Mr. Marston walked round the corner to the steward’s house. The vague shadows and lights of night were abroad by this time. Candles were in his room; he found Rebecca Torkill there, with a small tankard and a tea-cup on a salver, awaiting his return.
“La! sir, to think of you doing such another wild thing, and you, only this minute, at death’s door with your head! And how is it now, please, sir?”
“A thousand thanks. My head is as well as my hat. My headache goes as it comes, in a moment. What is this?”
“Some gruel, please, sir, with sugar, white wine, and nutmeg. I thought you might like it.”
“Caudle, by Jove!” smiled the gentleman, “isn’t it?”
“Well, it is; and it’s none the worse o’ that.”
“All the better,” exclaimed Mr. Marston, who chose to be on friendly terms with the old lady. “How can I thank you?”
“It’s just the best thing in the world to make you sleep after a headache. You’ll take some while it’s hot.”
“I can’t thank you half enough,” he said.
“I’ll come back, sir, and see you by-and-by,” and the good woman toddled out, leaving him alone with his gruel.
“I must not offend her.” He poured some out into his cup, tasted it, and laughed quietly. “Sipping caudle! Well, this is rather a change for Richard Marston, by Jove! A change every day. Let us make a carouse of it,” he said, and threw it out of the window.
Mr. Marston threw on his loose wrapper, and folded his muffler about his throat, replaced his hat, and with his cane in his fingers, was about to walk down to the town of Cardyllion. A word or two spoken, quite unsuspiciously, by Doctor Mervyn that morning, had touched a sensitive nerve, and awakened a very acute anxiety in Mr. Marston’s mind. The result was his intended visit, at the fall of night, to the High-street of the quaint little town.
He was on the point of setting out, when Rebecca Torkill returned with a sliced lemon on a plate.
“Some likes a squeeze of a lemon in it,” she observed, “and I thought I might as well leave it here.”
“It is quite delicious, really,” he replied, as Mrs. Torkill peeped into the open flagon.
“Why,” said she, in unfeigned admiration, “I’m blest if he’s left a drop! Ah! ah! Well, it was good; and I’ll have some more for you before you go to bed. But you shouldn’t drink it off, all at a pull, like that. You might make yourself ill that way.”
“We men like good liquor so well — so well — we — we — what was I saying? Oh! yes, we like our liquor so well, we never know when we have had enough. It’s a bad excuse; but let it pass. I’m going out for a little walk, it always sets me up after one of those headaches. Good evening, Mrs. Torkill.”
He was thinking plainly of other matters than her, or her caudle; and, before she had time to reply, he was out of the door.
It was a sweet, soft night; the moon was up. The walk from Malory to the town is lonely and pretty. He took the narrow road that approaches Cardyllion in an inland line, parallel to the road that runs by the shore of the estuary. His own echoing footsteps among the moonlit trees was the only sign of life, except the distant barking of a watchdog, now and then, that was audible. A melancholy wind was piping high in the air, from over the sea; you might fancy it the aërial lamentations of the drowned.
He was passing the churchyard now, and stopped partly to light a cigar, partly to look at the old church, the effect of which, in the moonlight, was singular. Its gable and towers cast a sharp black shadow across the grass and gravestones, like that of a gigantic hand whose finger pointed towards him. He smiled cynically as the fancy struck him.
“Another grave there, I should not wonder if the news is true. What an ass that fellow is! Another grave, I dare say; and in my present luck, I suppose I shall fill it — fill it! That’s ambiguous; yes, the more like an oracle. That shadow does look curiously like a finger pointing at me!”
He smoked for a time, leaning on the pier of the iron wicket that from this side admits to the churchyard, and looking in with thoughts very far from edifying.
“This will be the second disagreeable discovery, without reckoning Carmel, I shall have made since my arrival in this queer corner of the world. Who could have anticipated meeting Laura here? — or that whining fool, Carmel? Who would have fancied that Jennings, of all men, would have turned up in this out-of-the-way nook? By Jove! I’m like Saint Paul, hardly out of the shipwreck when a viper fastens on my hand. Old Sprague made us turn all that into elegiacs. I wonder whether I could make elegiacs now.”
He loitered slowly on, by the same old road, into Castle Street, the high-street of the quaint little town of steep roofs and many gables. The hall-door of the “Verney Arms” was open, and the light of the lamp glowed softly on the pavement.
Mr. Marston hated suspense. He would rather make a bad bargain, offhand, than endure the torture of a long negotiation. He would stride out to meet a catastrophe rather than await its slow, sidelong approaches. This intolerance of uncertainty made him often sudden in action. He had come down to the town simply to reconnoitre. He was beginning, by this time, to meditate something more serious. Under the shadow of the houses opposite, he walked slowly up and down the silent flagway, eyeing the door of the “Verney Arms” askance, as he finished his cigar.
It so happened, that exactly as he had thrown away the stump of it, a smoker, who had just commenced his, came slowly down the steps of the “Verney Arms,” and stood upon the deserted flagway, and as he puffed indolently, he looked up the street, and down the street, and up at the sky.
The splendid moon shone full on his face, and Mr. Marston knew him. He was tall and slight, and rather good-looking, with a face of great intelligence, heightened with something of enthusiasm, and stood there smoking, in happy unconsciousness that an unfriendly eye was watching him across the street.
Mr. Marston stood exactly opposite. The smoker, who had emerged from the “Verney Arms,” stood before the centre of the steps, and Mr. Marston, on a sudden, as if he was bent on walking straight through him into the hotel, walked at a brisk pace across the street, and halted, within a yard, in front of him.
“I understand,” said Marston instantly, in a low, stern tone, “that you said at Black’s, when I was away yachting, that you had something to say to me.”
The smoker had lowered his cigar, and was evidently surprised, as well he might be; he looked at him hard for some time, and at length replied as grimly: “Yes, I said so; yes I do; I mean to speak to you.”
“All right; no need to raise our voices here though; I think you had better find some place where we can talk without exciting attention.”
“Come this way,” said the tall young man, turning suddenly and walking up the street at a leisurely pace. Mr. Marston walked beside him, a yard or two apart. They might be very good friends, for anything that appeared to a passer-by. He turned down a short and narrow by-street, with only room for a house or two, and they found themselves on the little common that is known as the Green of Cardyllion. The sea, at its further side, was breaking in long, tiny waves along the shingle, the wind came over the old castle with a melancholy soughing; the green was solitary; and only here and there, from the windows of the early little town, a light gleamed. The moon shone bright on the green, turning the grass to grey, and silvering the ripples on the dark estuary, and whitening the misty outlines of the noble Welsh mountains across the water. A more tranquillising scene could scarcely be imagined.
When they had got to the further end, they stopped, as if by common consent.
“I’m ready to hear you,” said Marston.
“Well, I have only to tell you, and I’m glad of this opportunity, that I have ascertained the utter falsehood of your stories, and that you are a coward and a villain.”
“Thanks; that will do, Mr. Jennings,” answered Marston, growing white with fury, but speaking with cold and quiet precision. “You have clenched this matter by an insult which I s
hould have answered by cutting you across the face with this,” — and he made his cane whistle in the air,— “but that I reserve you for something more effectual, and shall run no risk of turning the matter into a police-office affair. I have neither pistols nor friend here. We must dispense with formalities; we can do all that is necessary for ourselves, I suppose. I’ll call tomorrow, early, at the ‘Verney Arms.’ A word or two will settle everything.”
He raised his hat ever so little, implying that that conference, for the present, was over; but before he could turn, Mr. Jennings, who did not choose to learn more than was unavoidable to his honour, said:
“You will find a note at the bar.”
“Address it Richard Wynyard, then.”
“Your friend?”
“No; myself.”
“Oh! a false name?” sneered Mr. Jennings.
“You may use the true one, of course. My tailor is looking for me a little more zealously, I fancy, than you were; and if you publish it in Cardyllion, it may lead to his arresting me, and saving you all further trouble in this, possibly, agitating affair.” The young man accompanied these words with a cold laugh.
“Well, Richard Wynyard be it,” said Mr. Jennings, with a slight flush.
And with these words the two young men turned their backs on each other. Mr. Jennings walked along beside the shingle, with the sound of the light waves in his ear, and thinking rather hurriedly, as men will, whom so serious a situation has suddenly overtaken. Marston turned, as I said, the other way, and without entering the town again, approached Malory by the narrow road that passes close under the castle walls, and follows the line of the high banks overlooking the estuary.
If there be courage and mental activity, and no conscience, we have a very dangerous devil. A spoiled child, in which self is supreme, who has no softness of heart, and some cleverness and energy, easily degenerates into that sort of Satan. And yet, in a kind of way, Marston was popular. He could spend money freely — it was not his own — and when he was in spirits he was amusing.
When he stared in Jennings’ face this evening, the bruise and burning of an old jealousy were in his heart. The pain of that hellish hate is often lightly inflicted; but what is more cruel than vanity? He had abandoned the pursuit in which that jealousy was born, but the hatred remained. And now he had his revenge in hand. It is a high stake, one’s life on a match of pistol-shooting. But his brute courage made nothing of it. It was an effort to him to think himself in danger, and he did not make that effort. He was thinking how to turn the situation to account.
CHAPTER XX.
THE WOOD OF PLAS YLWD.
Next morning, Mr. Marston, we learned, had been down to Cardyllion early. He had returned at about ten o’clock, and he had his luggage packed up, and despatched again to the proprietor of the “Verney Arms.” So we might assume that he was gone.
The mountain that had weighed on Laura Grey’s spirits was perceptibly lightened. I heard her whisper to herself, “Thank God!” when she heard Rebecca Torkill’s report, and the further intelligence that their guest had told her and Thomas Jones that he was going to the town, to return no more to Malory. Laura was now, again, quite like herself. For my part, I was a little glad, and (shall I confess it?) also a little sorry! I had not quite made up my mind respecting this agreeable Mr. Marston, of whom Mr. Carmel and Miss Grey had given each so alarming a character.
About an hour later, I was writing to mamma, and sitting at the window, when, raising my eyes, I saw Laura Grey and Mr. Marston, much to my surprise, walking side by side up the avenue towards the hall-door. They appeared to be in close conversation; Mr. Marston seemed to talk volubly and carelessly, and cut the heads of the weeds with his cane as he sauntered by her side. Laura Grey held her handkerchief to her eyes, except now and then, when she spoke a few words, as it seemed passionately.
When they came to the courtyard, opposite to the hall-door, she broke away from him, hurried across, ran up the steps, and shut the door. He stood where she had left him, looking after her and smiling. I thought he was going to follow; he saw me in the window, and raised his hat, still smiling, and with this farewell salute he turned on his heel and walked slowly away towards the gate. I ran to the hall, and there found Laura Grey. She had been crying, and was agitated.
“Ethel, darling,” she said, “let nothing on earth induce you to speak to that man again. I implore of you to give me your solemn promise. If he speaks truth it will not cost you anything, for he says he is going away this moment, not to return.”
It certainly looked very like it, for he had actually despatched his two boxes, he had “tipped” the servants handsomely at the steward’s house, and having taken a courteous leave of them, and left with Mrs. Torkill a valedictory message of thanks for me, he had got into a “fly” and driven off to the “Verney Arms.”
Well, whether for good or ill, he had now unquestionably taken his departure; but not without leaving a sting. The little he had spoken to Miss Grey, at the moment of his flight, had proved, it seemed, a Parthian arrow tipped with poison. She seemed to grow more and more miserable every hour. She had lain down on her bed, and was crying bitterly, and trembling. I began to grow vexed at the cruelty of the man who had deliberately reduced her to that state. I knew not what gave him the power of torturing her. If I was angry, I was also intensely curious. My questions produced no clearer answers than this: “Nothing, dear, that you could possibly understand without first hearing a very long story. I hope the time is coming when I may tell it all to you. But the secret is not mine; it concerns other people; and at present I must keep it.”
Mr. Marston had come and gone, then, like a flash of light, leaving my eyes dazzled. The serenity of Malory seemed now too quiet for me; the day was dull. I spent my time sitting in the window, or moping about the place. I must confess that I had, by no means, the horror of this stranger that the warnings of Mr. Carmel and Laura Grey ought, I suppose, to have inspired. On the contrary, his image came before me perpetually, and everything I looked at, the dark trees, the windowsill, the garden, the estuary, and the ribs of rock round which the cruel sea was sporting, recalled the hero of a terrible romance.
I tried in vain to induce Laura to come with me for a walk, late in the afternoon. So I set out alone, turning my back on Cardyllion, in the direction of Penruthyn Priory. The sun was approaching the western horizon as I drew near the picturesque old farmhouse of Plas Ylwd.
A little to the south of this stretches a fragment of old forest, covering some nine or ten acres of peaty ground. It is a decaying wood, and in that melancholy and miserable plight, I think, very beautiful. I would commend it as a haunt to artists in search of “studies,” who love huge trees with hollow trunks, some that have “cast” half their boughs as deer do their antlers; some wreathed and laden with ivy, others that stretch withered and barkless branches into the air; ground that is ribbed and unequal, and cramped with great ringed, snakelike roots, that writhe and knot themselves into the earth; here and there overspread with little jungles of bramble, and broken and burrowed by rabbits.
Into this grand and singular bit of forest, now glorified by the coloured light of evening, I had penetrated some little way. Arrested in my walk by the mellow song of a blackbird, I listened in the sort of ecstasy that every one has, I suppose, experienced under similar circumstances; and I was in the full enjoyment of this sylvan melody, when I was startled, and the bird put to flight, by the near report of firearms. Once or twice I had heard boys shooting at the birds in this wood, but they had always accompanied their practice with shouting and loud talking. A dead silence followed this. I had no reason for any misgivings about so natural an interruption in such a place, but I did feel an ominous apprehension. I began to move, and was threading my way through one of these blackberry thickets, when I heard, close to my side, the branches of some underwood thrust aside, and Mr. Marston, looking pale and wicked, walked quickly by. It was plain he did not see me; I was screened by th
e stalks and sprays through which I saw him. He had no weapon as he passed me; he was drawing on his glove. The sudden appearance of Mr. Marston whom I believed to be by this time miles away — at the other side of Cardyllion — was a shock that rather confirmed my misgivings.
I waited till he was quite gone, and then passed down the path he had come by. I saw nothing to justify alarm, so I walked a little in the same direction, looking to the right and left. In a little opening among the mossgrown trunks of the trees, I soon saw something that frightened me. It was a man lying on his back, deadly pale, upon the ground; his waistcoat was open, and his shirt-front covered with blood, that seemed to ooze from under his hand, which was pressed on it; his hat was on the ground, some way behind. A pistol lay on the grass beside him, and another not far from his feet.
I was very much frightened, and the sight of blood made me feel faint. The wounded man saw me, I knew, for his eyes were fixed on me; his lips moved, and there was a kind of straining in his throat; he said a word or two, though I could not at first hear what. With a horrible reluctance, I came near and leaned a little over him, and then heard distinctly:
“Pray send help.”
I bethought me instantly of the neighbouring farmhouse of Plas Ylwd, and knowing this little forest tract well, I ran through it nearly direct to the farmyard, and quickly succeeded in securing the aid of Farmer Prichard and all his family, except his wife, who stayed at home to get a bed ready for the reception of the wounded stranger. We all trooped back again through the woods, at a trot, I at their head, quite forgetting my dignity in my excitement. The wounded man appeared fainter. But he beckoned to us with his hand, without raising his arm, and with a great effort he said: “The blame is mine — all my fault — remember, if I die. I compelled this meeting.”
Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated) Page 627