Part 17 (2/2)
With hands clasped, and head bowed down, in an exceeding bitter agony of soul, he murmured only the words of the Litany--”Lord, have mercy upon us; Christ, have mercy upon us; Lord, have mercy upon us.”
Marston had recovered his usual lowering aspect and gloomy self-possession in a few moments, and was now standing erect and defiant before the humbled and afflicted minister of G.o.d. The contrast was terrible--almost sublime.
Doctor Danvers resolved to keep this dreadful secret, at least for a time, to himself. He could not make up his mind to inflict upon those whom he loved so well as Charles and Rhoda the shame and agony of such a disclosure; yet he was sorely troubled, for his was a conflict of duty and mercy, of love and justice.
He told Charles Marston, when urged with earnest inquiry, that what he had heard that evening was intended solely for his own ear, and gently but peremptorily declined telling, at least until some future time, the substance of his father's communication.
Charles now felt it necessary to see his father, for the purpose of letting him know the substance of the letter respecting ”mademoiselle”
and the late Sir Wynston which had reached him. Accordingly, he proceeded, accompanied by Doctor Danvers, on the next morning, to the hotel where Marston had intimated his intention of pa.s.sing the night.
On their inquiring for him in the hall, the porter appeared much perplexed and disturbed, and as they pressed him with questions, his answers became conflicting and mysterious. Mr. Marston was there--he had slept there last night; he could not say whether or not he was then in the house; but he knew that no one could be admitted to see him. He would, if the gentlemen wished it, send their cards to (not Mr. Marston, but) the proprietor. And, finally, he concluded by begging that they would themselves see ”the proprietor,” and dispatched a waiter to apprise him of the circ.u.mstances of the visit. There was something odd and even sinister in all this, which, along with the whispering and the curious glances of the waiters, who happened to hear the errand on which they came, inspired the two companions with vague misgivings, which they did not care mutually to disclose.
In a few moments they were shown into a small sitting room up stairs, where the proprietor, a fussy little gentleman, and apparently very uneasy and frightened, received them.
”We have called here to see Mr. Marston,” said Doctor Danvers, ”and the porter has referred us to you.”
”Yes, sir, exactly--precisely so,” answered the little man, fidgeting excessively, and as it seemed, growing paler every instant; ”but--but, in fact, sir, there is, there has been--in short, have you not heard of the--the accident?”
He wound up with a prodigious effort, and wiped his forehead when he had done.
”Pray, sir, be explicit: we are near friends of Mr. Marston; in fact, sir, this is his son,” said Doctor Danvers, pointing to Charles Marston; ”and we are both uneasy at the reserve with which our inquiries have been met. Do, I entreat of you, say what has happened?”
”Why--why,” hesitated the man, ”I really--I would not for five hundred pounds it had happened in my house. The--the unhappy gentleman has, in short--”
He glanced at Charles, as if afraid of the effect of the disclosure he was on the point of making, and then hurriedly said--”He is dead, sir; he was found dead in his room, this morning, at eight o'clock. I a.s.sure you I have not been myself ever since.”
Charles Marston was so stunned by this sudden blow, that he was upon the point of fainting. Rallying, however, with a strong effort, he demanded to be conducted to the chamber where the body lay. The man a.s.sented, but hesitated on reaching the door, and whispered something in the ear of Doctor Danvers, who, as he heard it, raised his hands and eyes with a mute expression of horror, and turning to Charles, said--
”My dear young friend, remain where you are for a few moments. I will return to you immediately, and tell you whatever I have ascertained. You are in no condition for such a scene at present.”
Charles, indeed, felt that the fact was so, and, sick and giddy, suffered Doctor Danvers, with gentle compulsion, to force him into a seat.
In silence the venerable clergyman followed his conductor. With a palpitating heart he advanced to the bedside, and twice essayed to draw the curtain, and twice lost courage; but gathering resolution at last, he pulled the drapery aside, and beheld all he was to see again of Richard Marston.
The bedclothes were drawn so as nearly to cover the mouth.
”There is the wound, sir,” whispered the man, as with coa.r.s.e officiousness he drew back the bedclothes from the throat of the corpse, and exhibited a gash, as it seemed, nearly severing the head from the body. With sickening horror Doctor Danvers turned away from the awful spectacle. He covered his face in his hands, and it seemed to him as if a soft, solemn voice whispered in his ear the mystic words, ”Whoso sheddeth man's blood, by man shall his blood be shed.”
The hand which, but a few years before, had, unsuspected, consigned a fellow-mortal to the grave, had itself avenged the murder--Marston had perished by his own hand.
Naturally ambitious and intriguing, the perilous tendencies of such a spirit in Mademoiselle de Barras had never been schooled by the mighty and benignant principles of religion; of her accidental acquaintance at Rouen with Sir Wynston Berkley, and her subsequent introduction, in an evil hour, into the family at Gray Forest, it is unnecessary to speak.
The unhappy terms on which she found Marston living with his wife, suggested, in their mutual alienation, the idea of founding a double influence in the household; and to conceive the idea, and to act upon it, were, in her active mind, the same. Young, beautiful, fascinating, she well knew the power of her attractions, and determined, though probably without one thought of transgressing the limits of literal propriety, to bring them to bear upon the discontented, retired roue, for whom she cared absolutely nothing, except as the instrument, and in part the victim of her schemes. Thus yielding to the double instinct that swayed her, she gratified, at the same time, her love of intrigue and her love of power. At length, however, came the hour which demanded a sacrifice to the evil influence she had hitherto wors.h.i.+pped on such easy terms. She found that her power must now be secured by crime, and she fell. Then came the arrival of Sir Wynston--his murder--her elopement with Marston, and her guilty and joyless triumph. At last, however, came the blow, long suspended and terrific, which shattered all her hopes and schemes, and drove her once again upon the world. The catastrophe we have just described. After it she made her way to Paris. Arrived in the capital of France, she speedily dissipated whatever remained of the money and valuables which she had taken with her from Gray Forest; and Madame Marston, as she now styled herself, was glad to place herself once more as a governess in an aristocratic family. So far her good fortune had prevailed in averting the punishment but too well earned by her past life. But a day of reckoning was to come. A few years later France was involved in the uproar and conflagration of revolution. n.o.ble families were scattered, beggared, decimated; and their dependants, often dragged along with them into the flaming abyss, in many instances suffered the last dire extremities of human ill. It was at this awful period that a retribution so frightful and extraordinary overtook Madame Marston, that we may hereafter venture to make it the subject of a separate narrative.
Until then the reader will rest satisfied with what he already knows of her history; and meanwhile bid a long, and as it may possibly turn out, an eternal farewell to that beautiful embodiment of an evil and disastrous influence.
The concluding chapter in a novel is always brief, though seldom so short as the world would have it. In a tale like this, the ”winding up” must be proportionately contracted. We have scarcely a claim to so many lines as the formal novelist may occupy pages, in the distribution of poetic justice, and the final grouping of his characters into that effective tableau upon which, at last, the curtain gracefully descends. We, too, may be all the briefer, inasmuch as the reader has doubtless antic.i.p.ated the little we have to say. It amounts, then, to this:--Within two years after the fearful event which we have just recorded, an alliance had drawn together, in nearer and dearer union, the inmates of Gray Forest and Newton Park. Rhoda had given her hand to young Mervyn, of ulterior consequences we say nothing--the nursery is above our province. And now, at length, after this Christmas journey through somewhat stern and gloomy scenery, in this long-deferred flood of golden suns.h.i.+ne we bid thee, gentle reader, a fond farewell.
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