"Well, Richard, I am sorry, very sorry for it; but your decision shall
never be disputed by me."
"Of course," said Marston, drily; "and, therefore, the sooner you
acquaint her with it, and let her know that she must go, the better."
Having said this, he left her, and went to his own chamber, where he
proceeded to make his toilet with elaborate propriety, in preparation for
the scene which was about to take place under his roof.
Mrs. Marston, meanwhile, suffered from a horrible uncertainty. She never
harbored, it is true, one doubt as to her husband's perfect innocence of
the ghastly crime which filled their house with fear and gloom; but at
the same time that she thoroughly and indignantly scouted the possibility
of his, under any circumstances, being accessory to such a crime, she
experienced a nervous and agonizing anxiety lest anyone else should
possibly suspect him, however obliquely and faintly, of any participation
whatever in the foul deed. This vague fear tortured her; it had taken
possession of her mind; and it was the more acutely painful, because it
was of a kind which precluded the possibility of her dispelling it, as
morbid fears so often are dispelled, by taking counsel upon its
suggestions with a friend.
The day wore on, and strange faces began to fill the great parlor. The
coroner, accompanied by a physician, had arrived. Several of the gentry
in the immediate vicinity had been summoned as jurors, and now began to
arrive in succession. Marston, in a handsome and sober suit, received
these visitors with a stately and melancholy courtesy, befitting the
occasion. Mervyn and his son had both been summoned, and, of course, were
in attendance. There being now a sufficient number to form a jury, they
were sworn, and immediately proceeded to the chamber where the body of
the murdered man was lying.
Marston accompanied them, and with a pale and stern countenance, and in a
clear and subdued tone, called their attention successively to every
particular detail which he conceived important to be noted. Having thus
employed some minutes, the jury again returned to the parlor, and the
examination of the witnesses commenced.
Marston, at his own request, was first sworn and examined. He deposed
merely to the circumstance of his parting, on the night previous, with
Sir Wynston, and to the state in which he had seen the room and the body
in the morning. He mentioned also the fact, that on hearing the alarm in
the morning, he had hastened from his own chamber to Sir Wynston's, and
found, on trying to enter, that the door opening upon the passage was
secured on the inside. This circumstance showed that the murderer must
have made his egress at least through the valet's chamber, and by the
back-stairs. Marston's evidence went no further.
The next witness sworn was Edward Smith, the servant of the late Sir
Wynston Berkley. His evidence was a narrative of the occurrences we have
already stated. He described the sounds which he had overheard from his
master's room, the subsequent appearance of Merton, and the conversation
which had passed between them. He then proceeded to mention, that it was
his master's custom to have himself called at seven o'clock, at which
hour he usually took some medicine, which it was the valet's duty to
bring to him; after which he either settled again to rest, or rose in a
short time, if unable to sleep. Having measured and prepared the dose in
the dressing room, the servant went on to say, he had knocked at his
master's door, and receiving no answer, had entered the room, and partly
unclosed the shutters. He perceived the blood on the carpet, and on
opening the curtains, saw his master lying with his mouth and eyes open,
perfectly dead, and weltering in gore. He had stretched out his hand, and
seized that of the dead man, which was quite stiff and cold; then, losing
heart, he had run to the door communicating with the passage, but found
it locked, and turned to the other entrance, and ran down the
back-stairs, crying "murder." Mr. Hughes, the butler, and James Carney,
another servant, came immediately, and they all three went back into the
room. The key was in the outer door, upon the inside, but they did not
unlock it until they had viewed the body. There was a great pool of blood
in the bed, and in it was lying a red-handled case knife, which was
produced, and identified by the witness. Just then they heard Mr. Marston
calling for admission, and they opened the door with some difficulty, for
the lock was rusty. Mr. Marston had ordered them to leave the things as
they were, and had used very stern language to the witness. They had then
left the room, securing both doors.
This witness underwent a severe and searching examination, but his
evidence was clear and consistent.
In conclusion, Marston produced a dagger, which was stained with blood,
and asked the man whether he recognized it.
Smith at once stated this to have been the property of his late master,
who, when traveling, carried it, together with his pistols, along with
him. Since his arrival at Gray Forest, it had lain upon the
chimney-piece in his bedroom, where he believed it to have been upon the
previous night.
James Carney, one of Marston's servants, was next sworn and examined. He
had, he said, observed a strange and unaccountable agitation and
depression in Merton's manner for some days past; he had also been
several times disturbed at night by his talking aloud to himself, and
walking to and fro in his room. Their bedrooms were separated by a thin
partition, in which was a window, through which Carney had, on the night
of the murder, observed a light in Merton's room, and, on looking in, had
seen him dressing hastily. He also saw him twice take up, and again lay
down, the red-hafted knife which had been found in the bed of the
murdered man. He knew it by the handle being broken near the end. He had
no suspicion of Merton having any mischievous intentions, and lay down
again to rest. He afterwards heard him pass out of his room, and go
slowly up the back-stairs leading to the upper story. Shortly after this
he had fallen asleep, and did not hear or see him return. He then
described, as Smith had already done, the scene which presented itself in
the morning, on his accompanying him into Sir Wynston's bedchamber.
The next witness examined was a little Irish boy, who described himself
as "a poor scholar." His testimony was somewhat singular. He deposed that
he had come to the house on the preceding evening, and had been given
some supper, and was afterwards permitted to sleep among the hay in one
of the lofts. He had, however, discovered what he considered a snugger
berth. This was an unused stable, in the further end of which lay a
quantity of hay. Among this he had lain down, and gone to sleep. He was,
however, awakened in the course of the night by the entrance of a man,
whom he saw with perfect distinctness in the moonlight, and his
description of his dress and appearance tallied exactly with those of
Merton. This man occupied himself for sometime in washing his hands and
face in a stable bucket, which happened to stand by the door; and, during
the whole of this process, he continued to moan and mutter, like one in
woeful perturbation. He said, distinctly, twice or thrice, "by ----, I am
done for;" and every now and then he muttered, "and nothing for it, after
all." When he had done washing his hands, he took something from his
coat-pocket, and looked at it, shaking his head; at this time he was
standing with his back turned toward the boy, so that he could not see
what this object might be. The man, however, put it into his breast, and
then began to search hurriedly, as it seemed, for some hiding place for
it. After looking at the pavement, and poking at the chinks of the wall,
he suddenly went to the window, and forced up the stone which formed the
sill. Under this he threw the object which the boy had seen him examine
with so much perplexity, and then he readjusted the stone, and removed
the evidences of its having been recently stirred. The boy was a little
frightened, but very curious about all that he saw; and when the man left
the stable in which he lay, he got up, and following to the door, peeped
after him. He saw him putting on an outside-coat and hat, near the yard
gate; and then, with great caution, unbolt the wicket, constantly looking
back towards the house, and so let himself out. The boy was uneasy, and
sat in the hay, wide-awake, until morning. He then told the servants what
he had seen, and one of the men having raised the stone, which he had not
strength to lift, they found the dagger, which Smith had identified as
belonging to his master. This weapon was stained with blood; and some
hair, which was found to correspond in color with Sir Wynston's, was
sticking in the crevice between the blade and the handle.
"It appears very strange that one man should have employed two
distinct instruments of this kind," observed Mervyn, after a pause. A
silence followed.
"Yes, strange; it does seem strange," said Marston, clearing his voice.
"Yet, it is clear," said another of the jury, "that the same hand did
employ them. It is proved that the knife was in Merton's possession just
as he left his chamber; and proved, also, that the dagger was secreted by
him after he quitted the house."
"Yes," said Marston, with a grisly sort of smile, and glancing
sarcastically at Mervyn, while he addressed the last speaker--"I thank
you for recalling my attention to the facts. It certainly is not a very
pleasant suggestion, that there still remains within my household an
undetected murderer."
Mervyn ruminated for a time, and said he should wish to put a few more
questions to Smith and Carney. They were accordingly recalled, and
examined in great detail, with a view to ascertain whether any indication
of the presence of a second person having visited the chamber with Merton
was discoverable. Nothing, however, appeared, except that the valet
mentioned the noise and the exclamations which he had indistinctly heard.
"You did not mention that before, sir," said Marston, sharply.
"I did not think of it, sir," replied the man, "the gentlemen were asking
me so many questions; but I told you, sir, about it in the morning."
"Oh, ah--yes, yes--I believe you did," said Marston; "but you then said
that Sir Wynston often talked when he was alone; eh, sir?"
"Yes, sir, and so he used, which was the reason I did not go into the
room when I heard it," replied the man.
"How long afterwards was it when you saw Merton in your own room?"
asked Mervyn.
"I could not say, sir," answered Smith; "I was soon asleep, and can't say
how long I slept before he came."
"Was it an hour?" pursued Mervyn.
"I can't say," said the man, doubtfully.
"Was it five hours?" asked Marston.
"No, Sir; I am sure it was not five."
"Could you swear it was more than half-an-hour?" persisted Marston.
"No, I could not swear that," answered he.
"I am afraid, Mr. Mervyn; you have found a mare's nest," said Marston,
contemptuously.
"I have done my duty, sir," retorted Mervyn, cynically; "which plainly
requires that I shall have no doubt, which the evidence of the witness
can clear up, unsifted and unsatisfied. I happened to think it of some
moment to ascertain, if possible, whether more persons than one were
engaged in this atrocious murder. You don't seem to think the question so
important a one; different men, sir, take different views."
"Views, sir, in matters of this sort, especially where they tend to
multiply suspicions, and to implicate others, ought to be supported by
something more substantial than mere fancies," retorted Marston.
"I don't know what you call fancies," replied Mervyn, testily; "but here
are two deadly weapons, a knife and a dagger, each, it would seem,
employed in doing this murder; if you see nothing odd in that, I can't
enable you to do so."
"Well, sir," said Marston, grimly, "the whole thing is, as you term it,
odd; and I can see no object in your picking out this particular
singularity for long-winded criticism, except to cast scandal upon my
household, by leaving a hideous and vague imputation floating among the
members of it. Sir, sir, this is a foul way," he cried, sternly, "to
gratify a paltry spite."
"Mr. Marston," said Mervyn, rising, and thrusting his hands into his
pockets, while he confronted him to the full as sternly, "the country
knows in which of our hearts the spite, if any there be between us, is
harbored. I owe you no friendship, but, sir, I cherish no malice, either;
and against the worst enemy I have on earth I am incapable of perverting
an opportunity like this, and inflicting pain, under the pretence of
discharging a duty."
Marston was on the point of retorting, but the coroner interposed, and
besought them to confine their attention strictly to the solemn inquiry
which they were summoned together to prosecute.
There remained still to be examined the surgeon who had accompanied the
coroner, for the purpose of reporting upon the extent and nature of
the injuries discoverable upon the person of the deceased. He,
accordingly, deposed, that having examined the body, he found no less
than three deep wounds, inflicted with some sharp instrument; two of them
had actually penetrated the heart, and were, of course, supposed to cause
instant death. Besides these, there were two contusions, one upon the
back of the head, the other upon the forehead, with a slight abrasion of
the eyebrow. There was a large lock of hair torn out by the roots at the
front of the head, and the palm and fingers of the right hand were cut.
This evidence having been taken, the jury once more repaired to the
chamber where the body lay, and proceeded with much minuteness to examine
the room, with a view to ascertain, if possible, more particularly the
exact circumstances of the murder.
The result of this elaborate scrutiny was as follows:--The deceased,
they conjectured, had fallen asleep in his easy chair, and, while he was
unconscious, the murderer had stolen into the room, and, before attacking
his victim, had secured the bedroom-door upon the inside. This was argued
from the non-discovery of blood upon the handle, or any other part of the
door. It was supposed that he had then approached Sir Wynston, with the
view either of robbing, or of murdering him while he slept, and that the
deceased had awakened just after he had reached him; that a brief and
desperate struggle had ensued, in which the assailant had struck his
victim with his fist upon the forehead, and having stunned him, had
hurriedly clutched him by the hair, and stabbed him with the dagger,
which lay close by upon the chimneypiece, forcing his head violently
against the back of the chair. This part of the conjecture was supported
by the circumstance of there being discovered a lock of hair upon the
ground at the spot, and a good deal of blood. The carpet, too, was
tumbled, and a water-decanter, which had stood upon the table close by,
was lying in fragments upon the floor. It was supposed that the murderer
had then dragged the half-lifeless body to the bed, where, having
substituted the knife, which he had probably brought to the room in the
same pocket from which the boy afterwards saw him take the dagger, he
dispatched him; and either hearing some alarm--perhaps the movement of
the valet in the adjoining room, or from some other cause--he dropped
the knife in the bed, and was not able to find it again. The wounds upon
the hand of the dead man indicated his having caught and struggled to
hold the blade of the weapon with which he was assailed. The impression
of a bloody hand thrust under the bolster, where it was Sir Wynston's
habit to place his purse and watch, when making his arrangements for the
night, supplied the motive of this otherwise unaccountable atrocity.
After some brief consultation, the jury agreed upon a verdict of willful
murder against John Merton, a finding of which the coroner expressed his
entire approbation.
Marston, as a justice of the peace, had informations, embodying the
principal part of the evidence given before the coroner, sworn against
Merton, and transmitted a copy of them to the Home Office. A reward for
the apprehension of the culprit was forthwith offered, but for some
months without effect.
Marston had, in the interval, written to several of Sir Wynston's many
relations, announcing the catastrophe, and requesting that steps might
immediately be taken to have the body removed. Meanwhile undertakers were
busy in the chamber of death. The corpse was enclosed in lead, and that
again in cedar, and a great oak shell, covered with crimson cloth and
goldheaded nails, and with a gilt plate, recording the age, title, &c.
&c., of the deceased, was screwed down firmly over all.
Nearly a fortnight elapsed before any reply to Marston's letters was
received. A short epistle at last arrived from Lord H----, the late Sir
Wynston's uncle, deeply regretting the "sad and inexplicable occurrence,"
and adding, that the will, which, on receipt of the "distressing
intelligence," was immediately opened and read, contained no direction
whatever respecting the sepulture of the deceased, which had therefore
better be completed as modestly and expeditiously as possible, in the
neighborhood; and, in conclusion, he directed that the accounts of the
undertakers, &c., employed upon the melancholy occasion, might be sent in
to Mr. Skelton, who had kindly undertaken to leave London without any
delay, for the purpose of completing these last arrangements, and who
would, in any matter of business connected with the deceased, represent
him, Lord H----, as executor of the late baronet.
This letter was followed, in a day or two, by the arrival of Skelton, a
well-dressed, languid, impertinent London tuft-hunter, a good deal faded,
with a somewhat sallow and puffy face, charged with a pleasant
combination at once of meanness, insolence, and sensuality--just such a
person as Sir Wynston's parasite might have been expected to prove.
However well disposed to impress the natives with high notions of his
extraordinary refinement and importance, he very soon discovered that, in
Marston, he had stumbled upon a man of the world, and one thoroughly
versed in the ways and characters of London life. After some ineffectual
attempts, therefore, to overawe and astonish his host, Mr. Skelton became
aware of the fruitlessness of the effort, and condescended to abate
somewhat of his pretensions. Marston could not avoid inviting this
person to pass the night at his house, an invitation which was accepted,
of course; and next morning, after a late breakfast, Mr. Skelton
observed, with a yawn--"And now, about this body--poor Berkley!--what do
you propose to do with him?"
"I have no proposition to make," said Marston, drily. "It is no affair of
mine, except that the body may be removed without more delay. I have no
suggestion to offer."
"H----'s notion was to have him buried as near the spot as may be,"
said Skelton.
Marston nodded.
"There is a kind of vault, is not there, in the demesne, a family
burial-place?" inquired the visitor.
"Yes, sir," replied Marston, curtly.
"Well?" drawled Skelton.
"Well, sir, what then?" responded Marston.
"Why, as the wish of the parties is to have him buried--poor fellow!--as
quietly as possible, I think he might just as well be laid there as
anywhere else!"
"Had I desired it, Mr. Skelton, I should myself have made the offer,"
said Marston, abruptly.
"Then you don't wish it?" said Skelton.
"No, sir; certainly not--most peremptorily not," answered Marston, with
more sharpness than, in his early days, he would have thought quite
consistent with politeness.
"Perhaps," replied Skelton, for want of something better to say, and with
a callous sort of levity; "perhaps you hold the idea--some people
do--that murdered men can't rest in their graves until their murderers
have expiated their guilt?"
Marston made no reply, but shot two or three lurid glances from under his
brow at the speaker.
"Well, then, at all events," continued Skelton, indolently resuming his
theme, "if you decline your assistance, may I, at least, hope for your
advice? Knowing nothing of this country, I would ask you whither you
would recommend me to have the body conveyed?"
"I don't care to advise in the matter," said Marston; "but if I were
directing, I should have the remains buried in Chester. It is not more
than twenty miles from this; and if, at any future time, his family
should desire to remove the body, it could be effected more easily from
thence. But you can decide."
"Egad! I believe you are right," said Skelton, glad to be relieved of the
trouble of thinking about the matter; "and I shall take your advice."
In accordance with this declaration the body was, within four-and-twenty
hours, removed to Chester, and buried there, Mr. Skelton attending on
behalf of Sir Wynston's numerous and afflicted friends and relatives.
There are certain heartaches for which time brings no healing; nay,
which grow but the sorer and fiercer as days and years roll on; of this
kind, perhaps, were the stern and bitter feelings which now darkened the
face of Marston with an almost perpetual gloom. His habits became even
more unsocial than before. The society of his son he no longer seemed to
enjoy. Long and solitary rambles in his wild and extensive demesne
consumed the listless hours or his waking existence; and when the
weather prevented this, he shut himself up, upon pretence of business,
in his study.
He had not, since the occasion we have already mentioned, referred to the
intended departure of Mademoiselle de Barras. Truth to say, his feelings
with respect to that young lady were of a conflicting and mysterious
kind; and as often as his dark thoughts wandered to her (which, indeed,
was frequently enough), his muttered exclamation seemed to imply some
painful and horrible suspicions respecting her.
"Yes," he would mutter, "I thought I heard your light foot upon the
lobby, on that accursed night. Fancy! Well, it may have been, but
assuredly a strange fancy. I cannot comprehend that woman. She baffles my
scrutiny. I have looked into her face with an eye she might well
understand, were it indeed as I sometimes suspect, and she has been calm
and unmoved. I have watched and studied her; still--doubt, doubt, hideous
doubt!--is she what she seems, or--a tigress?"
Mrs. Marston, on the other hand, procrastinated from day to day the
painful task of announcing to Mademoiselle de Barras the stern message
with which she had been charged by her husband. And thus several weeks
had passed, and she began to think that his silence upon the subject,
notwithstanding his seeing the young French lady at breakfast every
morning, amounted to a kind of tacit intimation that the sentence of
banishment was not to be carried into immediate execution, but to be kept
suspended over the unconscious offender.
It was now six or eight weeks since the hearse carrying away the remains
of the ill-fated Sir Wynston Berkley had driven down the dusky avenue;
the autumn was deepening into winter, and as Marston gloomily trod the
woods of Gray Forest, the withered leaves whirled drearily along his
pathway, and the gusts that swayed the mighty branches above him were
rude and ungenial. It was a bleak and somber day, and as he broke into a
long and picturesque vista, deep among the most sequestered woods, he
suddenly saw before him, and scarcely twenty paces from the spot on which
he stood, an apparition, which for some moments absolutely froze him to
the earth.
Travel-soiled, tattered, pale, and wasted, John Merton, the murderer,
stood before him. He did not exhibit the smallest disposition to turn
about and make his escape. On the contrary, he remained perfectly
motionless, looking upon his former master with a wild and sorrowful
gaze. Marston twice or thrice essayed to speak; his face was white as
death, and had he beheld the specter of the murdered baronet himself, he
could not have met the sight with a countenance of ghastlier horror.
"Take me, sir," said Merton, doggedly.
Still Marston did not stir.
"Arrest me, sir, in God's name! here I am," he repeated, dropping his
arms by his side; "I'll go with you wherever you tell me."
"Murderer!" cried Marston, with a sudden burst of furious horror,
"murderer--assassin--miscreant--take that!"
And, as he spoke, he discharged one of the pistols he always carried
about him full at the wretched man. The shot did not take effect, and
Merton made no other gesture but to clasp his hands together, with an
agonized pressure, while his head sunk upon his breast.
"Shoot me; shoot me," he said hoarsely; "kill me like a dog: better for
me to be dead than what I am."
The report of Marston's pistol had, however, reached another ear; and its
ringing echoes had hardly ceased to vibrate among the trees, when a stern
shout was heard not fifty yards away, and, breathless and amazed, Charles
Marston sprang to the place. His father looked from Merton to him, and
from him again to Merton, with a guilty and stupefied scowl, still
holding the smoking pistol in his hand.
"What--how! Good God--Merton!" ejaculated Charles.
"Aye, sir, Merton; ready to go to gaol, or wherever you will," said the
man, recklessly.
"A murderer; a madman; don't believe him," muttered Marston, scarce
audibly, with lips as white as wax.
"Do you surrender yourself, Merton?" demanded the young man, sternly,
advancing toward him.
"Yes, sir; I desire nothing more; God knows I wish to die," responded he,
despairingly, and advancing slowly to meet Charles.
"Come, then," said young Marston, seizing him by the collar, "come
quietly to the house. Guilty and unhappy man, you are now my prisoner,
and, depend upon it, I shall not let you go."
"I don't want to go, I tell you, sir. I have traveled fifteen miles
today, to come here and give myself up to the master."
"Accursed madman," said Marston unconsciously, gazing at the prisoner;
and then suddenly rousing himself, he said, "Well, miscreant, you wish to
die, and, by ----, you are in a fair way to have your wish."
"So best," said the man, doggedly. "I don't want to live; I wish I was in
my grave; I wish I was dead a year ago."
Some fifteen minutes afterwards, Merton, accompanied by Marston and his
son Charles, entered the hall of the mansion which, not ten weeks
before, he had quitted under circumstances so guilty and terrible. When
they reached the house, Merton seemed much agitated, and wept bitterly
on seeing two or three of his former fellow servants, who looked on him
in silence as they passed, with a gloomy and fearful curiosity. These,
too, were succeeded by others, peeping and whispering, and upon one
pretence or another crossing and re-crossing the hall, and stealing
hurried glances at the criminal. Merton sate with his face buried in his
hands, sobbing, and taking no note of the humiliating scrutiny of which
he was the subject. Meanwhile Marston, pale and agitated, made out his
committal, and having sworn in several of his laborers and servants as
special constables, dispatched the prisoner in their charge to the
county gaol, where, under lock and key, we leave him in safe custody for
the present.
After this event Marston became excited and restless. He scarcely ate or
slept, and his health seemed now as much scattered as his spirits had
been before. One day he glided into the room in which, as we have said,
it was Mrs. Marston's habit frequently to sit alone. His wife was there,
and, as he entered, she uttered an exclamation of doubtful joy and
surprise. He sate down near her in silence, and for some time looked
gloomily on the ground. She did not care to question him, and anxiously
waited until he should open the conversation. At length he raised his
eyes, and, looking full at her, asked abruptly--"Well, what about
mademoiselle?"
Mrs. Marston was embarrassed, and hesitated.
"I told you what I wished with respect to that young lady some time ago,
and commissioned you to acquaint her with my pleasure; and yet I find her
still here, and apparently as much established as ever."
Again Mrs. Marston hesitated. She scarcely knew how to confess to him
that she had not conveyed his message.
"Don't suppose, Gertrude, that I wish to find fault. I merely wanted to
know whether you had told Mademoiselle de Barras that we were agreed as
to the necessity or expediency, or what you please, of dispensing
henceforward with her services, I perceive by your manner that you have
not done so. I have no doubt your motive was a kind one, but my decision
remains unaltered; and I now assure you again that I wish you to speak to
her; I wish you explicitly to let her know my wishes and yours."
"Not mine, Richard," she answered faintly.
"Well, mine, then," he replied, roughly; "we shan't quarrel about that."
"And when--how soon--do you wish me to speak to her on this, to both of
us, most painful subject?" asked she, with a sigh.
"Today--this hour--this minute, if you can; in short the sooner the
better," he replied, rising. "I see no reason for holding it back any
longer. I am sorry my wishes were not complied with immediately. Pray,
let there be no further hesitation or delay. I shall expect to learn this
evening that all is arranged."
Marston having thus spoken, left her abruptly, went down to his study
with a swift step, shut himself in, and throwing himself into a great
chair, gave a loose to his agitation, which was extreme.
Meanwhile Mrs. Marston had sent for Mademoiselle de Barras, anxious to
get through her painful task as speedily as possible. The fair French
girl quickly presented herself.
"Sit down, mademoiselle," said Mrs. Marston, taking her hand kindly, and
drawing her to the prie-dieu chair beside herself.
Mademoiselle de Barras sate down, and, as she did so, read the
countenance of her patroness with one rapid glance of her flashing eyes.
These eyes, however, when Mrs. Marston looked at her the next moment,
were sunk softly and sadly upon the floor. There was a heightened color,
however, in her cheek, and a quicker heaving of her bosom, which
indicated the excitement of an anticipated and painful disclosure. The
outward contrast of the two women, whose hands were so lovingly locked
together, was almost as striking as the moral contrast of their hearts.
The one, so chastened, sad, and gentle; the other, so capable of pride
and passion; so darkly excitable, and yet so mysteriously beautiful. The
one, like a Niobe seen in the softest moonshine; the other, a Venus,
lighted in the glare of distant conflagration.
"Mademoiselle, dear mademoiselle, I am so much grieved at what I have to
say, that I hardly know how to speak to you," said poor Mrs. Marston,
pressing her hand; "but Mr. Marston has twice desired me to tell you,
what you will hear with far less pain than it costs me to say it."
Mademoiselle de Barras stole another flashing glance at her companion,
but did not speak.
"Mr. Marston still persists, mademoiselle, in desiring that we
shall part."
"Est-il possible?" cried the Frenchwoman, with a genuine start.
"Indeed, mademoiselle, you may well be surprised," said Mrs. Marston,
encountering her full and dilated gaze, which, however, dropped again in
a moment to the ground. "You may, indeed, naturally be surprised and
shocked at this, to me, most severe decision."
"When did he speak last of it?" said she, rapidly.
"But a few moments since," answered Mrs. Marston.
"Ha," said mademoiselle, and remained silent and motionless for more
than a minute.
"Madame," she cried at last, mournfully, "I suppose, then, I must go; but
it tears my heart to leave you and dear Miss Rhoda. I would be very happy
if, before departing, you would permit me, dear madame, once more to
assure Mr. Marston of my innocence, and, in his presence, to call heaven
to witness how unjust are all his suspicions."
"Do so, mademoiselle, and I will add my earnest assurances again; though,
heaven knows," she said, despondingly, "I anticipate little success; but
it is well to leave no chance untried."
Marston was sitting, as we have said, in his library. His agitation had
given place to a listless gloom, and he leaned back in his chair, his
head supported by his hand, and undisturbed, except by the occasional
fall of the embers upon the hearth. There was a knock at the chamber
door. His back was towards it, and, without turning or moving, he called
to the applicant to enter. The door opened--closed again: a light tread
was audible--a tall shadow darkened the wall: Marston looked round, and
Mademoiselle de Barras was standing before him. Without knowing how or
why, he rose, and stood gazing upon her in silence.
"Mademoiselle de Barras!" he said, at last, in a tone of cold surprise.
"Yes, poor Mademoiselle de Barras," replied the sweet voice of the
young Frenchwoman, while her lips hardly moved as the melancholy tones
passed them.
"Well, mademoiselle, what do you desire?" he asked, in the same cold
accents, and averting his eyes.
"Ah, monsieur, do you ask?--can you pretend to be ignorant? Have you not
sent me a message, a cruel, cruel message?"
She spoke so low and gently, that a person at the other end of the room
could hardly have heard her words.
"Yes, Mademoiselle de Barras, I did send you a message," he replied,
doggedly. "A cruel one you will scarcely presume to call it, when you
reflect upon your own conduct, and the circumstances which have provoked
the measures I have taken."
"What have I done, Monsieur?--what circumstances do you mean?" asked she,
plaintively.
"What have you done! A pretty question, truly. Ha, ha!" he repeated,
bitterly, and then added, with suppressed vehemence, "ask your own heart,
mademoiselle."
"I have asked, I do ask, and my heart answers--nothing," she replied,
raising her fine melancholy eyes for a moment to his face.
"It lies, then," he retorted, with a fierce scoff.
"Monsieur, before heaven I swear, you wrong me foully," she said,
earnestly, clasping her hands together.
"Did ever woman say she was accused rightly, mademoiselle?" retorted
Marston, with a sneer.
"I don't know--I don't care. I only know that I am innocent," continued
she, piteously. "I call heaven to witness you have wronged me."
"Wronged you!--why, after all, with what have I charged you?" said he,
scoffingly; "but let that pass. I have formed my opinions, arrived at my
conclusions. If I have not named them broadly, you at least seem to
understand their nature thoroughly. I know the world. I am no novice in
the arts of women, mademoiselle. Reserve your vows and attestations for
schoolboys and simpletons; they are sadly thrown away upon me."
Marston paced to and fro, with his hands thrust into his pockets, as he
thus spoke.
"Then you don't, or rather you will not believe what I tell you?" said
she, imploringly. "No," he answered, drily and slowly, as he passed her.
"I don't, and I won't (as you say) believe one word of it; so, pray spare
yourself further trouble about the matter."
She raised her head, and darted after him a glance that seemed absolutely
to blaze, and at the same time smote her little hand fast clenched upon
her breast. The words, however, that trembled on her pale lips were not
uttered; her eyes were again cast down, and her fingers played with the
little locket that hung round her neck.
"I must make, before I go," she said, with a deep sigh and a melancholy
voice, "one confidence--one last confidence: judge me by it. You cannot
choose but believe me now: it is a secret, and it must even here be
whispered, whispered, whispered!"
As she spoke, the color fled from her face, and her tones became so
strange and resolute, that Marston turned short upon his heel, and
stopped before her. She looked in his face; he frowned, but lowered his
eyes. She drew nearer, laid her hand upon his shoulder, and whispered for
a few moments in his ear. He raised his face suddenly: its features were
sharp and fixed; its hue was changed; it was livid and moveless, like a
face cut in gray stone. He staggered back a little and a little more, and
then a little more, and fell backward. Fortunately, the chair in which he
had been sitting received him, and he lay there insensible as a corpse.
When at last his eyes opened, there was no gleam of triumph, no shade of
anger, nothing perceptible of guilt or menace, in the young woman's
countenance. The flush had returned to her cheeks; her dimpled chin had
sunk upon her full white throat; sorrow, shame, and pride seemed
struggling in her handsome face, and she stood before him like a
beautiful penitent, who has just made a strange and humbling shrift to
her father confessor.
Next day, Marston was mounting his horse for a solitary ride through his
park, when Doctor Danvers rode abruptly into the courtyard from the back
entrance. Marston touched his hat, and said--
"I don't stand on forms with you, doctor, and you, I know, will waive
ceremony with me. You will find Mrs. Marston at home."
"Nay, my dear sir," interrupted the clergyman, sitting firm in his
saddle, "my business lies with you today."
"The devil it does!" said Marston, with discontented surprise.
"Truly it does, sir," repeated he, with a look of gentle reproof, for the
profanity of Marston's ejaculation, far more than the rudeness of his
manner, offended him; "and I grieve that your surprise should have
somewhat carried you away--"
"Well, then, Doctor Danvers," interrupted Marston, drily, and without
heeding his concluding remark, "if you really have business with me, it
is, at all events, of no very pressing kind, and may be as well told
after supper as now. So, pray, go into the house and rest yourself: we
can talk together in the evening."
"My horse is not tired," said the clergyman, patting his steed's neck;
"and if you do not object, I will ride by your side for a short time, and
as we go, I can say out what I have to tell."
"Well, well, be it so," said Marston, with suppressed impatience, and
without more ceremony, he rode slowly along the avenue, and turned off
upon the soft sward in the direction of the wildest portion of his wooded
demesne, the clergyman keeping close beside him. They proceeded some
little way at a walk before Doctor Danvers spoke.
"I have been twice or thrice with that unhappy man," at length he said.
"What unhappy man? Unhappiness is no distinguishing singularity, is it?"
said Marston, sharply.
"No, truly, you have well said," replied Doctor Danvers. "True it is that
man is born unto trouble as the sparks fly upward. I speak, however, of
your servant, Merton--a most unhappy wretch."
"Ha! you have been with him, you say?" replied Marston, with evident
interest and anxiety.
"Yes, several times, and conversed with him long and gravely," continued
the clergyman.
"Humph! I thought that had been the chaplain's business, not yours, my
good friend," observed Marston.
"He has been unwell," replied Dr. Danvers; "and thus, for a day or two,
I took his duty, and this poor man, Merton, having known something of me,
preferred seeing me rather than a stranger; and so, at the chaplain's
desire and his, I continued my visits."
"Well, and you have taught him to pray and sing psalms, I suppose; and
what has come of it all?" demanded Marston, testily.
"He does pray, indeed, poor man! and I trust his prayers are heard with
mercy at the throne of grace," said his companion, in his earnestness
disregarding the sneering tone of his companion. "He is full of
compunction, and admits his guilt."
"Ho! that is well--well for himself--well for his soul, at least; you are
sure of it; he confesses; confesses his guilt?"
Marston put his question so rapidly and excitedly, that the clergyman
looked with a slight expression of surprise; and recovering himself, he
added, in an unconcerned tone--
"Well, well--it was just as well he did so; the evidence is too clear for
doubt or mystification; he knew he had no chance, and has taken the
seemliest course; and, doubtless, the best for his hopes hereafter."
"I did not question him upon the subject," said Doctor Danvers; "I even
declined to hear him speak upon it at first; but he told me he was
resolved to offer no defense, and that he saw the finger of God in the
fate which had overtaken him."
"He will plead guilty, then, I suppose?" suggested Marston, watching the
countenance of his companion with an anxious and somewhat sinister eye.
"His words seem to imply so much," answered he; "and having thus frankly
owned his guilt, and avowed his resolution to let the law take its due
course in his case, without obstruction or evasion, I urged him to
complete the grand work he had begun, and to confess to you, or to some
other magistrate fully, and in detail, every circumstance connected with
the perpetration of the dreadful deed."
Marston knit his brows, and rode on for some minutes in silence. At
length he said, abruptly--
"In this, it seems to me, sir, you a little exceeded your commission."
"How so, my dear sir?" asked the clergyman.
"Why, sir," answered Marston, "the man may possibly change his mind
before the day of trial, and it is the hangman's office, not yours, my
good sir, to fasten the halter about his neck. You will pardon my
freedom; but, were this deposition made as you suggest, it would
undoubtedly hang him."
"God forbid, Mr. Marston," rejoined Danvers, "that I should induce the
unhappy man to forfeit his last chances of escape, and to shut the door
of human mercy against himself, but on this he seems already resolved; he
says so; he has solemnly declared his resolution to me; and even against
my warning, again and again reiterated the same declaration."
"That I should have thought quite enough, were I in your place, without
inviting a detailed description of the whole process by which this
detestable butchery was consummated. What more than the simple knowledge
of the man's guilt does any mortal desire; guilty, or not guilty, is the
plain question which the law asks, and no more; take my advice, sir, as a
poor Protestant layman, and leave the acts of the confessional and
inquisition to Popish priests."
"Nay, Mr. Marston, you greatly misconceive me; as matters stand, there
exists among the coroner's jury, and thus among the public, some faint
and unfounded suspicion of the possibility of Merton's having had an
accessory or accomplice in the perpetration of this foul murder."
"It is a lie, sir--a malignant, d----d lie--the jury believe no such
thing, nor the public neither," said Marston, starting in his saddle, and
speaking in a voice of thunder; "you have been crammed with lies, sir;
malicious, unmeaning, vindictive lies; lies invented to asperse my
family, and torture my feelings; suggested in my presence by that
scoundrel Mervyn, and scouted by the common sense of the jury."
"I do assure you," replied Doctor Danvers, in a voice which seemed
scarcely audible, after the stunning and passionate explosion of
Marston's wrath, "I did not imagine that you could feel thus sorely upon
the point; nay, I thought that you yourself were not without such
painful doubts."
"Again, I tell you, sir," said Marston, in a tone somewhat calmer, but no
less stern, "such doubts as you describe have no existence; your
unsuspecting ear has been alarmed by a vindictive wretch, an old
scoundrel who has scarce a passion left but spite towards me; few such
there are, thank God; few such villains as would, from a man's very
calamities, distil poison to kill the peace and character of his family."
"I am sorry, Mr. Marston," said the clergyman, "you have formed so ill an
opinion of a neighbor, and I am very sure that Mr. Mervyn meant you no
ill in frankly expressing whatever doubts still rested on his mind, after
the evidence was taken."
"He did--the scoundrel!" said Marston, furiously striking his hand, in
which his whip was clutched, upon his thigh; "he did mean to wound and
torture me; and with the same object he persists in circulating what he
calls his doubts. Meant me no ill, forsooth! why, my great God, sir,
could any man be so stupid as not to perceive that the suggestion of such
suspicions--absurd, contradictory, incredible as they were--was
precisely the thing to exasperate feelings sufficiently troubled
already, and not content with raising the question, where it was scouted,
as I said, as soon as named, the vindictive slanderer proceeds to
propagate and publish his pretended surmises--d----n him."
"Mr. Marston, you will pardon me when I say that, as a Christian
minister, I cannot suffer a spirit so ill as that you manifest, and
language so unseemly as that you have just uttered, to pass unreproved,"
said Danvers, solemnly. "If you will cherish those bitter and unchristian
feelings, at least for the brief space that I am with you, command your
fierce, unbecoming words."
Marston was about to make a sneering retort, but restrained himself, and
turned his head away.
"The wretched man himself appears now very anxious to make some further
disclosures," resumed Doctor Danvers, after a pause, "and I recommended
him to make them to you, Mr. Marston, as the most natural depository of
such a statement."
"Well, Mr. Danvers, to cut the matter short, as it appears that a
confession of some sort is to be made, be it so. I will attend and
receive it. The judges will not be here for eight or ten weeks to come,
so there is no great hurry about it. I shall ride down to the town, and
see him in the jail some time in the next week."
With this assurance Marston parted from the old clergyman, and rode on
alone through the furze and fern of his wild and somber park.
After supper that evening Marston found himself alone in the parlor with
his wife. Mrs. Marston availed herself of the opportunity to redeem her
pledge to Mademoiselle de Barras. She was not aware of the strange
interview which had taken place between him and the lady for whom she
pleaded. The result of her renewed entreaties perhaps the reader has
anticipated. Marston listened, doubted, listened, hesitated again, put
questions, pondered the answers; debated the matter inwardly, and at last
gruffly consented to give the young lady another trial, and permit her to
remain some time longer. Poor Mrs. Marston, little suspecting the
dreadful future, overwhelmed her husband with gratitude for granting to
her entreaties (as he had predetermined to do) this fatal boon. Not
caring to protract this scene--either from a disinclination to listen to
expressions of affection, which had long lost their charm for him, and
had become even positively distasteful, or perhaps from some instinctive
recoil from the warm expression of gratitude from lips which, were the
truth revealed, might justly have trembled with execration and
reproach--he abruptly left the room, and Mrs. Marston, full of her good
news, hastened, in the kindness of her heart, to communicate the fancied
result of her advocacy to Mademoiselle de Barras.
It was about a week after this, that Marston was one evening surprised in
his study by the receipt of the following letter from Dr. Danvers:--
"My Dear Sir,
"You will be shocked to hear that Merton is most dangerously ill, and at
this moment in imminent peril. He is thoroughly conscious of his
situation, and himself regards it as a merciful interposition of
Providence to spare him the disgrace and terror of the dreadful fate,
which he anticipated. The unhappy man has twice repeated his anxious
desire, this day, to state some facts connected with the murder of the
late Sir Wynston Berkley, which, he says, it is of the utmost moment that
you should hear. He says that he could not leave the world in peace
without having made this disclosure, which he especially desires to make
to yourself, and entreats that you will come to receive his
communication as early as you can in the morning. This is indeed needful,
as the physician says that he is fast sinking. I offer no apology for
adding my earnest solicitations to those or the dying man; and am, dear
sir, your very obedient servant,
"J. Danvers"
"He regards it as a merciful interposition of Providence," muttered
Marston, as he closed the letter, with a sneer. "Well, some men have odd
notions of mercy and providence, to be sure; but if it pleases him,
certainly I shall not complain for one."
Marston was all this evening in better spirits than he had enjoyed for
months, or even years. A mountain seemed to have been lifted from his
heart. He joined in the conversation during and after supper, listened
with apparent interest, talked with animation, and even laughed and
jested. It is needless to say all this flowed not from the healthy cheer
of a heart at ease, but from the excited and almost feverish sense of
sudden relief.
Next morning, Marston rode into the old-fashioned town, at the further
end of which the dingy and grated front of the jail looked warningly out
upon the rustic passengers. He passed the sentries and made his inquiries
of the official at the hatch. He was relieved from the necessity of
pushing these into detail, however, by the appearance of the physician,
who at that moment passed from the interior of the prison.
"Dr. Danvers told me he expected to see you here this morning," said the
medical man, after the customary salutation had been interchanged. "Your
call, I believe, is connected with the prisoner, John Merton?"
"Yes, sir, so it is," said Marston. "Is he in a condition, pray, to make
a statement of considerable length?"
"Far from it, Mr. Marston; he has but a few hours to live," answered the
physician, "and is now insensible; but I believe he last night saw Dr.
Danvers, and told him whatever was weighing upon his mind."
"Ha!--And can you say where Dr. Danvers now is?" inquired Marston,
anxiously and hurriedly. "Not here, is he?"
"No; but I saw him, as I came here, not ten minutes since, ride into the
town. It is market-day, and you will probably find him somewhere in the
high street for an hour or two to come," answered he.
Marston thanked him, and, lost in abstraction, rode down to the little
inn, entered a sitting room, and wrote a hurried line to Dr. Danvers,
entreating his attendance there, as a place where they might converse
less interruptedly than in the street; and committing this note to the
waiter, with the injunction to deliver it at once, and an intimation of
where Dr. Danvers was probably to be found, he awaited, with intense and
agitating anxiety, the arrival of the clergyman.
It was not for nearly ten minutes, however, which his impatience
magnified into an eternity, that the well-known voice of Dr. Danvers
reached him from the little hall. It was in vain that Marston strove to
curb his violent agitation: his heart swelled as if it would smother him;
he felt, as it were, the chill of death pervade his frame, and he could
scarcely see the door through which he momentarily expected the entrance
of the clergyman.
A few minutes more, and Dr. Danvers entered the little apartment.
"My dear sir," said he, gravely and earnestly, as he grasped the cold
hand of Marston, "I am rejoiced to see you. I have matters of great
moment and the strangest mystery to lay before you."
"I dare say--I was sure--that is, I suspected so much," answered
Marston, breathing fast, and looking very pale. "I heard at the prison
that the murderer, Merton, was fast dying, and now is in an unconscious
state; and from the physician, that you had seen him, at his urgent
entreaty, last night. My mind misgives me, sir, I fear I know not what. I
long, yet dread, to hear the wretched man's confession. For God's sake
tell me, does it implicate anybody else in the guilt?"
"No; no one specifically; but it has thrown a hideous additional mystery
over the occurrence. Listen to me, my dear sir, and the whole narrative,
as he stated it to me, shall be related now to you," said Dr. Danvers.
Marston had closed the door carefully, and they sate down together at the
further end of the apartment. Marston, breathless and ghastly pale; his
lips compressed--his brows knit--and his dark, dilated gaze fixed
immovably upon the speaker. Dr. Danvers, on the other hand, tranquil and
solemn, and with, perhaps, some shade of awe overcasting the habitual
sweetness of his countenance.
"His confession was a strange one," renewed Dr. Danvers, shaking his head
gravely. "He said that the first idea of the crime was suggested by Sir
Wynston's man accidentally mentioning, a few days after their arrival,
that his master slept with his bank-notes, to the amount of some hundreds
of pounds, in a pocketbook under his pillow. He declared that as the man
mentioned this circumstance, something muttered the infernal suggestion
in his ear, and from that moment he was the slave of that one idea; it
was ever present with him. He contended against it in vain; he dreaded
and abhorred it; but still it possessed him; he felt his power of
resistance yielding. This horrible stranger which had stolen into his
heart, waxed in power and importunity, and tormented him day and night.
He resolved to fly from the house. He gave notice to you and Mrs.
Marston of his intended departure; but accident protracted his stay until
that fatal night which sealed his doom. The influence which had mastered
him forced him to rise from his bed, and take the knife--the discovery of
which afterwards helped to convict him--and led him to Sir Wynston's
chamber; he entered; it was a moonlight night."
Here the clergyman, glancing round the room, lowered his voice, and
advanced his lips so near to Marston, that their heads nearly touched. In
this tone and attitude he continued his narrative for a few minutes. At
the end of this brief space, Marston rose up slowly, and with a movement
backward, every feature strung with horror, and saying, in a long
whisper, the one word, "yes," which seemed like the hiss of a snake
before he makes his last deadly spring. Both were silent for a time. At
last Marston broke out with hoarse vehemence.
"Dreadful--horrible--oh, God! God!--My God! How frightful!"
And throwing himself into a chair, he clasped his hands across his
eyes and forehead, while the sweat of agony literally poured down his
pale face.
"Truly it is so," said the clergyman, scarcely above his breath; and,
after a long interval--"horrible indeed!"
"Well," said Marston, rising suddenly to his feet, wiping the dews of
horror from his face, and looking wildly round, like one newly awoke from
a nightmare, "I must make the most of this momentous and startling
disclosure. I shall spare no pains to come at the truth," said he,
energetically. "Meanwhile, my dear sir, for the sake of justice and of
mercy, observe secrecy. Leave me to sift this matter; give no note
anywhere that we suspect. Observe this reserve and security, and with it
detection will follow. Breathe but one word, and you arm the guilty with
double caution, and turn licentious gossip loose upon the fame of an
innocent and troubled family. Once more I entreat--I expect--I implore
silence--silence, at least, for the present--silence!"
"I quite agree with you, my dear Mr. Marston," answered Dr. Danvers. "I
have not divulged one syllable of that poor wretch's confession, save to
yourself alone. You, as a magistrate, a relative of the murdered
gentleman, and the head of that establishment among whom the guilt
rests, are invested with an interest in detecting, and powers of sifting
the truth in this matter, such as none other possesses. I clearly see,
with you, too, the inexpediency and folly of talking, for talking's
sake, of this affair. I mean to keep my counsel, and shall most
assuredly, irrespectively even of your request--which should, however,
of course, have weight with me--maintain a strict and cautious silence
upon this subject."
Some little time longer they remained together, and Marston, buried in
strange thoughts, took his leave, and rode slowly back to Gray Forest.
Months passed away--a year, and more--and though no new character
appeared upon the stage, the relations which had subsisted among the old
ones became, in some respects, very materially altered. A gradual and
disagreeable change came over Mademoiselle de Barras's manner; her
affectionate attentions to Mrs. Marston became less and less frequent;
nor was the change merely confined to this growing coldness; there was
something of a positive and still more unpleasant kind in the alteration
we have noted. There was a certain independence and carelessness,
conveyed in a hundred intangible but significant little incidents and
looks--a something which, without being open to formal rebuke or
remonstrance, yet bordered, in effect, upon impertinence, and even
insolence. This indescribable and provoking self-assertion, implied in
glances, tones, emphasis, and general bearing, surprised Mrs. Marston far
more than it irritated her. As often as she experienced one of these
studied slights or insinuated impertinences, she revolved in her own mind
all the incidents of their past intercourse, in the vain endeavor to
recollect some one among them which could possibly account for the
offensive change so manifest in the conduct of the young Frenchwoman.
Mrs. Marston, although she sometimes rebuked these artful affronts by a
grave look, a cold tone, or a distant manner, yet had too much dignity to
engage in a petty warfare of annoyance, and had, in reality, no
substantial and well-defined ground of complaint against her, such as
would have warranted her either in taking the young lady herself to task,
or in bringing her conduct under the censure of Marston.
One evening, it happened that Mrs. Marston and Mademoiselle de Barras had
been left alone together. After the supper-party had dispersed, they had
been for a long time silent. Mrs. Marston resolved to improve the
Tate-à-Tate, for the purpose of eliciting from mademoiselle an
explanation of her strange behavior.
"Mademoiselle," said she, "I have lately observed a very marked change in
your conduct to me."
"Indeed!" said the Frenchwoman.
"Yes, mademoiselle; you must be yourself perfectly aware of that change;
it is a studied and intentional one," continued Mrs. Marston, in a gentle
but dignified tone. "Although I have felt some doubt as to whether it
were advisable, so long as you observe toward me the forms of external
respect, and punctually discharge the duties you have undertaken, to open
any discussion whatever upon the subject; yet I have thought it better
to give you a fair opportunity of explaining frankly, should you desire
to do so, the feelings and impressions under which you are acting."
"Ah, you are very obliging, madame," said she, coolly.
"It is quite clear, mademoiselle, that you have either misunderstood me,
or that you are dissatisfied with your situation among us: your conduct
cannot otherwise be accounted for," said Mrs. Marston, gravely.
"My conduct--_ma foi!_ what conduct?" retorted the handsome Frenchwoman,
confidently, and with a disdainful glance.
"If you question the fact, mademoiselle," said the elder lady, "it is
enough. Your ungracious manner and ungentle looks, I presume, arise from
what appears to you a sufficient and well-defined cause, of which,
however, I know nothing."
"I really was not aware," said Mademoiselle de Barras, with a
supercilious smile, "that my looks and my manner were subjected to so
strict a criticism, or that it was my duty to regulate both according to
so nice and difficult a standard."
"Well, mademoiselle," continued Mrs. Marston, "it is plain that whatever
may be the cause of your dissatisfaction, you are resolved against
confiding it to me. I only wish to know frankly from your own lips,
whether you have formed a wish to leave this situation. If so, I entreat
you to declare it freely."
"You are very obliging, indeed, madame," said the pretty foreigner,
drily, "but I have no such wish, at least at present."
"Very well, mademoiselle," replied Mrs. Marston, with gentle dignity; "I
regret your want of candor, on your own account. You would, I am sure, be
much happier, were you to deal frankly with me."
"May I now have your permission, madame, to retire to my room?" asked
the French girl, rising, and making a low courtesy--"that is, if madame
has nothing further to censure."
"Certainly, mademoiselle; I have nothing further to say," replied the
elder lady.
The Frenchwoman made another and a deeper courtesy, and withdrew. Mrs.
Marston, however, heard, as she was designed to do, the young lady
tittering and whispering to herself, as she lighted her candle in the
hall. This scene mortified and grieved poor Mrs. Marston inexpressibly.
She was little, if at all, accessible to emotions of anger and certainly,
none such mingled in the feelings with which she regarded Mademoiselle de
Barras. But she had found in this girl a companion, and even a confidante
in her melancholy solitude; she had believed her affectionate,
sympathetic, tender, and the disappointment was as bitter as unimagined.
The annoyances which she was fated to receive from Mademoiselle de Barras
were destined, however, to grow in number and in magnitude. The
Frenchwoman sometimes took a fancy, for some unrevealed purpose, to talk
a good deal to Mrs. Marston, and on such occasions would persist,
notwithstanding that lady's marked reserve and discouragement, in
chatting away, as if she were conscious that her conversation was the
most welcome entertainment possible to her really unwilling auditor. No
one of their interviews did she ever suffer to close without in some way
or other suggesting or insinuating something mysterious and untold to the
prejudice of Mr. Marston. Those vague and intangible hints, the meaning
of which, for an instant legible and terrific, seemed in another moment
to dissolve and disappear, tortured Mrs. Marston like the intrusion of a
specter; and this, along with the portentous change, rather felt than
visible, in mademoiselle's conduct toward her, invested the beautiful
Frenchwoman, in the eyes of her former friend and patroness, with an
indefinable character that was not only repulsive but formidable.
Mrs. Marston's feelings with respect to this person were still further
disturbed by the half-conveyed hints and innuendoes of her own maid, who
never lost an opportunity of insinuating her intense dislike of the
Frenchwoman, and appeared perpetually to be upon the very verge of making
some explicit charges, or some shocking revelations, respecting her,
which, however, she as invariably evaded; and even when Mrs. Marston once
or twice insisted upon her explaining her meaning distinctly, she eluded
her mistress's desire, and left her still in the same uneasy uncertainty.
Marston, on his part, however much his conduct might tend to confirm
suspicion, certainly did nothing to dissipate the painful and undefined
apprehension respecting himself, which Mademoiselle de Barras, with such
malign and mysterious industry, labored to raise. His spirits and temper
were liable to strange fluctuations. In the midst of that excited gaiety,
to which, until lately, he had been so long a stranger, would sometimes
intervene paroxysms of the blackest despair, all the ghastlier for the
contrast, and with a suddenness so abrupt and overwhelming, that one
might have fancied him crossed by the shadow of some terrific apparition.
Sometimes for a whole day, or even more, he would withdraw himself from
the society of his family, and, in morose and moody solitude, take his
meals alone in his library, and steal out unattended to wander among the
thickets and glades of his park. Sometimes, again, he would sit for hours
in the room which had been Sir Wynston's, and, with a kind of horrible
resolution, often loiter there till after nightfall. In such hours, the
servants would listen with curious awe, as they heard his step, pacing
to and fro, in that deserted and inauspicious chamber, while his voice,
in broken sentences, was also imperfectly audible, as if maintaining a
muttered dialogue. These eccentric practices gradually invested him, in
the eyes of his domestics, with a certain preternatural mystery, which
enhanced the fear with which they habitually regarded him, and was
subsequently confirmed by his giving orders to have the furniture taken
out of the ominous suite of rooms, and the doors nailed up and secured.
He gave no reason for this odd and abrupt measure, and gossip of course
reported that the direction had originated in his having encountered the
specter of the murdered baronet, in one of these strange and unseasonable
visits to the scene of the fearful catastrophe.
In addition to all this, Marston's conduct towards his wife became
strangely capricious. He avoided her society more than ever; and when he
did happen to exchange a few words with her, they were sometimes harsh
and violent, and at others remorsefully gentle and sad, and this without
any changes of conduct upon her part to warrant the wayward uncertainty
of his treatment. Under all these circumstances, Mrs. Marston's
unhappiness and uneasiness greatly increased. Mademoiselle de Barras,
too, upon several late occasions, had begun to assume a tone of authority
and dictation, which justly offended the mistress of the establishment.
Meanwhile Charles Marston had returned to Cambridge; and Rhoda, no longer
enjoying happy walks with her brother, pursued her light and easy studies
with Mademoiselle de Barras, and devoted her leisure hours to the loved
society of her mother.
One day Mrs. Marston, sitting in her room with Rhoda, had happened to
call her own maid, to take down and carefully dust some richly bound
volumes which filled a bookcase in the little chamber.
"You have been crying, Willett," said Mrs. Marston, observing that the
young woman's eyes were red and swollen.
"Indeed, and I was, ma'am," she replied, reluctantly, "and I could not
help it, so I could not."
"Why, what has happened to vex you? Has anyone ill-treated you?" said
Mrs. Marston, who had an esteem for the poor girl. "Come, come, you must
not fret about it; only tell me what has vexed you."
"Oh! Ma'am, no one has ill-used me, ma'am; but I can't but be vexed
sometimes, ma'am, and fretted to see how things is going on. I have
one wish, just one wish, ma'am, and if I got that, I'd ask no more,"
said the girl.
"And what is it?" asked Mrs. Marston; "what do you wish for? Speak
plainly, Willett; what is it?"
"Ah! Ma'am, if I said it, maybe you might not be pleased. Don't ask me,
ma'am," said the girl dusting the books very hard, and tossing them down
again with angry emphasis. "I don't desire anybody's harm, God knows;
but, for all that, I wish what I wish, and that is the truth."
"Why, Willett, I really cannot account for your strange habit of lately
hinting, and insinuating, and always speaking riddles, and refusing to
explain your meaning. What do you mean? Speak plainly. If there are any
dishonest practices going on, it is your duty to say so distinctly."
"Oh! Ma'am, it is just a wish I have. I wish--; but it's no matter. If I
could once see the house clear of that Frenchwoman--"
"If you mean Mademoiselle de Barras, she is a lady," interrupted
Mrs. Marston.
"Well, ma'am, I beg pardon," continued the woman; "lady or no lady, it is
all one to me; for I am very sure, ma'am, she'll never leave the house
till there is something bad comes about; and--and--. I can't bring myself
to talk to you about her, ma'am. I can't say what I want to tell you:
but--but--. Oh, ma'am, for God's sake, try and get her out, any way, no
matter how; try and get rid of her."
As she said this, the poor girl burst into a passionate agony of tears,
and Mrs. Marston and Rhoda looked on in silent amazement, while she for
some minutes continued to sob and weep.
The party were suddenly recalled from their various reveries by a knock
at the chamber-door. It opened, and the subject of the girl's deprecatory
entreaty entered. There was something unusually excited and assured in
Mademoiselle de Barras's air and countenance; perhaps she had a suspicion
that she had been the topic of their conversation. At all events, she
looked round upon them with a smile, in which there was something
supercilious, and even defiant; and, without waiting to be invited, sate
herself down, with a haughty air.
"I was about to ask you to sit down, mademoiselle, but you have
anticipated me," said Mrs. Marston, gravely. "You have something to say
to me, I suppose; I am quite at leisure, so pray let me hear it now."
"Thank you, thank you, madame," replied she, with a sharp, and even
scornful glance; "I ought to have asked your permission to sit; I forgot;
but you have condescended to give it without my doing so; that was very
kind, very kind, indeed."
"But I wish to know, mademoiselle, whether you have anything very
particular to say to me?" said Mrs. Marston.
"You wish to know!--and why, pray madame?" asked Mademoiselle de
Barras, sharply.
"Because, unless it is something very urgent, I should prefer your
talking to me some other time; as, at present, I desire to be alone with
my daughter."
"Oh, ho! I ought to ask pardon again," said mademoiselle, with the same
glance, and the same smile. "I find I am de trop--quite in the way.
Hélas! I am very unfortunate today."
Mademoiselle de Barras made not the slightest movement, and it was
evident that she was resolved to prolong her stay, in sheer defiance of
Mrs. Marston's wishes.
"Mademoiselle, I conclude from your silence that you have nothing very
pressing to say, and, therefore, must request that you will have the
goodness to leave me for the present," said Mrs. Marston, who felt that
the spirit of the French girl's conduct was too apparent not to have been
understood by Rhoda and the servant, and that it was of a kind, for
example sake, impossible to be submitted to, or tolerated.
Mademoiselle de Barras darted a fiery and insolent glance at Mrs.
Marston, and was, doubtless, upon the point of precipitating the open
quarrel which was impending, by setting her authority at defiance; but
she checked herself, and changed her line of operations.
"We are not alone madame," she said, with a heightened color, and a
slight toss of the head. "I was about to speak of Mr. Marston. I had
something, not much, I confess, to say; but before servants I shan't
speak; nor, indeed, now at all. So, madame, as you desire it, I shall no
further interrupt you. Come, Miss Rhoda, come to the music-room, if you
please, and finish your practice for today."
"You forget, mademoiselle, that I wish to have my daughter with me at
present," said Mrs. Marston.
"I am very sorry, madame," said the French lady, with the same heightened
color and unpleasant smile, and her finely-penciled brows just
discernibly knit, so as to give a novel and menacing expression to her
beautiful face--"I am very sorry, madame, but she must, so long as I
remain accountable for her education, complete her allotted exercises at
the appointed hours; and nothing shall, I assure you, with my consent,
interfere with these duties. Come, Miss Rhoda, precede me, if you please,
to the music-room. Come, come."
"Stay where you are, Rhoda," said Mrs. Marston, firmly and gently, and
betraying no symptom of excitement, except in a slight tremor of her
voice, and a faint flush upon her cheek--"Stay where you are, my dear
child. I am your mother, and, next to your father, have the first claim
upon your obedience. Mademoiselle," she continued, addressing the
Frenchwoman, calmly but firmly, "my daughter will remain here for some
time longer, and you will have the goodness to withdraw. I insist upon
it, Mademoiselle de Barras."
"I will not leave the room, I assure you, madame, without my pupil,"
retorted mademoiselle, with resolute insolence. "Your husband, madame,
has invested me with this authority, and she shall obey me. Miss Rhoda, I
say again, go down to the music-room."
"Remain where you are, Rhoda," said Mrs. Marston again. "Mademoiselle;
you have long been acting as if your object were to provoke me to part
with you. I find it impossible any longer to overlook this grossly
disrespectful conduct; conduct of which I had, indeed, believed you
absolutely incapable. Willett," she continued, addressing the maid, who
was evidently bursting with rage at the scene she had just witnessed,
"your master is, I believe, in the library; go down, and tell him that I
entreat him to come here immediately."
The maid started on her mission with angry alacrity, darting a venomous
glance at the handsome Frenchwoman as she passed.
Mademoiselle de Barras, meanwhile, sate, listless and defiant, in her
chair, and tapping her little foot with angry excitement upon the floor.
Rhoda sate close by her mother, holding her hand fast, and looking
frightened, perplexed, and as if she were on the point of weeping. Mrs.
Marston, though flushed and excited, yet maintained her dignified and
grave demeanor. And thus, in silence, did they all three await the
arrival of the arbiter to whom Mrs. Marston had so promptly appealed.
A few minutes more, and Marston entered the room. Mademoiselle's
expression changed as he did so to one of dejected and sorrowful
submission; and, as Marston's eye lighted upon her, his brow darkened and
his face grew pale.
"Well, well--what is it?--What is all this?" he said, glancing with a
troubled eye from one to the other. "Speak, someone. Mrs. Marston, you
sent for me; what is it?"
"I want to know, Mr. Marston, from your own lips," said the lady, in
reply, "whether Rhoda is to obey me or Mademoiselle de Barras?"
"Bah!--A question of women's prerogative," said Marston, with muttered
vehemence.
"Of a wife's and a mother's prerogative, Richard," said Mrs. Marston,
with gentle emphasis. "A very simple question, and one I should have
thought needing no deliberation to decide it."
"Well, child," sad he, turning to Rhoda, with angry irony, "pray what is
all this fuss about? You are a very ill used young lady, I dare aver.
Pray what cruelties does Mademoiselle de Barras propose inflicting upon
you, that you need to appeal thus to your mother for protection?"
"You quite mistake me, Richard," interposed Mrs. Marston; "Rhoda is
perfectly passive in the matter. I simply wish to learn from you, in
mademoiselle's presence, whether I or she is to command my daughter?"
"Command!" said Marston, evading the direct appeal; "and pray what is all
this commanding about?--What do you want the girl to do?"
"I wish her to remain here with me for a little time, and mademoiselle,
knowing this, desires her instantly to go to the music-room, and leave
me. That is all," said Mrs. Marston.
"And pray, is there nothing to make her going to the music-room advisable
or necessary? Has she no music to learn, or studies to pursue? Pshaw!
Mrs. Marston, what needs all this noise about nothing? Go, miss," he
added, sharply and peremptorily, addressing Rhoda, "go this moment to the
music-room."
The girl glided from the room, and mademoiselle, as she followed, shot a
glance at Mrs. Marston which wounded and humbled her in the dust.
"Oh! Richard, Richard, if you knew all, you would not have subjected me
to this indignity," she said; and throwing her arms about his neck, she
wept, for the first time for many a long year, upon his breast.
Marston was embarrassed and agitated. He disengaged her arms from his
neck, and placed her gently in a chair. She sobbed on for some time in
silence--a silence which Marston himself did not essay to break. He
walked to the door, apparently with the intention of leaving her. He
hesitated however, and returned; took a hurried turn through the room;
hesitated again; sat down; then returned to the door, not to depart, but
to close it carefully, and walked gloomily to the window, whence he
looked forth, buried in agitating and absorbing thoughts.
"Richard, to you this seems a trifling thing; but, indeed it is not so,"
said Mrs. Marston, sadly.
"You are very right, Gertrude," he said, quickly, and almost with a
start; "it is very far from a trifling thing; it is very important."
"You don't blame me, Richard?" said she.
"I blame nobody," said he.
"Indeed, I never meant to offend you, Richard," she urged.
"Of course not; no, no; I never said so," he interrupted, sarcastically;
"what could you gain by that?"
"Oh! Richard, better feelings have governed me," she said, in a
melancholy and reproachful tone.
"Well, well, I suppose so," he said; and after an interval, he added
abstractedly, "This cannot, however, go on; no, no--it cannot. Sooner or
later it must have come; better at once--better now."
"What do you mean, Richard?" she said, greatly alarmed, she knew not why.
"What are you resolving upon? Dear Richard, in mercy tell me. I implore
of you, tell me."
"Why, Gertrude, you seem to me to fancy that, because I don't talk about
what is passing, that I don't see it either. Now this is quite a
mistake," said Marston, calmly and resolutely--"I have long observed your
growing dislike of Mademoiselle de Barras. I have thought it over; this
fracas of today has determined me; it is decisive. I suppose you now wish
her to go, as earnestly as you once wished her to stay. You need not
answer. I know it. I neither ask nor care to whose fault I am to
attribute these changed feelings--female caprice accounts sufficiently
for it; but whatever the cause, the effect is undeniable; and the only
way to deal satisfactorily with it is, to dismiss mademoiselle at once.
You need take no part in the matter; I take it upon myself. Tomorrow
morning she shall have left this house. I have said it, and am perfectly
resolved."
As he thus spoke, as if to avoid the possibility of any further
discussion, he turned abruptly from her, and left the room.
The extreme agitation which she had just undergone combined with her
physical delicacy to bring on an hysterical attack; and poor Mrs.
Marston, with an aching head and a heavy heart, lay down upon her bed.
She had swallowed an opiate, and before ten o'clock upon that night, an
eventful one as it proved, she had sunk into a profound slumber.
Some hours after this, she became in a confused way conscious of her
husband's presence in the room. He was walking, with an agitated mien, up
and down the chamber, and casting from time to time looks of great
trouble toward the bed where she lay. Though the presence of her husband
was a strange and long unwonted occurrence there, at such an hour, and
though she felt the strangeness of the visit, the power of the opiate
overwhelmed her so, that she could only see this apparition gliding
slowly back and forward before her, with the passive wonder and curiosity
with which one awaits the issue of an interesting dream.
For a time she lay once more in an uneasy sleep; but still, throughout
even this, she was conscious of his presence; and when, a little while
after, she again saw him, he was not walking to and fro before the foot
of the bed, but sitting beside her, with one hand laid upon the pillow on
which her head was resting, the other supporting his chin. He was looking
steadfastly upon her, with a changed face, an expression of bitter
sorrow, compunction, and tenderness. There was not one trace of
sternness; all was softened. The look was what she fancied he might have
turned upon her had she lain there dead, ere yet the love of their early
and ill-fated union had grown cold in his heart. There was something in
it which reminded her of days and feelings gone, never to return. And
while she looked in his face with a sweet and mournful fascination, tears
unconsciously wet the pillow on which her poor head was resting. Unable
to speak, unable to move, she heard him say--"It was not your fault,
Gertrude--it was not yours, nor mine. There is a destiny in these things
too strong for us. Past is past--what is done, is done forever; and even
were it all to do over again, what power have I to mend it? No, no; how
could I contend against the combined power of passions, circumstances,
influences--in a word, of fate? You have been good and patient, while
I--; but no matter. Your lot, Gertrude, is a happier one than mine."
Mrs. Marston heard him and saw him, but she had not the power, nor even
the will, herself to speak or move. He appeared before her passive sense
like the phantasm of a dream. He stood up at the bedside, and looked on
her steadfastly, with the same melancholy expression. For a moment he
stooped over her, as if about to kiss her face, but checked himself,
stood erect again at the bedside, then suddenly turned; the curtain fell
back into its place, and she saw him no more.
With a strange mixture of sweet and bitter feelings this vision rested
upon the memory of Mrs. Marston, until, gradually, deep slumber again
overcame her senses, and the incident and all its attendant circumstances
faded into oblivion.
It was past eight o'clock when Mrs. Marston awoke next morning. The sun
was shining richly and cheerily in at the windows; and as the remembrance
of Marston's visit to her chamber, and the unwonted manifestations of
tenderness and compunction which accompanied it, returned, she felt
something like hope and happiness, to which she had long been a stranger,
flutter her heart. The pleasing reverie to which she was yielding was,
however, interrupted. The sound of stifled sobbing in the room reached
her ear, and, pushing back the bed-curtains, and leaning forward to look,
she saw her maid, Willett, sitting with her back to the wall, crying
bitterly, and striving, as it seemed, to stifle her sobs with her apron,
which was wrapped about her face.
"Willet, Willett, is it you who are sobbing? What is the matter with you,
child?" said Mrs. Marston, anxiously.
The girl checked herself, dried her eyes hastily, and walking briskly to
a little distance, as if engaged in arranging the chamber, she said, with
an affectation of carelessness--
"Oh, ma'am, it is nothing; nothing at all, indeed, ma'am."
Mrs. Marston remained silent for a time, while all her vague
apprehensions returned. Meantime the girl continued to shove the chairs
hither and thither, and to arrange and disarrange everything in the room
with a fidgety industry, intended to cover her agitation. A few minutes,
however, served to weary her of this, for she abruptly stopped, stood by
the bedside, and, looking at her mistress, burst into tears.
"Good God! What is it?" said Mrs. Marston, shocked and even terrified,
while new alarms displaced her old ones. "Is Miss Rhoda--can it be--is
she--is my darling well?"
"Oh, yes, ma'am," answered the maid, "very well, ma'am; she is up, and
out walking and knows nothing of all this."
"All what?" urged Mrs. Marston. "Tell me, tell me, Willett, what has
happened. What is it? Speak, child; say what it is?"
"Oh, ma'am! Oh my poor dear mistress!" continued the girl, and stopped,
almost stifled with sobs.
"Willett, you must speak; you must say what is the matter. I implore of
you--desire you!" urged the distracted lady. Still the girl, having made
one or two ineffectual efforts to speak, continued to sob.
"Willett, you will drive me mad. For mercy's sake, for God's sake,
speak--tell me what it is!" cried the unhappy lady.
"Oh, ma'am, it is--it is about the master," sobbed the girl.
"Why he can't--he has not--oh, merciful God! He has not hurt himself,"
she almost screamed.
"No, ma'am, no; not himself; no, no, but--" and again she hesitated.
"But what? Speak out, Willett; dear Willett have mercy on me, and speak
out," cried her wretched mistress.
"Oh, ma'am, don't be fretted; don't take it to heart, ma'am," said the
maid, clasping her hands together in anguish.
"Anything, anything, Willett; only speak at once," she answered.
"Well, ma'am, it is soon said--it is easy told. The master, ma'am--the
master is gone with the Frenchwoman; they went in the traveling coach
last night, ma'am; he is gone away with her, ma'am; that is all."
Mrs. Marston looked at the girl with a gaze of stupefied, stony terror;
not a muscle of her face moved; not one heaving respiration showed that
she was living. Motionless, with this fearful look fixed upon the girl,
and her thin hands stretched towards her, she remained, second after
second. At last her outstretched hands began to tremble more and more
violently; and as if for the first time the knowledge of this calamity had
reached her, with a cry, as though body and soul were parting, she fell
back motionless in her bed.
Several hours had passed before Mrs. Marston was restored to
consciousness. To this state of utter insensibility, one of silent,
terrified stupor succeeded; and it was not until she saw her daughter
Rhoda standing at her bedside, weeping, that she found voice and
recollection to speak.
"My child; my darling, my poor child," she cried, sobbing piteously, as
she drew her to her heart and looked in her face alternately--"my
darling, my darling child!"
Rhoda could only weep, and return her poor mother's caresses in silence.
Too young and inexperienced to understand the full extent and nature of
this direful calamity, the strange occurrence, the general and apparent
consternation of the whole household, and the spectacle of her mother's
agony, had filled her with fear, perplexity, and anguish. Scared and
stunned with a vague sense of danger, like a young bird that, for the
first time, cowers under a thunderstorm, she nestled in her mother's
bosom; there, with a sense of protection, and of boundless love and
tenderness, she lay frightened, wondering, and weeping.
Two or three days passed, and Dr. Danvers came and sate for several hours
with poor Mrs. Marston. To comfort and console were, of course, out of
his power. The nature of the bereavement, far more terrible than
death--its recent occurrence--the distracting consciousness of all its
complicated consequences--rendered this a hopeless task. She bowed
herself under the blow with the submission of a broken heart. The hope to
which she had clung for years had vanished; the worst that ever her
imagination feared had come in earnest.
One idea was now constantly present in her mind. She felt a sad, but
immovable assurance, that she should not live long, and the thought,
"what will become of my darling when I am gone; who will guard and love
my child when I am in my grave; to whom is she to look for tenderness
and protection then?" perpetually haunted her, and superadded the pangs
of a still wilder despair to the desolation of a broken heart.
It was not for more than a week after this event, that one day
Willett, with a certain air of anxious mystery, entered the silent and
darkened chamber where Mrs. Marston lay. She had a letter in her hand;
the seal and handwriting were Mr. Marston's. It was long before the
injured wife was able to open it; when she did so, the following
sentences met her eye:--
"Gertrude,
"You can be ignorant neither of the nature nor of the consequences of the
decisive step I have taken: I do not seek to excuse it. For the censure
of the world, its meddling and mouthing hypocrisy, I care absolutely
nothing; I have long set it at defiance. And you yourself, Gertrude, when
you deliberately reconsider the circumstances of estrangement and
coldness under which, though beneath the same roof, we have lived for
years, without either sympathy or confidence, can scarcely, if at all,
regret the rupture of a tie which had long ceased to be anything better
than an irksome and galling formality. I do not desire to attribute to
you the smallest blame. There was an incompatibility, not of temper but
of feelings, which made us strangers though calling one another man and
wife. Upon this fact I rest my own justification; our living together
under these circumstances was, I dare say, equally undesired by us both.
It was, in fact, but a deference to the formal hypocrisy of the world. At
all events, the irrevocable act which separates us forever is done, and I
have now merely to state so much of my intentions as may relate in
anywise to your future arrangements. I have written to your cousin, and
former guardian, Mr. Latimer, telling him how matters stand between us.
You, I told him, shall have, without opposition from me, the whole of
your own fortune to your own separate use, together with whatever shall
be mutually agreed upon as reasonable, from my income, for your support
and that of my daughter. It will be necessary to complete your
arrangements with expedition, as I purpose returning to Gray Forest in
about three weeks; and as, of course, a meeting between you and those by
whom I shall be accompanied is wholly out of the question, you will see
the expediency of losing no time in adjusting everything for yours and my
daughter's departure. In the details, of course, I shall not interfere. I
think I have made myself clearly intelligible, and would recommend your
communicating at once with Mr. Latimer, with a view to completing
temporary arrangements, until your final plans shall have been decided
upon.
"RICHARD MARSTON"
The reader can easily conceive the feelings with which this letter was
perused. We shall not attempt to describe them; nor shall we weary his
patience by a detail of all the circumstances attending Mrs. Marston's
departure. Suffice it to mention that, in less than a fortnight after the
receipt of the letter which we have just copied, she had forever left the
mansion of Gray Forest.
In a small house, in a sequestered part of the rich county of Warwick,
the residence of Mrs. Marston and her daughter was for the present fixed.
And there, for a time, the heart-broken and desolate lady enjoyed, at
least, the privilege of an immunity from the intrusions of all external
trouble. But the blow, under which the feeble remains of her health and
strength were gradually to sink, had struck too surely home; and, from
month to month--almost from week to week--the progress of decay was
perceptible.
Meanwhile, though grieved and humbled, and longing to comfort his unhappy
mother Charles Marston, for the present absolutely dependant upon his
father, had no choice but to remain at Cambridge, and to pursue his
studies there.
At Gray Forest Marston and the partner of his guilt continued to live.
The old servants were all gradually dismissed, and new ones hired by
Mademoiselle de Barras. There they dwelt, shunned by everybody, in a
stricter and more desolate seclusion than ever. The novelty of the
unrestraint and licence of their new mode of life speedily passed away,
and with it the excited and guilty sense of relief which had for a time
produced a false and hollow gaiety. The sense of security prompted in
mademoiselle a hundred indulgences which, in her former precarious
position, she would not have dreamed of. Outbreaks of temper, sharp and
sometimes violent, began to manifest themselves on her part, and renewed
disappointment and blacker remorse to darken the soul of Marston himself.
Often, in the dead of the night, the servants would overhear their bitter
and fierce altercations ringing through the melancholy mansion, and
often the reckless use of terrible and mysterious epithets of crime.
Their quarrels increased in violence and in frequency, and, before two
years had passed, feelings of bitterness, hatred, and dread, alone seemed
to subsist between them. Yet upon Marston she continued to exercise a
powerful and mysterious influence. There was a dogged, apathetic
submission on his part, and a growing insolence on hers, constantly more
and more strikingly visible. Neglect, disorder, and decay, too, were more
than ever apparent in the dreary air of the place.
Doctor Danvers, save by rumor and conjecture, knew nothing of Marston
and his abandoned companion. He had, more than once, felt a strong
disposition to visit Gray Forest, and expostulate, face to face, with its
guilty proprietor. This idea, however, he had, upon consideration,
dismissed; not on account of any shrinking from the possible repulses and
affronts to which the attempt might subject him, but from a thorough
conviction that the endeavor would be utterly fruitless for good, while
it might, very obviously, expose him to painful misinterpretation and
suspicion, and leave it to be imagined that he had been influenced, if by
no meaner motive, at least by the promptings of a coarse curiosity.
Meanwhile he maintained a correspondence with Mrs. Marston, and had even
once or twice since her departure visited her. Latterly, however, this
correspondence had been a good deal interrupted, and its intervals had
been supplied occasionally by Rhoda, whose letters, although she herself
appeared unconscious of the mournful event the approach of which they
too plainly indicated, were painful records of the rapid progress of
mortal decay.
He had just received one of those ominous letters, at the little post
office in the town we have already mentioned, and, full of the melancholy
news it contained, Dr. Danvers was returning slowly towards his home. As
he rode into a lonely road, traversing an undulating tract of some three
miles in length, the singularity, it may be, of his costume attracted the
eye of another passenger, who was, as it turned out, no other than
Marston himself. For two or three miles of this desolate road, their ways
happened to lie together. Marston's first impulse was to avoid the
clergyman; his second, which he obeyed, was to join company, and ride
along with him, at all events, for so long as would show that he shrank
from no encounter which fortune or accident presented. There was a spirit
of bitter defiance in this, which cost him a painful effort.
"How do you do, Parson Danvers?" said Marston, touching his hat with the
handle of his whip.
Danvers thought he had seldom seen a man so changed in so short a time.
His face had grown sallow and wasted, and his figure slightly stooped,
with an appearance almost of feebleness.
"Mr. Marston," said the clergyman, gravely, and almost sternly, though
with some embarrassment, "it is a long time since you and I have seen
one another, and many and painful events have passed in the interval.
I scarce know upon what terms we meet. I am prompted to speak to you,
and in a tone, perhaps, which you will hardly brook; and yet, if we
keep company, as it seems likely we may, I cannot, and I ought not, to
be silent."
"Well, Mr. Danvers, I accept the condition--speak what you will," said
Marston, with a gloomy promptitude. "If you exceed your privilege, and
grow uncivil, I need but use my spurs, and leave you behind me preaching
to the winds."
"Ah! Mr. Marston," said Dr. Danvers, almost sadly, after a considerable
pause, "when I saw you close beside me, my heart was troubled within me."
"You looked on me as something from the nether world, and expected to see
the cloven hoof," said Marston, bitterly, and raising his booted foot a
little as he spoke; "but, after all, I am but a vulgar sinner of flesh
and blood, without enough of the preternatural about me to frighten an
old nurse, much less to agitate a pillar of the Church."
"Mr. Marston, you talk sarcastically, but you feel that recent
circumstances, as well as old recollections, might well disturb and
trouble me at sight of you," answered Dr. Danvers.
"Well--yes--perhaps it is so," said Marston, hastily and sullenly, and
became silent for a while.
"My heart is full, Mr. Marston; charged with grief, when I think of the
sad history of those with whom, in my mind, you must ever be associated,"
said Doctor Danvers.
"Aye, to be sure," said Marston, with stern impatience; "but, then, you
have much to console you. You have got your comforts and your
respectability; all the dearer, too, from the contrast of other people's
misfortunes and degradations; then you have your religion moreover--"
"Yes," interrupted Danvers, earnestly, and hastening to avoid a sneer
upon this subject; "God be blessed, I am an humble follower of his
gracious Son, our Redeemer; and though, I trust, I should bear with
patient submission whatever chastisement in his wisdom and goodness he
might see fit to inflict upon me, yet I do praise and bless him for the
mercy which has hitherto spared me, and I do feel that mercy all the more
profoundly, from the afflictions and troubles with which I daily see
others overtaken."
"And in the matter of piety and decorum, doubtless, you bless God also,"
said Marston, sarcastically, "that you are not as other men are, nor even
as this publican."
"Nay, Mr. Marston; God forbid I should harden my sinful heart with the
wicked pride of the Pharisee. Evil and corrupt am I already over much.
Too well I know the vileness of my heart, to make myself righteous in my
own eyes," replied Dr. Danvers, humbly. "But, sinner as I am, I am yet a
messenger of God, whose mission is one of authority to his
fellow-sinners; and woe is me if I speak not the truth at all seasons,
and in all places where my words may be profitably heard."
"Well, Doctor Danvers, it seems you think it your duty to speak to me,
of course, respecting my conduct and my spiritual state. I shall save you
the pain and trouble of opening the subject; I shall state the case for
you in two words," said Marston, almost fiercely. "I have put away my
wife without just cause, and am living in sin with another woman. Come,
what have you to say on this theme? Speak out. Deal with me as roughly as
you will, I will hear it, and answer you again."
"Alas, Mr. Marston! And do not these things trouble you?" exclaimed Dr.
Danvers, earnestly. "Do they not weigh heavy upon your conscience? Ah,
sir, do you not remember that, slowly and surely, you are drawing towards
the hour of death, and the Day of Judgment?"
"The hour or death! Yes, I know it is coming, and I await it with
indifference. But, for the Day of Judgment, with its books and trumpets!
My dear doctor, pray don't expect to frighten me with that."
Marston spoke with an angry scorn, which had the effect of interrupting
the conversation for some moments.
They rode on, side by side, for a long time, without speaking. At length,
however, Marston unexpectedly broke the silence--
"Doctor Danvers," said he, "you asked me some time ago if I feared the
hour of death, and the Day of Judgment. I answered you truly, I do not
fear them; nay death, I think, I could meet with a happier and a quieter
heart than any other chance that can befall me; but there are other
fears; fears that do trouble me much."
Doctor Danvers looked inquiringly at him; but neither spoke for a time.
"You have not seen the catastrophe of the tragedy yet," said Marston,
with a stern, stony look, made more horrible by a forced smile and
something like a shudder. "I wish I could tell you--you, Doctor
Danvers--for you are honorable and gentle-hearted. I wish I durst tell
you what I fear; the only, only thing I really do fear. No mortal knows
it but myself, and I see it coming upon me with slow, but unconquerable
power. Oh, God--dreadful Spirit--spare me!"