of the window. It is probable that the blow woke her,but at all events it destroyed her balance, and she fell forward atonce out of the window.
There was a loud shriek, and then a deep groan. But the constableslept on, and no one knew the fate that had befallen her 'till Mr.Short, the surgeon, passing the house, was attracted to the spot whereshe had fallen, by a moan, and the sight of a white object lyingbeneath the window.
A loud ringing of the bell, and knocking at the door, soon roused theinhabitants of the house, and the mangled form of Mrs. Hazleton wascarried in and stretched upon a bed. She was not dead; and althoughalmost every bone was broken, except the skull, and the terribleinjuries she had received precluded all possibility of recovery, sheregained her senses before three o'clock of the same day, andcontinued to linger for somewhat more than a fortnight in agonies bothof mind and body, too terrible to be described. With the rapid, thoughgradual weakening of the corporeal frame, the powers of the mindbecame enfeebled--the vigorous resolution failed--the self-commandabandoned her. Half an hour's death she could have borne with stoicalfirmness, but a fortnight's was too much. The thoughts she could shutout in vigorous health, forced themselves upon her as she lay therelike a crushed worm, and the tortures of hell got hold upon her, longbefore the spirit departed. Yet a sparkle of the old spirit showeditself even to her last hour. That she was conscious of an eternity,that she was convinced of after judgment, of the reward of good, andof the punishment of evil, that she believed in a God, a hell, aheaven, there can be no doubt--indeed her words more than once impliedit--and the anguish of mind under which she seemed to writhe provedit. But yet, she refused all religious consolation; expressed nopenitence: no sorrow for what she had done, and scoffed at the surgeonwhen he hinted that repentance might avail her even then. It seemedthat, as with the earthly future, she had made up her mind at once,when first detected, to meet her fate boldly; so with the judgment ofthe immortal future, she was resolute to encounter it unbending. Whenurged, nearly at her last hour, to show some repentance, she replied,in the weak and faltering voice of death, but in as determined a toneas ever, "It is all trash. An hour's repentance could do no good evenif I could repent. But I do not. Nobody does repent. They regret theirfailure, are terrified by their punishment; but they and I would doexactly the same again if we hoped for success and impunity. Talk tome no more of it. I do not wish to think of hell till it has hold uponme, if that should ever be."
She said no more from that moment forward, and in about an hour after,her spirit went to meet the fate she had so boldly dared.
But few persons remain to be noticed in this concluding chapter, andwith regard to their after history, the imagination of the readermight perhaps be left to deal, without further information. A fewwords, however, may be said, merely to give a clue to their afterfate.
The prosecution of Mr. Shanks, the attorney, was carried on butlanguidly, and it is certain that he was not convicted of the higheroffence of forgery. On some charge, however, it would seem he wassentenced to two years' imprisonment, and the last that is heard ofhim, shows him blacking shoes at the inn in Carrington, then a veryold man, in the reign of George the First.
Sir Philip Hastings never recovered his senses, not did he seem tohave any recollection of the horrible events with which his earthlyhistory may be said to have closed; but his life was not far extended.For about six months he continued in the same lamentable state inwhich we have last depicted him, sometimes singing, sometimeslaughing, and sometimes absorbed in deep melancholy. At the end ofthat period, another paralytic stroke left him in a state of completefatuity, from which, in two years, he was relieved by death.
If the reader will look into the annals of the reign of Queen Anne, hewill find frequent mention in the campaigns of Marlborough and Eugene,of a Major, a Colonel, and a General Marlow. They were all the sameperson; and t
hey will find that officer often reported as severelywounded. I cannot trace his history much farther; but the genealogiesof those times show, that in 1712, one Earl of Launceston died at theage of eighty-seven, and was succeeded by the eighth Earl, who onlysurvived three years, and the title with him became extinct, as it isparticularly marked that he died unmarried. As this last of the raceis distinguished by the title of Lieutenant-General, the Earl ofLaunceston, there can be no doubt that this was the lover and promisedhusband of poor Emily Hastings.
It is a sad tale, and rarely perhaps has any such tragedy darkened thepage of domestic history in England. A whole family were swept away,and most of those connected with them, in a very short space of time;but it is not the number of deaths within that period that gives itsgloominess to the page--for every domestic history is little but arecord of deaths--but the circumstances. Youth, beauty, virtue,gentleness, kindness, honor, integrity, punctilious rectitude: reason,energy, wisdom, sometimes, nay often, have no effect as a screen frommisfortune, sorrow, and death. Were this world all, what a frightfulchaos would human life be. But the very sorrows and adversities of thegood, prove that there is a life beyond, where all will be made even.
THE END.
The Man in Black: An Historical Novel of the Days of Queen Anne Page 51
