“That will answer perfectly,” said the man in black.
“It enables you to stop that cheque by this post, without first seeing my uncle; and it relieves you,” said the young man, with bitter and pitiless irony, “of the folly of acting in the most trifling matter upon my word of honour. It is certainly making the most of the situation. I have made one great slip — a crime, if you like — — “
“Quite so, sir,” acquiesced Mr. Blount, with melancholy politeness.
“Under great momentary temptation,” continued the young man, “and without an idea of ultimately injuring any human being to the amount of a single farthing. I’m disowned; any one that pleases may safely spit in my face. I’m quite aware how I stand in this infernal pharisaical world.”
Mr. Blount looked at him gravely, but made him no answer. The young gentleman did not want to quarrel with Mr. Blount just then. He could not afford it.
“I don’t mean you, of course,” he said; “you have been always only too much my friend. I am speaking of the world; you know, quite well, if this unlucky thing takes wind, and my uncle’s conduct towards me is the very thing to set people talking and inquiring, I may as well take off my hat to you all, drink your healths in a glass of prussic acid, and try how a trip to some other world agrees with me.”
“You are speaking, of course, sir, in jest,” said Mr. Blount, with some disgust in his grave countenance; “but I may mention that the unfortunate occurrence is known but to your uncle and to me, and to no other person on earth. You bear the name of Marston — you’ll excuse me for reminding you, sir — and upon that point he is sensitive and imperious. He considered, sir, that your bearing that name, if I may so say, without being supposed guilty of a rudeness, would slur it; and, therefore, you’ll change it, as arranged, on embarking at Southampton. It would be highly inexpedient to annoy your uncle by any inadvertence upon this point. Your contemplating suicide would be — you will pardon the phrase — cowardly and impious. Not, indeed, if I may so say consistently with the rules of politeness,” he added, thoughtfully, “that your sudden removal would involve any loss to anybody, except, possibly, some few Jews, and people of that kind.”
“Certainly — of course. You need not insist upon that. I feel my degradation, I hope, sufficiently. It is not his fault, at least, if I don’t.”
“And, from myself, I suggest that he will be incensed, if he learns that you are accepting the hospitality of Mr. Ware’s house. I think, sir, that men of the world, especially gentlemen, will regard it, if the phrase be not discourteous, in the light of a shabby act.”
“Shabby, sir! what do you mean by shabby?” said Mr. Marston, flaming up.
“I mean, sir — you’ll excuse me — paltry; don’t you see? — or mean. His feelings would be strongly excited by your partaking of Mr. Ware’s hospitality.”
“Hospitality! Shelter, you mean; slates, walls — little more than they give a beast in a pound! Why, I don’t owe them a crust, or a cup of tea. I get everything from the hotel there, at Cardyllion; and Mr. Ware is a thousand miles away!”
“I speak of it simply as a question of expediency, sir. He will be inflamed against you, if he hears you have, in ever so small a matter, placed yourself under any obligation to Mr. Ware.”
“But he need not hear of it; why should you mention it?”
“I cannot practise reserve with a man who treats me with unlimited confidence,” he answered, gently. “Why should you not go to the hotel?”
“I have no money.”
“But you get everything you want there on credit?”
“Well, yes, that’s true; but it would scarcely do to make that move; I have been as ill as ever I was in my life since that awful night on the rocks down there. You can have no idea what it was; and the doctor says I must keep quiet. It isn’t worth while moving now; so soon as I have funds, I’ll leave this.”
“I will lend you what you require, with much pleasure, sir,” proffered Mr. Blount.
“Well, thanks, it is not very much, and it’s hard to refuse; one feels such a fool without a shilling to give to a messenger, or to the servants; I haven’t even a fee for the doctor who has been attending me.”
Determined by this pathetic appeal, Mr. Blount took a banknote of ten pounds from his purse and lent it to Mr. Marston.
“And, I suppose, you’ll remove forthwith to the hotel,” he said.
“The moment I feel equal to it,” he replied. “Why, d —— it, don’t you think I’m ready to go, when I’m able? I — I —— Don’t mind me, pray. Your looks reprove me. I’m shocked at myself when I use those phrases. I know very well that I have just escaped by a miracle from death. I feel how utterly unfit I was to die; and, I assure you, I’m not ungrateful. You shall see that my whole future life will be the better for it. I’m not the graceless wretch I have been. One such hour as preceded my scaling that rock out there is a lesson for a life. You have often spoken to me on the subjects that ought to interest us all. I mean when I was a boy. Your words have returned upon me. You derive happiness from the good you do to others. I thought you had cast your bread upon the waters to see it no more; but you have found it at last. I am very grateful to you.”
Did Mr. Marston believe that good people are open, in the manner of their apostleship, to flattery, as baser mortals are in matters of another sort? It was to be hoped that Mr. Marston felt half what he uttered. His words, however, did produce a favourable and a pleasant impression upon Mr. Blount. His large face beamed for a moment with honest gratification. His eyes looked evil upon him, as if the benevolence of his inmost heart spoke out through them.
“If anything can possibly please him, sir, in connection with you,” said Mr. Blount, with all his customary suavity and unconscious bluntness, “it will be to learn that recent events have produced a salutary impression and a total change in you. Not that I suppose he cares very much; but I’m glad to have to represent to him anything favourable in this particular case. I mean to return to London direct, and if your uncle is still there you shall hear in a day or two — at all events very soon; but I wish you were in the hotel.”
“Well, I’ll go to the hotel, if they can put me up. I’ll go at once; address to me to the postoffice — Richard Marston, I suppose?”
“Just so, sir, Richard Marston.”
Mr. Blount had risen, and stood gravely, prepared to take his leave.
“I have kept you a long time, Mr. Blount; will you take anything?”
Mr. Blount declined refreshments.
“I must leave you now, sir; there is a crisis in every life. What has happened to you is stupendous; the danger and the deliverance. That hour is past. May its remembrance be with you ever — day and night! Do not suppose that it can rest in your mind without positive consequences. It must leave you a great deal better or a great deal worse. Farewell, sir.”
So they parted. Mr. Marston seemed to have lost all his spirits and half his energy in that interview. He sat motionless in the chair into which he had thrown himself, and gazed listlessly on the floor in a sulky reverie. At length he said —
“That is a most unpleasant old fellow; I wish he was not so unscrupulously addicted to telling truth.”
CHAPTER XVIII.
IDENTIFIED.
It was a gloomy day; I had left Laura Grey in the room we usually occupied, where she was now alone, busy over some of our accounts. I dare say her thoughts now and then wandered into speculations respecting the identity of the visitor who, the night before, evaded her recognition, if indeed he was recognisable by her at all. Her doubts were now resolved. The room door opened, and the tenant of the steward’s house entered coolly, and approached the table where she was sitting. Laura Grey did not rise; she did not speak; she sat, pen in hand, staring at him as if she were on the point of fainting. The star-shaped scar on his forehead, fixed there by some old fracture, and his stern and energetic features, were now distinctly before her. He kept his eye fixed upon her, and smiled, dubious of his recep
tion.
“I saw you, Miss Grey, yesterday afternoon, though you did not see me. I avoided your eye then; but it was idle supposing that I could continue even a few days longer in this place without you seeing me. I came last night with my mind made up to reveal myself, but I put it off till we should be to ourselves, as we are now. I saw you half guessed me, but you weren’t sure, and I left you in doubt.”
He approached till his hands rested upon the table opposite, and said, with a very stern and eager face,
“Miss Grey, upon my honour, upon my soul, if I can give you an assurance which can bind a gentleman, I entreat you to believe me. I shan’t offer one syllable contrary to what I now feel to be your wishes. I shan’t press you, I shan’t ask you to hear me upon the one subject you say you object to. You allege that I have done you a wrong. I will spare no pains to redress it. I will do my utmost in any way you please to dictate. I will do all this, I swear by everything a gentleman holds most sacred, upon one very easy condition.”
He paused. He was leaning forward, his dark eyes were fixed upon her with a piercing gaze. She did not, or could not, speak. She was answering his gaze with a stare wilder and darker, but her very lips were white.
“I know I have stood in your way; I admit I have injured you, not by accident; it was with the design and wish to injure you, if the endeavour to detach a fellow like that be an injury. You shall forgive me; the most revengeful woman can forgive a man the extravagances of his jealousy. I am here to renounce all, to retrieve everything. I admit the injury; it shall be repaired.”
She spoke now for the first time, and said, hardly above her breath:
“It’s irreparable. It can’t be undone — quite irreparable.”
“When I undertake a thing I do it; I’ll do this at any sacrifice — yes, at any, of pride or opinion. Suppose I go to the persons in question, and tell them that they have been deceived, and that I deceived them, and now confess the whole thing a tissue of lies?”
“You’ll never do that.”
“By Heavens, as I stand here, I’ll do it! Do you suppose I care for their opinion in comparison with a real object? I’ll do it. I’ll write and sign it in your presence; you shall have it to lock up in that desk, and do what you please with it, upon one condition.”
A smile of incredulity lighted Laura Grey’s face faintly, as she shook her head.
“You don’t believe me, but you shall. Tell me what will satisfy you — what practicable proof will convince you. I’ll set you right with them. You believe in a Providence. Do you think I was saved from that wreck for nothing?”
Laura Grey looked down upon her desk; his fierce eyes were fixed on her with intense eagerness, for he thought he read in her pale face and her attitude signs of compliance. It needed, he fancied, perhaps but a slight impulse to determine her.
“I’ll do it all; but, as I told you, on one condition.”
There was a silence for a time. He was still watching her intently.
“Let us both be reasonable,” he resumed. “I ought, I now know, to have seen long ago, Miss Grey, that there was no use in my talking to you as I did. I have been mad. There’s the whole story; and now I renounce it all. I despair; it’s over. I’ll give you the very best proof of that. I shall devote myself to another, and you shall aid me. Pray, not a word, till you have heard me out; that’s the condition. If you accept it, well. If not, so sure as there is life in me, you may regret it.”
“There’s nothing more you can do I care for now,” she broke out with a look of agony. “Oh, Heaven help me!”
“You’ll find there is,” he continued, with a quiet laugh. “You can talk as long as you please when your turn comes. Just hear me out. I only want you to have the whole case before you. I say you can help me, and you shall. I’m a very good fellow to work with, and a bitter one to work against. Now, one moment. I have made the acquaintance of a young lady whom I wish to marry. Upon my sacred honour, I have no other intention. She is poor; her father is over head and ears in debt; she can never have a guinea more than two thousand pounds. It can’t be sordid, you’ll allow. There is a Jesuit fellow hanging about this place. He hates me; he has been in here telling lies of me. I expect you to prevent my being prejudiced by that slanderer. You can influence the young lady in my favour, and enable me to improve our acquaintance. I expect you to do so. These are my conditions. She is Miss Ethel Ware.”
The shock of a disclosure so entirely unexpected, and the sting possibly of wounded vanity, made her reply more spirited than it would have been. She stood up, and said, quietly and coldly:
“I have neither right nor power in the matter; and if I had, nothing on earth could induce me to exercise them in your favour. You can write, if you please, to Mr. Ware, for leave to pay your addresses to his daughter. But without his leave you shall not visit here, nor join her in her walks; and if you attempt to do either, I will remove Miss Ware, and place her under the care of some one better able than I to protect her.”
The young man looked at her with a very pale face.
“I thought you knew me better, Miss Grey,” he said, with an angry sneer. “You refuse your chance of reconciliation.”
He paused, as if to allow her time to think better of it.
“Very well; I’m glad I’ve found you out. Don’t you think your situation is rather an odd one — a governess in Mr. Ware’s country quarters? We all know pretty well what sort of gentleman Mr. Ware is, a gentleman particularly well qualified by good taste and high spirits to make his house agreeable. He was here, I understand, for about a week a little time ago, but his wife does not trouble your solitude much; and now that he is on his travels, he is succeeded by a young friar. I happen to know what sort of person Carmel was, and is. Was ever young lady so fortunate? One only wonders that Mr. Ware, under these circumstances, is not a little alarmed for the Protestantism of his governess. I should scarcely have believed that you had found so easily so desirable a home; but fate has ordained that I should light upon your retreat, and hear with my own ears the good report of the neighbours, and see with my own eyes how very comfortable and how extremely happy you are.”
He smiled and bowed ironically, and drew towards the door.
“There was nothing to prevent our being on the friendliest terms — nothing.”
He paused, but she made him no answer.
“No reason on earth why we should not. You could have done me a very trifling kindness. I could have served you vitally.”
Another pause here.
“I can ascribe your folly to nothing but the most insensate malice. I shall take care of myself. You ought to know me. Whatever befalls, you have to thank but your own infatuated obstinacy for it.”
“I have friends still,” she cried, in a sudden burst of agony. “Your cowardice, your threats and insults, your persecution of a creature quite defenceless and heartbroken, and with no one near to help her — — “
Her voice faltered.
“Find out your friends, if you have got them; tell them what you please; and, if it is worth while, I will contradict your story. I’ll fight your friends. I’ll pit my oath against yours.”
There was no sneer on his features now, no irony in his tones; he was speaking with the bitter vehemence of undisguised fury.
“I shrink from nothing. Things have happened since to make me more reckless, and by so much the more dangerous. If you knew a little more you would scarcely dare to quarrel with me.” He dashed his hand as he spoke upon the table.
“I am afraid — I’m frightened; but nothing on earth shall make me do what you ask.”
“That’s enough — that closes it,” said he. There was a little pause. “And remember, the consequences I promise are a great deal nearer than you probably dream of.”
With these words, spoken slowly, with studied meaning, he left the room as suddenly as he had appeared. Laura Grey was trembling. Her thoughts were not very clear. She was shocked, and even terrified.
&nbs
p; The sea, which had swallowed all the rest, had sent up that one wicked man alive. How many good, kind, and useful lives were lost to earth, she thought, in those dreadful moments, and that one life, barren of all good, profligate and cruel, singled out alone for mercy!
CHAPTER XIX.
PISTOLS FOR TWO.
I knew nothing of all this. I was not to learn what had passed at that interview till many years later. Laura Grey, on my return, told me nothing. I am sure she was right. There were some things she could not have explained, and the stranger’s apparently insane project of marrying penniless me was a secret better in her own keeping than in that of a simple and very self-willed girl.
When I returned there were signs of depression and anxiety in her looks, and her silence and abstraction excited my curiosity. She easily put me off, however. I knew that her spirits sometimes failed her, although she never talked about her troubles; and therefore her dejection was, after all, not very remarkable. We heard nothing more of our guest till next day, when Rebecca Torkill told us that he was again suffering from one of his headaches. The intelligence did not excite all the sympathy she seemed to expect. Shortly after sunset we saw him pass the window of our room, and walk by under the trees.
With an ingrained perversity, the more Laura Grey warned me against this man, the more I became interested in him. She and I were both unusually silent that evening. I think that her thoughts were busy with him; I know that mine were.
“We won’t mind opening the window tonight,” said Laura.
“I was just thinking how pleasant it would be. Why should we not open it?” I answered.
“Because we should have him here again; and he is not the sort of person your mamma would like you to become acquainted with.”
I was a little out of humour, but did not persist. I sat in a sullen silence, my eyes looking dreamily through the window. The early twilight had faded into night by the time the stranger reappeared. I saw him turn the line of his walk near the window; and seeing it shut, pause for a moment. I dare say he was more vexed than I. He made up his mind, however, against a scene. He looked on the ground and over his shoulder, again at the window.
Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated) Page 626