The Evil Guest
Page 1
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The Evil Guest
By J. Sheridan LeFanu
1895
"When Lust hath conceived, it bringeth forth Sin: and Sin, when it isfinished, bringeth forth Death."
About sixty years ago, and somewhat more than twenty miles from theancient town of Chester, in a southward direction, there stood a large,and, even then, an old-fashioned mansion-house. It lay in the midst of ademesne of considerable extent, and richly wooded with venerable timber;but, apart from the somber majesty of these giant groups, and thevarieties of the undulating ground on which they stood, there was littlethat could be deemed attractive in the place. A certain air of neglectand decay, and an indescribable gloom and melancholy, hung over it. Indarkness, it seemed darker than any other tract; when the moonlight fellupon its glades and hollows, they looked spectral and awful, with a sortof churchyard loneliness; and even when the blush of the morning kissedits broad woodlands, there was a melancholy in the salute that saddenedrather than cheered the heart of the beholder.
This antique, melancholy, and neglected place, we shall call, fordistinctness sake, Gray Forest. It was then the property of the youngerson of a nobleman, once celebrated for his ability and his daring, butwho had long since passed to that land where human wisdom and courageavail naught. The representative of this noble house resided at thefamily mansion in Sussex, and the cadet, whose fortunes we mean to sketchin these pages, lived upon the narrow margin of an encumbered income, ina reserved and unsocial discontent, deep among the solemn shadows of theold woods of Gray Forest.
The Hon. Richard Marston was now somewhere between forty and fifty yearsof age--perhaps nearer the latter; he still, however, retained, in aneminent degree, the traits of manly beauty, not the less remarkable forits unquestionably haughty and passionate character. He had married abeautiful girl, of good family, but without much money, somewhere abouteighteen years before; and two children, a son and a daughter, had beenthe fruit of this union. The boy, Harry Marston, was at this time atCambridge; and his sister, scarcely fifteen, was at home with herparents, and under the training of an accomplished governess, who hadbeen recommended to them by a noble relative of Mrs. Marston. She was anative of France, but thoroughly mistress of the English language, and,except for a foreign accent, which gave a certain prettiness to all shesaid, she spoke it as perfectly as any native Englishwoman. This youngFrenchwoman was eminently handsome and attractive. Expressive, dark eyes,a clear olive complexion, small even teeth, and a beautifully-dimplingsmile, more perhaps than a strictly classic regularity of features, werethe secrets of her unquestionable influence, at first sight, upon thefancy of every man of taste who beheld her.
Mr. Marston's fortune, never very large, had been shattered by earlydissipation. Naturally of a proud and somewhat exacting temper, heactively felt the mortifying consequences of his poverty. The want ofwhat he felt ought to have been his position and influence in the countyin which he resided, fretted and galled him; and he cherished a resentfuland bitter sense of every slight, imaginary or real, to which the samefruitful source of annoyance and humiliation had exposed him. He held,therefore, but little intercourse with the surrounding gentry, and thatlittle not of the pleasantest possible kind; for, not being himself in acondition to entertain, in that style which accorded with his own ideasof his station, he declined, as far as was compatible with good breeding,all the proffered hospitalities of the neighborhood; and, from his wildand neglected park, looked out upon the surrounding world in a spirit ofmoroseness and defiance, very unlike, indeed, to that of neighborlygood-will.
In the midst, however, of many of the annoyances attendant upon crippledmeans, he enjoyed a few of those shadowy indications of hereditaryimportance, which are all the more dearly prized, as the substantialaccessories of wealth have disappeared. The mansion in which he dweltwas, though old-fashioned, imposing in its aspect, and upon a scaleunequivocally aristocratic; its walls were hung with ancestral portraits,and he managed to maintain about him a large and tolerably respectablestaff of servants. In addition to these, he had his extensive demesne,his deer-park, and his unrivalled timber, wherewith to console himself;and, in the consciousness of these possessions, he found some imperfectassuagement of those bitter feelings of suppressed scorn and resentment,which a sense of lost station and slighted importance engendered. Mr.Marston's early habits had, unhappily, been of a kind to aggravate,rather than alleviate, the annoyances incidental to reduced means. He hadbeen a gay man, a voluptuary, and a gambler. His vicious tastes hadsurvived the means of their gratification. His love for his wife had beennothing more than one of those vehement and headstrong fancies, which, inself-indulgent men, sometimes result in marriage, and which seldomoutlive the first few months of that life-long connection. Mrs. Marstonwas a gentle, noble-minded woman. After agonies or disappointment, whichnone ever suspected, she had at length learned to submit, in sad andgentle acquiescence, to her fate. Those feelings, which had been thecharm of her young days, were gone, and, as she bitterly felt, forever.For them there was no recall they could not return; and, withoutcomplaint or reproach, she yielded to what she felt was inevitable. Itwas impossible to look at Mrs. Marston, and not to discern, at a glance,the ruin of a surpassingly beautiful woman; a good deal wasted, pale, andchastened with a deep, untold sorrow, but still possessing the outlines,both in face and form, of that noble beauty and matchless grace, whichhad made her, in happier days, the admired of all observers. But equallyimpossible was it to converse with her, for even a minute, withouthearing, in the gentle and melancholy music of her voice, the sad echoesof those griefs to which her early beauty had been sacrificed, an undyingsense of lost love, and happiness departed, never to come again.
One morning, Mr. Marston had walked, as was his custom when he expectedthe messenger who brought from the neighboring post office his letters,some way down the broad, straight avenue, with its double rows of loftytrees at each side, when he encountered the nimble emissary on hisreturn. He took the letter-bag in silence. It contained but twoletters--one addressed to "Mademoiselle de Barras, chez M. Marston," andthe other to himself. He took them both, dismissed the messenger, andopening that addressed to himself, read as follows, while he slowlyretraced his steps towards the house:--
Dear Richard,
I am a whimsical fellow, as you doubtless remember, and have latelygrown, they tell me, rather hippish besides. I do not know to whichinfirmity I am to attribute a sudden fancy that urges me to pay you avisit, if you will admit me. To say truth, my dear Dick, I wish to see alittle of your part of the world, and, I will confess it, en passant, tosee a little of you too. I really wish to make acquaintance with yourfamily; and though they tell me my health is very much shaken, I mustsay, in self-defense, I am not a troublesome inmate. I can perfectly takecare of myself, and need no nursing or caudling whatever. Will youpresent this, my petition, to Mrs. Marston, and report her decisionthereon to me. Seriously, I know that your house may be full, or someother contretemps may make it impracticable for me just now to invadeyou. If it be so, tell me, my dear Richard, frankly, as my movements areperfectly free, and my time all my own, so that I can arrange my visit tosuit your convenience.
--Yours, &c.,
WYNSTON E. BERKLEY
P.S.--Direct to me at ---- Hotel, in Chester, as I shall probably bethere by the time this reaches you.
"Ill-bred and pushing as ever," quoth Mr. Marston, angrily, as he thrustthe unwelcome letter into his pocket. "This fellow, wallowing in wealth,without one nearer relative on earth than I, and associated more nearlystill with me the--pshaw! not affection--the recollections of early andintimate companionship, leaves me unaided, for years of deserti
on andsuffering, to the buffetings of the world, and the troubles of all butoverwhelming pecuniary difficulties, and now, with the cool confidence ofone entitled to respect and welcome, invites himself to my house. Cominghere," he continued, after a gloomy pause, and still pacing slowlytowards the house, "to collect amusing materials for next season'sgossip--stories about the married Benedick--the bankrupt beau--the outcasttenant of a Cheshire wilderness"; and, as he said this, he looked at theneglected prospect before him with an eye almost of hatred. "Aye, to seethe nakedness of the land is he coming, but he shall be disappointed. Hismoney may buy him a cordial welcome at an inn, but curse me if it shallpurchase him a reception here."
He again opened and glanced through the letter.
"Aye, purposely put in such a way that I can't decline it withoutaffronting him," he continued doggedly. "Well, then, he has no one toblame but himself--affronted he shall be; I shall effectually put an endto this