MINE ENEMY.
I was afraid to consult even Rebecca Torkill; she was a little given to
talking, and my alarms might have become, in a day or two, the property
of Sir Harry's housekeeper. There is no use in telling you all the
solutions which my fears invented for this riddle.
In my anxiety I wrote to the Rector's wife at Cardyllion, telling her
that I had got an anonymous note, bearing the Malory post-mark,
affecting so much mystery that I was totally unable to interpret it. I
begged of her therefore to take every opportunity of making out, if
possible, who was the author, and to tell me whether there was any
acquaintance of mine at present there, who might have written such a
note by way of a practical joke to mystify me; and I entreated of her to
let me know her conjectures. Then I went into the little world of
Cardyllion and inquired about all sorts of people, great and small, and
finally I asked if Mr. Carmel had been lately there.
In addition to this, I wrote to the post-master, describing the
appearance of the letter I had got, and asked whether he could help me
to a description of the person who had posted it? Every time a new
theory struck me, I read my "friend's" note over again.
At length I began to think that it was most probably the thoughtless
production of some real but harmless friend, who intended herself paying
me a visit here, on visiting the Golden Friars. A female visitor was
very likely, as the note was framed so as to indicate nothing of the sex
of the "enemy;" and two or three young lady friends, not very
reasonable, had been attacking me in their letters for not answering
more punctually.
My mind was perpetually working upon this problem. I was very
uncomfortable, and at times frightened, and even agitated. I don't, even
now, wonder at the degree to which I suffered.
A note of a dream in one of my fragmentary diaries at that time will
show you how nervous I was. It is set down in much greater detail than
you or I can afford it here. I will just tell you its "heads," as old
sermons say. I thought I had arrived here, at Dorracleugh, after a long
journey. Mr. Blount and a servant came in carrying one of my large black
travelling boxes, and tugged it along the ground. The servant then went
out, and Mr. Blount, who I fancied was very pale, looked at me fixedly,
and placing his finger to his lip in token of silence, softly went out,
also, and shut the door, leaving me rather awe-struck. My box, I
thought, on turning my eyes upon it again, from my gaze at Mr. Blount,
seemed much longer, and its shape altered; but such transformations do
not trouble us in our dreams, and I began fumbling with the key, which
did not easily fit the lock. At length I opened it, and instead of my
dresses I saw a long piece of rumpled linen, and perceived that the box
was a coffin. With the persistent acquiescence in monstrosities by which
dreams are characterized, I experienced the slightest possible
bewilderment at this, and drew down the linen covering, and discovered
the shrouded face of Mr. Marston. I was absolutely horrified, and more
so when the dead man sat up, with his eyes open, in the coffin, and
looked at me with an expression so atrocious that I awoke with a scream,
and a heart bounding with terror, and lay awake for more than an hour.
This dream was the vague embodiment of one of my conjectures, and
pointed at one of the persons whom, against all probability, I had
canvassed as the "enemy" of my warning.
Solitude and a secret fear go a long way towards making us
superstitious. I became more and more nervous as the suspense extended
from day to day. I was afraid to go into Golden Friars, lest I should
meet my enemy. I made an excuse, and stayed at home from church on
Sunday for the same reason. I was afraid even of passing a boat upon the
lake. I don't know whether Mr. Blount observed my increased depression;
we played our hit of backgammon, nevertheless, as usual, in the evening,
and took, when the weather was not boisterous, our little sail on the
lake.
I heard from the Rector's wife. She was not able, any more than the
Cardyllion postmaster, to throw the least light upon my letter. Mr.
Carmel had not been in that part of the world for a long time. I was
haunted, nevertheless, by the image of Mr. Marston, whom my dream had
fixed in my imagination.
These letters had reached me as usual as we sat at breakfast. Mine
absorbed me, and by demolishing all theories, had directed me upon new
problems. I sat looking into my tea-cup, as if I could divine from it. I
raised my eyes at length and said:
"When did you say--I forget--you last heard from Mr. Marston?"
He looked up. I perceived that he had been just as much engrossed by his
letter as I had been with mine. He laid it down, and asked me to repeat
my question. I did. Mr. Blount smiled.
"Well, that is very odd. I have just heard from him," said he, raising
the letter he had been reading by the corner. "It came by the mail that
reached London yesterday evening."
"And where is he?" I asked.
"He's at New York now; but he says he is going in a few days to set out
for Canada, or the backwoods--he has not yet made up his mind which. I
think, myself, he will choose the back-settlements; he has a passion for
adventure."
At these words of Mr. Blount, my theories respecting Mr. Marston fell to
the ground, and my fears again gathered about the meaner figure of
Monsieur Droqville; and as soon as breakfast was ended, I sat down in
the window, and studied my anonymous letter carefully once more.
Business called Mr. Blount that evening to Golden Friars; and after
dinner I went into the library, and sat looking out at the noble
landscape. A red autumnal sunset illuminated the summits of the steep
side of the glen, at my left, leaving all the rest of the cleugh in
deep, purple-grey shadow. It opens, as I told you, on the lake, which
stretched before me in soft shadow, except where its slow moving ripple
caught the light with a fiery glimmer; and far away the noble fells,
their peaks and ribs touched with the same misty glow, stood out like
majestic shadows, and closed the view sublimely.
I sat here, I can't say reading, although I had an old book open upon my
knees. I was too anxious, and my head too busy, to read. Twilight came,
and then gradually a dazzling, icy moonlight transformed the landscape.
I leaned back in my low chair, my head and shoulders half hidden among
the curtains, looking out on the beautiful effect.
This moonlight had prevailed for, I dare say, ten or fifteen minutes,
when something occurred to rouse me from my listless reverie. Some
object moved upon the window-stone, and caught my eye. It was a human
hand suddenly placed there; its fellow instantly followed; an elbow, a
hat, a head, a knee; and a man kneeled in the moonlight upon the
window-stone, which was there some eight or ten feet from the ground.
Was I awake or in a dream? Gracious Heaven! There were the scarred
forehead and the stern face of Mr. Marston with knit brows, and his hand
shading his eyes, as he stared close to the glass into the room.
I was in the shadow, and cowered back deeper into the folds of the
curtain. He plainly did not see me. He was looking into the further end
of the room. I was afraid to cry out; it would have betrayed me. I
remained motionless, in the hope that, when he was satisfied that there
was no one in the room, he would withdraw from his place of observation,
and go elsewhere.
I was watching him with the fascinated terror of a bird, in its ivied
nook, when a kite hovers at night within a span of it.
He now seized the window-sash--how I prayed that it had been
secured--and with a push or two the window ascended, and he stepped in
upon the floor. The cold night air entered with him; he stood for a
minute looking into the room, and then very softly he closed the window.
He seemed to have made up his mind to establish himself here, for he
lazily pushed Mr. Blount's easy-chair into the recess at the window, and
sat down very nearly opposite to me. If I had been less shocked and
frightened, I might have seen the absurdity of my situation.
He leaned back in Mr. Blount's chair, like a tired man, and extended his
heels on the carpet; his hand clutched the arm of the chair. His face
was in the bright white light of the moon, his chin was sunk on his
chest. His features looked haggard and wicked. Two or three times I
thought he saw me, for his eyes were fixed on me for more than a minute;
but my perfect stillness, the deep shadow that enveloped me, and the
brilliant moonlight in his eyes, protected me.
Suddenly I heard a step--it was Mr. Blount; the door opened, and the
step was arrested; to my infinite relief a voice, it was Mr. Blount's,
called a little sternly:
"Who's that?"
"The prodigal, the outcast," answered Mr. Marston's deep voice,
bitterly. "I have been, and am, too miserable not to make one more
trial, and to seek to be reconciled. You, sir, are very kind--you are a
staunch friend; but you have never yet done all you could do for me. Why
have you not faith? Your influence is unlimited."
"My good gracious!" exclaimed Mr. Blount, not moving an inch from where
he stood. "Why, it is only this morning I received your letter from New
York. What is all this? I don't understand."
"I came by the same mail that brought my letter. Second thoughts are the
best. I changed my mind," said the young man, standing up. "Why should I
live the sort of life he seems to have planned for me, if he intends
anything better at any time? And if he don't, what do I owe him? It is
vindictive and unnatural. I'm worn out; my patience has broken down."
"I could not have believed my eyes," said Mr. Blount. "I did not--dear,
dear me! I don't know what to make of it; he'll be very much displeased.
Mr. Marston, sir, you seem bent on ruining yourself with him, quite."
"I don't know--what chance have I out there? Out of sight out of mind,
you used to say. He'd have forgotten me, you'd have forgotten me; I
should not have had a friend soon, who knew or cared whether I was alive
or dead. Speak to him; tell him he may as well listen to me. I'm
perfectly desperate," and he struck his open hand on the back of the
chair, and clenched the sentence with a bitter oath.
"I am not to blame for it," said Mr. Blount.
"I know that; I know it very well, Mr. Blount. You are too good a friend
of our family. I know it, and I feel it--I do, indeed; but look here,
where's the good of driving a fellow to desperation? I tell you I'll do
something that will bring it to a crisis; I can't stand the hell I live
in. And let him prosecute me if he likes; it is very easy for me to put
a pistol to my head--it's only half a second and it's over--and I'll
leave a letter telling the world how he has used me, and then see how
he'll like the mess he has made of it."
"Now, pardon me, sir," said Mr. Blount, ceremoniously, "that's all
stuff; I mean he won't believe you. When I have an unacceptable truth to
communicate, I make it a rule to do so in the most courteous manner;
and, happily, I have, hitherto, found the laws of truth and of
politeness always reconcilable; he has told me, my dear sir, fifty
times, that you are a great deal too selfish ever to hurt yourself.
There is no use, then, in trying, if I may be permitted the phrase, to
bully him. If you seek, with the smallest chance of success, to make an
impression upon Sir Harry Rokestone, you must approach him in a spirit
totally unlike that. I'll tell you what you must do. Write me a penitent
letter, asking my intercession, and if you can make, with perfect
sincerity, fair promises for the future, and carefully avoid the
smallest evidence of the spirit you chose to display in your last--and
it is very strange if you have learned nothing--I'll try again what I
can do."
The young man advanced, and took Mr. Blount's hand and wrung it
fervently.
I don't think Mr. Blount returned the demonstration with equal warmth.
He was rather passive on the occasion.
"Is he--here?" asked Mr. Marston.
"No, and you must not remain an hour in this house, nor at Golden
Friars, nor shall you go to London, but to some perfectly quiet place;
write to me, from thence, a letter such as I have described, and I will
lay it before him, with such representations of my own as perhaps may
weigh with him, and we shall soon know what will come of it. Have the
servants seen you?"
"No one."
"So much the better."
"I scaled your window about ten minutes ago. I thought you would soon
turn up, and I was right. I know you will forgive me."
"Well, no matter, you had better get away as you came; how was that?"
"By boat, sir; I took it at the Three Oaks."
"It is all the better you were not in the town; I should not like him to
know you are in England, until I have got your letter to show him; I
hope, sir, you will write in it no more than you sincerely feel. I
cannot enter into any but an honest case. Where did your boat wait?"
"At the jetty here."
"Very good; as you came by the window, you may as well go by it, and I
will meet you a little way down the path; I may have something more to
say."
"Thank you, sir, from my heart," said Marston.
"No, no, don't mind, I want you to get away again; there, get away as
quickly as you can." He had opened the window for him. "Ah, you have
climbed that many a time when you were a boy; you should know every
stone by heart."
"I'll do exactly as you tell me, sir, in all things," said the young
man, and dropped lightly from the window-stone to the ground, and I saw
his shadowy figure glide swiftly down the grass, towards the great
lime-trees that stand in a receding row between the house and the water.
Mr. Blount lowered the window quietly, and looked for a moment after
him.
"Some men are born to double sorrow--sorrow for others--sorrow for
themselves. I don't quite know what to make of him."
The old man sighed heavily, and left the room. I felt very like a spy,
and very much ashamed of myself for having overheard a conversation
certainly not intended for my ears. I can honestly say it was not
curiosity that held me there; that I was beyond measure distressed at my
accidental treachery; and that, had there been a door near enough to
enable me to escape unseen I should not have overheard a sentence of
what had passed. But I had not courage to discover myself; and wanting
nerve at the beginning to declare myself, I had, of course, less and
less as the conference proceeded, and my situation became more
equivocal.
The departure of Mr. Blount, whom I now saw descending the steps in
pursuit of his visitor, relieved me, and I got away from the room,
haunted by the face that had so lately appeared to me in my ominous
dream, and by the voice whose tones excited a strange tremor, and
revived stranger recollections.
In the drawing-room, before a quarter of an hour, I was joined by Mr.
Blount. Our _tete-a-tete_ was an unusually silent one, and, after tea,
we played a rather spiritless hit or two at backgammon.
I was glad when the time came to get to my room, to the genial and
garrulous society of Rebecca Torkill; and after my candle was put out, I
lay long enough awake, trying to put together the as yet imperfect
fragments of a story and a situation which were to form the ground-work
of the drama in which I instinctively felt that I was involved.