Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated)

by Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu

  Sir Wynston Berkley was a particularly gentlemanlike person. He was rather tall, and elegantly made, with gay, easy manners, and something indefinably aristocratic in his face, which, however, was a little more worn than his years would have strictly accounted for. But Sir Wynston had been a rouè, and, spite of the cleverest possible making up, the ravages of excess were very traceable in the lively beau of fifty. Perfectly well dressed, and with a manner that was ease and gaiety itself, he was at home from the moment he entered the room. Of course, anything like genuine cordiality was out of the question; but Mr. Marston embraced his relative with perfect good breeding, and the baronet appeared determined to like everybody, and be pleased with everything.

  He had not been five minutes in the parlour, chatting gaily with Mr and Mrs. Marston and their pretty daughter, when Mademoiselle de Barras entered the room. As she moved towards Mrs. Marston, Sir Wynston rose, and, observing her with evident admiration, said in an undertone, inquiringly, to Marston, who was beside him —

  “And this?”

  “That is Mademoiselle de Barras, my daughter’s governess, and Mrs. Marston’s companion,” said Marston, drily.

  “Ha!” said Sir Wynston— “I thought you were but three at home just now, and I was right. Your son is at Cambridge; I heard so from an old friend, Jack Manbury. Jack has his boy, there, too. D — n me, Dick, it seems but last week that you and I were there together.”

  “Yes,” said Marston, looking gloomily into the fire, as if he saw, in its smoke and flicker, the phantoms of murdered time and opportunity; “but I hate looking back, Wynston. The past is to me but a medley of ill-luck and worse management.”

  “Why what an ungrateful dog you are!” returned Sir Wynston, gaily, turning his back upon the Are, and glancing round the spacious and handsome, though somewhat faded apartment. “I was on the point of congratulating you on the possession of the finest park and noblest demesne in Ireland, when you begin to grumble. Egad, Dick, all I can say to your complaint is, that I don’t pity you, and there are dozens who may honestly envy you — that is all.”

  In spite of this cheering assurance, Marston remained sullenly silent. Supper, however, had now been served, and the little party assumed their places at the table.

  “I am sorry, Wynston, I have no sport of any kind to offer you here,” said Marston, except, indeed, some good trout-fishing, if you like it. I have three miles of excellent fishing at your command.”

  “My dear fellow, I am a mere cockney,” rejoined Sir Wynston; “I am not a sportsman; I never tried it, and should not like to begin now. No, Dick — what I much prefer is, abundance of your fresh air, and the enjoyment of your scenery. When I was at Rouen three years ago.”

  “Ha! — Rouen? Mademoiselle will feel an interest in that — it is her birthplace,” interrupted Marston, glancing at the Frenchwoman.

  “Yes — Rouen — ah — yes!” said mademoiselle, with very evident embarrassment.

  Sir Wynston appeared for a moment a little disconcerted, too, but rallied speedily, and pursued his detail of his doings at that fair town of Normandy.

  Marston knew Sir Wynston well; and he rightly calculated that whatever effect his experience of the world might have had in intensifying his selfishness or hardening his heart, it certainly could have had none in improving a character originally worthless and unfeeling. He knew, moreover, that his wealthy cousin was gifted with a great deal of that small cunning which is available for masking the little scheming of frivolous and worldly men; and that Sir Wynston never took trouble of any kind without a sufficient purpose, having its centre in his own personal gratification.

  This visit greatly puzzled Marston; it gave him even a vague sense of uneasiness. Could there exist any flaw in his own title to the estate of Dunoran? He had an unpleasant, doubtful sort of remembrance of some apprehensions of this kind, when he was but a child, having been whispered in the family. Could this really be so, and could the baronet have been led to make this unexpected visit merely for the purpose of personally examining into the condition of a property of which he was about to become the legal invader? The nature of this suspicion affords, at all events, a fair gauge of Marston’s estimate of his cousin’s character. And as he revolved these doubts from time to time, and as the thought of Mademoiselle de Barras’s transient, but unaccountable, embarrassment at the mention of Rouen by Sir Wynston — an embarrassment which the baronet himself appeared for a moment to reciprocate — flashed occasionally upon his remembrance, undefined, glimmering suspicions of another kind flickered through the darkness of his mind. He was effectually puzzled — his surmises and conjectures baffled; and he more than half repented that he had acceded to his cousin’s proposal, and admitted him as an inmate in his house.

  Although Sir Wynston comported himself as if he were conscious of being the very most-welcome visitor who could possibly have established himself at Dunoran, he was, doubtless, fully aware of the real feelings with which he was regarded by his host. If he had in reality an object in prolonging his stay, and wished to make the postponement of his departure the direct interest of his entertainer, he unquestionably took effectual measures for that purpose.

  The little party broke up every evening at about ten o’clock, and Sir Wynston retired to his chamber at the same hour. He found little difficulty in inducing Marston to amuse him there with a quiet game of picquet. In his own room, therefore, in the luxurious ease of dressing-gown and slippers he sate at cards with his host, often until an hour or two past midnight. Sir Wynston was exorbitantly wealthy, and very reckless in expenditure. The stakes for which they played, although they gradually became in reality pretty heavy, were in his eyes a very unimportant consideration. Marston, on the other hand, was poor, and played with the eye of a lynx and the appetite of a shark. The ease and perfect goodhumour with which Sir Wynston lost were not unimproved by his entertainer, who, as may readily be supposed, was not sorry to reap this golden harvest, provided without the slightest sacrifice, on his part, of pride or independence. If, indeed, he sometimes suspected that his guest was a little more anxious to lose than to win, he was also quite resolved not to perceive it, but calmly persisted in, night after night, giving Sir Wynston, as he termed it, his revenge; or, in other words, treating him to a repetition of his losses. All this was very agreeable to Marston, who began to treat his visitor with, at all events, more external cordiality and distinction than at first.

  An incident, however, occurred, which disturbed these amicable relations in an unexpected way. It becomes necessary here to mention that Mademoiselle de Barras’s sleeping apartment opened from a long corridor. It was en suite with two dressing-rooms, each opening also upon the corridor, but wholly unused and unfurnished. Some five or six other apartments also opened at either side, upon the same passage. These little local details being premised, it so happened that one day Marston, who had gone out with the intention of angling in the trout-stream which flowed through his park, though at a considerable distance from the house, having unexpectedly returned to procure some tackle which he had forgotten, was walking briskly through the corridor in question to his own apartment, when, to his surprise, the door of one of the deserted dressing-rooms, of which we have spoken, was cautiously pushed open, and Sir Wynston Berkley issued from it. Marston was almost beside him as he did so, and Sir Wynston made a motion as if about instinctively to draw back again, and at the same time the keen ear of his host distinctly caught the sound of rustling silks and a tip-toe tread hastily withdrawing from the deserted chamber. Sir Wynston looked nearly as much confused as a man of the world can look. Marston stopped short, and scanned his visitor for a moment with a very peculiar expression.

  “You have caught me peeping, Dick. I am an inveterate explorer,” said the baronet, with an ineffectual effort to shake off his embarrassment. “An open door in a fine old house is a temptation which— “

  “That door is usually closed, and ought to be kept so,” interrupted Marston, drily; �
��there is nothing whatever to be seen in the room but dust and cobwebs.”

  “Pardon me,” said Sir Wynston, more easily, “you forget the view from the window.”

  “Ay, the view, to be sure; there is a good view from it,” said Marston, with as much of his usual manner as he could resume so soon; and, at the same time, carelessly opening the door again, he walked in, accompanied by Sir Wynston, and both stood at the window together, looking out in silence upon a prospect which neither of them saw.

  “Yes, I do think it is a good view,” said Marston; and as he turned carelessly away, he darted a swift glance round the chamber. The door opening toward the French lady’s apartment was closed, but not actually shut. This was enough; and as they left the room, Marston repeated his invitation to his guest to accompany him; but in a tone which showed that he scarcely followed the meaning of what he himself was saying.

  He walked undecidedly toward his own room, then turned and went down stairs. In the hall he met his pretty child —

  “Ha! Rhoda,” said he, “you have not been out to-day?”

  “No, papa; but it is so very fine, I think I shall go now.”

  “Yes; go, and mademoiselle can accompany you. Do you hear, Rhoda, mademoiselle goes with you, and you had better go at once.”

  A few minutes more, and Marston, from the parlour-window, beheld Rhoda and the elegant French girl walking together towards the woodlands. He watched them gloomily, himself unseen, until the crowding underwood concealed their receding figures. Then, with a sigh, he turned and reascended the great staircase.

  “I shall sift this mystery to the bottom,” thought he. “I shall foil the conspirators, if so they be, with their own weapons — art with art — chicane with chicane — duplicity with duplicity.”

  He was now in the long passage which we have just spoken of, and glancing back and before him, to ascertain that no chance eye discerned him, he boldly entered mademoiselle’s chamber. Her writing-desk lay upon the table. It was locked; and coolly taking it in his hands, Marston carried it into his own room, bolted his chamber-door, and taking two or three bunches of keys, he carefully tried nearly a dozen in succession, and when almost despairing of success, at last found one which fitted the lock, turned it, and opened the desk.

  Sustained throughout his dishonourable task by some strong and angry passion, the sight of the open escrutoire checked and startled him for a moment. Violated privilege, invaded secrecy, base, perfidious espionage, upbraided and stigmatized him, as the intricacies of the outraged sanctuary opened upon his intrusive gaze. He felt for a moment shocked and humbled. He was impelled to lock and replace the desk where he had originally found it, without having effected his meditated treason; but this hesitation was transient; the fiery and reckless impulse which had urged him to the act, returned to enforce its consummation. With a guilty eye and eager hands, he searched the contents of this tiny repository of the fair Norman’s written secrets.

  “Ha! the very thing,” he muttered, as he detected the identical letter which he himself had handed to Mademoiselle de Barras but a few days before. “The handwriting struck me — ill-disguised — I thought I knew it; we shall see.

  He had opened the letter; it contained but a few lines: he held his breath while he read it. First he grew pale, then a shadow came over his face, and then another, and another — darker and darker — shade upon shade — as if an exhalation from the pit was momentarily blackening the air about him. He said nothing; there was but one long, gentle sigh, and in his face a mortal sternness, as he folded the letter again, replaced it, and locked the desk.

  Of course, when Mademoiselle de Barras returned from her accustomed walk, she found everything in her room, to all appearance, undisturbed, and just as when she left it. While this young lady was making her toilet for the evening, and while Sir Wynston Berkley was worrying himself with conjectures as to whether Marston’s evil looks, when he encountered him that morning in the passage, existed only in his own fancy, or were, in good truth, very grim and significant realities, Marston himself was striding alone through the wildest and darkest solitudes of his park, haunted by his own unholy thoughts, and, it may be, by those other evil and unearthly influences which wander, as we know, “in desert places.” Darkness overtook him, and the chill of night, in these lonely tracts. In his solitary walk, what fearful company had he been keeping! As the shades of night deepened round him, the sense of the neighbourhood of ill — the consciousness of the foul thoughts of which, where he was now treading, he had been for hours the sport — oppressed him with a vague and unknown terror; a certain horror of the thoughts which had been his comrades through the day, which he could not now shake off, and which clung to him with a ghastly and defiant tenacity, scared, while they halfenraged him. He stalked swiftly homewards, like a guilty man pursued.

  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 to be, 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 certainly, 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 simulation, was easy to him. His habitual reserve and gloom would divest any accidental and momentary disclosures of his inward trouble, showing itself in dark looks or sullen silence, 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-bye, 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 gipsy 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 gipsy 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 picquet — 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,
an Englishman, 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 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.