“By —— , doctor, it has been upon me worse than ever, I would have sworn I had the villain with me for hours — hours, sir — torturing me with his damned sneering threats; till, by —— , I could stand it no longer, and took my sword. Oh, doctor, can’t you save me? can nothing be done for me?”
Pale, covered with the dews of horror, he uttered these last words in accents of such imploring despair, as might have borne across the dreadful gulf the prayer of Dives for that one drop of water which never was to cool his burning tongue.
When Rhoda learned that her father, on leaving Gray Forest, had fixed no definite period for his return, she began to feel her situation at home so painful and equivocal, that, having taken honest Willett to counsel, she came at last to the resolution of accepting the often conveyed invitation of Mrs. Mervyn and sojourning, at all events until her father’s return, at Newton Park.
“My dear young friend,” said the kind lady, as soon as she heard Rhoda’s little speech to its close, “I can scarcely describe the gratification with which I see you here; the happiness with which I welcome you to Newton Park; nor, indeed, the anxiety with which I constantly contemplated your trying and painful position at Gray Forest. Indeed I ought to be angry with you for having refused me this happiness so long; but you have made amends at last; though, indeed, it was impossible to have deferred it longer. You must not fancy, however, that I will consent to lose you so soon as you seem to have intended. No, no; I have found it too hard to catch you, to let you take wing so easily; besides, I have others to consult as well as myself, and persons, too, who are just as anxious as I am to make a prisoner of you here.”
The good Mrs. Mervyn accompanied these words with looks so sly, and emphasis so significant, that Rhoda was fain to look down, to hide her blushes; and compassionating the confusion she herself had caused, the kind old lady led her to the chamber which was henceforward, so long as she consented to remain, to be her own apartment.
How that day was passed, and how fleetly its hours sped away, it is needless to tell. Old Mervyn had his gentle as well as his grim aspect; and no welcome was ever more cordial and tender than that with which he greeted the unprotected child of his morose and repulsive neighbor. It would be impossible to convey any idea of the countless assiduities and the secret delight with which young Mervyn attended their rambles.
The party were assembled at supper. What a contrast did this cheerful, happy — unutterably happy — gathering, present, in the mind of Rhoda, to the dull, drear, fearful evenings which she had long been wont to pass at Gray Forest.
As they sate together in cheerful and happy intercourse, a chaise drove up to the hall-door, and the knocking had hardly ceased to reverberate, when a well-known voice was heard in the hall.
Young Mervyn started to his feet, and merrily ejaculating, “Charles Marston! this is delightful!” disappeared, and in an instant returned with Charles himself.
We pass over all the embraces of brother and sister; the tears and smiles of reunited affection. We omit the cordial shaking of hands; the kind looks; the questions and answers; all these, and all the little attentions of that good oldfashioned hospitality, which was never weary of demonstrating the cordiality of its welcome, we abandon to the imagination of the goodnatured reader.
Charles Marston, with the advice of his friend, Mr. Mervyn, resolved to lose no time in proceeding to Chester, whither it was ascertained his father had gone, with the declared intention of meeting and accompanying him home. He arrived in that town in the evening; and having previously learned that Doctor Danvers had been for some time in Chester, he at once sought him at his usual lodgings, and found the worthy old gentleman at his solitary “dish” of tea.
“My dear Charles,” said he, greeting his young friend with earnest warmth, “I am rejoiced beyond measure to see you. Your father is in town, as you supposed; and I have just had a note from him, which has, I confess, not a little agitated me, referring, as it does, to a subject of painful and horrible interest; one with which, I suppose, you are familiar, but upon which I myself have never yet spoken fully to any person, excepting your father only.”
“And pray, my dear sir, what is this topic?” inquired Charles, with marked interest.
“Read this note,” answered the clergyman, placing one at the same time in his young visitor’s hand.
Charles read as follows:
“My Dear Sir,
“I have a singular communication to make to you, but in the strictest privacy, with reference to a subject which, merely to name, is to awaken feelings of doubt and horror; I mean the confession of Merton, with respect to the murder of Wynston Berkley. I will call upon you this evening after dark; for I have certain reasons for not caring to meet old acquaintances about town; and if you can afford me half an hour, I promise to complete my intended disclosure within that time. Let us be strictly private; this is my only proviso.
“Yours with much respect,
“Richard Marston”
“Your father has been sorely troubled in mind,” said Doctor Danvers, as soon as the young man had read this communication; “he has told me as much; it may be that the discovery he has now made may possibly have relieved him from certain galling anxieties. The fear that unjust suspicion should light upon himself, or those connected with him, has, I dare say, tormented him sorely. God grant, that as the providential unfolding of all the details of this mysterious crime comes about, he maybe brought to recognize, in the just and terrible process, the hand of heaven. God grant, that at last his heart may be softened, and his spirit illuminated by the blessed influence he has so long and so sternly rejected.”
As the old man thus spake — as if in symbolic answering to his prayer — a sudden glory from the setting sun streamed through the funereal pile of clouds which filled the western horizon, and flooded the chamber where they were.
After a silence, Charles Marston said, with some little embarrassment— “It may be a strange confession to make, though, indeed, hardly so to you — for you know but too well the gloomy reserve with which my father has uniformly treated me — that the exact nature of Merton’s confession never reached my ears; and once or twice, when I approached the subject, in conversation with you, it seemed to me that the subject was one which, for some reason, it was painful to you to enter upon.”
“And so it was, in truth, my young friend — so it was; for that confession left behind it many fearful doubts, proving, indeed, nothing but the one fact, that, morally, the wretched man was guilty of the murder.”
Charles, urged by a feeling of the keenest interest, requested Dr.
Danvers to detail to him the particulars of the dying man’s narration.
“Willingly,” answered Dr. Danvers, with a look of gloom, and heaving a profound sigh— “willingly, for you have now come to an age when you may safely be entrusted with secrets affecting your own family, and which, although, thank God, as I believe they in no respect involve the honor of anyone of its members, yet might deeply involve its peace and its security against the assaults of vague and horrible slander. Here, then, is the narrative: Merton, when he was conscious of the approach of death, qualified, by a circumstantial and detailed statement, the absolute confession of guilt which he had at first sullenly made. In this he declared that the guilt of design and intention only was his — that in the act itself he had been anticipated. He stated, that from the moment when Sir Wynston’s servant had casually mentioned the circumstance of his master’s usually sleeping with his watch and pocketbook under his pillow, the idea of robbing him had taken possession of his mind. With the idea of robbing him (under the peculiar circumstances, his servant sleeping in the apartment close by, and the slightest alarm being, in all probability, sufficient to call him to the spot) the idea of anticipating resistance by murder had associated itself. He had contended against these haunting and growing solicitations of Satan, with an earnest agony. He had intended to leave his place, and fly from the mysterious temptatio
n which he felt he wanted power to combat, but accident or fate prevented him. In a state of ghastly excitement he had, on the memorable night of Sir Wynston’s murder, proceeded, as had afterwards appeared in evidence, by the back stair to the baronet’s chamber; he had softly stolen into it, and gone to the bedside, with the weapon in his hand. He drew his breath for the decisive stroke, which was to bereave the (supposedly) sleeping man of life, and when stretching his left hand under the clothes, it rested upon a dull, cold corpse, and, at the same moment, his right hand was immersed in a pool of blood. He dropped the knife, recoiled a pace or so. With a painful effort, however, he again grasped with his hand to recover the weapon he had suffered to escape, and secured, as it afterwards turned out, not the knife with which he had meditated the commission of his crime, but the dagger which was afterwards found where he had concealed it. He was now fully alive to the horror of his situation; he was compromised as fully as if he had in very deed driven home the weapon. To be found under such circumstances, would convict him as surely as if fifty eyes had seen him strike the blow. He had nothing now for it but flight; and in order to guard himself against the contingency of being surprised from the door opening upon the corridor, he bolted it; then groped under the murdered man’s pillow for the booty which had so fatally fascinated his imagination. Here he was disappointed. What further happened you already know.”
Charles listened with breathless attention to this recital, and, after a painful interval, said —
“Then the actual murderer is, after all, unascertained. This is, indeed, horrible; it was very natural that my father should have felt the danger to which such a disclosure would have exposed the reputation of our family, yet I should have preferred encountering it, were it ten times as great, to the equivocal prudence of suppressing the truth with respect to a murder committed under my own roof.”
“He has, however, it would seem, arrived at some new conclusions,” said Dr. Danvers, “and is now prepared to throw some unanticipated light upon the whole transaction.”
Even as they were talking, a knocking was heard at the hall-door, and after a brief and hurried consultation, it was agreed, that, considering the strict condition of privacy attached to this visit by Mr. Marston himself, as well as his reserved and wayward temper, it might be better for Charles to avoid presenting himself to his father on this occasion. A few seconds afterwards the door opened, and Mr. Marston entered the apartment. It was now dark, and the servant, unbidden, placed candles upon the table. Without answering one word to Dr. Danvers’ greeting, Marston sat down, as it seemed, in agitated abstraction. Removing his hat suddenly (for he had not even made this slight homage to the laws of courtesy), he looked round with a careworn, fiery eye, and a pale countenance, and said —
“We are quite alone, Dr. Danvers — no one anywhere near?”
Dr. Danvers assured him that all was secure. After a long and agitated pause, Marston said —
“You remember Merton’s confession. He admitted his intention to kill Berkley, but denied that he was the actual murderer. He spoke truth — no one knew it better than I; for I am the murderer.”
Dr. Danvers was so shocked and overwhelmed that he was utterly unable to speak.
“Aye, sir, in point of law and of morals, literally and honestly, the murderer of Wynston Berkley. I am resolved you shall know it all. Make what use of it you will — I care for nothing now, but to get rid of the d —— d, unsustainable secret, and that is done. I did not intend to kill the scoundrel when I went to his room; but with the just feelings of exasperation with which I regarded him, it would have been wiser had I avoided the interview; and I meant to have done so. But his candle was burning; I saw the light through the door, and went in. It was his evil fortune to indulge in his old strain of sardonic impertinence. He provoked me; I struck him — he struck me again — and with his own dagger I stabbed him three times. I did not know what I had done; I could not believe it. I felt neither remorse nor sorrow — why should I? — but the thing was horrible, astounding. There he sat in the corner of his cushioned chair, with the old fiendish smile on still. Sir, I never thought that any human shape could look so dreadful. I don’t know how long I stayed there, freezing with horror and detestation, and yet unable to take my eyes from the face. Did you see it in the coffin? Sir, there was a sneer of triumph on it that was diabolic and prophetic.”
Marston was fearfully agitated as he spoke, and repeatedly wiped from his face the cold sweat that gathered there.
“I could not leave the room by the back stairs,” he resumed, “for the valet slept in the intervening chamber. I felt such an appalled antipathy to the body, that I could scarcely muster courage to pass it. But, sir, I am not easily cowed — I mastered this repugnance in a few minutes — or, rather, I acted spite of it, I knew not how; but instinctively it seemed to me that it was better to lay the body in the bed, than leave it where it was, shewing, as its position might, that the thing occurred in an altercation. So, sir, I raised it, and bore it softly across the room, and laid it in the bed; and, while I was carrying it, it swayed forward, the arms glided round my neck, and the head rested against my cheek — that was a parody upon a brotherly embrace!
“I do not know at what moment it was, but some time when I was carrying Wynston, or laying him in the bed,” continued Marston, who spoke rather like one pursuing a horrible reverie, than as a man relating facts to a listener, “I heard a light tread, and soft breathing in the lobby. A thunderclap would have stunned me less that minute. I moved softly, holding my breath, to the door. I believe, in moments of strong excitement, men hear more acutely than at other times; but I thought I heard the rustling of a gown, going from the door again. I waited — it ceased; I waited until all was quiet. I then extinguished the candle, and groped my way to the door; there was a faint light in the corridor, and I thought I saw a head projected from the chamber-door, next to the Frenchwoman’s — mademoiselle’s. As I came on, it was softly withdrawn, and the door not quite noiselessly closed. I could not be absolutely certain, but I learned all afterward. And now, sir, you have the story of Sir Wynston’s murder.”
Dr. Danvers groaned in spirit, being wrung alike with fear and sorrow. With hands clasped, and head bowed down, in an exceeding bitter agony of soul, he murmured only the words of the Litany— “Lord, have mercy upon us; Christ, have mercy upon us; Lord, have mercy upon us.”
Marston had recovered his usual lowering aspect and gloomy self-possession in a few moments, and was now standing erect and defiant before the humbled and afflicted minister of God. The contrast was terrible — almost sublime.
Doctor Danvers resolved to keep this dreadful secret, at least for a time, to himself. He could not make up his mind to inflict upon those whom he loved so well as Charles and Rhoda the shame and agony of such a disclosure; yet he was sorely troubled, for his was a conflict of duty and mercy, of love and justice.
He told Charles Marston, when urged with earnest inquiry, that what he had heard that evening was intended solely for his own ear, and gently but peremptorily declined telling, at least until some future time, the substance of his father’s communication.
Charles now felt it necessary to see his father, for the purpose of letting him know the substance of the letter respecting “mademoiselle” and the late Sir Wynston which had reached him. Accordingly, he proceeded, accompanied by Doctor Danvers, on the next morning, to the hotel where Marston had intimated his intention of passing the night.
On their inquiring for him in the hall, the porter appeared much perplexed and disturbed, and as they pressed him with questions, his answers became conflicting and mysterious. Mr. Marston was there — he had slept there last night; he could not say whether or not he was then in the house; but he knew that no one could be admitted to see him. He would, if the gentlemen wished it, send their cards to (not Mr. Marston, but) the proprietor. And, finally, he concluded by begging that they would themselves see “the proprietor,” and dispatched a waiter
to apprise him of the circumstances of the visit. There was something odd and even sinister in all this, which, along with the whispering and the curious glances of the waiters, who happened to hear the errand on which they came, inspired the two companions with vague misgivings, which they did not care mutually to disclose.
In a few moments they were shown into a small sitting room up stairs, where the proprietor, a fussy little gentleman, and apparently very uneasy and frightened, received them.
“We have called here to see Mr. Marston,” said Doctor Danvers, “and the porter has referred us to you.”
“Yes, sir, exactly — precisely so,” answered the little man, fidgeting excessively, and as it seemed, growing paler every instant; “but — but, in fact, sir, there is, there has been — in short, have you not heard of the — the accident?”
He wound up with a prodigious effort, and wiped his forehead when he had done.
“Pray, sir, be explicit: we are near friends of Mr. Marston; in fact, sir, this is his son,” said Doctor Danvers, pointing to Charles Marston; “and we are both uneasy at the reserve with which our inquiries have been met. Do, I entreat of you, say what has happened?”
“Why — why,” hesitated the man, “I really — I would not for five hundred pounds it had happened in my house. The — the unhappy gentleman has, in short— “
He glanced at Charles, as if afraid of the effect of the disclosure he was on the point of making, and then hurriedly said— “He is dead, sir; he was found dead in his room, this morning, at eight o’clock. I assure you I have not been myself ever since.”
Charles Marston was so stunned by this sudden blow, that he was upon the point of fainting. Rallying, however, with a strong effort, he demanded to be conducted to the chamber where the body lay. The man assented, but hesitated on reaching the door, and whispered something in the ear of Doctor Danvers, who, as he heard it, raised his hands and eyes with a mute expression of horror, and turning to Charles, said —
Delphi Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu Page 713
