CONFIDENTIAL.
The sun was setting, when, on tip-toe, scarcely letting my dress rustle,
so afraid I was of disturbing mamma's sleep, I stole from her room,
intending to give some directions to Rebecca Torkill. As I went down the
dusky stairs I passed our Malory maid, who said something, pointing to
the drawing-room. I saw her lips move, but, as will happen when one is
pre-occupied, I took in nothing of what she said, but, with a mechanical
acquiescence, followed the direction of her hand, and entered the
sitting-room.
Our house stood upon high ground, and the nearest houses between our
front-windows and the west were low, so that the last beams of sunset,
red with smoke and mist, passed over their roofs, and shone dimly on the
oak panels opposite. The windows were narrow, and the room rather dark.
I saw some one standing at the window-frame in the shade. I was
startled, and hesitated, close to the door. The figure turned quickly,
the sun glancing on his features. It was Mr. Carmel. He came towards me
quickly; and he said, as I fancied, very coldly,
"Can you spare me two or three minutes alone, Miss Ware? I have but
little to say," he added, as I did not answer. "But it is important, and
I will make my words as few as possible."
We were standing close to the door. I assented. He closed it gently, and
we walked slowly, side by side, to the window where he had been
standing. He turned. The faint sun, like a distant fire, lighted his
face. What singular dark eyes he had, so large, so enthusiastic! and
had ever human eye such a character of suffering? I knew very well what
he was going to speak of. The face, sad, sombre, ascetic, with which I
was so familiar, I now, for the first time, understood.
The shadow of the confessional was on it. It was the face of one before
whom human nature, in moments of terrible sincerity, had laid bare its
direful secrets, and submitted itself to a melancholy anatomisation. To
some minds, sympathetic, proud, sensitive the office of the confessor
must be full of self-abasement, pain, and horror. We who know our own
secrets, and no one else's, know nothing of the astonishment, and
melancholy, and disgust that must strike some minds on contemplating the
revelations of others, and discovering, for certain, that the standard
of human nature is not above such and such a level.
"I have brought you this," he said, scarcely above his breath, holding
the knife so that it lay across the hollow of his hand. His haggard eyes
were fixed on me, and he said, "I know the whole story of it. Unless you
forbid me, I will drop it into the river to-night; it is the evidence of
an act for which you are, I thank God, no more accountable than a
somnambulist for what she does in her dream. Over Monsieur Droqville I
have neither authority nor influence; on the contrary, he can command
me. But of this much I am sure--so long as your friends do not attack
Lady Lorrimer's will--and I believe they have no idea of taking any such
step--you need fear no trouble whatever from him."
I made him no reply, but I think he saw something in my face that made
him add, with more emphasis:
"You may be sure of that."
I was immensely and instantly relieved, for I knew that there was not
the slightest intention of hazarding any litigation on the subject of
the will.
"But," he resumed, in the same cold tones, and with the same anxiety in
his dark eyes, "there is a person from whom you may possibly experience
annoyance. There are circumstances of which, as yet, you know nothing,
that may, not unnaturally, bring you once more into contact with Mr.
Marston. If that should happen, you must be on your guard. I understand
that he said something that implies his suspicions. It may have been no
more than conjecture. It may be that it was impossible he could have
recognised you with certainty. If, I repeat, an untoward destiny should
bring you together under the same roof, be wise, stand aloof from him,
admit nothing; defeat his suspicions and his cunning by impenetrable
caution. He has an interest in seeking to disgrace you, and where he has
an object to gain he has neither conscience nor mercy. I wish I could
inspire you with the horror of that mean and formidable character which
so many have acquired by a bitter experience. I can but repeat my
warning, and implore of you to act upon it, if the time should come.
This thing I retain for the present"--he glanced at the weapon in his
hand--"and dispose of it to-night, as I said."
There was no emotion in his manner; no sign of any special interest in
me; but his voice and looks were unspeakably earnest, and inspired me
with a certain awe.
I had not forgiven Mr. Carmel yet, or rather my pride would not retract;
and my parting with him at our former house was fresh in my
recollection. So it was, I might suppose, in his; for his manner was
cold, and even severe.
"Our old acquaintance ended, Miss Ware, by your command, and, on
reflection, with my own willing submission. When last we parted, I
thought it unlikely that we should ever meet again, and this interview
is not voluntary--necessity compelled it. I have simply done my duty,
and, I earnestly hope, not in vain. It must be something very unlooked
for, indeed, that shall ever constrain me to trouble you again."
He showed no sign of wishing to bid me a kindlier farewell. The actual,
as well as metaphorical, distance between us had widened; he was by this
time at the door; he opened it, and took his leave, very coldly. It was
very unlike his former parting. I had only said:
"I am very grateful, Mr. Carmel, for your care of me--miserable me!"
He made no answer; he simply repeated his farewell, as gently and coldly
as before, and left the room, and I saw him walk away from our door in
the fast-fading light. Heavier and heavier was my heart, as I saw him
move quickly away. I had yearned, during our cold interview, to put out
my hand to him, and ask him, in simple phrase, to make it up with me. I
burned to tell him that I had judged him too hardly, and was sorry; but
my pride forbade it. His pride too, I thought, had held him aloof, and
so I had lost my friend. My eyes filled with tears, that rolled heavily
over my cheeks.
I sat at one of our windows, looking, over the distant roofs, towards
the discoloured and disappearing tints of evening and the melancholy
sky, which even through the smoke of London has its poetry and
tenderness, until the light faded, and the moon began to shine through
the twilight. Then I went upstairs, and found mamma still sleeping. As I
stood by the bed looking at her, Rebecca Torkill at my side whispered:
"She's looking very pale, poor thing, don't you think, miss? Too pale, a
deal."
I did think so; but she was sleeping tranquilly. Every change in her
looks was now a subject of anxiety, but her hour had not quite come yet.
She looked so very pale that I began to fear she had fainted; but she
awoke just then, and said she would sit up for a little time. Her colour
did not return; she seemed faint, but thought she should be more herself
by-and-by.
She came down to the drawing-room, and soon did seem better, and chatted
more than she had done, I think, since our awful misfortune had befallen
us, and appeared more like her former self; I mean, that simpler and
tender self that I had seen far away from artificial London, among the
beautiful solitudes of her birthplace.
While we were talking here, Rebecca Torkill, coming in now and then, and
lending a word, after the manner of privileged old rustic servants, to
keep the conversation going, the business of this story was being
transacted in other places.
* * * * *
Something of Mr. Carmel's adventures that night I afterwards learned. He
had two or three calls to make before he went to his temporary home. A
friend had lent him, during his absence abroad, his rooms in the Temple.
Arrived there, he let himself in by a latch-key. It was night, the
shutters unclosed, the moon shining outside, and its misty beams,
slanting in at the dusky windows, touched objects here and there in the
dark room with a cold distinctness.
To a man already dejected, what is more dispiriting than a return to
empty and unlighted rooms? Mr. Carmel moved like a shadow through this
solitude, and in his melancholy listlessness, stood for a time at the
window.
Here and there a light, from a window in the black line of buildings
opposite, showed that human thought and eyes were busy; but if these
points of light and life made the prospect less dismal, they added by
contrast to the gloom that pervaded his own chambers.
As he stood, some dimly-seen movement caught his eye, and, looking over
his shoulder, he saw the door through which he himself had come in
slowly open, and a man put in his head, and then enter silently, and
shut the door. This figure, faintly seen in the imperfect light,
resembled but one man of all his acquaintance, and he the last man in
the world, as he thought, who would have courted a meeting. Carmel stood
for a moment startled and chilled by his presence.
"I say, Carmel, don't you know me?" said a very peculiar voice. "I saw
you come in, and intended to knock; but you left your door open."
By this time he had reached the window, and stood beside Mr. Carmel,
with the moonlight revealing his features sharply enough. That pale
light fell upon the remarkable face of Mr. Marston.
"I'm not a ghost, though I've been pretty near it two or three times. I
see what you're thinking--death may have taken better men? I might have
been very well spared? and having escaped it, I should have laid the
lesson to heart? Well, so I have. I was very nearly killed at the great
battle of Fuentas. I fought for the Queen of Spain, and be hanged to
her! She owes me fifteen pounds ten and elevenpence, British currency,
to this day. It only shows my luck. In that general action there were
only four living beings hit so as to draw blood--myself, a venerable
orange-woman, a priest's mule, and our surgeon-in-chief, whose thumb and
razor were broken off by a spent ball, as he was shaving a grenadier,
under an umbrella, while the battle was raging. You see the Spaniard is
a discreet warrior, and we very seldom got near enough to hurt each
other. I was hit by some blundering beast. He must have shut his eyes,
like Gil Blas, for there was not a man in either army who could ever hit
anything he aimed at. No matter, he very nearly killed me; half an inch
higher, and I must have made up my mind to see you, dear Carmel, no
more, and to shut my eyes on this sweet, jesuitical world. It was the
first ugly wound of the campaign, and the enemy lived for a long time on
the reputation of it. But the truth is, I have suffered a great deal in
sickness, wounds, and fifty other ways. I have been as miserable a devil
as any righteous man could wish me to be; and I am changed; upon my
honour, I'm as different a man from what I was as you are from me. But I
can't half see you; do light your candles, I entreat."
"Not while you are here," said Carmel.
"Why, what are you afraid of?" said Marston. "You haven't, I hope, got a
little French milliner behind your screen, like Joseph Surface, who, I
think, would have made a very pretty Jesuit. Why should you object to
light?"
"Your ribaldry is out of place here," said Carmel, who knew very well
that Marston had not come to talk nonsense, and recount his adventures
in Spain; and that his business, whatever it may be, was likely to be
odious. "What right have you to enter my room? What right to speak to me
anywhere?"
"Come, Carmel, don't be unreasonable; you know very well I can be of use
to you."
"You can be of none," answered Carmel, a little startled; "and if you
could, I would not have you. Leave my room, sir."
"You can exorcise some evil spirits, but not me, till I've said my say,"
answered Marston, with a smile that looked grim and cynical in the
moonlight. "I say I can be of use to you."
"It's enough; I won't have it; go," said Carmel, with a sterner
emphasis.
Marston smiled again, and looked at him.
"Well, I can be of use," he said, "and I don't want particularly to be
of use to you; but you can do me a kindness, and it is better to do it
quietly than upon compulsion. Will you be of use to me? I'll show you
how?"
"God forbid!" said Carmel, quickly. "It is nothing good, I'm sure."
Marston looked at him with an evil eye; it was a sneer of intense anger.
After some seconds he said, his eyes still fixed askance on Mr. Carmel:
"Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive, et caea--eh? I suppose you
sometimes pray your paternoster? A pretty time you have kept up that old
grudge against me--haven't you--about Ginevra?"
He kept his eyes on Carmel, as if he enjoyed the spectacle of the
torture he applied, and liked to see the wince and quiver that
accompanied its first thrill.
At the word, Edwyn Carmel's eyes started up from the floor, to which
they had been lowered, with a flash to the face of his visitor. His
forehead flushed; he remained speechless for some seconds. Marston did
not smile; his features were fixed, but there was a secret, cruel smile
in his eyes as he watched these evidences of agitation.
"Well, I should not have said the name; I should not have alluded to it;
I did wrong," he said, after some seconds; "but I was going, before you
riled me, to say how really I blame myself, now, for all that deplorable
business. I do, upon my soul! What more can a fellow say, when
reparation is impossible, than that he is sorry? Is not repentance all
that a man like me can offer? I saw you were thinking of it; you vexed
me; I was angry, and I could not help saying what I did. Now do let that
miserable subject drop; and hear me, on quite another, without
excitement. It is not asking a great deal."
Carmel placed his hand to his head, as if he had not heard what he said,
and then groaned.
"Why don't you leave me?" he said, piteously, turning again towards
Marston; "don't you see that nothing but pain and reproach can result
from your staying here?"
"Let me first say a word," said Marston; "you can assist me in a very
harmless and perfectly unobjectionable matter. Every fellow who wants to
turn over a new leaf marries. The lady is poor--there is that proof, at
least, that it is not sordid; you know her, you can influence her----"
"Perhaps I do know her; perhaps I know who she is--I may as well say, at
once, I do. I have no influence; and if I had, I would not use it for
you. I think I know your reasons, also; I think I can see them."
"Well, suppose there are reasons, it's not the worse for that," said
Marston, growing again angry. "I thought I would just come and try
whether you chose to be on friendly terms. I'm willing; but if you
won't, I can't help you. I'll make use of you all the same. You had
better think again. I'm pleasanter as a friend than an enemy."
"I don't fear you as an enemy, and I do fear you as a friend. I will aid
you in nothing; I have long made up my mind," answered Carmel, savagely.
"I think, through Monsieur Droqville, I'll manage that. Oh, yes, you
will give me a lift."
"Why should Monsieur Droqville control my conduct?" asked Mr. Carmel
sharply.
"It was he who made you a Catholic; and I suspect he has a fast hold on
your conscience and obedience. If he chooses to promote the matter, I
rather think you must."
"You may think as you please," said Carmel.
"That's a great deal from your Church," sneered Marston; and, changing
his tone again, he said: "Look here, Carmel, once more; where's the good
in our quarrelling? I won't press that other point, if you don't like;
but you must do this, the most trifling thing in the world--you must
tell me where Mrs. Ware lives. No one knows since old Ware made a fool
of himself, poor devil! But I think you'll allow that, with my feelings,
I may, at least, speak to the young lady's mother? Do tell me where they
are. You know, of course?"
"If I did know, I should not tell you; so it does not matter," answered
Carmel.
Marston looked very angry, and a little silence followed.
"I suppose you have now said everything," resumed Carmel; "and again I
desire that you will leave me."
"I mean to do so," said Marston, putting on his hat with a kind of
emphasis, "though it's hard to leave such romantic, light, and brilliant
company. You might have had peace, and you prefer war. I think there are
things you have at heart that I could forward, if all went right with
me." He paused, but Carmel made no sign. "Well, you take your own way
now, not mine; and, by-and-by, I think you'll have reason to regret it."
Marston left the room, with no other farewell. The clap with which he
shut the door, as he went, had hardly ceased to ring round the walls,
when Carmel saw him emerge in the court below, and walk away with a
careless air, humming a tune in the moonlight.
Why is it that there are men upon earth whose secret thoughts are always
such as to justify fear; and nearly all whose plans, if not through
malice, from some other secret obliquity, involve evil to others? We
have most of us known something of some such man; a man whom we are
disposed to watch in silence; who, smile as he may, brings with him a
sense of insecurity, and whose departure is a real relief. Such a man
seems to me a stranger on earth; his confidences to be with unseen
companions; his mental enjoyments not human; and his mission here cruel
and mysterious. I look back with wonder and with thankfulness. Fearful
is the strait of any one who, in the presence of such an influence,
under such a fascination, loses the sense of danger.