With Mr. Marston, however, he was far from being a favourite. There was that in his lofty and simple purity which abashed and silently reproached the sensual, bitter, disappointed man of the world. The angry pride of the scornful man felt its own meanness in the grand presence of a simple and humble Christian minister. And the very fact that all his habits had led him to hold such a character in contempt, made him but the more unreasonably resent the involuntary homage which its exhibition in Dr. Danvers’ person invariably extorted from him. He felt in this good man’s presence under a kind of imitating restraint — not, indeed, under any necessity whatever of modifying his ordinary conduct or language — but still he felt that he was in the presence of one with whom he had and could have no sympathy whatever, and yet one whom he could not help both admiring and respecting; and in these conflicting feelings were involved certain gloomy and humbling inferences about himself, which he hated, and almost feared to contemplate.
It was well, however, for the indulgence of Sir Wynston’s conversational propensities, that Dr. Danvers had happened to drop in, for Marston was doggedly silent and sullen, and Mrs. Marston was herself scarcely more disposed than he to maintain her part in a conversation, so that, had it not been for the opportune arrival of the good clergyman, the supper must have been commenced with a very awkward and unsocial taciturnity.
Marston thought, and perhaps not erroneously, that Sir Wynston suspected something of the real state of affairs, and he was therefore incensed to perceive, as he thought, in his manner, very evident indications of his being in unusually good spirits. Thus disposed, the party sat down to supper.
“One of our number is missing,” said Sir Wynston, affecting a slight surprise, which, perhaps, he did not feel.
“Mademoiselle de Barras — I trust she is well?” said Doctor Danvers, looking towards Marston.
“I suppose she is — I don’t know,” said Marston, drily, and with some embarrassment.
“Why, how should he know,” said the baronet, gaily, but with something almost imperceptibly sarcastic in his tone. “Our friend, Marston, is privileged to be as ungallant as be pleases, except where he has the happy privilege to owe allegiance; but I, a gay young bachelor of fifty, am naturally curious. I really do trust that our charming French friend is not unwell.” He addressed his inquiry to Mrs. Marston, who, with some slight confusion, replied —
“No — nothing, at least, serious; merely a slight headache. I am sure she will be well enough to come down to breakfast.”
“She is indeed a very charming and interesting young person,” said Doctor Danvers. “There is a certain simplicity and goodnature about her, which argue a good and kind heart, and an open nature.”
“Very true, indeed, doctor,” observed Berkley, with the same faint, but, to Marston, exquisitely provoking approximation to sarcasm. “ There is, as you say, a very charming simplicity. Don’t you think so, Marston?”
Marston looked at him for a moment, but continued silent.
“Poor mademoiselle! — she is indeed a most affectionate creature,” said Mrs. Marston, who felt called upon to say something.
“Come, Marston, will you contribute nothing to the general approbation?” said Sir Wynston, who was gifted by nature with an amiable talent for teasing, which he was fond of exercising in a quiet way. “We have all, but you, said something handsome of our absent young friend.”
“I never praise anybody, Wynston — not even you,” said Marston, with an obvious sneer.
“Well, well, I must comfort myself with the belief that your silence covers a great deal of goodwill, and, perhaps, a little admiration, too,” answered his cousin, significantly.
“Comfort yourself in any honest way you will, my dear Sir Wynston,” retorted Marston, with a degree of asperity, which, to all but the baronet himself, was unaccountable. “You may be right — you may be wrong; on a subject so unimportant, it matters very little which; you are at perfect liberty to practise delusions, if you will, upon yourself.”
“By-the-bye, Mr. Marston, is not your son about to come to this country?” asked Doctor Danvers, who perceived that the altercation was becoming, on Marston’s part, somewhat testy, if not positively rude.
“Yes; I expect him in a few days,” replied he, with a sudden gloom.
“You have not seen him, Sir Wynston?” asked the clergyman.
“I have that pleasure yet to come,” said the baronet.
“A pleasure it is, I do assure you,” said Doctor Danvers, heartily. “ He is a handsome lad, with the heart of a hero; a fine, frank, generous lad, and as merry as a lark.”
“Yes, yes,” interrupted Marston; he is well enough, and has done pretty well at Cambridge. Doctor Danvers, take some wine.”
It was strange, but yet mournfully true, that the praises which the good Doctor Danvers thus bestowed upon his son, were bitter to the soul of the unhappy Marston; they jarred upon his ear, and stung his heart, for his conscience converted them into so many latent insults and humiliations to himself.
“Your wine is very good, Marston. I think your clarets here are many degrees better than we can get in England,” said Sir Wynston, sipping a glass of his favourite wine. “You Irish gentlemen are sad, selfish dogs; and, with all your grumbling, manage to collect the best of whatever is worth having about you.”
“We sometimes succeed in collecting a pleasant party,” retorted Marston, with ironical courtesy, “though we do not always command the means of entertaining them quite as we would wish.”
It was the habit of Doctor Danvers, without respect of persons or places, to propose, before taking his departure from whatever domestic party he chanced to be thrown among for the evening, to read some verses from that holy book, on which his own hopes and peace were founded, and to offer up a prayer for all to the throne of grace. Marston, although he usually absented himself from such exercises, did not otherwise discourage them; but upon the present occasion, starting from a gloomy reverie, he himself was first to remind the clergyman of his customary observance. Evil thoughts loomed upon the mind of Marston, like measureless black mists upon a cold, smooth sea. They rested, grew, and darkened there; and no heavensent breath came silently to steal them away. Under this dread shadow, his mind lay waiting, like the DEEP, before the Spirit of God moved upon its waters — passive and awful. Why, for the first time now did religion interest him? The unseen, intangible, was even now at work within him. A dreadful power shook his very heart and soul. There was some strange, ghastly wrestling going on in his own immortal spirit — a struggle which made him faint — which he had no power to determine. He looked upon the holy influence of the good man’s prayer — a prayer in which he could not join — with a dull, superstitious hope that the words, inviting better influence, though uttered by another, and with other objects, would like a spell, chase away the foul fiend that was busy with his thoughts. Marston sate, looking into the fire, with a countenance of stern gloom, upon which the wayward lights of the flickering hearth sported fitfully; while, at a distant table, Doctor Danvers sate down, and taking his well-worn Bible from his pocket, turned over its leaves, and began, in gentle but impressive tones, to read.
Sir Wynston was much too well-bred, to evince the slightest disposition to aught but the most proper and profound attention. The faintest imaginative gleam of ridicule might, perhaps, have been discerned in his features, as he leaned back in his chair, and, closing his eyes, composed himself to at least an attitude of attention. No man could submit with more patience to an inevitable bore.
In these things, then, thou hast no concern — the judgment troubles thee not — thou hast no fear of death, Sir Wynston Berkley; yet there is a heart beating near thee, the mysteries of which, could they glide out, and stand before thy face, would, perchance, appall thee — cold, easy man of the world. Ay, couldst thou but see with those cunning eyes of thine, but twelve brief hours into futurity, each syllable that falls from that good man’s lips unheeded, would peal through
thy heart and brain like maddening thunder. Hearken, hearken, Sir Wynston Berkley, perchance these are the farewell words of thy better angel — the last pleadings of despised mercy.
The party broke up. Dr. Danvers took his leave, and rode homeward, down the broad avenue, between the gigantic ranks of elm that closed it in. The full moon was rising above the distant hills — the mists lay like sleeping lakes in the laps of the hollows — and the broad demesne looked tranquil and sad under this chastened and silvery glory. The good old clergyman thought, as he pursued his way, that here at least, in a spot so beautiful and sequestered, the stormy passions and fell contentions of the outer world could scarcely penetrate. Yet, in that calm, secluded spot, and under the cold, pure light which fell so holily, what a hell was weltering and glowing! what a spectacle was that moon to go down upon!
As Sir Wynston was leaving the parlour for his own room, Marston accompanied him to the hall, and said, “I shan’t play tonight, Sir Wynston.”
“Ah, ha! — very particularly engaged?” suggested the baronet, with a faint, mocking smile; “well, my dear fellow, we must endeavour to make up for it tomorrow — eh?”
“I don’t know that” said Marston, “and — In a word, there is no use, sir, in our masquerading with one another — each knows the other — each understands the other — I wish to have a word or two with you in your room tonight, where we shan’t be interrupted.”
Marston spoke in a fierce and grating whisper, and his countenance, more even than his accents, betrayed the intensity of his bridled fury. Sir Wynston, however, smiled upon his cousin, as if his voice had been melody, and his looks all sunshine.
“Very good, Marston, just as you please,” he said, “only don’t be later than one, as I shall be getting into bed about that hour.”
“Perhaps, upon second thoughts, it is as well to defer what I have to say,” said Marston, musingly. “Tomorrow will do as well; so, perhaps, Sir Wynston, I may not trouble you tonight.”
“Just as suits you best, my dear Marston,” replied the baronet, with a tranquil smile; “only don’t come after the hour I have stipulated.”
So saying, the baronet mounted the stairs, and made his way to his chamber. He was in excellent spirits, and in high goodhumour with himself; the object of his visit to Dunoran had been, as he now flattered himself, attained. He had conducted an affair requiring the profoundest mystery in its prosecution, and the wisest tactique in its management, almost to a triumphant issue — he had perfectly masked his design, and completely outwitted Marston; and to a person who piqued himself upon his clever diplomacy, and vaunted that he had never yet sustained a defeat in any object which he had seriously proposed to himself, such a combination of successes was for the moment quite intoxicating.
Sir Wynston not only enjoyed his own superiority with all the vanity of a selfish nature, but he no less enjoyed with a keen and malicious relish the intense mortification which, he was well assured, Marston must experience, and all the more acutely, because of the utter impossibility, circumstanced as he was, of his taking any steps to manifest his vexation, without compromising himself in a most unpleasant way.
Animated by those amiable feelings, Sir Wynston Berkley sate down, and wrote the following short letter, addressed to Mrs. Gray, Wynston Hall:
“Mrs. GRAY, — On receipt of this, have the sitting-rooms, and several bedrooms put in order, and thoroughly aired. Prepare for my use the suite of three rooms over the library and drawing room; and have the two great wardrobes, and the cabinet in the state bedroom, removed into the large dressing-room which opens upon the bedroom I have named. Make everything as comfortable as possible. If anything is wanted in the way of furniture, drapery, ornament, &c., you need only write to John Skelton, Esq., Spring-garden, London, stating what is required, and he will order and send them down. You must be expeditious, as I shall probably go down to Wynston, with two or three friends, at the beginning of next month.
“WYNSTON BERKLEY.
“P.S. — I have written to direct Arkins and two or three of the other servants to go down at once. Set them all to work immediately.”
He then applied himself to another letter of considerably greater length, and from which, therefore, we shall only offer a few extracts. It was addressed to John Skelton, Esq., and began as follows: —
“My DEAR SKELTON, — You are, doubtless, surprised at my long silence, but I have had nothing very particular to say — my visit to this dull and uncomfortable place was (as you rightly surmise) not without its object — a little bit of wicked romance; the pretty demoiselle of Rouen, whom I mentioned to you more than once — la belle de Barras — was, in troth, the attraction that drew me hither; and, I think (for, as yet, she affects hesitation) I shall have no further trouble with her. She is a fine creature, and you will admit, when you have seen her, well worth taking some trouble about. She is, however, a very knowing little minx, and evidently suspects me of being a sad, fickle dog — and, as I surmise, has some plans, moreover, respecting my morose cousin, Marston — a kind of wicked Penruddock — who has carried all his London tastes into his Irish retreat, a paradise of bogs and bushes. There is, I am very confident, a liason in that quarter. The young lady is evidently a good deal afraid of him, and insists upon such precautions in our interviews, that they have been very few, and far between, indeed. To-day, there has been a fracas of some kind. I have no doubt that Marston, poor devil, is jealous. His situation is really pitiably comic — with an intriguing mistress, a saintly wife, and a devil of a jealous temper of his own. I shall meet Mary on reaching town. Has Clavering (shabby dog!) paid his I. O. U. yet? Tell the little opera woman she had better be quiet. She ought to know me by this time — I shall do what is right — but won’t submit to be bullied. If she is troublesome, snap your fingers at her, on my behalf, and leave her to her remedy. I have written to Gray, to get things at Wynston in order. She will draw upon you for what money she requires. Send down two or three of the servants, if they have not already gone. The place is very dusty and dingy, and needs a f eat deal of brushing and scouring, shall see you in town very soon — by the way, their claret here is particularly good — so I ordered a prodigious supply from a Dublin house; it is consigned to you, and goes by the ‘ Lizard;’ pay the freightage, and get Edwards to pack it; ten dozen or so may as well go down to Wynston, and send other wines in proportion. I leave details to you.”
Some further directions upon other subjects followed; and having subscribed the dispatch, and addressed it to the gentlemanlike scoundrel who filled the onerous office of factotum to this profligate and exacting man of the world, Sir Wynston Berkley rang his bell, and gave the two letters into the hand of his man, with special directions to carry them himself in person, to the postoffice in the neighbouring village, early next morning. These little matters completed, Sir Wynston stirred his fire, leaned back in his easy chair, and smiled blandly over the sunny prospect of his imaginary triumphs.
It here becomes necessary to describe, in a few words, some of the local relations of Sir Wynston’s apartments. The bedchamber which he occupied opened from the long passage of which we have already spoken — and there were two other smaller apartments opening from it in train. In the further of these, which was entered from a lobby, communicating by a back stairs with the kitchen and servants’ apartments, lay Sir Wynston’s valet — and the intermediate chamber was fitted up as a dressing-room for the baronet himself. These circumstances it is necessary to mention, that what follows may be clearly intelligible.
While the baronet was penning these records of vicious schemes — dire waste of wealth and time — irrevocable time! — Marston paced his study in a very different frame of mind. There was a gloom and disorder in the room accordant with those of his own mind. Shelves of ancient tomes, darkened by time, and upon which the dust of years lay sleeping — dark oaken cabinets, filled with piles of deeds and papers, among which the nimble spiders were crawling — and, from the dusky walls, several
stark, pale ancestors, looking down fearfully from their tarnished frames. An hour, and another hour passed — and still Marston paced this melancholy chamber, a prey to his own fell passions and dark thoughts. He was not a superstitious man, but, in the visions which haunted him, perhaps, was something which made him unusually excitable — for, he experienced a chill of absolute horror, as, standing at the farther end of the room, with his face turned towards the entrance, he beheld the door noiselessly and slowly pushed open, by a pale, thin hand, and a figure, dressed in a loose white robe, glide softly in. He stood for some seconds gazing upon this apparition, as it moved hesitatingly towards him from the dusky extremity of the large apartment, before he perceived that the form was that of Mrs. Marston.
“Hey, ha! — Mrs. Marston — what on earth has called you hither?” he asked, sternly. “You ought to have been at rest an hour ago — get to your chamber, and leave me — I have business to attend to.”
“Now, dear Richard, you must forgive me,” she said, drawing near, and looking up into his haggard face with a sweet and touching look of timidity and love, “I could not rest until I saw you again — your looks have been all this night so unlike yourself — so strange and terrible — that I am afraid some great misfortune threatens you, which you fear to tell me of.”
Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated) Page 837