Part 11 (1/2)
”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 an intimation of 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 he 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 G.o.d's sake tell me, does it implicate anybody else in the 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. Dr. 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 bank-notes, to the amount of some hundreds of pounds, in a pocketbook under his pillow. He declared that as the man mentioned this circ.u.mstance, 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 att.i.tude he continued his narrative for a few minutes. At the end of this brief s.p.a.ce, Marston rose up slowly, and with a movement backward, every feature strung 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 hoa.r.s.e vehemence.
”Dreadful--horrible--oh, G.o.d! G.o.d!--My G.o.d! 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 awoke 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 entreat--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 a.s.suredly, 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 Gray Forest.
Months pa.s.sed 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's 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 and still more unpleasant kind in the alteration we have noted. There was a certain independence and carelessness, 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-a.s.sertion, 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 endeavor 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. Mrs. Marston resolved to improve the Tate-a-Tate, for the purpose of eliciting from mademoiselle an explanation of her strange behavior.
”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 one,” continued Mrs. Marston, in a gentle but dignified tone. ”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.