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 su
ch 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 drawingroom, before a quarter of an hour, I was joined by Mr. Blount. Our tête-à-tête 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 groundwork of the drama in which I instinctively felt that I was involved.
CHAPTER LIII.
ONE MORE CHANCE.
Sir Harry came home, and met me more affectionately and kindly than ever. I soon perceived that there was something of more than usual gravity under discussion between him and Mr. Blount. I knew, of course, very well what was the question they were debating. I was very uncomfortable while this matter was being discussed; Mr. Blount seemed nervous and uneasy; and it was plain that the decision was not only suspended but uncertain. I don’t suppose there was a more perturbed little family in all England at that moment, over whom, at the same time, there hung apparently no cloud of disaster.
At last I could perceive that something was settled; for the discussions between Mr. Blount and Sir Harry seemed to have lost the character of debate and remonstrance, and to have become more like a gloomy confidence and consultation between them. I can only speak of what I may call the external appearance of these conversations, for I was not permitted to hear one word of their substance.
In a little while Sir Harry went away again. This time his journey, I afterwards learned, was to one of the quietest little towns in North Wales, where his chaise drew up at the Bull Inn. The tall northern baronet got out of the chaise, and strode to the bar of that rural hostelry.
“Is there a gentleman named Marston staying here?” he asked of the plump elderly lady who sat within the bow-window of the bar.
“Yes, sir, Mr. Marston, Number Seven, up one pair of stairs.”
“Upstairs now?” asked Sir Harry.
“He’ll be gone out to take his walk, sir, by this time,” answered the lady.
“Can I talk to you for a few minutes, anywhere, madam, in private?” asked Sir Harry.
The old lady looked at him, a little surprised.
“Yes, sir,” she said. “Is it anything very particular, please?”
“Yes, ma’am, very particular,” answered the baronet.
She called to her handmaid, and installed her quickly in her seat, and so led the baronet to an occupied room on the ground-floor. Sir Harry closed the door, and told her who he was. The landlady recognised his baronetage with a little courtesy.
“I’m a relation of Mr. Marston’s, and I’ve come down here to make an inquiry; I want to know whether he has been leading an orderly, quiet life since he came to your house.”
“No one more so, please, sir; a very nice regular gentleman, and goes to church every Sunday he’s been here, and that is true. We have no complaint to make of him, please, sir; and he has paid his bill twice since he came here.”
The woman looked honest, with frank, round eyes.
“Thank you, ma’am,” said Sir Harry; “that will do.”
An hour later it was twilight, and Mr. Marston, on entering his sitting-room after his walk, saw the baronet, who got up from his chair before the fire as he came in.
The young man instantly took off his hat, and stood near the door, the very image of humility. Sir Harry did not advance, or offer him his hand; he gave him a nod. Nothing could be colder than this reception.
“So, Richard, you have returned to England, as you have done most other things, without consulting me,” said the cold, deep voice of Sir Harry.
“I’ve acted rashly sir, I fear. I acted on an impulse. I could not resist it. It was only twelve hours before the ship left New York when the thought struck me. I ought to have waited, I ought to have thought it over. It seemed to me my only chance, and I’m afraid it has but sunk me lower in your esteem.”
“It is clear you should have asked my leave first, all things considered,” said Sir Harry, in the same tone.
The young man bowed his head.
“I see that very clearly now, sir; but I have been so miserable under your displeasure, and I do not always see things as my calmer reason would view them. I thought of nothing but my chance of obtaining your forgiveness, and, at so great a distance, I despaired.”
“So it was to please me you set my authority at naught? By Jea! that’s logic.”
Sir Harry spoke this with a scornful and angry smile.
“I am the only near kinsman you have left, sir, of your blood and name.”
“My name, sir!” challenged Sir Harry, fiercely.
“My second name is Rokestone — called after you,” pleaded Mr. Marston.
“By my sang, young man, if you and I had borne the same name, I’d have got the Queen’s letter, and changed mine to Smith.”
To this the young gentleman made no reply. His uncle broke the silence that followed.
“We’ll talk at present, if you please, as little as need be; there’s nothing pleasant to say between us. But I’ll give you a chance; I’ll see if you are a changed man, as your letter says. I’ll try what work is in you, or what good. You said you’d like farming. Well, we’ll see what sort of farmer you’ll make. You’ll do well to remember ’tis but a trial. In two or three days Mr. Blount will give you particulars by letter. Good even
ing. Don’t come down; stay here. I’ll go alone. Say no more; I’ll have no thanks or professions. Your conduct, steadiness, integrity, shall guide me. That’s all. Farewell.”
Mr. Marston, during this colloquy, had gradually advanced a little, and now stood near the window. Sir Harry accompanied his farewell with a short nod, and stalked down the stairs. Mr. Marston knew he meant what he said, and therefore did not attempt to accompany him downstairs. And so, with a fresh pair of horses, Sir Harry immediately started on his homeward journey.
I, who knew at the time nothing of what I afterwards learned, was still in a suspense which nobody suspected. It was ended one evening by Sir Harry Rokestone, who said:
“Tomorrow my nephew, Richard Marston, will be here to stay, I have not yet determined for how long. He is a dull young man. You’ll not like him; he has not a word to throw at a dog.”
So, whatever his description was worth, his announcement was conclusive, and Richard Marston was to become an inmate of Dorracleugh next day. I find my diary says, under date of the next day:
“I have been looking forward, with a trepidation I can hardly account for, to the arrival which Sir Harry announced yesterday. The event of the day occurred at three o’clock. I was thinking of going out for a walk, and had my hat and jacket on, and was standing in the hall. I wished to postpone, as long as I could, the meeting with Mr. Marston, which I dreaded. At that critical moment his double knock at the hall-door, and the distant peal of our rather deep-mouthed bell, startled me. I guessed it was he, and turned to run up to my room, but met Sir Harry, who said, laying his hand gently on my shoulder:
“‘Wait, dear — this is my nephew. I saw him from the window. I want to introduce him.’
“Of course I had to submit. The door was opened. There he was, the veritable Mr. Marston, of Malory, the hero of the Conway Castle, of the duel, and likewise of so many evil stories — the man who had once talked so romantically and so madly to me. I felt myself growing pale, and then blushing. Sir Harry received him coldly enough, and introduced me, simply mentioning my name and his; and then I ran down the steps, with two of the dogs as my companions, while the servants were getting in Mr. Marston’s luggage.
Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated) Page 647
