DOUBTS.
I have been searching all this morning in vain for a sheet of written
note paper, almost grown yellow by time when I last saw it. It contains
three stanzas of very pretty poetry. At least I once thought so. I was
curious to try, after so many years, what I should think of them now.
Possibly they were not even original, though there certainly was no lack
in the writer of that sort of cleverness which produces pretty verses.
I must tell you how I came by them. I found that afternoon a note, on
the window-stool in our tea-room, addressed "Miss Ethel." Laura Grey did
not happen to be in the room at the moment. There might have been some
debate on the propriety of opening the note if she had been present. I
could have no doubt that it came from our guest, and I opened and read
it instantly.
In our few interviews I had discovered, once or twice, a scarcely
disguised tenderness in the stranger's tones and looks. A very young
girl is always pleased, though ever so secretly, with this sort of
incense. I know I was. It is a thing hard to give up; and, after all,
what was Mr. Carmel likely to know about this young man?--and if he did
not know him, what were the canons of criticism he was likely to apply?
And whatever the stranger might be, he talked and looked like a
gentleman; he was unfortunate, and for the present dependent, I
romantically thought, on our kindness. To have received a copy of verses
was very pleasant to my girlish self-importance; and the flattery of the
lines themselves was charming.
The first shock of Mr. Carmel's warning had evaporated by this time;
and I was already beginning to explain away his note. I hid the paper
carefully. I loved Laura Grey; but I had, in my inmost soul, a secret
awe of her; I knew how peremptory would be her advice, and I said not a
word about the verses to her. At the first distant approach of an affair
of the heart, how cautious and reserved we grow, and in most girls how
suddenly the change from kittens to cats sets in! It was plain he had no
notion of shifting his quarters to the hotel. But a little before our
early tea-hour, Rebecca Torkill came in and told us what might well
account for his not having yet gone to Cardyllion.
"That poor young man," she said, "he's very bad. He's lying on his back,
with a handkercher full of eau-de-Cologne on his forehead, and he's sent
down to the town for chloroform, and a blister for the back of his neck.
He called me in, and indeed, though his talk and his behaviour might
well be improved, considering how near he has just bin to death, yet I
could not but pity him. Says he, 'Mrs. Torkill, for heaven's sake don't
shake the floor, step as light as you can, and close the shutter next
the sun,' which I did; and says he, 'I'm in a bad way; I may die before
morning. My doctor in town tells me these headaches are very dangerous.
They come from the spine.' 'Won't you see Doctor Mervyn, please, sir?'
say I. 'Not I,' says he. 'I know all about it better than he'--them were
his words--'and if the things that's coming don't set me to rights, I'm
a gone man.' And indeed he groaned as he might at parting of soul and
body--and here's a nice kettle o' fish, if he should die here, poor,
foolish young man, and we not knowing so much as where his people lives,
nor even his name. 'Tis a mysterious thing of Providence to do. I can't
see how 'twas worth while saving him from drowning, only to bring him
here to die of that headache. But all works together, we know. Thomas
Jones is away down at the ferry; a nice thing, among a parcel o' women,
a strange gentleman dying on a sofa, and not a man in the house! What do
you think is best to be done, Miss Grey?"
"If he grows worse, I think you should send for the doctor without
asking his leave," she answered. "If it is dangerous, it would not do
to have no advice. It is very unlucky."
"Well, it is what I was thinking myself," said the housekeeper; "folks
would be talking, as if we let him die without help. I'll keep the
boiler full in case he should want a bath. He said his skull was
fractured once, where that mark is, near his temple, and that the wound
has something to do with it, and, by evil chance, it was just there he
got the knock in the wreck of the Conway Castle; the Lord be good to us
all!"
So Mrs. Torkill fussed out of the room, leaving us rather uncomfortable;
but Laura Grey, at least, was not sorry, although she did not like the
cause, that there was no reason to apprehend his venturing out that
evening.
Our early tea-things came in. A glowing autumn sunset was declining; the
birds were singing their farewell chorus from thick ivy over branch and
wall, and Laura and I, each with her own secret, were discussing the
chances of the stranger's illness, with exaggerated despondency and
alarm. Our talk was interrupted. Through the window, which, the evening
being warm, we, secure from intrusion, had left open, we heard a clear
manly voice address us as "Miss Ethel and Miss Grey."
Could it be Mr. Carmel come back again? Good Heavens! no; it was the
stranger in Mr. Carmel's place, as we had grown to call it. The same
window, his hands, it seemed, resting on the very same spot on the
window-stone, and his knee, just as Mr. Carmel used to place his, on the
stone bench. I had no idea before how stern the stranger's face was; the
contrast between the features I had for a moment expected, and those of
our guest, revealed the character of his with a force assisted by the
misty red beam that glanced on it, with a fierce melancholy, through the
trees.
His appearance was as unexpected as if he had been a ghost. It came in
the midst of a discussion as to what should be done if, by ill chance,
he should die in the steward's house. I can't say how Laura Grey felt; I
only know that I stared at his smiling face for some seconds, scarcely
knowing whether the apparition was a reality or not.
"I hope you will forgive me; I hope I am not very impertinent; but I
have just got up from an astounding headache all right again; and in
consequence, in such spirits, that I never thought how audacious I was
in venturing this little visit until it was too late."
Miss Grey and I were both too much confounded to say a word. But he
rattled on: "I have had a visitor since you were so good as to give me
shelter in my shipwrecked state--one quite unexpected. I don't mean my
doctor, of course. I had a call to-day much more curious, and wholly
unlooked for; an old acquaintance, a fellow named Carmel. I knew him at
Oxford, and I certainly never expected to see him again."
"Oh! You know Mr. Carmel?" I said, my curiosity overcoming a kind of
reluctance to talk.
"Know him? I rather think I do," he laughed. "Do you know him?"
"Yes," I answered; "that is, not very well; there is, of course, a
little formality in our acquaintance--more, I mean, than if he were not
a clergyman."
"But do you really know him? I fancied he was boasting when he said so."
The gentleman appeared extremely amused.
"Yes; we know him pretty well. But why should it be so unlikely a thing
our knowing him?"
"Oh, I did not say that." He still seemed as much amused as a man can
quietly be. "But I certainly had not the least idea I should ever see
him again, for he owes me a little money. He owes me money, and a grudge
besides. There are some men you cannot know anything about without their
hating you--that is, without their being afraid of you, which is the
same thing. I unluckily heard something about him--quite accidentally, I
give you my honour, for I certainly never had the pleasure of knowing
him intimately. I don't think he would exactly come to me for a
character. I had not an idea that he could be the Mr. Carmel who, they
told me, had been permitted by Mr. Ware to reside in his house. I was a
good deal surprised when I made the discovery. There can't have been, of
course, any inquiry. I should not, I assure you, have spoken to Mr.
Carmel had I met him anywhere else; but I could not help telling him
how astonished I was at finding him established here. He begged very
hard that I would not make a fuss about it, and said that he was going
away, and that he would not wait even to take off his hat. So, if that
is true, I shan't trouble anyone about him. Mr. Ware would naturally
think me very impertinent if I were to interfere."
He now went on to less uncomfortable subjects, and talked very
pleasantly. I could see Laura Grey looking at him as opportunity
occurred; she was a good deal further in the shade than I and he. I
fancied I saw him smile to himself, amused at baffling her curiosity,
and he sat back a little further.
"I am quite sorry, Miss Ware," he said, "that I am about to be in funds
again. My friends by this time must be weaving my wings--those wings of
tissue-paper that come by the post, and take us anywhere. I'm awfully
sorry, for I've fallen in love with this place. I shall never forget
it." He said these latter words in a tone so low as to reach me only. I
was sitting, as I mentioned, very much nearer the window than Laura
Grey.
There was in this stranger for me--a country miss, quite inexperienced
in the subtle flatteries of voice, manner, looks, which town-bred young
ladies accept at their true value--a fascination before which suspicions
and alarms melted away. His voice was low and sweet; he was animated,
good-humoured, and playful; and his features, though singular, and
capable of very grim expression, were handsome.
He talked to me in the same low tone for a few minutes. Happening to
look at Laura Grey, I was struck by the anger expressed in her usually
serene and gentle face. I fancied that she was vexed at his directing
his attentions exclusively to me, and I was rather pleased at my
triumph.
"Ethel, dear," she said, "don't you think the air a little cold?"
"Oh, I so very much hope not," he almost whispered to me.
"Cold?" said I. "I think it is so very sultry, on the contrary."
"If you find it too cold, Miss Grey, perhaps you would do wisely, I
think, to sit a little further from the window," said Mr. Marston,
considerately.
"I am not at all afraid for myself," she answered a little pointedly,
"but I am uneasy about Miss Ware. I do think, Ethel, you would do wisely
to get a little further from that window."
"But I do assure you I am quite comfortable," I said, in perfect good
faith.
I saw Mr. Marston glance for a moment with a malicious smile at Laura
Grey. To me the significance of that smile was a little puzzling.
"I see you have got a piano there," he said to me, in his low tones, not
meant for her ear. "Miss Grey plays, of course?"
"Yes; very well indeed."
"Well, then, would you mind asking her to play something?"
I had no idea at the time that he wanted simply to find occupation for
her, and to fill her ears with her own music, while he talked on with
me.
"Laura, will you play that pretty thing of Beethoven's that you tried
last night?" I asked.
"Don't ask me, Ethel, dear, to-night; I don't think I could," she
answered, I thought a little oddly.
"Perhaps, if Miss Grey knew," he said, smiling, "that she would oblige a
shipwrecked stranger extremely, and bind him to do her any service she
pleases to impose in return, she might be induced to comply."
"The more you expect from my playing, the less courage I have to play,"
she said, in reply to his appeal, which was made, I fancied, in a tone
of faint irony that seemed to suggest an oblique meaning; and her
answer, I also fancied, was spoken as if answering that hidden meaning.
It was very quietly done, but I felt the singularity of those tones.
"And why so? Do, I entreat--do play."
"Shouldn't I interrupt your conversation?" she answered.
"I'll not allow you even that excuse," he said; "I'll promise (and won't
you, Miss Ware?) to talk whenever we feel inclined. There, now, it's all
settled, isn't it? Pray begin."
"No, I am not going to play to-night," she said.
"Who would suppose Miss Grey so resolute; so little a friend to harmony?
Well, I suppose we can do nothing; we can't prevail; we can only
regret."
I looked curiously at Laura, who had risen, and was approaching the
window, close to which she took a chair and sat down.
Mr. Marston was silent. I never saw man look angrier, although he
smiled. To his white teeth and vivid eyes his dark skin gave marked
effect; and to me, who knew nothing of the situation, the whole affair
was most disagreeably perplexing. I was curious to see whether there
would be any sign of recognition; but I was sitting at the side that
commanded a full view of our guest, and the table so near me that Laura
could not have introduced her chair without a very pointed disclosure of
her purpose. If Mr. Marston was disposed to snarl and snap at Miss Grey,
he very quickly subdued that desire. It would have made a scene, and
frightened me, and that would never do.
In his most good-humoured manner, therefore, which speedily succeeded
this silent paroxysm, he chatted on, now and then almost whispering a
sentence or two to me. What a contrast this gay, reckless, and in a
disguised way, almost tender talk, presented to the cold, peculiar, but
agreeable conversation of the ascetic enthusiast, in whom this
dark-faced, animated man of the world had uncomfortably disturbed my
faith!
Laura Grey was restless all this time, angry, frightened. I fancied she
was jealous and wounded; and although I was so fond of her, it did not
altogether displease me.
The sunlight failed. The reflected glow from the western sky paled into
grey, and twilight found our guest still in his place at the window,
with his knee on the bench, and his elbows resting on the window-stone,
our candles being lighted, chatting, as I thought, quite delightfully,
talking sense and nonsense very pleasantly mixed, and hinting a great
many very agreeable flatteries.
Laura Grey at length took courage, or panic, which often leads in the
same direction, and rising, said quietly, but a little peremptorily: "I
am going now, Ethel."
There was, of course, nothing for it but to submit. I confess I was
angry. But it would certainly not have been dignified to show my
resentment in Mr. Marston's presence. I therefore acquiesced with
careless good-humour. The stranger bid us a reluctant good-night, and
Laura shut down the window, and drew the little bolt across the
window-sash, with, as it seemed to me, a rather inconsistent parade of
suspicion. With this ungracious dismissal he went away in high
good-humour, notwithstanding.
"Why need we leave the drawing-room so very early?" said I, in a pet.
"We need not go now, as that man is gone," she said, and quickly closed
the window-shutters, and drew the curtains.
Laura, when she had made these arrangements, laid her hand on my
shoulder, and looked with great affection and anxiety in my face.
"You are vexed, darling, because I got rid of that person."
"No," said I; "but I'm vexed because you got rid of him rudely."
"I should have prevented his staying at the window for a single minute,
if I had been quite sure he is the person I suppose. If he is--oh! how I
wish he were a thousand miles away!"
"I don't think you would be quite so hard upon him, if he had divided
his conversation a little more equally," I said with the bluntness of
vexation.
Laura hardly smiled. There was a pained, disappointed look in her face,
but the kindest you can imagine.
"No, Ethel, I did not envy your good fortune. There is no one on earth
to whom I should not prefer talking."
"But who is he?" I urged.
"I can't tell you."
"Surely you can say the name of the person you take him for?" I
insisted.
"I am not certain; if he be the person he resembles, he took care to
place himself so that I could not, or, at least, did not, see him well;
there are two or three people mixed up in a great misfortune, whom I
hate to name, or think of. I thought at one time I recognised him; but
afterwards I grew doubtful. I never saw the person I mean more than
twice in my life; but I know very well what he is capable of; his name
is Marston; but I am not at all certain that this is he."
"You run away with things," I said. "How do you know that Mr. Carmel's
account may not be a very unfair one?"
"I don't rely on Mr. Carmel's account of Mr. Marston, if this is he. I
knew a great deal about him. You must not ask me how that was, or
anything more. He is said to be, and I believe it, a bad, selfish, false
man. I am terrified when I think of your having made his acquaintance.
If he continues here, we must go up to town. I am half distracted. He
dare not give us any trouble there."
"How did he quarrel with Mr. Carmel?" I asked, full of curiosity.
"I never heard; I did not know that he was even acquainted with him; but
I think you may be perfectly certain that everything he said about Mr.
Carmel is untrue. He knows that Mr. Carmel warned us against making his
acquaintance; and his reason for talking as he does, is simply to
discredit him. I dare say he'll take an opportunity of injuring him
also. There is not time to hear from Mr. Ware. The only course, if he
stays here for more than a day or two, is, as I said, to run up to your
papa's house in town, and stay there till he is gone."
Again my belief in Mr. Marston was shaken; and I reviewed my hard
thoughts of Mr. Carmel with something like compunction. The gloom and
pallor of Laura's face haunted me.