“J. DANVERS.”
“He regards it as a merciful interposition of Providence!” muttered Marston, as he closed the letter, with a sneer. “Well, some men have odd notions of mercy and providence, to be sure; but if it pleases him, certainly I shall not complain, for one.”
Marston was all this evening in better spirits than he had enjoyed for months, or even years. A mountain seemed to have been lifted from his heart. He joined in the conversation during and after supper, listened with apparent interest, talked with animation, and even laughed and jested. It is needless to say all this flowed not from the healthy cheer of a heart at ease, but from the excited and almost feverish sense of sudden relief.
Next morning, Marston rode into the oldfashioned assize town, at the further end of which the dingy and grated front of the jail looked warningly out upon the rustic passengers. He passed the sentries, and made his inquiries of the official at the hatch.
He was relieved from the necessity of pushing these into detail, however, by the appearance of the physician, who at that moment passed from the interior of the prison.
“Doctor Danvers told me he expected to see you here this morning,” said the medical man, after the customary salutation had been interchanged. “Your call, I believe, is connected with the prisoner John Merton?”
“Yes, sir, so it is,” said Marston. “Is he in a condition, pray, to make a statement of considerable length?”
“Far from it, Mr. Marston; he has but a few hours to live,” answered the physician, “and is now insensible; but I believe he last night saw Doctor Danvers, and told him whatever was weighing upon his mind.”
“Ha! — and can you say where Dr. Danvers now is?” inquired Marston, anxiously and hurriedly. Not here, is he?”
“No; but I saw him, as I came here, not ten minutes since, ride into the town. It is market-day, and you will probably find him somewhere in the high street for an hour or two to come,” answered he.
Marston thanked him, and, lost in abstraction, rode down to the little inn, entered a sitting-room, and wrote a hurried line to Dr. Danvers, entreating his attendance there, as a place where they might converse less interruptedly than in the street; and committing this note to the waiter, with the injunction to deliver it at once, and the information where Dr. Danvers was probably to be found, he awaited, with intense and agitating anxiety, the arrival of the clergyman.
It was not for nearly ten minutes, however, which his impatience magnified into an eternity, that the well-known voice of Dr. Danvers reached him from the little hall. It was in vain that Marston strove to curb his violent agitation: his heart swelled as if it would smother him; he felt, as it were, the chill of death pervade his frame, and he could scarcely see the door through which be momentarily expected the entrance of the clergyman.
A few minutes more, and Dr. Danvers entered the little apartment.
“My dear sir,” said he, gravely and earnestly, as he grasped the cold hand of Marston, “I am rejoiced to see you. I have matters of great moment and the strangest mystery to lay before you.”
“I dare say — I was sure — that is, I suspected so much,” answered Marston, breathing fast, and looking very pale. “I heard at the prison that the murderer, Merton, was fast dying, and now is in an unconscious state; and from the physician, that you had seen him, at his urgent entreaty, last night. My mind misgives me, sir. I fear I know not what. I long, yet dread, to hear the wretched man’s confession. For God’s sake tell me, does it implicate anybody else in his guilt?”
“No; no one specifically; but it has thrown a hideous additional mystery over the occurrence. Listen to me, my dear sir, and the whole narrative, as he stated it to me, shall be related now to you,” said Dr. Danvers.
Marston had closed the door carefully, and they sate down together at the further end of the apartment. Marston, breathless and ghastly pale; his lips compressed — his brows knit — and his dark, dilated gaze, fixed immovably upon the speaker. Mr. Danvers, on the other hand, tranquil and solemn, and with, perhaps, some shade of awe overcasting the habitual sweetness of his countenance.
“His confession was a strange one,” renewed Dr. Danvers, shaking his head gravely. He said that the first idea of the crime was suggested by Sir Wynston’s man accidentally mentioning, a few days after their arrival, that his master slept with his banknotes, to the amount of some hundreds of pounds, in a pocketbook under his pillow. He declared that as the man mentioned this circumstance, something muttered the infernal suggestion in his ear, and from that moment he was the slave of that one idea; it was ever present with him. He contended against it in vain — he dreaded and abhorred it; but still it possessed him; he felt his power of resistance yielding. This horrible stranger which had stolen into his heart, waxed in power and importunity, and tormented him day and night. He resolved to fly from the house. He gave notice to you and Mrs. Marston of his intended departure; but accident protracted his stay until that fatal night which sealed his doom. The influence which had mastered him, forced him to rise from his bed, and take the knife — the discovery of which afterwards helped to convict him — and led him to Sir Wynston’s chamber; he entered — it was a moonlight night.”
Here the clergyman, glancing round the room, lowered his voice, and advanced his lips so near to Marston that their heads nearly touched. In this tone and attitude he continued his narrative for a few minutes. At the end of this brief space, Marston rose up slowly, and with a movement backward, every feature stung with horror, and saying, in a long whisper, the one word, “yes,” which seemed like the hiss of a snake before he makes his last deadly spring. Both were silent for a, time. At last Marston broke out with hoarse vehemence —
“Dreadful — horrible — oh, God! God! — my God! how frightful!”
And throwing himself into a chair, he clasped his hands across his eyes and forehead, while the sweat of agony literally poured down his pale face.
“Truly it is so,” said the clergyman, scarcely above his breath; and, after a long interval— “horrible, indeed!”
“Well,” said Marston, rising suddenly to his feet, wiping the dews of horror from his face, and looking wildly round, like one newly waked from a nightmare, “I must make the most of this momentous and startling disclosure. I shall spare no pains to come at the truth,” said he, energetically. “Meanwhile, my dear sir, for the sake of justice and of mercy, observe secrecy. Leave me to sift this matter; give no note anywhere that we suspect. Observe this reserve and security, and with it, detection will follow. Breathe but one word, and you arm the guilty with double caution, and turn licentious gossip loose upon the fame of an innocent and troubled family. Once more I intreat — I expect — I implore silence — silence, at least, for the present — silence!”
“I quite agree with you, my dear Mr. Marston,” answered Dr. Danvers. “I have not divulged one syllable of that poor wretch’s confession, save to yourself alone. You, as a magistrate, a relative of the murdered gentleman, and the head of that establishment among whom the guilt rests, are invested with an interest in detecting, and powers of sifting the truth in this matter, such as none other possesses. I clearly see with you, too, the inexpediency and folly of talking, for talking’s sake, of this affair. I mean to keep my counsel, and shall most assuredly, irrespectively even of your request — which should, however, of course, have weight with me — maintain a strict and cautious silence upon this subject.”
Some little time longer they remained together, and Marston, buried in strange thoughts, took his leave, and rode slowly back to Dunoran.
Months passed away — a year, and more — and though no new character appeared upon the stage, the relations which had subsisted among the old ones became, in some respects, very materially altered. A gradual and disagreeable change came over Mademoiselle de Barras’ manner; her affectionate attentions to Mrs. Marston became less and less frequent; nor was the change merely confined to this growing coldness; there was something of a positive a
nd still more unpleasant kind in the alteration which we have noted. There was a certain independence and insouciance, conveyed in a hundred intangible but significant little incidents and looks — a something which, without being open to formal rebuke or remonstrance, yet bordered, in effect, upon impertinence, and even insolence. This indescribable and provoking self-assertion, implied in glances, tones, emphasis, and general bearing, surprised Mrs. Marston far more than it irritated her. As often as she experienced one of these studied slights or insinuated impertinences, she revolved in her own mind all the incidents of their past intercourse, in the vain endeavour to recollect some one among them which could possibly account for the offensive change so manifest in the conduct of the young Frenchwoman.
Mrs. Marston, although she sometimes rebuked these artful affronts by a grave look, a cold tone, or a distant manner, yet had too much dignity to engage in a petty warfare of annoyance, and had, in reality, no substantial and well-defined ground of complaint against her, such as would have warranted her either in taking the young lady herself to task, or in bringing her conduct under the censure of Marston.
One evening it happened that Mrs. Marston and Mademoiselle de Barras had been left alone together after the supper-party had dispersed. They had been for a long time ‘silent, and Mrs. Marston resolved to improve the tête-à-tête, for the purpose of eliciting from mademoiselle an explanation of her strange behaviour.
“Mademoiselle,” said she, “I have lately observed a very marked change in your conduct to me.”
“Indeed!” said the Frenchwoman.
“Yes, mademoiselle; you must be yourself perfectly aware of that change; it is a studied and intentional alteration,” continued Mrs. Marston, in a gentle but dignified tone; “and although I have felt some doubt as to whether it were advisable, so long as you observe toward me the forms of external respect, and punctually discharge the duties you have undertaken, to open any discussion whatever upon the subject; yet I have thought it better to give you a fair opportunity of explaining frankly, should you desire to do so, the feelings and impressions under which you are acting.”
“Ah, you are very obliging, madame,” said she, coolly.
“It is quite clear, mademoiselle, that you have either misunderstood me, or that you are dissatisfied with your situation among us: your conduct cannot otherwise be accounted for,” said Mrs. Marston, gravely.
“My conduct — ma foi! what conduct?” retorted the handsome Frenchwoman, confidently, and with a disdainful glance.
“If you question the fact, mademoiselle,” said the elder lady, “it is enough. Your ungracious manner and ungentle looks, I presume, arise from some apparently sufficient and well-defined cause, of which, however, I know nothing.”
I really was not aware,” said Mademoiselle de Barras-, with a supercilious smile, “that my looks and my manner were subjected to so rigid a criticism, or that it was my duty to regulate both according to so nice and difficult a standard.”
“Well, mademoiselle,” continued Mrs. Marston, “it is plain that whatever may be the cause of your dissatisfaction, you are resolved against confiding it to me. I only wish to know frankly from your own lips, whether you have formed a wish to leave this situation: if so, I entreat of you to declare it freely.”
“You are very obliging, indeed, madame,” said the pretty foreigner, drily, “but I have no such wish, at least at present.”
“Very well, mademoiselle,” replied Mrs. Marston, with gentle dignity; “I regret your want of candour, on your own account. You would, I am sure, be much happier, were you to deal frankly with me.”
“May I now have your permission, madame, to retire to my room?” asked the French girl, rising, and making a low courtesy— “that is, if madame has nothing further to censure.”
“Certainly, mademoiselle; I have nothing further to say,” replied the elder lady.
The Frenchwoman made another and a deeper courtesy, and withdrew. Mrs. Marston, however, heard, as she was designed to do, the young lady tittering and whispering to herself, as she lighted her candle in the hall. This scene mortified and grieved poor Mrs. Marston inexpressibly. She was little, if at all, accessible to emotions of anger, and certainly none such mingled in the feelings with which she regarded Mademoiselle de Barras. But she had found in this girl a companion, and even a confidante in her melancholy solitude; she had believed her affectionate, sympathetic, tender, and the disappointment was as bitter as unimagined.
The annoyances which she was fated to receive from Mademoiselle de Barras, were destined, however, to grow in number and in magnitude. The Frenchwoman sometimes took a fancy, for some unrevealed purpose, to talk a good deal to Mrs. Marston, and on such occasions would persist, notwithstanding that lady’s marked reserve and discouragement, in chatting away, as if she were conscious that her conversation was the most welcome entertainment possible to her really unwilling auditor. No one of their interviews did she ever suffer to close without in some way or other suggesting or insinuating something mysterious and untold to the prejudice of Mr. Marston. Those vague and intangible hints, whose meaning, for an instant legible and terrific, seemed in another moment to dissolve and disappear, tortured Mrs. Marston like the intrusions of some spectre, vanishing as soon as revealed; and this, along with the portentous change, rather felt than visible, in mademoiselle’s conduct toward her, invested the beautiful Frenchwoman, in the eyes of her former friend and patroness, with an indefinable character that was not only repulsive but formidable.
Mrs. Marston’s feelings with respect to this person were still further disturbed by the half-conveyed hints and innuendoes of her own maid, who never lost an opportunity of insinuating her intense dislike of the Frenchwoman, and appeared perpetually to be upon the very verge of making some explicit charges, or some shocking revelations, respecting her, which, however, she as invariably evaded; and even when Mrs. Marston once or twice insisted upon her explaining her meaning distinctly, she eluded her mistress’s desire, and left her still in the same uneasy uncertainty.
Marston, on his part, however much his conduct might tend to confirm suspicion, certainly did nothing to dissipate the painful and undefined apprehensions respecting himself, which Mademoiselle de Barras, with such malign and mysterious industry, laboured to raise. His spirits and temper were liable to strange fluctuations, n the midst of that excited gaiety, to which, until lately, he had been so long a stranger, would sometimes intervene paroxysms of the blackest despair, all the ghastlier for the contrast, and with a suddenness so abrupt and overwhelming that one might have fancied him crossed by the shadow of some terrific apparition, unseen by all but his own fascinated gaze. Sometimes, for a whole day, or even more, ho would withdraw himself from the society of his family, and, in morose and moody solitude, take his meals alone in his library, and steal out unattended to wander among the thickets and glades of his park. Sometimes, again, he would sit for hours in the room which had been Sir Wynston’s, and, with a kind of horrible resolution, often loiter there till after nightfall. In such hours, the servants would listen with curious awe, as they heard his step, pacing to and fro, in that deserted and inauspicious chamber, while his voice, in broken sentences, was also imperfectly audible, as if maintaining a muttered dialogue. These eccentric practices gradually invested him, in the eyes of his domestics, with a certain preternatural mystery, which enhanced the fear with which they habitually regarded him, and was subsequently confirmed by his giving orders to have the furniture taken out of the ominous suite of rooms, and the doors nailed up and secured. He gave no reason for this odd and abrupt measure, and gossip of course reported that the direction had originated in his having encountered the spectre of the murdered baronet, in one of these strange and unseasonable visits to the scene of the fearful catastrophe.
In addition to all this, Marston’s conduct towards his wife became strangely capricious. He avoided her society more than ever, and when he did happen to exchange a few words with her, they were so
metimes harsh and violent, and, at others, remorsefully gentle and sad, and this without any changes of conduct upon her part to warrant the wayward uncertainty of his treatment. Under all these circumstances, Mrs. Marston’s unhappiness and uneasiness greatly increased. Mademoiselle de Barras, too, upon several late occasions, had begun to assume a tone of authority and dictation which justly offended the mistress of the establishment. Meanwhile Charles Marston had returned to Oxford, and Rhoda, no longer enjoying those happy walks with her brother, which had been made still more happy by their often leading her into the society of her young neighbours of Newton Park, pursued her light and easy studies with Mademoiselle de Barras, and devoted her leisure hours to the loved society of her mother.
One day Mrs. Marston, sitting in her own room with Rhoda, had happened to call in her own maid, to take down and carefully dust some richly-bound volumes which filled a bookcase in the little chamber.
“You have been crying, Willett,” said Mrs. Marston, observing that the young woman’s eyes were red and swollen.
“Indeed and I was, ma’am,” she replied, reluctantly, “ and I could not help it, so I could not.”
Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated) Page 842
