“I don’t know what you call fancies,” replied Mervyn, testily, “ but, here are two deadly weapons, a knife And a dagger — each, it would seem, employed in doing this murder — if you see nothing odd in that, I can’t enable you to do so.”
“Well, sir,” said Marston, grimly, “the whole thing is, as you term it, odd, and I can see no object in your picking out this particular singularity for long-winded criticism, except to cast scandal upon my household, by leaving a hideous and vague imputation floating among the members of it. Sir — sir — this is a foul way,” he cried sternly, “to gratify a paltry spite.”
“Mr. Marston,” said Mervyn, rising and thrusting his hands into his pockets, while he confronted him to the foil as sternly, “the country knows in which of our hearts the spite, if any there is between us, is harboured. I owe you no friendship — but, sir, I cherish no malice either; and against the worst enemy I have on earth I am incapable of perverting an opportunity like this, and inflicting pain, under the pretence of discharging a duty.”
Marston was on the point of interrupting, but the coroner interposed, and besought them to confine their attention strictly to the solemn inquiry which they were summoned together to prosecute. Meanwhile George Mervyn and Charles Marston were deeply pained and embarrassed at this fiery renewal of mutual hostilities between their parents; at a moment, too, when each had cherished the hope that they would, at least upon this occasion, have met without the exhibition of angry feelings.
There remained still to he examined the surgeon who had accompanied the coroner, for the purpose of reporting upon the extent and nature of the injuries discoverable upon the person of the deceased. He accordingly deposed, that having examined the body, he found no less than five deep wounds, inflicted with some sharp instrument; two of them had actually penetrated the heart, and had, of course, caused instant death. Besides these, there were two contusions, one upon the back of the head, the other upon the forehead, with a slight abrasion of the eyebrow. There was a large lock of hair torn out by the roots at the front of the head, and the palm and fingers of the right hand were cut. This evidence having been taken, the jury once more repaired to the chamber where the body lay, and proceeded with much minuteness to examine the room, with a view to ascertain, if possible, more particularly, the exact circumstances of the murder.
The result of this elaborate scrutiny was as follows: The deceased, they conjectured, had fallen asleep in his easy chair, and, while he was unconscious, the murderer had stolen into the room, and, before attacking his victim, had secured the bedroom door upon the inside — this was argued from the non-discovery of blood upon the handle, or any other part of the door. It was supposed that he had then approached Sir Wynston, with the view either of robbing, or of murdering him while he slept, and that the deceased had awakened just after he had reached him — that a brief and desperate struggle had ensued, in which the assailant had struck his victim with his fist upon the forehead, and having stunned him, had hurriedly clutched him by the hair, and stabbed him with the dagger which lay close by upon the chimneypiece, forcing his head violently against the hack of the chair. This part of the conjecture was supported by the circumstance of there being discovered a lock of hair upon the ground, at the spot, and a good deal of blood. The carpet, too, was tossed, and a water-croft which had stood upon the table close by, was lying in fragments upon the floor. It was supposed that the murderer had then dragged the half-lifeless body to the bed, where, having substituted the knife, which he had probably brought to the room in the same pocket from which the boy afterwards saw him take the dagger, he dispatched him; and either hearing some alarm — perhaps the movement of the valet in the adjoining room, or from some other cause — he dropped the knife in the bed, and was not able to find it again. The wounds upon the hand of the dead man indicated his having caught and struggled to hold the blade of the weapon with which he was assailed. The impression of a bloody hand thrust under the bolster, where it was Sir Wynston’s habit to place his purse and watch, when making his arrangements for the night, supplied the motive of this otherwise unaccountable atrocity.
After some brief consultation, the jury agreed upon a verdict of wilful murder against John Merton, a finding of which the coroner expressed his entire approbation.
As the two young friends, George Mervyn and Charles, passed through the hall, they saw Rhoda gliding into her little study. Mervyn hesitated, as if about to follow her; but sighed, and said, after a moment’s pause —
“Charles, I think she is more beautiful than ever.”
Charles looked gratified, and replied —
“She is greatly improved since I saw her last — she is certainly very pretty.”
They walked on in silence, and after a few seconds, Mervyn said, with a sigh —
“You can’t think how my father’s unhappy disagreement with yours afflicts me. I could have died with vexation to-day.”
“It is, indeed, a deplorable thing — such near neighbours, too,” replied Charles.
It was quite plain in what direction the thoughts of the two young men were travelling.
Marston, as a justice of the peace, had informations, embodying the principal part of the evidence given before the coroner, sworn against Merton, and transmitted a copy of them to the castle. A reward for the apprehension of the culprit was forthwith offered in the Gazette, but for some months without effect.
Marston had, in the interval, written to several of Sir Wynston’s many relations announcing the catastrophe, and requesting that steps might immediately be taken to have the body removed. Meanwhile, undertakers were busy in the chamber of death. The corpse was inclosed in lead, and that again in cedar, and a great oak shell, covered with crimson cloth and goldheaded nails, and with a gilt plate recording the age, title, &c. &c., was screwed down firmly over all.
Nearly three weeks elapsed before any reply to Marston’s letters were received. A short epistle at last arrived from Lord — , the late Sir Wynston’s uncle, deeply regretting “the sad and inexplicable occurrence;” and adding, that the will which, on receipt of the “distressing intelligence,” was immediately opened and read, contained no direction whatever respecting the sepulture of the deceased, which had therefore better be completed as modestly and expeditiously as possible, in the neighbourhood of Dunoran; and, in conclusion, he directed that the accounts of the undertakers, flee., employed upon the melancholy occasion, might be sent in to Mr. Skelton, who had kindly undertaken to leave London for Ireland without any delay, for the purpose of completing these last arrangements, and who would, in any matter of business connected with the deceased, represent him, Lord H — , as executor of the late baronet.
This letter was followed, in a day or two, by the arrival of Skelton — a well-dressed, languid, impertinent London tuft-hunter — a good deal faded — with a somewhat sallow and puffy face, charged with a pleasant combination at once of meanness, insolence, and sensuality — just such a person as Sir Wynston’s parasite might have been expected to prove.
However well disposed to impress the natives of Dunoran with high notions of his extraordinary refinement and importance, he very soon discovered, that, in Marston, he had stumbled upon a man of the world, and one thoroughly versed in the ways and characters of London life. After some ineffectual attempts, therefore, to overawe and astonish his host, Mr. Skelton became aware of the fruitlessness of the effort, and condescended to abate somewhat of his pretensions.
Marston could not avoid inviting this person to pass the night at Dunoran, an invitation which was accepted, of course; and next morning, after a late breakfast, Mr. Skelton observed, with a yawn —
“And now, about this body — poor Berkley! — what do you propose to do with him?”
“I have no proposition to make,” said Marston, drily; “it is no affair of mine, except that the body may be removed without more delay. I have no suggestion to offer.”
“H— ‘s notion was to have him buried as near t
he spot as may be,” said Skelton.
Marston nodded.
“There is a kind of vault — is there not — in the demesne, a family burial place?” inquired his visitor.
“Yes, sir,” replied Marston, curtly.
“Well?” drawled Skelton.
“Well, sir; what then?” responded Marston.
“Why, as the wish of the parties is to have him buried — poor fellow! — as quietly as possible, I think he might just as well be laid there as anywhere else.”
“Had I desired it, Mr. Skelton, I should myself have made the offer,” said Marston, abruptly.
“Then you don’t wish it?” said Skelton.
“No, sir; certainly not — most peremptorily not,” answered Marston, with more sharpness than, in his early days, he would have thought quite consistent with politeness.
“Perhaps,” replied Skelton, for want of something better to say, and with a callous sort of levity— “perhaps you hold the idea — some people do — that murdered men can’t rest in their graves until their murderers have expiated their guilt?”
Marston made no reply, but shot two or three livid glances from under his brow, at the speaker.
“Well, then, at all events,” continued Skelton, indolently resuming his theme, “if you decline your assistance, may I, at least, hope for your advice. Knowing nothing of this country, I would ask you whither you would recommend me to have the body conveyed?”
“I don’t care to advise in the matter,” said Marston, “but if I were directing, I should have the remains buried in the city of Dublin. It is not more than twenty miles from this; and if at any future time his family should desire to remove the body to England, it could be effected more easily from thence. But you can decide.”
“Egad! I believe you are right,” said Skelton, glad to be relieved of the trouble or thinking about the matter; “and I shall take your advice.”
In accordance with this declaration, the body was, within four-and-twenty hours, removed to Dublin, and buried there in St. Peter’s churchyard, Mr. Skelton attending on behalf of Sir Wynston’s numerous and afflicted friends and relatives.
There are certain heartaches for which time brings no healing; nay, which grow but the sorer and fiercer as days and years roll on. Of this kind, perhaps, was the stern and bitter feeling which now darkened the face of Marston, with an almost perpetual gloom. His habits became even more unsocial than before. The society of his son he no longer seemed to enjoy. Long and solitary rambles in his wild and extensive demesne consumed the listless hours of his waking existence; and when the weather prevented this, he shut himself up, upon pretence of business, in his study.
He had not, since the occasion we have already mentioned, referred to the intended departure of Mademoiselle de Barras. Truth to say, his feelings with respect to that young lady were of a conflicting and mysterious kind; and as often as his dark thoughts wandered to her (which indeed was frequently enough), his muttered exclamations seemed to imply some painful and horrible suspicions respecting her.
“Yes,” he would mutter, “I thought I heard your light foot upon the lobby, on that accursed night. Fancy / well it may have been, but assuredly a strange fancy. I cannot comprehend that woman. She baffles my scrutiny. I have looked into her face with an eye she might well understand, were it indeed as I sometimes suspect, and she has been calm and unmoved. I have watched and studied her, still doubt — doubt — hideous doubt — is she what she seems, or — a TIGRESS?”
Mrs. Marston, on the other hand, procrastinated from day to day the painful task of announcing to Mademoiselle de Barras the stern message with which she had been charged by her husband. And thus several weeks had passed, and she began to think that his silence upon the subject, notwithstanding his seeing the young French lady at breakfast every morning, amounted to a kind of tacit intimation that the sentence of banishment was not to be carried into immediate execution, but to be kept suspended over the unconscious offender.
It was now six or eight weeks since the hearse carrying away the remains of the illfated Sir Wynston Berkley, had driven down the dusky avenue; the autumn was deepening into winter, and as Marston gloomily trod the lonely woods of Dunoran, the withered leaves whirled drearily along his pathway, and the gusts that swayed the mighty branches above him were rude and ungenial. It was a bleak and sombre day, and as he broke into a long and picturesque vista, deep among the most sequestered woods, be suddenly saw before him, and scarcely twenty paces from the spot on which he stood, an apparition, which for some moments absolutely froze him to the earth.
Travelsoiled, tattered, pale, and wasted, John Merton, the murderer, stood before him. He did not exhibit the smallest disposition to turn about and make his escape. On the contrary, he remained perfectly motionless, looking upon ‘his former master with a wild and sorrowful gaze. Marston twice or thrice essayed to speak; his face was white as death, and had he beheld the spectre of the murdered baronet himself, he could not have met the sight with a countenance of ghastlier horror.
“Take me, sir,” said Merton, doggedly.
Still Marston did not stir.
“Arrest me, sir, in God’s name — here I am,” he repeated, dropping his arras by his side. “I’ll go with you, wherever you tell me.”
“Murderer!” cried Marston, with a sudden burst of furious horror— “murderer — assassin — miscreant! — take that.”
And, as he spoke, he discharged one of the pistols he always carried about him full at the wretched man. The shot did not take effect, and Merton made no other gesture but to clasp his hands together, with an agonized pressure, while his bead sunk upon his breast. w Shoot me — shoot me,” he said, hoarsely; “kill me like a dog: better for me to be dead than what I am.” The report of Marston’s pistol had, however, reached another ear; and its ringing echoes had hardly ceased to vibrate among the trees, when a stern shout was heard not fifty yards away, and, breathless and amazed, Charles Marston sprang to the place. His father looked from Merton to him, and from him again to Merton, with a guilty and stupined scowl, still holding the smoking pistol in his hand.
“What — now! Good God — Merton!” ejaculated Charles.
“Ay, sir, Merton — ready to go to gaol, or wherever you will,” said the man, recklessly.
“A murderer — a madman — don’t believe him,” muttered Marston, scarce audibly, with lips as white as wax.
“Do you surrender yourself, Merton?” demanded the young man, sternly, advancing toward him.
“Yes, sir; I desire nothing more — God knows I wish to die,” responded he, despairingly, and advancing slowly to meet Charles.
“Come, then,” said young Marston, seizing him by the collar— “come quietly to the house. Guilty and unhappy man, you are now my prisoner, and, depend upon it, I shall not let you go.’
“I don’t want to go, I tell you, sir. I have travelled fifteen miles to-day, to come here and give myself up to the master.”
“Accursed madman!” said Marston, unconsciously gazing at the prisoner, and then suddenly rousing himself, he said, “Well, miscreant, you wish to die, and, by — , you are in a fair way to have your wish.”
“So best,” said the man, doggedly. “ I don’t want to live — I wish I was in my grave — I wish I was dead a year ago.”
Some fifteen minutes afterwards, Merton, accompanied by Marston and his son Charles, entered the hall of the mansion which, not ten weeks before, he had quitted under circumstances so guilty and terrible. When they reached the house, Merton seemed much agitated, and wept bitterly on seeing two or three of his former fellow-servants, who looked on him in silence as they passed, with a gloomy and fearful curiosity. These, too, were succeeded by others, peeping and whispering, and upon one pretence or another, crossing and recrossing the hall, and stealing hurried glances at the criminal. Merton sate with his face buried in his hands, sobbing, and taking no note of the humiliating scrutiny of which he was the subject. Meanwhile, Marston, pale and
agitated, made out his committal, and having sworn in several of his labourers and servants as special constables, dispatched the prisoner in their charge to the county gaol, where, under lock and key, we leave him in safe custody for the present.
After this event, Marston became excited and restless. He scarcely eat or slept, and his health seemed now as much shattered as his spirits had been before. One day he glided into the room in which, as we have said, it was Mrs. Marston’s habit frequently to sit alone. His wife was there, and, as he entered, she uttered an exclamation of doubtful joy and surprise. He sate down near her in silence, and for some time looked gloomily on the ground. She did not care to question him, and anxiously waited until he should open the conversation. At length he raised his eyes, and, looking full at her, asked abruptly —
“Well, what about mademoiselle?” Mrs. Marston was embarrassed, and hesitated.
“I told you what I wished with respect to that young lady some time ago, and commissioned you to acquaint her with my pleasure; and yet I find her still here, and apparently as much established as ever.
Again Mrs. Marston hesitated. She scarcely knew how to confess to him that she had not conveyed his message.
“Don’t suppose, Gertrude, that I wish to find fault. I merely wanted to know whether you had told Mademoiselle de Barras, that we were agreed as to the necessity, or expediency, or what you please, of dispensing henceforward with her services. I perceive by your manner that you have not done so. I have no doubt your motive was a kind one, but my decision remains unaltered; and I now assure you again that I wish you to speak to her — I wish you explicitly to let her know my wishes and yours.”
“Not mine, Richard,” she answered, faintly.
,l Well, mine, then,” he replied, roughly. “We shan’t quarrel about that.”
“And when — how soon — do you wish me to speak to her on this, to both of us, most painful subject?” asked she, with a sigh.
Delphi Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu Page 840
