THE INTRUDER.
Next morning, at about nine o'clock, whom do I see but the restless
stranger, to my surprise, again upon the avenue as I return towards the
house. I had run down to the gate before breakfast to meet our
messenger, and learn whether any letters had come by the post. He, like
myself, has come out before his breakfast. He turns on meeting me, and
walks towards the house at my side. Never was man more persistent. He
had got Williams's boat again, and not only the vicar, but the vicar's
wife, was coming for a sail; surely I would venture with her? I was to
remember, besides, that they were to sail to the side of the estuary
furthest from the wreck; there could be no possible danger there of what
I feared--and thus he continued to argue and entreat.
I really wished to go. I said, however, that I must ask Miss Grey, whom,
upon some excuse which I now forget, he regretted very much he could not
invite to come also. I had given him a conditional promise by the time
we parted at the hall-door, and Laura saw no objection to my keeping it,
provided old Mrs. Jermyn, the vicar's wife, were there to chaperon me.
We were to embark from the Malory jetty, and she was to call for me at
about three o'clock.
The shipwrecked stranger left me, evidently very well pleased. When he
got into his quarters in the steward's house and found himself all
alone, I dare say his dark face gleamed with the smile of which Doctor
Mervyn had formed so ill an opinion. I had not yet seen that smile.
Heaven help me! I have had reason to remember it.
Laura and I were sitting together, when who should enter the room but
Mr. Carmel. I stood up and shook hands. I felt very strangely. I was
glad the room was a dark one. I was less observed, and therefore less
embarrassed.
It was not till he had been in the room some time that I observed how
agitated he looked. He seemed also very much dejected, and from time to
time sighed heavily. I saw that something had gone strangely wrong. It
was a vague suspense. I was secretly very much frightened.
He would not sit down. He said he had not a moment to stay; and yet he
lingered on, I fancied, debating something within himself. He was
distrait, and, I thought, irresolute.
After a little talk he said:
"I came just to look in on my old quarters and see my old friends for a
few minutes, and then I must disappear again for more than a month, and
I find a gentleman in possession."
We hastened to assure him that we had not expected him home for some
time, and that the stranger was admitted but for a few days. We told
him, each contributing something to the narrative, all about the
shipwreck, and the reception of the forlorn survivor in the steward's
house.
He listened without a word of comment, almost without breathing, and
with his eyes fixed in deep attention on the floor.
"Has he made your acquaintance?" he asked, raising them to me.
"He introduced himself to me," I answered, "but Miss Grey has not seen
him."
Something seemed to weigh heavily upon his mind.
"What is your father's present address?" he asked.
I told him, and he made a note of it in his pocket-book. He stood up
now, and did at length take his leave.
"I am going to ask you to do a very kind thing. You have heard of sealed
orders, not to be opened till a certain point has been reached in a
voyage or a march? Will you promise, until I shall have left you fully
five minutes, not to open this letter?"
I almost thought he was jesting, but I perceived very quickly that he
was perfectly serious. Laura Grey looked at him curiously, and gave him
the desired promise as she received the note. His carriage was at the
door, and in another minute he was driving rapidly down the avenue. What
had led to these odd precautions?--and what had they to do with the
shipwrecked stranger?
At about eleven o'clock--that is to say, about ten minutes before Mr.
Carmel's visit to us--the stranger had been lying on a sofa in his
quarters, with two ancient and battered novels from Austin's Library in
Cardyllion, when the door opened unceremoniously, and Mr. Carmel, in
travelling costume, stepped into the room. The hall-door was standing
open, and Mr. Carmel, on alighting from his conveyance, had walked
straight in without encountering any one in the hall. On seeing an
intruder in possession he stopped short; the gentleman on the sofa,
interrupted, turned towards the door. Thus confronted, each stared at
the other.
"Ha! Marston," exclaimed the ecclesiastic, with a startled frown, and an
almost incredulous stare.
"Edwyn! by Jove!" responded the stranger, with a rather anxious smile,
which faded, however, in a moment.
"What on earth brings you here?" said Mr. Carmel, sternly, after a
silence of some seconds.
"What the devil brings you here?" inquired the stranger, almost at the
same moment. "Who sent you? What is the meaning of it?"
Mr. Carmel did not approach him. He stood where he had first seen him,
and his looks darkened.
"You are the last man living I should have looked for here," said he.
"I suppose we shall find out what we mean by-and-by," said Marston,
cynically; "at present I can only tell you that when I saw you I
honestly thought a certain old gentleman, I don't mean the devil, had
sent you in search of me."
Carmel looked hard at him. "I've grown a very dull man since I last saw
you, and I don't understand a joke as well as I once did," said he;
"but if you are serious you cannot have learnt that this house has been
lent to me by Mr. Ware, its owner, for some months at least; and these,
I suppose, are your things? There is not room to put you up here."
"I didn't want to come. I am the famous man you may have read of in the
papers--quite unique--the man who escaped alive from the Conway Castle.
No Christian refuses shelter to the shipwrecked; and you are a
Christian, though an odd one."
Edwyn Carmel looked at him for some seconds in silence.
"I am still puzzled," he said. "I don't know whether you are serious;
but, in any case, there's a good hotel in the town--you can go there."
"Thank you--without a shilling," laughed the young man, a little
wickedly.
"A word from me will secure you credit there."
"But I'm in the doctor's hands, don't you see?"
"It is nothing very bad," answered Mr. Carmel; "and you will be nearer
the doctor there."
The stranger, sitting up straight, replied:
"I suppose I shall; but the doctor likes a walk, and I don't wish him a
bit nearer."
"But this is, for the time being, my house, and you must go," replied
Edwyn Carmel, coldly and firmly.
"It is also my house, for the time being; for Miss Ware has given me
leave to stay here."
The ecclesiastic's lips trembled, and his pale face grew paler, as he
stared on the young man for a second or two in silence.
"Marston," he said, "I don't know, of all men, why you should specially
desire to pain me."
"Why, hang it! Why should I wish to pain you, Edwyn? I don't. But I have
no notion of this sort of hectoring. The idea of your turning me out of
the--my house--the house they have lent me! I told you I didn't want to
come here; and now I don't want to go away, and I won't."
The churchman looked at him, as if he strove to read his inmost
thoughts.
"You know that your going to the hotel could involve no imaginable
trouble," urged Edwyn Carmel.
"Go to the hotel yourself, if you think it so desirable a place. I am
satisfied with this, and I shall stay here."
"What can be the motive of your obstinacy?"
"Ask that question of yourself, Mr. Carmel, and you may possibly obtain
an answer," replied the stranger.
The priest looked again at him, in stern doubt.
"I don't understand your meaning," he said, at last.
"I thought my meaning pretty plain. I mean that I rather think our
motives are identical."
"Honestly, Marston, I don't understand you," said Mr. Carmel, after
another pause.
"Well, it is simply this: that I think Miss Ware a very interesting
young lady, and I like being near her--don't you?"
The ecclesiastic flushed crimson; Marston laughed contemptuously.
"I have been away for more than a month," said the priest, a little
paler, looking up angrily; "and I leave this to-day for as long a time
again."
"Conscious weakness! Weakness of that sentimental kind sometimes runs in
families," said the stranger with a sneer. It was plain that the
stranger was very angry; the taunt was wicked, and, whatever it meant,
stung Mr. Carmel visibly. He trembled, with a momentary quiver, as if a
nerve had been pierced.
There was a silence, during which Mr. Carmel's little French clock over
the chimney-piece, punctually wound every week by old Rebecca, might be
heard sharply tick, tick, ticking.
"I shall not be deterred by your cruel tongue," said he, very quietly,
at length, with something like a sob, "from doing my duty."
"Your duty! Of course, it is always duty; jealousy is quite unknown to a
man in holy orders. But there is a difference. You can't tell me the
least what I'm thinking of; you always suppose the worst of every one.
Your duty! And what, pray, is your duty?"
"To warn Miss Ware and her governess," he answered promptly.
"Warn her of what?" said the stranger, sternly.
"Warn her that a villain has got into this house."
The interesting guest sprang to his feet, with his fists clenched. But
he did not strike. He hesitated, and then he said:
"Look here; I'll not treat you as I would a man. You wish me to strike
you, you Jesuit, and to get myself into hot water. But I shan't make a
fool of myself. I tell you what I'll do with you--if you dare to injure
me in the opinion of any living creature, by one word of spoken or
hinted slander, I'll make it a police-office affair; and I'll bring out
the whole story you found it on; and we'll see which suffers most, you
or I, when the world hears it. And now, Mr. Carmel, you're warned. And
you know I'm a fellow that means what he says."
Mr. Carmel turned with a pale face, and left the room.
I wonder what the stranger thought. I have often pondered over that
scene; and, I believe, he really thought that Mr. Carmel would not, on
reflection, venture to carry out his threat.