Mrs. Marston paused, and, after a brief silence, the governess said:--

"I am very superstitious myself, dear madame, and I thought I must have

seemed to you an inauspicious inmate--in short, unlucky--as I have said;

and the thought made me very unhappy--so unhappy, that I was going to

leave you, madame--I may now tell you frankly--going away; but you have

set my doubts at rest, and I am quite happy again."

"Dear mademoiselle," cried the lady, tenderly, and rising, as she spake,

to kiss the cheek of her humble friend; "never--never speak of this

again. God knows I have too few friends on earth, to spare the kindest

and tenderest among them all. No, no. You little think what comfort I

have found in your warm-hearted and ready sympathy, and how dearly I

prize your affection, my poor mademoiselle."

The young Frenchwoman rose, with downcast eyes, and a dimpling, happy

smile; and, as Mrs. Marston drew her affectionately toward her, and

kissed her, she timidly returned the embrace of her kind patroness. For a

moment her graceful arms encircled her, and she whispered to her, "Dear

madame, how happy--how very happy you make me."

Had Ithuriel touched with his spear the beautiful young woman, thus for a

moment, as it seemed, lost in a trance of gratitude and love, would that

angelic form have stood the test unscathed? A spectator, marking the

scene, might have observed a strange gleam in her eyes--a strange

expression in her face--an influence for a moment not angelic, like a

shadow of some passing spirit, cross her visibly, as she leaned over the

gentle lady's neck, and murmured, "Dear madame, how happy--how very happy

you make me." Such a spectator, as he looked at that gentle lady, might

have seen, for one dreamy moment, a lithe and painted serpent, coiled

round and round, and hissing in her ear.

A few minutes more, and mademoiselle was in the solitude of her own

apartment. She shut and bolted the door, and taking from her desk the

letter which she had that morning received, threw herself into an

armchair, and studied the document profoundly. Her actual revision and

scrutiny of the letter itself was interrupted by long intervals of

profound abstraction; and, after a full hour thus spent, she locked it

carefully up again, and with a clear brow, and a gay smile, rejoined her

pretty pupil for a walk.

We must now pass over an interval of a few days, and come at once to the

arrival of Sir Wynston Berkley, which duly occurred upon the evening of

the day appointed. The baronet descended from his chaise but a short

time before the hour at which the little party, which formed the family

at Gray Forest were wont to assemble for the social meal of supper. A few

minutes devoted to the mysteries of the toilet, with the aid of an

accomplished valet, enabled him to appear, as he conceived, without

disadvantage at this domestic reunion.

Sir Wynston Berkley was a particularly gentleman-like person. He was

rather tall, and elegantly made, with gay, easy manners, and something

indefinably aristocratic in his face, which, however, was a little more

worn than his years would have strictly accounted for. But Sir Wynston

had been a roué, and, spite of the cleverest possible making up, the

ravages of excess were very traceable in the lively beau of fifty.

Perfectly well dressed, and with a manner that was ease and gaiety

itself, he was at home from the moment he entered the room. Of course,

anything like genuine cordiality was out of the question; but Mr. Marston

embraced his relative with perfect good breeding, and the baronet

appeared determined to like everybody, and be pleased with everything. He

had not been five minutes in the parlor, chatting gaily with Mr. and Mrs.

Marston and their pretty daughter, when Mademoiselle de Barras entered

the room. As she moved towards Mrs. Marston, Sir Wynston rose, and,

observing her with evident admiration, said in an undertone, inquiringly,

to Marston, who was beside him--

"And this?"

"That is Mademoiselle de Barras, my daughter's governess, and Mrs.

Marston's companion," said Marston, drily.

"Ha!" said Sir Wynston; "I thought you were but three at home just now,

and I was right. Your son is at Cambridge; I heard so from our old

friend, Jack Manbury. Jack has his boy there too. Egad, Dick, it seems

but last week that you and I were there together."

"Yes," said Marston, looking gloomily into the fire, as if he saw, in its

smoke and flicker, the phantoms of murdered time and opportunity; "but I

hate looking back, Wynston. The past is to me but a medley of ill-luck

and worse management."

"Why what an ungrateful dog you are!" returned Sir Wynston, gaily,

turning his back upon the fire, and glancing round the spacious and

handsome, though somewhat faded apartment. "I was on the point of

congratulating you on the possession of the finest park and noblest

demesne in Cheshire, when you begin to grumble. Egad, Dick, all I can say

to your complaint is, that I don't pity you, and there are dozens who may

honestly envy you--that is all."

In spite of this cheering assurance, Marston remained sullenly silent.

Supper, however, had now been served, and the little party assumed their

places at the table.

"I am sorry, Wynston, I have no sport of any kind to offer you here,"

said Marston, "except, indeed, some good trout-fishing, if you like it. I

have three miles of excellent fishing at your command."

"My dear fellow, I am a mere cockney," rejoined Sir Wynston; "I am not a

sportsman; I never tried it, and should not like to begin now. No, Dick,

what I much prefer is, abundance of your fresh air, and the enjoyment of

your scenery. When I was at Rouen three years ago--"

"Ha!--Rouen? Mademoiselle will feel an interest in that; it is her

birth-place," interrupted Marston, glancing at the Frenchwoman.

"Yes--Rouen--ah--yes!" said mademoiselle, with very evident

embarrassment.

Sir Wynston appeared for a moment a little disconcerted too, but

rallied speedily, and pursued his detail of his doings at that fair town

of Normandy.

Marston knew Sir Wynston well; and he rightly calculated that whatever

effect his experience of the world might have had in intensifying his

selfishness or hardening his heart, it certainly could have had none in

improving a character originally worthless and unfeeling. He knew,

moreover, that his wealthy cousin was gifted with a great deal of that

small cunning which is available for masking the little scheming of

frivolous and worldly men; and that Sir Wynston never took trouble of any

kind without a sufficient purpose, having its center in his own personal

gratification.

This visit greatly puzzled Marston; it gave him even a vague sense of

uneasiness. Could there exist any flaw in his own title to the estate of

Gray Forest? He had an unpleasant, doubtful sort of remembrance of some

apprehensions of this kind, when he was but a child, having been

whispered in the family. Could this really be so, and could the

baronet have been led to make this unexpected visit merely for the

purpose of personally examining into the condition or a property of

which he was about to become the legal invader? The nature of this

suspicion affords, at all events, a fair gauge of Marston's estimate

of his cousin's character. And as he revolved these doubts from time to

time, and as he thought of Mademoiselle de Barras's transient, but

unaccountable embarrassment at the mention of Rouen by Sir Wynston--an

embarrassment which the baronet himself appeared for a moment to

reciprocate--undefined, glimmering suspicions of another kind flickered

through the darkness of his mind. He was effectually puzzled; his

surmises and conjectures baffled; and he more than half repented that he

had acceded to his cousin's proposal, and admitted him as an inmate of

his house.

Although Sir Wynston comported himself as if he were conscious of being

the very most welcome visitor who could possibly have established himself

at Gray Forest, he was, doubtless, fully aware of the real feelings with

which he was regarded by his host. If he had in reality an object in

prolonging his stay, and wished to make the postponement of his departure

the direct interest of his entertainer, he unquestionably took effectual

measures for that purpose.

The little party broke up every evening at about ten o'clock, and Sir

Wynston retired to his chamber at the same hour. He found little

difficulty in inducing Marston to amuse him there with a quiet game of

piquet. In his own room, therefore, in the luxurious ease of dressing

gown and slippers he sat at cards with his host, often until an hour or

two past midnight. Sir Wynston was exorbitantly wealthy, and very

reckless in expenditure. The stakes for which they played, although they

gradually became in reality pretty heavy, were in his eyes a very

unimportant consideration. Marston, on the other hand, was poor, and

played with the eye of a lynx and the appetite of a shark. The ease and

perfect good-humor with which Sir Wynston lost were not unimproved by his

entertainer, who, as may readily be supposed, was not sorry to reap this

golden harvest, provided without the slightest sacrifice, on his part, of

pride or independence. If, indeed, he sometimes suspected that his guest

was a little more anxious to lose than to win, he was also quite resolved

not to perceive it, but calmly persisted in, night after night, giving

Sir Wynston, as he termed it, his revenge; or, in other words, treating

him to a repetition of his losses. All this was very agreeable to

Marston, who began to treat his visitor with, at all events, more

external cordiality and distinction than at first.

An incident, however, occurred, which disturbed these amicable relations

in an unexpected way. It becomes necessary here to mention that

Mademoiselle de Barras's sleeping apartment opened from a long corridor.

It was en suite with two dressing rooms, each opening also upon the

corridor, but wholly unused and unfurnished. Some five or six other

apartments also opened at either side, upon the same passage. These

little local details being premised, it so happened that one day Marston,

who had gone out with the intention of angling in the trout-stream which

flowed through his park, though at a considerable distance from the

house, having unexpectedly returned to procure some tackle which he had

forgotten, was walking briskly through the corridor in question to his

own apartment, when, to his surprise, the door of one of the deserted

dressing-rooms, of which we have spoken, was cautiously pushed open, and

Sir Wynston Berkley issued from it. Marston was almost beside him as he

did so, and Sir Wynston made a motion as if about instinctively to draw

back again, and at the same time the keen ear of his host distinctly

caught the sound of rustling silks and a tiptoe tread hastily withdrawing

from the deserted chamber. Sir Wynston looked nearly as much confused as

a man of the world can look. Marston stopped short, and scanned his

visitor for a moment with a very peculiar expression.

"You have caught me peeping, Dick. I am an inveterate explorer," said the

baronet, with an effectual effort to shake off his embarrassment. "An

open door in a fine old house is a temptation which--"

"That door is usually closed, and ought to be kept so," interrupted

Marston, drily; "there is nothing whatever to be seen in the room but

dust and cobwebs."

"Pardon me," said Sir Wynston, more easily, "you forget the view from

the window."

"Aye, the view, to be sure; there is a good view from it," said Marston,

with as much of his usual manner as he could resume so soon; and, at the

same time, carelessly opening the door again, he walked in, accompanied

by Sir Wynston, and both stood at the window together, looking out in

silence upon a prospect which neither of them saw.

"Yes, I do think it is a good view," said Marston; and as he turned

carelessly away, he darted a swift glance round the chamber. The door

opening toward the French lady's apartment was closed, but not actually

shut. This was enough; and as they left the room, Marston repeated his

invitation to his guest to accompany him; but in a tone which showed that

he scarcely followed the meaning of what he himself was saying.

He walked undecidedly toward his own room, then turned and went down

stairs. In the hall he met his pretty child.

"Ha! Rhoda," said he, "you have not been out today?"

"No, papa; but it is so very fine, I think I shall go now."

"Yes; go, and mademoiselle can accompany you. Do you hear, Rhoda,

mademoiselle goes with you, and you had better go at once."

A few minutes more, and Marston, from the parlor-window, beheld Rhoda and

the elegant French girl walking together towards the woodlands. He

watched them gloomily, himself unseen, until the crowding underwood

concealed their receding figures. Then, with a sigh, he turned, and

reascended the great staircase.

"I shall sift this mystery to the bottom," thought he. "I shall foil the

conspirators, if so they be, with their own weapons; art with art;

chicane with chicane; duplicity with duplicity."

He was now in the long passage, which we have just spoken of, and

glancing back and before him, to ascertain that no chance eye discerned

him, he boldly entered mademoiselle's chamber. Her writing desk lay upon

the table. It was locked; and coolly taking it in his hands, Marston

carried it into his own room, bolted his chamber-door, and taking two or

three bunches of keys, he carefully tried nearly a dozen in succession,

and when almost despairing of success, at last found one which fitted the

lock, turned, and opened the desk.

Sustained throughout his dishonorable task by some strong and angry

passion, the sight of the open escritoire checked and startled him for a

moment. Violated privilege, invaded secrecy, base, perfidious espionage

upbraided and stigmatized him, as the intricacies of the outraged

sanctuary opened upon his intrusive gaze. He felt for a moment shocked

and humbled. He was impelled to lock and replace the desk where he had

originally found it, without having effected his meditated treason; but

this hesitation was transient; the fiery and reckless impulse which had

urged him to the act returned to enforce its consummation. With a guilty

eye and eager hands, he searched the contents of this tiny repository of

the fair Norman's written secrets.

"Ha! the very thing," he muttered, as he detected the identical letter

which he himself had handed to Mademoiselle de Barras but a few days

before. "The handwriting struck me, ill-disguised; I thought I knew it;

we shall see."

He had opened the letter; it contained but a few lines: he held his

breath while he read it. First he grew pale, then a shadow came over his

face, and then another, and another, darker and darker, shade upon shade,

as if an exhalation from the pit was momentarily blackening the air about

him. He said nothing; there was but one long, gentle sigh, and in his

face a mortal sternness, as he folded the letter again, replaced it, and

locked the desk.

Of course, when Mademoiselle de Barras returned from her accustomed

walk, she found everything in her room, to all appearances, undisturbed,

and just as when she left it. While this young lady was making her

toilet for the evening, and while Sir Wynston Berkley was worrying

himself with conjectures as to whether Marston's evil looks, when he

encountered him that morning in the passage, existed only in his own

fancy, or were, in good truth, very grim and significant realities,

Marston himself was striding alone through the wildest and darkest

solitudes of his park, haunted by his own unholy thoughts, and, it may

be, by those other evil and unearthly influences which wander, as we

know, "in desert places." Darkness overtook him, and the chill of night,

in these lonely tracts. In his solitary walk, what fearful company had

he been keeping! As the shades of night deepened round him, the sense of

the neighborhood of ill, the consciousness of the foul fancies or which,

where he was now treading, he had been for hours the sport, oppressed

him with a vague and unknown terror; a certain horror of the thoughts

which had been his comrades through the day, which he could not now

shake off, and which haunted him with a ghastly and defiant pertinacity,

scared, while they half-enraged him. He stalked swiftly homewards, like

a guilty man pursued.

Marston was not perfectly satisfied, though very nearly, with the

evidence now in his possession. The letter, the stolen perusal of which

had so agitated him that day, bore no signature; but, independently of

the handwriting, which seemed, spite of the constraint of an attempted

disguise, to be familiar to his eye, there existed, in the matter of the

letter, short as it was, certain internal evidences, which, although not

actually conclusive, raised, in conjunction with all the other

circumstances, a powerful presumption in aid of his suspicions. He

resolved, however, to sift the matter further, and to bide his time.

Meanwhile his manner must indicate no trace of his dark surmises and

bitter thoughts. Deception, in its two great branches, simulation and

dissimulation, was easy to him. His habitual reserve and gloom would

divest any accidental and momentary disclosure of his inward trouble of

everything suspicious or unaccountable, which would have characterized

such displays and eccentricities in another man.

His rapid and reckless ramble, a kind of physical vent for the paroxysm

which had so agitated him throughout the greater part of the day, had

soiled and disordered his dress, and thus had helped to give to his whole

appearance a certain air of haggard wildness, which, in the privacy of

his chamber, he hastened carefully and entirely to remove.

At supper, Marston was apparently in unusually good spirits. Sir Wynston

and he chatted gaily and fluently upon many subjects, grave and gay.

Among them the inexhaustible topic of popular superstition happened to

turn up, and especially the subject of strange prophecies of the fates

and fortunes of individuals, singularly fulfilled in the events of their

afterlife.

"By-the-by, Dick, this is rather a nervous topic for me to discuss," said

Sir Wynston.

"How so?" asked his host.

"Why, don't you remember?" urged the baronet.

"No, I don't recollect what you allude to," replied Marston, in all

sincerity.

"Why, don't you remember Eton?" pursued Sir Wynston.

"Yes, to be sure," said Marston.

"Well?" continued his visitor.

"Well, I really don't recollect the prophecy," replied Marston.

"What! do you forget the gypsy who predicted that you were to murder me,

Dick--eh?"

"Ah-ha, ha!" laughed Marston, with a start.

"Don't you remember it now?" urged his companion.

"Ah, why yes, I believe I do," said Marston; "but another prophecy was

running in my mind; a gypsy prediction, too. At Ascot, do you

recollect the girl told me I was to be Lord Chancellor of England, and

a duke besides?"

"Well, Dick," rejoined Sir Wynston, merrily, "if both are to be

fulfilled, or neither, I trust you may never sit upon the woolsack

of England."

The party soon after broke up: Sir Wynston and his host, as usual, to

pass some hours at piquet; and Mrs. Marston, as was her wont, to, spend

some time in her own boudoir, over notes and accounts, and the worrying

details of housekeeping.

While thus engaged, she was disturbed by a respectful tap at her door,

and an elderly servant, who had been for many years in the employment of

Mr. Marston, presented himself.

"Well, Merton, do you want anything?" asked the lady.

"Yes, ma'am, please, I want to give warning; I wish to leave the service,

ma'am;" replied he, respectfully, but doggedly.

"To leave us, Merton!" echoed his mistress, both surprised and sorry for

the man had been long her servant, and had been much liked and trusted.

"Yes, ma'am," he repeated.

"And why do you wish to do so, Merton? Has anything occurred to make the

place unpleasant to you?" urged the lady.

"No, ma'am--no, indeed," said he, earnestly, "I have nothing to complain

of--nothing, indeed, ma'am."

"Perhaps, you think you can do better, if you leave us?" suggested

his mistress.

"No, indeed, ma'am, I have no such thought," he said, and seemed on the

point of bursting into tears; "but--but, somehow--ma'am, there is

something come over me, lately, and I can't help, but think, if I stay

here, ma'am--some--some--misfortune will happen to us all--and that is the

truth, ma'am."

"This is very foolish, Merton--a mere childish fancy," replied Mrs.

Marston; "you like your place, and have no better prospect before you;

and now, for a mere superstitious fancy, you propose giving it up, and

leaving us. No, no, Merton, you had better think the matter over--and if

you still, upon reflection, prefer going away, you can then speak to

your master."

"Thank you ma'am--God bless you," said the man, withdrawing.

Mrs. Marston rang the bell for her maid, and retired to her room. "Has

anything occurred lately," she asked, "to annoy Merton?"

"No, ma'am, I don't know of anything; but he is very changed, indeed, of

late," replied the maid.

"He has not been quarreling?" inquired she.

"Oh, no, ma'am, he never quarrels; he is very quiet, and keeps to himself

always; he thinks a wonderful deal of himself," replied the servant.

"But, you said that he is much changed--did you not?" continued the lady;

for there was something strangely excited and unpleasant in the man's

manner, in this little interview, which struck Mrs. Marston, and alarmed

her curiosity. He had seemed like one charged with some horrible

secret--intolerable, and which he yet dared not reveal.

"What," proceeded Mrs. Marston, "is the nature of the change of which

you speak?"

"Why, ma'am, he is like one frightened, and in sorrow," she replied; "he

will sit silent, and now and then shaking his head, as if he wanted to

get rid of something that is teasing him, for an hour together."

"Poor man!" said she.

"And, then, when we are at meals, he will, all on a sudden, get up, and

leave the table; and Jem Boulter, that sleeps in the next room to him,

says, that, almost as often as he looks through the little window between

the two rooms, no matter what hour in the night, he sees Mr. Merton on

his knees by the bedside, praying or crying, he don't know which; but,

any way, he is not happy--poor man!--and that is plain enough."

"It is very strange," said the lady, after a pause; "but, I think, and

hope, after all, it will prove to have been no more than a little

nervousness."

"Well, ma'am, I do hope it is not his conscience that is coming against

him, now," said the maid.

"We have no reason to suspect anything of the kind," said Mrs.

Marston, gravely, "quite the reverse; he has been always a

particularly proper man."

"Oh, indeed," responded the attendant, "goodness forbid I should say or

think anything against him; but I could not help telling you my mind,

ma'am, meaning no harm."

"And, how long is it since you observed this sad change in poor Merton?"

persisted the lady.

"Not, indeed, to say very long, ma'am," replied the girl; "somewhere

about a week, or very little more--at least, as we remarked, ma'am."

Mrs. Marston pursued her inquiries no further that night. But, although

she affected to treat the matter thus lightly, it had, somehow, taken a

painful hold upon her imagination, and left in her mind those

undefinable and ominous sensations, which, in certain mental

temperaments, seem to foreshadow the approach of unknown misfortune.

For two or three days, everything went on smoothly, and pretty much as

usual. At the end of this brief interval, however, the attention of Mrs.

Marston was recalled to the subject of her servant's mysterious anxiety

to leave, and give up his situation. Merton again stood before her, and

repeated the intimation he had already given.

"Really, Merton, this is very odd," said the lady. "You like your

situation, and yet you persist in desiring to leave it. What am I

to think?"

"Oh, ma'am," said he, "I am unhappy; I am tormented, ma'am. I can't tell

you, ma'am; I can't indeed ma'am!"

"If anything weighs upon your mind, Merton, I would advise you to consult

our good clergyman, Dr. Danvers," urged the lady.

The servant hung his head, and mused for a time gloomily; and then said

decisively--"No, ma'am; no use."

"And pray, Merton, how long is it since you first entertained this

desire?" asked Mrs. Marston.

"Since Sir Wynston Berkley came, ma'am," answered he.

"Has Sir Wynston annoyed you in any way?" continued she.

"Far from it, ma'am," he replied; "he is a very kind gentleman."

"Well, his man, then; is he a respectable, inoffensive person?"

she inquired.

"I never met one more so," said the man, promptly, and raising his head.

"What I wish to know is, whether your desire to go is connected with Sir

Wynston and his servant?" said Mrs. Marston.

The man hesitated, and shifted his position uneasily.

"You need not answer, Merton, if you don't wish it," she said kindly.

"Why, ma'am, yes, it has something to say to them both," he replied, with

some agitation.

"I really cannot understand this," said she.

Merton hesitated for some time, and appeared much troubled. "It was

something, ma'am--something that Sir Wynston's man said to me; and there

it is out," he said at last, with an effort.

"Well, Merton," said she, "I won't press you further; but I must say,

that as this communication, whatever it may be, has caused you,

unquestionably, very great uneasiness, it seems to me but probable that

it affects the safety or the interests of some person--I cannot say of

whom; and, if so, there can be no doubt that it is your duty to acquaint

those who are so involved in the disclosure, with its purport."

"No, ma'am, there is nothing in what I heard that could touch anybody but

myself. It was nothing but what others heard, without remarking it, or

thinking about it. I can't tell you anymore, ma'am; but I am very

unhappy, and uneasy in my mind."

As the man said this, he began to weep bitterly.

The idea that his mind was affected now seriously occurred to Mrs.

Marston, and she resolved to convey her suspicions to her husband, and to

leave him to deal with the case as to him should seem good.

"Don't agitate yourself so, Merton; I shall speak to your master upon

what you have said; and you may rely upon it, that no surmise to the

prejudice of your character has entered my mind," said Mrs. Marston,

very kindly.

"Oh, ma'am, you are too good," sobbed the poor man, vehemently. "You

don't know me, ma'am; I never knew myself till lately. I am a miserable

man. I am frightened at myself, ma'am--frightened terribly. Christ knows,

it would be well for me I was dead this minute."

"I am very sorry for your unhappiness, Merton," said Mrs. Marston; "and,

especially, that I can do nothing to alleviate it; I can but speak, as I

have said, to your master, and he will give you your discharge, and

arrange whatever else remains to be done."

"God bless you, ma'am," said the servant, still much agitated, and left

her.

Mr. Marston usually passed the early part of the day in active exercise,

and she, supposing that he was, in all probability, at that moment far

from home, went to "mademoiselle's" chamber, which was at the other end

of the spacious house, to confer with her in the interval upon the

strange application thus urged by poor Merton.

Just as she reached the door of Mademoiselle de Barras's chamber, she

heard voices within exerted in evident excitement. She stopped in

amazement. They were those of her husband and mademoiselle. Startled,

confounded, and amazed, she pushed open the door, and entered. Her

husband was sitting, one hand clutched upon the arm of the chair he

occupied, and the other extended, and clenched, as it seemed, with the

emphasis of rage, upon the desk that stood upon the table. His face was

darkened with the stormiest passions, and his gaze was fixed upon the

Frenchwoman, who was standing with a look half-guilty, half-imploring,

at a little distance.

There was something, to Mrs. Marston, so utterly unexpected, and even so

shocking, in this tableau, that she stood for some seconds pale and

breathless, and gazing with a vacant stare of fear and horror from her

husband to the French girl, and from her to her husband again. The three

figures in this strange group remained fixed, silent, and aghast, for

several seconds. Mrs. Marston endeavored to speak; but, though her lips

moved, no sound escaped her; and, from very weakness, she sank,

half-fainting, into a chair.

Marston rose, throwing, as he did so, a guilty and furious glance at the

young Frenchwoman, and walked a step or two toward the door; he

hesitated, however, and turned, just as mademoiselle, bursting into

tears, threw her arms round Mrs. Marston's neck, and passionately

exclaimed, "Protect me, madame, I implore, from the insults and

suspicions of your husband."

Marston stood a little behind his wife, and he and the governess

exchanged a glance of keen significance, as the latter sank, sobbing,

like an injured child into its mother's embrace, upon the poor lady's

tortured bosom.

"Madame, madame! he says--Mr. Marston says--I have presumed to give you

advice, and to meddle, and to interfere; that I am endeavoring to make

you despise his authority. Madame, speak for me. Say, madame, have I ever

done so?--say, madame, am I the cause of bitterness and contumacy? Ah,

mon Dieu! c'est trop--it is too much, madame. I shall go--I must go,

madame. Why, ah! why, did I stay for this?"

As she thus spoke, mademoiselle again burst into a paroxysm of weeping,

and again the same significant glance was interchanged.

"Go; yes, you shall go," said Marston, striding toward the window. "I

will have no whispering or conspiring in my house: I have heard of your

confidences and consultations. Mrs. Marston, I meant to have done this

quietly," he continued, addressing his wife; "I meant to have given

Mademoiselle de Barras my opinion and her dismissal without your

assistance; but it seems you wish to interpose. You are sworn friends,

and never fail one another, of course, at a pinch. I take it for granted

that I owe your presence at our interview which I am resolved shall be,

as respects mademoiselle, a final one, to a message from that intriguing

young lady--eh?"

"I have had no message, Richard," said Mrs. Marston; "I don't

know--do tell me, for God's sake, what is all this about?" And as

the poor lady thus spoke, her overwrought feelings found vent in a

violent flood of tears.

"Yes, madame, that is the question. I have asked him frequently what is

all this anger, all these reproaches about; what have I done?" interposed

mademoiselle, with indignant vehemence, standing erect, and viewing

Marston with a flashing eye and a flushed cheek. "Yes, I am called

conspirator, meddler, intrigant. Ah, madame, it is intolerable."

"But what have I done, Richard?" urged the poor lady, stunned and

bewildered; "how have I offended you?"

"Yes, yes," continued the Frenchwoman, with angry volubility, "what has

she done that you call contumacy and disrespect? Yes, dear madame, there

is the question; and if he cannot answer, is it not most cruel to call me

conspirator, and spy, and intrigant, because I talk to my dear madame,

who is my only friend in this place?"

"Mademoiselle de Barras, I need no declamation from you; and, pardon me,

Mrs. Marston, nor from you either," retorted he; "I have my information

from one on whom I can rely; let that suffice. Of course you are both

agreed in a story. I dare say you are ready to swear you never so much as

canvassed my conduct, and my coldness and estrangement--eh? These are the

words, are not they?"

"I have done you no wrong, sir; madame can tell you. I am no

mischief-maker; no, I never was such a thing. Was I, madame?" persisted

the governess--"bear witness for me?"

"I have told you my mind, Mademoiselle de Barras," interrupted Marston;

"I will have no altercation, if you please. I think, Mrs. Marston, we

have had enough of this; may I accompany you hence?"

So saying, he took the poor lady's passive hand, and led her from the

room. Mademoiselle stood in the center of the apartment, alone, erect,

with heaving breast and burning cheek--beautiful, thoughtful, guilty--the

very type of the fallen angelic. There for a time, her heart all

confusion, her mind darkened, we must leave her; various courses before

her, and as yet without resolution to choose among them; a lost spirit,

borne on the eddies of the storm; fearless and self-reliant, but with no

star to guide her on her dark, malign, and forlorn way.

Mrs. Marston, in her own room, reviewed the agitating scene through which

she had just been so unexpectedly carried. The tremendous suspicion

which, at the first disclosure of the tableau we have described, smote

the heart and brain of the poor lady with the stun of a thunderbolt, had

been, indeed, subsequently disturbed, and afterwards contradicted; but

the shock of her first impression remained still upon her mind and heart.

She felt still through every nerve the vibrations of that maddening

terror and despair which had overcome her senses for a moment. The

surprise, the shock, the horror, outlived the obliterating influence of

what followed. She was in this agitation when Mademoiselle de Barras

entered her chamber, resolved with all her art to second and support the

success of her prompt measures in the recent critical emergency. She had

come, she said, to bid her dear madame farewell, for she was resolved to

go. Her own room had been invaded, that insult and reproach might be

heaped upon her; how utterly unmerited Mrs. Marston knew. She had been

called by every foul name which applied to the spy and the maligner; she

could not bear it. Some one had evidently been endeavoring to procure her

removal, and had but too effectually succeeded. Mademoiselle was

determined to go early the next morning; nothing should prevent or retard

her departure; her resolution was taken. In this strain did mademoiselle

run on, but in a subdued and melancholy tone, and weeping profusely.

The wild and ghastly suspicions which had for a moment flashed terribly

upon the mind of Mrs. Marston, had faded away under the influences of

reason and reflection, although, indeed, much painful excitement still

remained, before Mademoiselle de Barras had visited her room. Marston's

temper she knew but too well; it was violent, bitter, and impetuous; and

though he cared little, if at all, for her, she had ever perceived that

he was angrily jealous of the slightest intimacy or confidence by which

any other than himself might establish an influence over her mind. That

he had learned the subject of some of her most interesting conversations

with mademoiselle she could not doubt, for he had violently upbraided

that young lady in her presence with having discussed it, and here now

was mademoiselle herself taking refuge with her from galling affront and

unjust reproach, incensed, wounded, and weeping. The whole thing was

consistent; all the circumstances bore plainly in the same direction; the

evidence was conclusive; and Mrs. Marston's thoughts and feelings

respecting her fair young confidante quickly found their old level, and

flowed on tranquilly and sadly in their accustomed channel.

While Mademoiselle de Barras was thus, with the persevering industry of

the spider, repairing the meshes which a chance breath had shattered, she

would, perhaps, have been in her turn shocked and startled, could she

have glanced into Marston's mind, and seen, in what was passing there,

the real extent of her danger.

Marston was walking, as usual, alone, and in the most solitary region of

his lonely park. One hand grasped his walking stick, not to lean upon it,

but as if it were the handle of a battle-axe; the other was buried in his

bosom; his dark face looked upon the ground, and he strode onward with a

slow but energetic step, which had the air of deep resolution. He found

himself at last in a little churchyard, lying far among the wild forest

of his demesne, and in the midst of which, covered with ivy and tufted

plants, now ruddy with autumnal tints, stood the ruined walls of a little

chapel. In the dilapidated vault close by lay buried many of his

ancestors, and under the little wavy hillocks of fern and nettles, slept

many an humble villager. He sat down upon a worn tombstone in this lowly

ruin, and with his eyes fixed upon the ground, he surrendered his spirit

to the stormy and evil thoughts which he had invited. Long and motionless

he sat there, while his foul fancies and schemes began to assume shape

and order. The wind rushing through the ivy roused him for a moment, and

as he raised his gloomy eye it alighted accidentally upon a skull, which

some wanton hand had fixed in a crevice of the wall. He averted his

glance quickly, but almost as quickly refixed his gaze upon the impassive

symbol of death, with an expression glowering and contemptuous, and with

an angry gesture struck it down among the weeds with his stick. He left

the place, and wandered on through the woods.

"Men can't control the thoughts that flit across their minds," he

muttered, as he went along, "anymore than they can direct the shadows

of the clouds that sail above them. They come and pass, and leave no

stain behind. What, then, of omens, and that wretched effigy of

death? Stuff--pshaw! Murder, indeed! I'm incapable of murder. I have

drawn my sword upon a man in fair duel; but murder! Out upon the

thought, out upon it."

He stamped upon the ground with a pang at once of fury and horror. He

walked on a little, stopped again, and folding his arms, leaned against

an ancient tree.

"Mademoiselle de Barras, _vous êtes une traîtresse_, and you shall go.

Yes, go you shall; you have deceived me, and we must part."

He said this with melancholy bitterness; and, after a pause, continued:

"I will have no other revenge. No; though, I dare say, she will care but

little for this; very little, if at all."

"And then, as to the other person," he resumed, after a pause, "it is not

the first time he has acted like a trickster. He has crossed me before,

and I will choose an opportunity to tell him my mind. I won't mince

matters with him either, and will not spare him one insulting syllable

that he deserves. He wears a sword, and so do I; if he pleases, he may

draw it; he shall have the opportunity; but, at all events, I will make

it impossible for him to prolong his disgraceful visit at my house."

On reaching home and his own study, the servant, Merton, presented

himself, and his master, too deeply excited to hear him then, appointed

the next day for the purpose. There was no contending against Marston's

peremptory will, and the man reluctantly withdrew. Here was, apparently,

a matter of no imaginable moment; whether this menial should be

discharged on that day, or on the morrow; and yet mighty things were

involved in the alternative.

There was a deeper gloom than usual over the house. The servants seemed

to know that something had gone wrong, and looked grave and mysterious.

Marston was more than ever dark and moody. Mrs. Marston's dimmed and

swollen eyes showed that she had been weeping. Mademoiselle absented

herself from supper, on the plea of a bad headache. Rhoda saw that

something, she knew not what, had occurred to agitate her elders, and was

depressed and anxious. The old clergyman, whom we have already mentioned,

had called, and stayed to supper. Dr. Danvers was a man of considerable

learning, strong sense, and remarkable simplicity of character. His

thoughtful blue eye, and well-marked countenance, were full of gentleness

and benevolence, and elevated by a certain natural dignity, of which

purity and goodness, without one debasing shade of self-esteem and

arrogance, were the animating spirit. Mrs. Marston loved and respected

this good minister of God; and many a time had sought and found, in his

gentle and earnest counsels, and in the overflowing tenderness of his

sympathy, much comfort and support in the progress of her sore and

protracted earthly trial. Most especially at one critical period in her

history had he endeared himself to her, by interposing, and successfully,

to prevent a formal separation which (as ending forever the one hope that

cheered her on, even in the front of despair) she would probably not long

have survived.

With Mr. Marston, however, he was far from being a favorite. There was

that in his lofty and simple purity which abashed and silently reproached

the sensual, bitter, disappointed man of the world. The angry pride of

the scornful man felt its own meanness in the grand presence of a simple

and humble Christian minister. And the very fact that all his habits had

led him to hold such a character in contempt, made him but the more

unreasonably resent the involuntary homage which its exhibition in Dr.

Danvers's person invariably extorted from him. He felt in this good man's

presence under a kind of irritating restraint; that he was in the

presence of one with whom he had, and could have, no sympathy whatever,

and yet one whom he could not help both admiring and respecting; and in

these conflicting feelings were involved certain gloomy and humbling

inferences about himself, which he hated, and almost feared to

contemplate.

It was well, however, for the indulgence of Sir Wynston's conversational

propensities, that Dr. Danvers had happened to drop in; for Marston was

doggedly silent and sullen, and Mrs. Marston was herself scarcely more

disposed than he to maintain her part in a conversation; so that, had it

not been for the opportune arrival of the good clergyman, the supper must

have been dispatched with a very awkward and unsocial taciturnity.

Marston thought, and, perhaps, not erroneously, that Sir Wynston

suspected something of the real state of affairs, and he was, therefore,

incensed to perceive, as he thought, in his manner, very evident

indications of his being in unusually good spirits. Thus disposed, the

party sat down to supper.

"One of our number is missing," said Sir Wynston, affecting a slight

surprise, which, perhaps, he did not feel.

"Mademoiselle de Barras--I trust she is well?" said Doctor Danvers,

looking towards Marston.

"I suppose she is; I don't know," said Marston, drily.

"Why! how should he know," said the baronet, gaily, but with something

almost imperceptibly sarcastic in his tone. "Our friend, Marston, is

privileged to be as ungallant as he pleases, except where he has the

happy privilege to owe allegiance; but I, a gay young bachelor of fifty,

am naturally curious. I really do trust that our charming French friend

is not unwell."

He addressed his inquiry to Mrs. Marston, who, with some slight

confusion, replied:--

"No; nothing, at least, serious; merely a slight headache. I am sure she

will be quite well enough to come down to breakfast."

"She is, indeed, a very charming and interesting young person," said

Doctor Danvers. "There is a certain simplicity about her which argues a

good and kind heart, and an open nature."

"Very true, indeed, doctor," observed Berkley, with the same faint, but,

to Marston, exquisitely provoking approximation to sarcasm. "There is, as

you say, a very charming simplicity. Don't you think so, Marston?"

Marston looked at him for a moment, but continued silent.

"Poor mademoiselle!--she is, indeed, a most affectionate creature," said

Mrs. Marston, who felt called upon to say something.

"Come, Marston, will you contribute nothing to the general fund of

approbation?" said Sir Wynston, who was gifted by nature with an amiable

talent for teasing, which he was fond of exercising in a quiet way. "We

have all, but you, said something handsome of our absent young friend."

"I never praise anybody, Wynston; not even you," said Marston, with an

obvious sneer.

"Well, well, I must comfort myself with the belief that your silence

covers a great deal of good-will, and, perhaps, a little admiration,

too," answered his cousin, significantly.

"Comfort yourself in any honest way you will, my dear Wynston," retorted

Marston, with a degree of asperity, which, to all but the baronet

himself, was unaccountable. "You may be right, you may be wrong; on a

subject so unimportant it matters very little which; you are at perfect

liberty to practice delusions, if you will, upon yourself."

"By-the-bye, Mr. Marston, is not your son about to come down here?" asked

Doctor Danvers, who perceived that the altercation was becoming, on

Marston's part, somewhat testy, if not positively rude.

"Yes; I expect him in a few days," replied he, with a sudden gloom.

"You have not seen him, Sir Wynston?" asked the clergyman.

"I have that pleasure yet to come," said the baronet.

"A pleasure it is, I do assure you," said Doctor Danvers, heartily. "He

is a handsome lad, with the heart of a hero--a fine, frank, generous lad,

and as merry as a lark."

"Yes, yes," interrupted Marston; "he is well enough, and has done pretty

well at Cambridge. Doctor Danvers, take some wine."

It was strange, but yet mournfully true, that the praises which the good

Doctor Danvers thus bestowed upon his son were bitter to the soul of the

unhappy Marston. They jarred upon his ear, and stung his heart; for his

conscience converted them into so many latent insults and humiliations

to himself.

"Your wine is very good, Marston. I think your clarets are many degrees

better than any I can get," said Sir Wynston, sipping a glass of his

favorite wine. "You country gentlemen are sad selfish dogs; and, with all

your grumbling, manage to collect the best of whatever is worth having

about you."

"We sometimes succeed in collecting a pleasant party," retorted Marston,

with ironical courtesy, "though we do not always command the means of

entertaining them quite as we would wish."

It was the habit of Doctor Danvers, without respect of persons or

places, to propose, before taking his departure from whatever domestic

party he chanced to be thrown among for the evening, to read some verses

from that holy Book, on which his own hopes and peace were founded, and

to offer up a prayer for all to the throne of grace. Marston, although

he usually absented himself from such exercises, did not otherwise

discourage them; but upon the present occasion, starting from his gloomy

reverie, he himself was the first to remind the clergyman of his

customary observance. Evil thoughts loomed upon the mind of Marston,

like measureless black mists upon a cold, smooth sea. They rested, grew,

and darkened there; and no heaven-sent breath came silently to steal

them away. Under this dread shadow his mind lay waiting, like the deep,

before the Spirit of God moved upon its waters, passive and awful. Why

for the first time now did religion interest him? The unseen,

intangible, was even now at work within him. A dreadful power shook his

very heart and soul. There was some strange, ghastly wrestling going on

in his own immortal spirit, a struggle that made him faint, which he had

no power to determine. He looked upon the holy influence of the good

man's prayer--a prayer in which he could not join--with a dull,

superstitious hope that the words, inviting better influence, though

uttered by another, and with other objects, would, like a spell, chase

away the foul fiend that was busy with his soul. Marston sate, looking

into the fire, with a countenance of stern gloom, upon which the wayward

lights of the flickering hearth sported fitfully; while at a distant

table Doctor Danvers sate down, and, taking his well-worn Bible from his

pocket, turned over its leaves, and began, in gentle but impressive

tones, to read.

Sir Wynston was much too well bred to evince the slightest disposition to

aught but the most proper and profound attention. The faintest imaginable

gleam of ridicule might, perhaps, have been discerned in his features,

as he leaned back in his chair, and, closing his eyes, composed himself

to at least an attitude of attention. No man could submit with more

cheerfulness to an inevitable bore.

In these things, then, thou hast no concern; the judgment troubles thee

not; thou hast no fear of death, Sir Wynston Berkley; yet there is a

heart beating near thee, the mysteries of which, could they glide out and

stand before thy face, would perchance appal thee, cold, easy man of the

world. Aye, couldst thou but see with those cunning eyes of thine, but

twelve brief hours into futurity, each syllable that falls from that good

man's lips unheeded would peal through thy heart and brain like maddening

thunder. Hearken, hearken, Sir Wynston Berkley, perchance these are the

farewell words of thy better angel--the last pleadings of despised mercy!

The party broke up. Doctor Danvers took his leave, and rode homeward,

down the broad avenue, between the gigantic ranks of elm that closed it

in. The full moon was rising above the distant hills; the mists lay

like sleeping lakes in the laps of the hollows; and the broad demesne

looked tranquil and sad under this chastened and silvery glory. The

good old clergyman thought, as he pursued his way, that here at least,

in a spot so beautiful and sequestered, the stormy passions and fell

contentions of the outer world could scarcely penetrate. Yet, in that

calm secluded spot, and under the cold, pure light which fell so

holily, what a hell was weltering and glaring!--what a spectacle was

that moon to go down upon! As Sir Wynston was leaving the parlor for

his own room, Marston accompanied him to the hall, and said--"I shan't

play tonight, Sir Wynston."

"Ah, ha! very particularly engaged?" suggested the baronet, with a

faint, mocking smile. "Well, my dear fellow, we must endeavor to make up

for it tomorrow--eh?"

"I don't know that," said Marston, "and--in a word, there is no use, sir,

in our masquerading with one another. Each knows the other; each

understands the other. I wish to have a word or two with you in your room

tonight, when we shan't be interrupted."

Marston spoke in a fierce and grating whisper, and his countenance, more

even than his accents, betrayed the intensity of his bridled fury. Sir

Wynston, however, smiled upon his cousin as if his voice had been melody,

and his looks all sunshine.

"Very good, Marston, just as you please," he said; "only don't be later

than one, as I shall be getting into bed about that hour."

"Perhaps, upon second thoughts, it is as well to defer what I have to

say," said Marston, musingly. "Tomorrow will do as well; so, perhaps, Sir

Wynston, I may not trouble you tonight."

"Just as suits you best, my dear Marston," replied the baronet, with a

tranquil smile; "only don't come after the hour I have stipulated."

So saying, the baronet mounted the stairs, and made his way to his

chamber. He was in excellent spirits, and in high good-humor with

himself: the object of his visit to Gray Forest had been, as he now

flattered himself, attained. He had conducted an affair requiring the

profoundest mystery in its prosecution, and the nicest tactic in its

management, almost to a triumphant issue. He had perfectly masked his

design, and completely outwitted Marston; and to a person who piqued

himself upon his clever diplomacy, and vaunted that he had never yet

sustained a defeat in any object which he had seriously proposed to

himself, such a combination of successes was for the moment quite

intoxicating.

Sir Wynston not only enjoyed his own superiority with all the vanity of a

selfish nature, but he no less enjoyed, with a keen and malicious relish,

the intense mortification which, he was well assured, Marston must

experience; and all the more acutely, because of the utter impossibility,

circumstanced as he was, of his taking any steps to manifest his

vexation, without compromising himself in a most unpleasant way.

Animated by these amiable feelings, Sir Wynston Berkley sate down,

and wrote the following short letter, addressed to Mrs. Gray,

Wynston Hall:--

"Mrs. Gray,

"On receipt of this have the sitting rooms and several bedrooms put in

order, and thoroughly aired. Prepare for my use the suite of three rooms

over the library and drawing room; and have the two great wardrobes, and

the cabinet in the state bedroom, removed into the large dressing room

which opens upon the bedroom I have named. Make everything as comfortable

as possible. If anything is wanted in the way of furniture, drapery,

ornament, &c., you need only write to John Skelton, Esq., Spring-garden,

London, stating what is required, and he will order and send them down.

You must be expeditious, as I shall probably go down to Wynston, with two

or three friends, at the beginning of next month.

"WYNSTON BERKLEY

"P.S.--I have written to direct Arkins and two or three of the other

servants to go down at once. Set them all to work immediately."

He then applied himself to another letter of considerably greater length,

and from which, therefore, we shall only offer a few extracts. It was

addressed to John Skelton, Esq., and began as follows.--

"My Dear Skelton,

"You are, doubtless, surprised at my long silence, but I have had nothing

very particular to say. My visit to this dull and uncomfortable place was

(as you rightly surmise) not without its object--a little bit of wicked

romance; the pretty demoiselle of Rouen, whom I mentioned to you more

than once--la belle de Barras--was, in truth, the attraction that drew me

hither; and I think (for, as yet, she affects hesitation), I shall have

no further trouble with her. She is a fine creature, and you will admit,

when you have seen her, well worth taking some trouble about. She is,

however, a very knowing little minx, and evidently suspects me of being a

sad, fickle dog--and, as I surmise, has some plans, moreover, respecting

my morose cousin, Marston, a kind of wicked Penruddock, who has carried

all his London tastes into his savage retreat, a paradise of bogs and

bushes. There is, I am very confident, a liaison in that quarter. The

young lady is evidently a good deal afraid of him, and insists upon such

precautions in our interviews, that they have been very few, and far

between, indeed. Today, there has been a fracas of some kind. I have no

doubt that Marston, poor devil, is jealous. His situation is really

pitiably comic--with an intriguing mistress, a saintly wife, and a devil

of a jealous temper of his own. I shall meet Mary on reaching town. Has

Clavering (shabby dog!) paid his I.O.U. yet? Tell the little opera woman

she had better be quiet. She ought to know me by this time; I shall do

what is right, but won't submit to be bullied. If she is troublesome,

snap your fingers at her, on my behalf, and leave her to her remedy. I

have written to Gray, to get things at Wynston in order. She will draw

upon you for what money she requires. Send down two or three of the

servants, if they have not already gone. The place is very dusty and

dingy, and needs a great deal of brushing and scouring. I shall see you

in town very soon. By the way, has the claret I ordered from the Dublin

house arrived yet? It is consigned to you, and goes by the 'Lizard'; pay

the freightage, and get Edwards to pack it; ten dozen or so may as well

go down to Wynston, and send other wines in proportion. I leave details

to you...."

Some further directions upon other subjects followed; and having

subscribed the dispatch, and addressed it to the gentlemanlike scoundrel

who filled the onerous office of factotum to this profligate and

exacting man of the world, Sir Wynston Berkley rang his bell, and gave

the two letters into the hand of his man, with special directions to

carry them himself in person, to the post office in the neighboring

village, early next morning. These little matters completed, Sir Wynston

stirred his fire, leaned back in his easy chair, and smiled blandly over

the sunny prospect of his imaginary triumphs.

It here becomes necessary to describe, in a few words, some of the local

relations of Sir Wynston's apartments. The bedchamber which he occupied

opened from the long passage of which we have already spoken--and there

were two other smaller apartments opening from it in train. In the

further of these, which was entered from a lobby, communicating by a back

stair with the kitchen and servants' apartments, lay Sir Wynston's valet,

and the intermediate chamber was fitted up as a dressing room for the

baronet himself. These circumstances it is necessary to mention, that

what follows may be clearly intelligible.

While the baronet was penning these records of vicious schemes--dire

waste of wealth and time--irrevocable time!--Marston paced his study in a

very different frame of mind. There were a gloom and disorder in the room

accordant with those of his own mind. Shelves of ancient tomes, darkened

by time, and upon which the dust of years lay sleeping--dark oaken

cabinets, filled with piles of deeds and papers, among which the nimble

spiders were crawling--and, from the dusky walls, several stark, pale

ancestors, looking down coldly from their tarnished frames. An hour, and

another hour passed--and still Marston paced this melancholy chamber, a

prey to his own fell passions and dark thoughts. He was not a

superstitious man, but, in the visions which haunted him, perhaps, was

something which made him unusually excitable--for, he experienced a chill

of absolute horror, as, standing at the farther end of the room, with his

face turned towards the entrance, he beheld the door noiselessly and

slowly pushed open, by a pale, thin hand, and a figure dressed in a loose

white robe, glide softly in. He stood for some seconds gazing upon this

apparition, as it moved hesitatingly towards him from the dusky extremity

of the large apartment, before he perceived that the form was that of

Mrs. Marston.

"Hey, ha!--Mrs. Marston--what on earth has called you hither?" he asked,

sternly. "You ought to have been at rest an hour ago; get to your

chamber, and leave me, I have business to attend to."

"Now, dear Richard, you must forgive me," she said, drawing near, and

looking up into his haggard face with a sweet and touching look of

timidity and love; "I could not rest until I saw you again; your looks

have been all this night so unlike yourself; so strange and terrible,

that I am afraid some great misfortune threatens you, which you fear to

tell me of."

"My looks! Why, curse it, must I give an account of my looks?" replied

Marston, at once disconcerted and wrathful. "Misfortune! What misfortune

can befall us more? No, there is nothing, nothing, I say, but your own

foolish fancy; go to your room--go to sleep--my looks, indeed; pshaw!"

"I came to tell you, dear Richard, that I will do, in all respects, just

as you desire. If you continue to wish it, I will part with poor

mademoiselle; though, indeed, Richard, I shall miss her more than you can

imagine; and all your suspicions have wronged her deeply," said Mrs.

Marston. Her husband darted a sudden flashing glance of suspicious

scrutiny upon her face; but its expression was frank, earnest, noble. He

was disarmed; he hung his head gloomily upon his breast, and was silent

for a time. She came nearer, and laid her hand upon his arm. He looked

darkly into her upturned eyes, and a feeling which had not touched his

heart for many a day--an emotion of pity, transient, indeed, but vivid,

revisited him. He took her hand in his, and said, in gentler terms than

she had heard him use for a long time--

"No, indeed, Gertrude, you have deceived yourself; no misfortune has

happened, and if I am gloomy, the source of all my troubles is within.

Leave me, Gertrude, for the present. As to the other matter, the

departure of Mademoiselle de Barras, we can talk of that tomorrow--now I

cannot; so let us part. Go to your room; good night."

She was withdrawing, and he added, in a subdued tone--"Gertrude, I am

very glad you came--very glad. Pray for me tonight."

He had followed her a few steps toward the door, and now stopped short,

turned about, and walked dejectedly back again--

"I am right glad she came," he muttered, as soon as he was once more

alone. "Wynston is provoking and fiery, too. Were I, in my present mood,

to seek a tête-à-tête with him, who knows what might come of it? Blood;

my own heart whispers--blood! I'll not trust myself."

He strode to the study door, locked it, and taking out the key, shut it

in the drawer of one of the cabinets.

"Now it will need more than accident or impulse to lead me to him. I

cannot go, at least, without reflection, without premeditation. Avaunt,

fiend. I have baffled you."

He stood in the center of the room, cowering and scowling as he said

this, and looked round with a glance half-defiant, half-fearful, as if he

expected to see some dreadful form in the dusky recesses of the desolate

chamber. He sat himself by the smouldering fire, in somber and agitated

rumination. He was restless; he rose again, unbuckled his sword, which he

had not loosed since evening, and threw it hastily into a corner. He

looked at his watch, it was half-past twelve; he glanced at the door, and

thence at the cabinet in which he had placed the key; then he turned

hastily, and sate down again. He leaned his elbows on his knees, and his

chin upon his clenched hand; still he was restless and excited. Once more

he arose, and paced up and down. He consulted his watch again; it was now

but a quarter to one.

Sir Wynston's man having received the letters, and his master's

permission to retire to rest, got into his bed, and was soon beginning to

dose. We have already mentioned that his and Sir Wynston's apartments

were separated by a small dressing room, so that any ordinary noise or

conversation could be heard but imperfectly from one to the other. The

servant, however, was startled by a sound of something falling on the

floor of his master's apartment, and broken to pieces by the violence of

the shock. He sate up in his bed, listened, and heard some sentences

spoken vehemently, and gabbled very fast. He thought he distinguished the

words "wretch" and "God"; and there was something so strange in the tone

in which they were spoken, that the man got up and stole noiselessly

through the dressing room, and listened at the door.

He heard him, as he thought, walking in his slippers through the room,

and making his customary arrangements previously to getting into bed. He

knew that his master had a habit of speaking when alone, and concluded

that the accidental breakage of some glass or chimney-ornament had

elicited the volley of words he had heard. Well knowing that, except at

the usual hours, or in obedience to Sir Wynston's bell, nothing more

displeased his master than his presuming to enter his sleeping-apartment

while he was there, the servant quietly retreated, and, perfectly

satisfied that all was right, composed himself to slumber, and was soon

beginning to dose again.

The adventures of the night, however, were not yet over. Waking, as men

sometimes do, without any ascertainable cause; without a start or an

uneasy sensation; without even a disturbance of the attitude of repose,

he opened his eyes and beheld Merton, the servant of whom we have spoken,

standing at a little distance from his bed. The moonlight fell in a clear

flood upon this figure: the man was ghastly pale; there was a blotch of

blood on his face; his hands were clasped upon something which they

nearly concealed; and his eyes, fixed on the servant who had just

awakened, shone in the cold light with a wild and lifeless glitter. This

specter drew close to the side of the bed, and stood for a few moments

there with a look of agony and menace, which startled the newly-awakened

man, who rose upright, and said--

"Mr. Merton, Mr. Merton--in God's name, what is the matter?"

Merton recoiled at the sound of his voice; and, as he did so, dropped

something on the floor, which rolled away to a distance; and he stood

gazing silently and horribly upon his interrogator.

"Mr. Merton, I say, what is it?" urged the man. "Are you hurt? Your face

is bloody."

Merton raised his hand to his face mechanically, and Sir Wynston's man

observed that it, too, was covered with blood.

"Why, man," he said, vehemently, and actually freezing with horror," you

are all bloody; hands and face; all over blood."

"My hand is cut to the bone," said Merton, in a harsh whisper; and

speaking to himself, rather than addressing the servant--"I wish it was

my neck; I wish to God I bled to death."

"You have hurt your hand, Mr. Merton," repeated the man, scarce knowing

what he said.

"Aye," whispered Merton, wildly drawing toward the bedside again; "who

told you I hurt my hand? It is cut to the bone, sure enough."

He stooped for a moment over the bed, and then cowered down toward the

floor to search for what he had dropped.

"Why, Mr. Merton, what brings you here at this hour?" urged the man,

after a pause of a few seconds. "It is drawing toward morning."

"Aye, aye," said Merton, doubtfully, and starting upright again, while

he concealed in his bosom what he had been in search of. "Near morning,

is it? Night and morning, it is all one to me. I believe I am going

mad, by--"

"But what do you want? What did you come here for at this hour?"

persisted the man.

"What! Aye, that is it; why, his boots and spurs, to be sure. I

forgot them. His--his--Sir Wynston's boots and spurs; I forgot to

take them, I say," said Merton, looking toward the dressing room, as

if about to enter it.

"Don't mind them tonight, I say, don't go in there," said the man,

peremptorily, and getting out upon the floor. "I say, Mr. Merton, this is

no hour to be going about searching in the dark for boots and spurs.

You'll waken the master. I can't have it, I say; go down, and let it be

for tonight."

Thus speaking, in a resolute and somewhat angry under-key, the valet

stood between Merton and the entrance of the dressing-room; and, signing

with his hand toward the other door of the apartment, continued--

"Go down, I say, Mr. Merton, go down; you may as well quietly, for, I

tell you plainly, you shall neither go a step further, nor stay here a

moment longer."

The man drew his shoulders up, and made a sort of shivering moan, and

clasping his hands together, shook them, as it seemed, in great agony. He

then turned abruptly, and hurried from the room by the door leading to

the kitchen.

"By my faith," said the servant, "I am glad he is gone. The poor chap is

turning crazy, as sure as I am a living man. I'll not have him prowling

about here anymore, however; that I am resolved on."

In pursuance of this determination, by no means an imprudent one, as it

seemed, he fastened the door communicating with the lower apartments upon

the inside. He had hardly done this, when he heard a step traversing the

stable-yard, which lay under the window of his apartment. He looked out,

and saw Merton walking hurriedly across, and into a stable at the

farther end.

Feeling no very particular curiosity about his movements, the man hurried

back to his bed. Merton's eccentric conduct of late had become so

generally remarked and discussed among the servants, that Sir Wynston's

man was by no means surprised at the oddity of the visit he had just had;

nor, after the first few moments of doubt, before the appearance of blood

had been accounted for, had he entertained any suspicions whatever

connected with the man's unexpected presence in the room. Merton was in

the habit of coming up every night to take down Sir Wynston's boots,

whenever the baronet had ridden in the course of the day; and this

attention had been civilly undertaken as a proof of good-will toward the

valet, whose duty this somewhat soiling and ungentlemanlike process would

otherwise have been. So far, the nature of the visit was explained; and

the remembrance of the friendly feeling and good offices which had been

mutually interchanged, as well as of the inoffensive habits for which

Merton had earned a character for himself, speedily calmed the

uneasiness, for a moment amounting to actual alarm, with which the

servant had regarded his appearance.

We must now pass on to the morrow, and ask the reader's attention for a

few moments to a different scene.

In contact with Gray Forest upon the northern side, and divided by a

common boundary, lay a demesne, in many respects presenting a very

striking contrast to its grander neighbor. It was a comparatively modern

place. It could not boast the towering timber which enriched and

overshadowed the vast and varied expanse of its aristocratic rival; but,

if it was inferior in the advantages of antiquity, and, perhaps, also in

some of those of nature, its superiority in other respects was

striking, and important. Gray Forest was not more remarkable for its

wild and neglected condition, than was Newton Park for the care and

elegance with which it was kept. No one could observe the contrast,

without, at the same time, divining its cause. The proprietor of the one

was a man of wealth, fully commensurate with the extent and pretensions

of the residence he had chosen; the owner of the other was a man of

broken fortunes.

Under a green shade, which nearly met above, a very young man, scarcely

one-and-twenty, of a frank and sensible, rather than a strictly

handsome countenance, was walking, followed by half a dozen dogs of as

many breeds and sizes. This young man was George Mervyn, the only son

of the present proprietor of the place. As he approached the great

gate, the clank of a horse's hoofs in quick motion upon the sequestered

road which ran outside it, reached him; and hardly had he heard these

sounds, when a young gentleman rode briskly by, directing his look into

the demesne as he passed. He had no sooner seen him, than wheeling his

horse about, he rode up to the iron gate, and dismounting, threw it

open, and let his horse in.

"Ha! Charles Marston, I protest!" said the young man, quickening his pace

to meet his friend. "Marston, my dear fellow," he called aloud, "how glad

I am to see you."

There was another entrance into Newton Park, opening from the same road,

about half a mile further on; and Charles Marston made his way lie

through this. Thus the young people walked on, talking of a hundred

things as they proceeded, in the mirth of their hearts.

Between the fathers of the two young men, who thus walked so

affectionately together, there subsisted unhappily no friendly feelings.

There had been several slight disagreements between them, touching their

proprietary rights, and one of these had ripened into a formal and

somewhat expensive litigation, respecting a certain right of fishing

claimed by each. This legal encounter had terminated in the defeat of

Marston. Mervyn, however, promptly wrote to his opponent, offering him

the free use of the waters for which they had thus sharply contested, and

received a curt and scarcely civil reply, declining the proposed

courtesy. This exhibition of resentment on Marston's part had been

followed by some rather angry collisions, where chance or duty happened

to throw them together. It is but justice to say that, upon all such

occasions, Marston was the aggressor. But Mervyn was a somewhat testy old

gentleman, and had a certain pride of his own, which was not to be

trifled with. Thus, though near neighbors, the parents of the young

friends were more than strangers to each other. On Mervyn's side,

however, this estrangement was unalloyed with bitterness, and simply of

that kind which the great moralist would have referred to "defensive

pride." It did not include any member of Marston's family, and Charles,

as often as he desired it, which was, in truth, as often as his visits

could escape the special notice of his father, was a welcome guest at

Newton Park.

These details respecting the mutual relation in which the two families

stood, it was necessary to state, for the purpose of making what follows

perfectly clear. The young people had now reached the further gate, at

which they were to part. Charles Marston, with a heart beating happily in

the anticipation of many a pleasant meeting, bid him farewell for the

present, and in a few minutes more was riding up the broad, straight

avenue, towards the gloomy mansion which closed in the hazy and somber

perspective. As he moved onward, he passed a laborer, with whose face,

from his childhood, he had been familiar.

"How do you do, Tom?" he cried.

"At your service, sir," replied the man, uncovering, "and welcome

home, sir."

There was something dark and anxious in the man's looks, which

ill-accorded with the welcome he spoke, and which suggested some

undefined alarm.

"The master, and mistress, and Miss Rhoda--are all well?" he asked

eagerly.

"All well, sir, thank God," replied the man.

Young Marston spurred on, filled with vague apprehensions, and observing

the man still leaning upon his spade, and watching his progress with the

same gloomy and curious eye.

At the hall-door he met with one of the servants, booted and spurred.

"Well, Daly," he said, as he dismounted, "how are all at home?"

This man, like the former, met his smile with a troubled countenance, and

stammered--

"All, sir--that is, the master, and mistress, and Miss Rhoda--quite well,

sir; but--"

"Well, well," said Charles, eagerly, "speak on--what is it?"

"Bad work, sir," replied the man, lowering his voice. "I am going off

this minute for--"

"For what?" urged the young gentleman.

"Why, sir, for the coroner," replied he.

"The coroner--the coroner! Why, good God, what has happened?" cried

Charles, aghast with horror.

"Sir Wynston," commenced the man, and hesitated.

"Well?" pursued Charles, pale and breathless.

"Sir Wynston--he--it is he," said the man.

"He? Sir Wynston? Is he dead, or who is?--Who is dead?" demanded the

young man, almost fiercely.

"Sir Wynston, sir; it is he that is dead. There is bad work, sir--very

bad, I'm afraid," replied the man.

Charles did not wait to inquire further, but, with a feeling of mingled

horror and curiosity, entered the house.

He hurried up the stairs, and entered his mother's sitting room. She was

there, perfectly alone, and so deadly pale, that she scarcely looked like

a living being. In an instant they were locked in one another's arms.

"Mother--my dear mother, you are ill," said the young man, anxiously.

"Oh, no, no, dear Charles, but frightened, horrified;" and as she said

this, the poor lady burst into tears.

"What is this horrible affair? Something about Sir Wynston. He is dead, I

know, but is it--is it suicide?" he asked.

"Oh, no, not suicide," said Mrs. Marston, greatly agitated.

"Good God! Then he is murdered," whispered the young man, growing

very pale.

"Yes, Charles--horrible--dreadful! I can scarcely believe it," replied

she, shuddering while she wept.

"Where is my father?" inquired the young man, after a pause.

"Why, why, Charles, darling--why do you ask for him?" she said, wildly,

grasping him by the arm, as she looked into his face with a terrified

expression.

"Why--why, he could tell me the particulars of this horrible

tragedy," answered he, meeting her agonized look with one of alarm

and surprise, "as far as they have been as yet collected. How is he,

mother--is he well?"

"Oh, yes, quite well, thank God," she answered, more collectedly--"quite

well, but, of course, greatly, dreadfully shocked."

"I will go to him, mother; I will see him," said he, turning

towards the door.

"He has been wretchedly depressed and excited for some days," said Mrs.

Marston, dejectedly, "and this dreadful occurrence will, I fear, affect

him most deplorably."

The young man kissed her tenderly and affectionately, and hurried down to

the library, where his father usually sat when he desired to be alone, or

was engaged in business. He opened the door softly. His father was

standing at one of the windows, his face haggard as from a night's

watching, unkempt and unshorn, and with his hands thrust into his

pockets. At the sound of the revolving door he started, and seeing his

son, first recoiled a little, with a strange, doubtful expression, and

then rallying, walked quickly towards him with a smile, which had in it

something still more painful.

"Charles, I am glad to see you," he said, shaking him with an agitated

pressure by both hands, "Charles, this is a great calamity, and what

makes it still worse, is that the murderer has escaped; it looks badly,

you know."

He fixed his gaze for a few moments upon his son, turned abruptly, and

walked a little way into the room then, in a disconcerted manner, he

added, hastily turning back--

"Not that it signifies to us, of course--but I would fain have justice

satisfied."

"And who is the wretch--the murderer?" inquired Charles.

"Who? Why, everyone knows!--that scoundrel, Merton," answered Marston, in

an irritated tone--"Merton murdered him in his bed, and fled last night;

he is gone--escaped--and I suspect Sir Wynston's man of being an

accessory."

"Which was Sir Wynston's bedroom?" asked the young man.

"The room that old Lady Mostyn had--the room with the portrait of Grace

Hamilton in it."

"I know--I know," said the young man, much excited. "I should wish

to see it."

"Stay," said Marston; "the door from the passage is bolted on the inside,

and I have locked the other; here is the key, if you choose to go, but

you must bring Hughes with you, and do not disturb anything; leave all as

it is; the jury ought to see, and examine for themselves."

Charles took the key, and, accompanied by the awestruck servant, he made

his way by the back stairs to the door opening from the dressing-room,

which, as we have said, intervened between the valet's chamber and Sir

Wynston's. After a momentary hesitation, Charles turned the key in the

door, and stood.

"In the dark chamber of white death."

The shutters lay partly open, as the valet had left them some hours

before, on making the astounding discovery, which the partially admitted

light revealed. The corpse lay in the silk-embroidered dressing gown, and

other habiliments, which Sir Wynston had worn, while taking his ease in

his chamber, on the preceding night. The coverlet was partially dragged

over it. The mouth was gaping, and filled with clotted blood; a wide gash

was also visible in the neck, under the ear; and there was a thickening

pool of blood at the bedside, and quantities of blood, doubtless from

other wounds, had saturated the bedclothes under the body. There lay Sir

Wynston, stiffened in the attitude in which the struggle of death had

left him, with his stern, stony face, and dim, terrible gaze turned up.

Charles looked breathlessly for more than a minute upon this mute and

unchanging spectacle, and then silently suffered the curtain to fall back

again, and stepped, with the light tread of awe, again to the door. There

he turned back, and pausing for a minute, said, in a whisper, to the

attendant--

"And Merton did this?"

"Troth, I'm afeard he did, sir," answered the man, gloomily.

"And has made his escape?" continued Charles.

"Yes, sir; he stole away in the night-time," replied the servant, "after

the murder was done" (and he glanced fearfully toward the bed); "God

knows where he's gone."

"The villain!" muttered Charles; "but what was his motive? why did he do

all this--what does it mean?"

"I don't know exactly, sir, but he was very queer for a week and more

before it," replied the man; "there was something bad over him for a

long time."

"It is a terrible thing," said Charles, with a profound sigh; "a terrible

and shocking occurrence."

He hesitated again at the door, but his feelings had sustained a terrible

revulsion at sight of the corpse, and he was no longer disposed to

prosecute his purposed examination of the chamber and its contents; with

a view to conjecturing the probable circumstances of the murder.

"Observe, Hughes, that I have moved nothing in the chamber from the place

it occupied when we entered," he said to the servant, as they withdrew.

He locked the door, and as he passed through the hall, on his return, he

encountered his father, and, restoring the key, said--

"I could not stay there; I am almost sorry I have seen it; I am

overpowered; what a determined, ferocious murder it was; the place is all

in a pool of gore; he must have received many wounds."

"I can't say; the particulars will be elicited soon enough; those details

are for the inquest; as for me, I hate such spectacles," said Marston,

gloomily; "go now, and see your sister; you will find her there."

He pointed to the small room where we have first seen her and her fair

governess; Charles obeyed the direction, and Marston proceeded himself to

his wife's sitting room.

The young man, dispirited and horrified by the awful spectacle he had

just contemplated, hurried to the little study occupied by his sister.

Marston himself ascended, as we have said, the great staircase leading to

his wife's private sitting room.

"Mrs. Marston," he said, entering, "this is a hateful occurrence, a

dreadful thing to have taken place here; I don't mean to affect grief

which I don't feel; but the thing is very shocking, and particularly so,

as having occurred under my roof; but that cannot now be helped. I have

resolved to spare no exertions, and no influence, to bring the assassin

to justice; and a coroner's jury will, within a few hours, sift the

evidence which we have succeeded in collecting. But my purpose in seeking

you now is, to recur to the conversation we yesterday had, respecting a

member of this establishment."

"Mademoiselle de Barras?" suggested the lady.

"Yes, Mademoiselle de Barras," echoed Marston; "I wish to say, that,

having reconsidered the circumstances affecting her, I am absolutely

resolved that she shall not continue to be an inmate of this house."