Delphi Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu, page 702
Marston was not perfectly satisfied, though very nearly, with the evidence now in his possession. The letter, the stolen perusal of which had so agitated him that day, bore no signature; but, independently of the handwriting, which seemed, spite of the constraint of an attempted disguise, to be familiar to his eye, there existed, in the matter of the letter, short as it was, certain internal evidences, which, although not actually conclusive, raised, in conjunction with all the other circumstances, a powerful presumption in aid of his suspicions. He resolved, however, to sift the matter further, and to bide his time. Meanwhile his manner must indicate no trace of his dark surmises and bitter thoughts. Deception, in its two great branches, simulation and dissimulation, was easy to him. His habitual reserve and gloom would divest any accidental and momentary disclosure of his inward trouble of everything suspicious or unaccountable, which would have characterized such displays and eccentricities in another man.
His rapid and reckless ramble, a kind of physical vent for the paroxysm which had so agitated him throughout the greater part of the day, had soiled and disordered his dress, and thus had helped to give to his whole appearance a certain air of haggard wildness, which, in the privacy of his chamber, he hastened carefully and entirely to remove.
At supper, Marston was apparently in unusually good spirits. Sir Wynston and he chatted gaily and fluently upon many subjects, grave and gay. Among them the inexhaustible topic of popular superstition happened to turn up, and especially the subject of strange prophecies of the fates and fortunes of individuals, singularly fulfilled in the events of their afterlife.
“By-the-by, Dick, this is rather a nervous topic for me to discuss,” said
Sir Wynston.
“How so?” asked his host.
“Why, don’t you remember?” urged the baronet.
“No, I don’t recollect what you allude to,” replied Marston, in all sincerity.
“Why, don’t you remember Eton?” pursued Sir Wynston.
“Yes, to be sure,” said Marston.
“Well?” continued his visitor.
“Well, I really don’t recollect the prophecy,” replied Marston.
“What! do you forget the gypsy who predicted that you were to murder me,
Dick — eh?”
“Ah-ha, ha!” laughed Marston, with a start.
“Don’t you remember it now?” urged his companion.
“Ah, why yes, I believe I do,” said Marston; “but another prophecy was running in my mind; a gypsy prediction, too. At Ascot, do you recollect the girl told me I was to be Lord Chancellor of England, and a duke besides?”
“Well, Dick,” rejoined Sir Wynston, merrily, “if both are to be fulfilled, or neither, I trust you may never sit upon the woolsack of England.”
The party soon after broke up: Sir Wynston and his host, as usual, to pass some hours at piquet; and Mrs. Marston, as was her wont, to, spend some time in her own boudoir, over notes and accounts, and the worrying details of housekeeping.
While thus engaged, she was disturbed by a respectful tap at her door, and an elderly servant, who had been for many years in the employment of Mr. Marston, presented himself.
“Well, Merton, do you want anything?” asked the lady.
“Yes, ma’am, please, I want to give warning; I wish to leave the service, ma’am;” replied he, respectfully, but doggedly.
“To leave us, Merton!” echoed his mistress, both surprised and sorry for the man had been long her servant, and had been much liked and trusted.
“Yes, ma’am,” he repeated.
“And why do you wish to do so, Merton? Has anything occurred to make the place unpleasant to you?” urged the lady.
“No, ma’am — no, indeed,” said he, earnestly, “I have nothing to complain of — nothing, indeed, ma’am.”
“Perhaps, you think you can do better, if you leave us?” suggested his mistress.
“No, indeed, ma’am, I have no such thought,” he said, and seemed on the point of bursting into tears; “but — but, somehow — ma’am, there is something come over me, lately, and I can’t help, but think, if I stay here, ma’am — some — some — misfortune will happen to us all — and that is the truth, ma’am.”
“This is very foolish, Merton — a mere childish fancy,” replied Mrs. Marston; “you like your place, and have no better prospect before you; and now, for a mere superstitious fancy, you propose giving it up, and leaving us. No, no, Merton, you had better think the matter over — and if you still, upon reflection, prefer going away, you can then speak to your master.”
“Thank you ma’am — God bless you,” said the man, withdrawing.
Mrs. Marston rang the bell for her maid, and retired to her room. “Has anything occurred lately,” she asked, “to annoy Merton?”
“No, ma’am, I don’t know of anything; but he is very changed, indeed, of late,” replied the maid.
“He has not been quarreling?” inquired she.
“Oh, no, ma’am, he never quarrels; he is very quiet, and keeps to himself always; he thinks a wonderful deal of himself,” replied the servant.
“But, you said that he is much changed — did you not?” continued the lady; for there was something strangely excited and unpleasant in the man’s manner, in this little interview, which struck Mrs. Marston, and alarmed her curiosity. He had seemed like one charged with some horrible secret — intolerable, and which he yet dared not reveal.
“What,” proceeded Mrs. Marston, “is the nature of the change of which you speak?”
“Why, ma’am, he is like one frightened, and in sorrow,” she replied; “he will sit silent, and now and then shaking his head, as if he wanted to get rid of something that is teasing him, for an hour together.”
“Poor man!” said she.
“And, then, when we are at meals, he will, all on a sudden, get up, and leave the table; and Jem Boulter, that sleeps in the next room to him, says, that, almost as often as he looks through the little window between the two rooms, no matter what hour in the night, he sees Mr. Merton on his knees by the bedside, praying or crying, he don’t know which; but, any way, he is not happy — poor man! — and that is plain enough.”
“It is very strange,” said the lady, after a pause; “but, I think, and hope, after all, it will prove to have been no more than a little nervousness.”
“Well, ma’am, I do hope it is not his conscience that is coming against him, now,” said the maid.
“We have no reason to suspect anything of the kind,” said Mrs. Marston, gravely, “quite the reverse; he has been always a particularly proper man.”
“Oh, indeed,” responded the attendant, “goodness forbid I should say or think anything against him; but I could not help telling you my mind, ma’am, meaning no harm.”
“And, how long is it since you observed this sad change in poor Merton?” persisted the lady.
“Not, indeed, to say very long, ma’am,” replied the girl; “somewhere about a week, or very little more — at least, as we remarked, ma’am.”
Mrs. Marston pursued her inquiries no further that night. But, although she affected to treat the matter thus lightly, it had, somehow, taken a painful hold upon her imagination, and left in her mind those undefinable and ominous sensations, which, in certain mental temperaments, seem to foreshadow the approach of unknown misfortune.
For two or three days, everything went on smoothly, and pretty much as usual. At the end of this brief interval, however, the attention of Mrs. Marston was recalled to the subject of her servant’s mysterious anxiety to leave, and give up his situation. Merton again stood before her, and repeated the intimation he had already given.
“Really, Merton, this is very odd,” said the lady. “You like your situation, and yet you persist in desiring to leave it. What am I to think?”
“Oh, ma’am,” said he, “I am unhappy; I am tormented, ma’am. I can’t tell you, ma’am; I can’t indeed ma’am!”
“If anything weighs upon your mind, Merton, I would advise you to consult our good clergyman, Dr. Danvers,” urged the lady.
The servant hung his head, and mused for a time gloomily; and then said decisively— “No, ma’am; no use.”
“And pray, Merton, how long is it since you first entertained this desire?” asked Mrs. Marston.
“Since Sir Wynston Berkley came, ma’am,” answered he.
“Has Sir Wynston annoyed you in any way?” continued she.
“Far from it, ma’am,” he replied; “he is a very kind gentleman.”
“Well, his man, then; is he a respectable, inoffensive person?” she inquired.
“I never met one more so,” said the man, promptly, and raising his head.
“What I wish to know is, whether your desire to go is connected with Sir
Wynston and his servant?” said Mrs. Marston.
The man hesitated, and shifted his position uneasily.
“You need not answer, Merton, if you don’t wish it,” she said kindly.
“Why, ma’am, yes, it has something to say to them both,” he replied, with some agitation.
“I really cannot understand this,” said she.
Merton hesitated for some time, and appeared much troubled. “It was something, ma’am — something that Sir Wynston’s man said to me; and there it is out,” he said at last, with an effort.
“Well, Merton,” said she, “I won’t press you further; but I must say, that as this communication, whatever it may be, has caused you, unquestionably, very great uneasiness, it seems to me but probable that it affects the safety or the interests of some person — I cannot say of whom; and, if so, there can be no doubt that it is your duty to acquaint those who are so involved in the disclosure, with its purport.”
“No, ma’am, there is nothing in what I heard that could touch anybody but myself. It was nothing but what others heard, without remarking it, or thinking about it. I can’t tell you anymore, ma’am; but I am very unhappy, and uneasy in my mind.”
As the man said this, he began to weep bitterly.
The idea that his mind was affected now seriously occurred to Mrs. Marston, and she resolved to convey her suspicions to her husband, and to leave him to deal with the case as to him should seem good.
“Don’t agitate yourself so, Merton; I shall speak to your master upon what you have said; and you may rely upon it, that no surmise to the prejudice of your character has entered my mind,” said Mrs. Marston, very kindly.
“Oh, ma’am, you are too good,” sobbed the poor man, vehemently. “You don’t know me, ma’am; I never knew myself till lately. I am a miserable man. I am frightened at myself, ma’am — frightened terribly. Christ knows, it would be well for me I was dead this minute.”
“I am very sorry for your unhappiness, Merton,” said Mrs. Marston; “and, especially, that I can do nothing to alleviate it; I can but speak, as I have said, to your master, and he will give you your discharge, and arrange whatever else remains to be done.”
“God bless you, ma’am,” said the servant, still much agitated, and left her.
Mr. Marston usually passed the early part of the day in active exercise, and she, supposing that he was, in all probability, at that moment far from home, went to “mademoiselle’s” chamber, which was at the other end of the spacious house, to confer with her in the interval upon the strange application thus urged by poor Merton.
Just as she reached the door of Mademoiselle de Barras’s chamber, she heard voices within exerted in evident excitement. She stopped in amazement. They were those of her husband and mademoiselle. Startled, confounded, and amazed, she pushed open the door, and entered. Her husband was sitting, one hand clutched upon the arm of the chair he occupied, and the other extended, and clenched, as it seemed, with the emphasis of rage, upon the desk that stood upon the table. His face was darkened with the stormiest passions, and his gaze was fixed upon the Frenchwoman, who was standing with a look half-guilty, half-imploring, at a little distance.
There was something, to Mrs. Marston, so utterly unexpected, and even so shocking, in this tableau, that she stood for some seconds pale and breathless, and gazing with a vacant stare of fear and horror from her husband to the French girl, and from her to her husband again. The three figures in this strange group remained fixed, silent, and aghast, for several seconds. Mrs. Marston endeavored to speak; but, though her lips moved, no sound escaped her; and, from very weakness, she sank, half-fainting, into a chair.
Marston rose, throwing, as he did so, a guilty and furious glance at the young Frenchwoman, and walked a step or two toward the door; he hesitated, however, and turned, just as mademoiselle, bursting into tears, threw her arms round Mrs. Marston’s neck, and passionately exclaimed, “Protect me, madame, I implore, from the insults and suspicions of your husband.”
Marston stood a little behind his wife, and he and the governess exchanged a glance of keen significance, as the latter sank, sobbing, like an injured child into its mother’s embrace, upon the poor lady’s tortured bosom.
“Madame, madame! he says — Mr. Marston says — I have presumed to give you advice, and to meddle, and to interfere; that I am endeavoring to make you despise his authority. Madame, speak for me. Say, madame, have I ever done so? — say, madame, am I the cause of bitterness and contumacy? Ah, mon Dieu! c’est trop — it is too much, madame. I shall go — I must go, madame. Why, ah! why, did I stay for this?”
As she thus spoke, mademoiselle again burst into a paroxysm of weeping, and again the same significant glance was interchanged.
“Go; yes, you shall go,” said Marston, striding toward the window. “I will have no whispering or conspiring in my house: I have heard of your confidences and consultations. Mrs. Marston, I meant to have done this quietly,” he continued, addressing his wife; “I meant to have given Mademoiselle de Barras my opinion and her dismissal without your assistance; but it seems you wish to interpose. You are sworn friends, and never fail one another, of course, at a pinch. I take it for granted that I owe your presence at our interview which I am resolved shall be, as respects mademoiselle, a final one, to a message from that intriguing young lady — eh?”
“I have had no message, Richard,” said Mrs. Marston; “I don’t know — do tell me, for God’s sake, what is all this about?” And as the poor lady thus spoke, her overwrought feelings found vent in a violent flood of tears.
“Yes, madame, that is the question. I have asked him frequently what is all this anger, all these reproaches about; what have I done?” interposed mademoiselle, with indignant vehemence, standing erect, and viewing Marston with a flashing eye and a flushed cheek. “Yes, I am called conspirator, meddler, intrigant. Ah, madame, it is intolerable.”
“But what have I done, Richard?” urged the poor lady, stunned and bewildered; “how have I offended you?”
“Yes, yes,” continued the Frenchwoman, with angry volubility, “what has she done that you call contumacy and disrespect? Yes, dear madame, there is the question; and if he cannot answer, is it not most cruel to call me conspirator, and spy, and intrigant, because I talk to my dear madame, who is my only friend in this place?”
“Mademoiselle de Barras, I need no declamation from you; and, pardon me, Mrs. Marston, nor from you either,” retorted he; “I have my information from one on whom I can rely; let that suffice. Of course you are both agreed in a story. I dare say you are ready to swear you never so much as canvassed my conduct, and my coldness and estrangement — eh? These are the words, are not they?”
“I have done you no wrong, sir; madame can tell you. I am no mischief-maker; no, I never was such a thing. Was I, madame?” persisted the governess— “bear witness for me?”
“I have told you my mind, Mademoiselle de Barras,” interrupted Marston; “I will have no altercation, if you please. I think, Mrs. Marston, we have had enough of this; may I accompany you hence?”
So saying, he took the poor lady’s passive hand, and led her from the room. Mademoiselle stood in the center of the apartment, alone, erect, with heaving breast and burning cheek — beautiful, thoughtful, guilty — the very type of the fallen angelic. There for a time, her heart all confusion, her mind darkened, we must leave her; various courses before her, and as yet without resolution to choose among them; a lost spirit, borne on the eddies of the storm; fearless and self-reliant, but with no star to guide her on her dark, malign, and forlorn way.
Mrs. Marston, in her own room, reviewed the agitating scene through which she had just been so unexpectedly carried. The tremendous suspicion which, at the first disclosure of the tableau we have described, smote the heart and brain of the poor lady with the stun of a thunderbolt, had been, indeed, subsequently disturbed, and afterwards contradicted; but the shock of her first impression remained still upon her mind and heart. She felt still through every nerve the vibrations of that maddening terror and despair which had overcome her senses for a moment. The surprise, the shock, the horror, outlived the obliterating influence of what followed. She was in this agitation when Mademoiselle de Barras entered her chamber, resolved with all her art to second and support the success of her prompt measures in the recent critical emergency. She had come, she said, to bid her dear madame farewell, for she was resolved to go. Her own room had been invaded, that insult and reproach might be heaped upon her; how utterly unmerited Mrs. Marston knew. She had been called by every foul name which applied to the spy and the maligner; she could not bear it. Some one had evidently been endeavoring to procure her removal, and had but too effectually succeeded. Mademoiselle was determined to go early the next morning; nothing should prevent or retard her departure; her resolution was taken. In this strain did mademoiselle run on, but in a subdued and melancholy tone, and weeping profusely.
