In this silence, with the distinctness that belongs to small sounds at night, he heard the same light step cross the oak floor of the hall quickly, and stop at his door.
He did not move; he listened and watched the door frowning. Not the slightest sound or motion followed. Who on earth could it be? Conjecture failed him. Who could be up and about now? It was not the tread of Old Mother Wyndle; nor of his invalid wife. It was a quick, light, young step. The sharp faint click of the shoe was still in his ear. Agnes Marlyn was out of the question. Rachel not possible either. D — n it, whoever it was, why could not they open the door? He could not get it out of his head that his stealthy visitor was Carmel Sherlock. He had a strange idea of Sherlock’s ingenuity and resource. He had managed his escape and concealment without accomplice or assistant, with a success, the completeness of which savoured of natural magic. Pursuit was defeated; the police baffled. He never would have been taken, Mark was certain, had he not chosen to give himself up, and then he had himself selected the place and agents of his capture. “That fellow could make his way out of the jail, and into this house if he liked, and no one suspect him. He’d venture it for a fancy. He’d come back for his fiddle.” In Mark’s mind this crazy creature, whom he generally despised, yet in a vague way considered a wizard, excited his admiration and his fear, and’ the associations connected with him were horrible.
A sharp, light knock sounded on the study door. Mark felt oddly, chilled with the sense of a coming crisis. His instinct whispered truly. A crisis was at hand. Its angel stood at the other side of the door.
“Come in,” said Mark, gazing with the frown of suspense at the door.
And in obedience to his invitation, the handle was turned, and the door gently opened.
CHAPTER III.
A SHRIFT.
“GOOD God! is it you?” said Mark, in a wild whisper, quite forgetting his indifference and disdain, after an interval of utter silence.
He was amazed, as well he might, to see Miss Agnes Marlyn before him. Never did painted martyr, on oriel window, with arms crossed over girlish bosom, and head inclined, in the melancholy glory of her beauty and her fate, look lovelier or sadder than this vision.
There was no palm nor glory, indeed. This beauty was in truth more voluptuous than saintly. But Rafael could not have painted a sadder face.
It is said that the thoughts of the bravest man, suddenly wounded by gunshot, are seldom very clear. Perhaps that sort of shock and hurry most nearly resembled Mark Shadwell’s.
“I couldn’t think who it was,” said Mark, after another pause.
“No, sir, of course, I have been quite out of your thoughts, you have had so much to think of, and you may have supposed that I had already left Raby,” said Miss Marlyn, in tones of low sweet melancholy, which well accorded with the sadness of her looks; and as she spoke her eyes rested on the floor, and her delicate fingers still touched the handle of the door, as if she were uncertain whether her timid intrusion, hardly beyond the threshold, would be permitted, and ready, as it seemed, at a look, to vanish and come no more.
“Left Raby? No, I didn’t fancy that. You don’t go till the 30th, unless you prefer it. My wife tells me, however, that you wish to go on the 19th,” said Mark Shadwell.
, “Very good of Mrs. Shadwell; so good! yes, I told her so.”
“Oh, yes!” said Mark, recovering his ordinary tone rapidly. “I know pretty well what is going on in my house; and this I must say» Miss Marlyn,” he resumed, after a few seconds, “that you are about the last person, I should have fancied, who could, have desired an interview with me.”
As he said, this, Mark suddenly remembered, his little game of hide-and-seek that evening, and he bethought him, with a qualm of shame, what secret ridicule the dignity of his air was possibly provoking at this moment, ‘ and he subsided suddenly.
One momentary glance, however, from the corner of his eye told him that there was no gleam, not the faintest, of any such feeling in her sad features.
“Putting other things aside, Miss Marlyn, doesn’t it strike you as a very odd time at which to seek an interview with me?” he said, a little sarcastically.
“In some respects very odd, as you say, Mr. Shadwell,” she replied. “In others, in that one of probable freedom from interruption, the best possible time. The world — and stupid people who have but one rule and measure for all our acts, who take no account of character and never discriminate motive — would, of course, censure me, and charge me with an audacity which my nature utterly abhors. I see that smile, sir, but I don’t fear it; before I leave this room, Mr. Shadwell, I will show you that if I come here at an odd hour, to secure an uninterrupted, interview, I do so from the purest sense of duty. I owe it, I will not say to you only, but to your family. There is something which I must divulge, and I accept the risk, and, if you will, the sacrifice.”
Mark Shadwell stared hard at Miss Marlyn, but her eyes were lowered as before.
“I can’t form the faintest conjecture as to what you mean, Miss Marlyn. I don’t pretend to read riddles; but I venture to say that were any accident to bring a third person to the room, don’t you see how unaccountable it would appear?”
“I’m not afraid, if you are not, sir. With me it weighs as nothing in comparison.”
Did she sneer? There was nothing but gentleness and sadness in her tone. He glanced again at her. No, it was not mockery — it was almost pathetic. It was a scene of audacious humility.
“Well, Miss Marlyn, do, pray, say what you mean!”
“Ah! Mr. Shadwell, have you not sent me a cruel message?” said she.
“I have sent you a message — that is, I have requested my wife to say that you must go,” said he, grimly enough.
“Yes, a cruel message! And I ask why?”
“Why! Miss Marlyn. Do you seriously ask me why?” he answered, with fierce contempt.
“Ah! Mr. Shadwell, you are one of those who judge and punish your friends unheard,” she murmured.
“Now you must excuse me, Miss Marlyn, but this is really too cool,” said Shadwell, with a bitter scoff.
“Well, I will put two cases. Suppose I have been as foolish and wrong as you choose to think, — are people who do wrong never forgiven?”
“Go on,” said Shadwell, smiling angrily. “And suppose the alternative — oh! you must suppose it! — that, placing your own perverted construction upon letters which you took from my desk and read, you have understood neither the feelings, nor the purposes, nor the situation of the person whom yon stigmatize. Nothing — nothing — nothing!”
“Upon my honour, Miss Marlyn, all things considered, I am tempted to think you have come here to indulge an odd vein of pleasantry,” said Mark Shadwell, growing more severe.
“Pleasantry, sir? you know, while you say it, that I speak in agony!” murmured Agnes Marlyn. “Were your worst conjecture true, and I the wretch you suppose, still, in -this murder, have I not sustained the loss of all a wicked woman’s ambition? Pleasantry, indeed! you don’t think it: you can’t think it: you don’t believe in that any more than you do in the rest. The whole thing is a monstrous affectation!”
“Pray, what have I charged you with?” said Shadwell, turning sharply on her.
There was a silence. He laughed and went on:
“Come, come, Miss Marlyn! you are not the first clever young lady I have met. I know something of the world, though I do live at Raby. No, no — it won’t do.”
And he laughed again.
She frowned a little suddenly, and said:
“I can prove my innocence; I can prove more.”
Shadwell shrugged, and, with a sneer, repeated the hacknied distich:
“He that’s convinced against his will, Is of the same opinion still.”
“Then it’s vain pleading with you?” she said, imploringly.
“Quite,” answered he, drily.
“You don’t, and you won’t believe one word I say?” she repeated, in agonize
d tones.
“Just so; I don’t and I won’t believe one word you say,” he repeated, with insulting slowness, “and pray let that suffice.”
He turned to the chimneypiece, to choose a cigar among those he had laid there: a signal to Miss Marlyn that he would be left to himself.
She raised her head and her eyes, and for a moment there gleamed on him a baleful light; her hand was raised from the door-handle; she was on the point of speaking, but refrained. The pale lips were silent; the gleam and the frown died away. Her eyes were lowered again, and her fingers once more hesitatingly touched the brass handle of the door.
“I’m going to light this cigar, Miss Marlyn, but not till you have quite done and gone away. I don’t mean to hurry you, if you have got anything more to say.”
He paused, with the cigar in his fingers.
“I must make, then, before I go,” she said, in a tone of melancholy, and with a deep sigh, “one confidence — one last confidence; and, even here it must be whispered. Judge me by it.”
As she spoke the colour receded from her face, and her tones became so strange, that Shadwell returned her gaze with something of excitement, while, quitting her place by the door, with quick, light steps, she crossed suddenly to the hearth, and stood nearly before him, looking in his face.
Shadwell returned her gaze with an involuntary frown, but lowered his eyes.
She drew nearer — a little nearer still, laid her hand upon his shoulder, and whispered for a few moments in his ear.
With a sound like a short laugh, he raised his face suddenly. But there was no smile there. It was distorted, and like a face of grey stone looking at her from the shadow. For a few seconds his hand was stretched towards her, and without a word, Mark Shadwell staggered backward, and would have fallen upon the floor, but that, luckily for him, the chair in which he had been sitting received him.
When he saw again, Miss Marlyn was still there. She was standing near, and looked pale and frightened. He got up with a shudder, and stood looking at her, unable for a time to get together the antecedents of this odd situation.
He did soon recover them, and sat down in silence, like a broken-hearted man.
The colour had now returned to her cheeks with a more brilliant glow, and she stood before him, with downcast eyes, like a beautiful penitent who has just made a shrift of shame.
Mark Shadwell drew a long breath, and groaned.
“Why should it trouble you so? I have made my confession, and now you understand me: you will suspect your secretary no more. Poor Agnes Marlyn has told her sorrowful secret to none but one living creature. Now you know me — my courage, my constancy. Deal how you may — severely or compassionately — with me, you now at least know me, and will think of me, more lowly perhaps, but more highly too. I am reckless, but also true.”
And, with one sad, fiery look of reproach, she left him.
As the door closed, Mark followed, and stood irresolutely, with the handle in his fingers. Perhaps he was on the point of recalling her. He hesitated for a moment, and then slowly turned away.
His ideas of the situation — his ideas of Miss Marlyn’s character — had undergone a change.
CHAPTER IV.
MISS BARBARA VISITS RABY.
NEXT day no one could have told from the air or looks of these two persons that anything unusual had occurred. Neither was there any outward sign of renewed confidence or amity between them.
The only event which happened was the arrival of Miss Barbara Temple, driven over in a curious little ancient gig, by Charles Mordant, from the Vicarage, to pay a visit to Mrs. Shadwell, and to persuade her to pass a few days with them, by way of interrupting a monotony which recent events had rendered unusually gloomy.
The indolence, or that which seems so, that accompanies ill-health, and habitual depression of spirits, however, prevented her accepting the invitation. The world — her little world — did not perceive it, but the apathy was that of a chronic despair — the sense of an insurmountable unfitness.
“I’m so sorry I can’t persuade you; a few days’ change of scene and air would do wonders for you. I don’t know, my dear, how you have lived through the last terrible month,” said Miss Barbara. “We have been, I assure you, all wonder, and pity, and I may say, admiration.”
“Oh, my dear Barbara!” answered Mrs. Shadwell, “I wish I could take credit for the courage you impute to me. I’m afraid I have been, on the contrary, a great coward.”
“Quite the reverse — a heroine, Amy; but you must not over-do it. As I often say to dear Stour, exertion must be recruited by repose, and the nerves must not be kept always on the stretch. It is not in nature to bear it, and — I hope you won’t think it rude — for this, you know, is a magnificent place and park — quite a regal thing — and the house is so grand; but, just for that reason — now you won’t be offended — it is, I always thought, a little gloomy; and, just now, after all that has so recently happened, you must find it quite awful staying here; at least, my dear, it is quite out of the question, your spirits getting up. Well, now, won’t you think of it? Do come.”
But no; it was vain pressing the point.
“Well, now, I don’t know what I am to do or say; I shall appear so selfish, I’m afraid. But, I was so sure of you, that when I met Miss Marlyn in the hall — what a charming young person she is! — I ventured to invite her, intending that you, Rachel, and she should come all together, and stay a day, or a week, or a month, as you found it pleasant; and she seemed so pleased, and said so prettily, if you would permit her; and then — what shall I say about Rachel? I haven’t seen her yet; but I should feel such a brute, asking them both to come away, just when you can least spare them.”
“My dear Barbara, I should be so delighted; - just for a day or two. Young people require a little change, and, of course, this place is very dull for poor little Rachel; and, as you say, particularly now. I should not miss her for that time, and I know it would do her so much good.”
“Well, a thousand thanks! I know I am detestably selfish, but I can’t help it, and I am so much obliged. Can you let them come tomorrow? I should have asked leave to take them away with me to-day, but our dear Bonnie — Roger, you know — who is the life and soul of our little party, does not return till tomorrow, and you have no idea how he would feel it,” she added, archly.
“Well, dear, arrange it exactly as you like; only you’ll allow them to return in a day or two, for, I confess, I shall miss Rachel, though I am delighted that she should go to you. It will make her so happy, poor little thing, and do her so much good.”
And, this point settled, the two ladies entered into a very interesting conversation about Sir Roke Wycherly and the miserable Carmel Sherlock, with their heads very near together, as they sat by the fire in Mrs. Shadwell’s room upstairs.
In the meantime Charles Mordant was very happy, for in the hall he had met Rachel. I cannot say what they talked about, but I am sure it was as interesting as the conversation between the two elder ladies upstairs, for they talked rather low, — and a great deal pleasanter, for they laughed now and then.
The cob stood under the gig, in view, before the steps, without evincing impatience, which was fortunate, as there was no one to stop him if he had chosen to run away, and I doubt whether Mr. Mordant would have perceived the occurrence, if he had done so. Rachel, who had just returned from a solitary little ramble, had on her coat and such a very becoming little hat! She was to have come in to practise an overture with Agnes Marlyn, who by this time was waiting for her; but neither of the young people in the hall appeared to remember their business, until, on a sudden, Miss Marlyn entered the hall from a side-door.
As she exchanged greetings with Mordant, Miss Marlyn looked oddly and steadily at him for a moment.
“I saw Miss Temple as she went upstairs,” she said, “and she was so kind as to ask me to the Vicarage. She intends having us all together — your mamma, and you, and me too. It is so very kind,” s
aid Miss Marlyn.
“Oh, yes,” said Rachel. “I am certain it would do her ever so much good. I do hope she’ll come.”
“Oh, she must,” said Charles. “She could not think of disappointing all her friends at the Vicarage so miserably.”
Just at this period Miss Barbara came down the stairs, and spoke to Rachel, and told her what was settled, and that they were to come next day: and this little leavetaking over, she and Mordant got into their queer little vehicle, and drove away.
Miss Barbara Temple’s head was still full of the awful details which she had just been discussing with Mrs. Shadwell, and, as often happens in this sort of preoccupation, there was a certain gloom and constraint in her manner, as she nodded again to Miss Marlyn, which impressed the young lady very unpleasantly.
Full of the anticipated visit the young ladies lay down that night to sleep. Very differently framed, however, were these anticipations. Miss Agnes Marlyn expected neither amusement nor pleasure, but she did expect in the little drama which she had nearly resolved on producing, to make my friend Roger Temple fill a role which might turn out to be a rather important one.
That evening, after dusk, Miss Marlyn knocked at the study door, and being told to enter, found Mark Shadwell there, as usual, moping in solitude.
Mark darted a glance, in which was a good deal of suspicion and alarm, at the young lady.
“I have called, sir,” she said, very timidly, “to know whether I can be of any use in copying and writing letters, that is if, during the remainder of my stay at Raby, you will permit me still the duties of my old office of secretary?”
“It is very good of you, Miss Marlyn,” said he, breaking into a doubtful smile. “I’ll think of it; that is, if you really wish it.”
“You don’t doubt my sincerity, Mr. Shadwell?”
“You are an enthusiast,” he almost whispered, but with a pained and averted look. “I say I’ll think of it, but at present there is nothing.”
Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated) Page 424
