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HARVARD COLLEGE
LIBRARY
FROM THE FUND OF
THOMAS WREN WARD
Treasurer of Harvard College
1830-1842





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“He rode on alone through the furze and fern of his wild and sombre park.”—Page 136.
/ºrontis/iece.
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CHAPTER I.
ABOUT twenty miles from the ancient town of
Chester, in a southward direction, there stood,
towards the close of the last century, a large,
and, even then, an old-fashioned mansion. It lay
in the midst of a demesne of considerable extent,
richly wooded with venerable timber ; but, apart
from the sombre majesty of these giant groups, and
the varieties of the undulating ground on which they
stood, there was little that could be deemed attractive
in the place. A certain air of neglect and decay, and
an indescribable gloom and melancholy, hung over
it. When the moonlight fell upon its glades and
hollows, they looked spectral and awful, with a sort
of churchyard loneliness; and even when the blush
of the morning kissed its broad woodlands, there was
a melancholy in the salute which saddened rather
than cheered the heart of the beholder.
This antique, melancholy, and neglected place was
called Gray Forest. It was then the property of the
younger son of a nobleman, once celebrated for his


IB


2 THE EVIL GUEST.
ability and his daring, who had long since passed to
that land where human wisdom and human courage
are of no avail. The representative of this noble
house resided at the family mansion in Sussex, and
the cadet, with whose fortunes we are concerned,
lived upon the narrow margin of an encumbered in-
come, in a reserved and unsocial discontent, deep
among the solemn shadows of the old woods of Gray
Forest.
The Hon. Richard Marston was somewhere be-
tween forty and fifty years of age—perhaps nearer
the latter. He still retained, in an eminent degree,
the traits of a manly comeliness, not the less remark-
able for its unquestionably haughty and passionate
character. He had married a beautiful girl, of good
family, but without much money, somewhere about
eighteen years before ; and two children, a son
and a daughter, had been the fruit of this union.
The boy, Harry Marston, was at this time at Cam-
bridge; and his sister Rhoda, scarcely fifteen, was at
home with her parents, and under the training of an
accomplished governess, who had been recommended
to them by a noble relative of Mrs. Marston. The
governess, though a native of France, was thoroughly
mistress of the English language, and except for a
foreign accent, which gave a certain prettiness to all
she said, she spoke it as perfectly as any native
Englishwomen. This young Frenchwoman was








THE EVIL GUEST. 5
eminently handsome and attractive. Expressive
dark eyes, a clear olive complexion, small even teeth,
and a beautiful dimpling smile, more perhaps than a
strictly classic regularity of features, were the secrets
of her unquestionable influence, at first sight, upon
the fancy of every man of taste who beheld her.
Marston's fortune, never very large, had been
shattered by early dissipation. Naturally of a proud
and somewhat exacting temperament, he felt acutely
the mortifying consequences of his poverty. The want
of what he felt ought to have been his position and
influence in the county in which he resided, fretted
and galled him ; and he cherished a resentful and
bitter sense of every slight, imaginary or real, to
which the same fruitful source of annoyance and
humiliation had exposed him. He held, therefore,
but little intercourse with the surrounding gentry,
and that little not of the pleasantest possible kind ;
for, not being himself in a condition to entertain in
that style which accorded with his own ideas of his
station, he declined, as far as was compatible with
good breeding, all the proffered hospitalities of the
neighbourhood; and, from his wild and neglected
park, looked out upon the surrounding world in
a spirit of moroseness and defiance, very unlike,
indeed, to that of neighbourly good-will.
In the midst of many of the annoyances attendant
upon crippled means, he enjoyed a few of those








“He rode on alone through the furze and ſern of his wild and sombre park.”—Page 136.
Zºrontis/iece.
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J.alºa- lse
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2 THE EVIL GUEST.
ability and his daring, who had long since passed to
that land where human wisdom and human courage
are of no avail. The representative of this noble
house resided at the family mansion in Sussex, and
the cadet, with whose fortunes we are concerned,
lived upon the narrow margin of an encumbered in-
come, in a reserved and unsocial discontent, deep
among the solemn shadows of the old woods of Gray
Forest.
The Hon. Richard Marston was somewhere be-
tween forty and fifty years of age—perhaps nearer
the latter. He still retained, in an eminent degree,
the traits of a manly comeliness, not the less remark-
able for its unquestionably haughty and passionate
character. He had married a beautiful girl, of good
family, but without much money, somewhere about
eighteen years before ; and two children, a son
and a daughter, had been the fruit of this union.
The boy, Harry Marston, was at this time at Cam-
bridge; and his sister Rhoda, scarcely fifteen, was at
home with her parents, and under the training of an
accomplished governess, who had been recommended
to them by a noble relative of Mrs. Marston. The
governess, though a native of France, was thoroughly
mistress of the English language, and except for a
foreign accent, which gave a certain prettiness to all
she said, she spoke it as perfectly as any native
Englishwomen. This young Frenchwoman was





THE EVIL GUEST. 5
eminently handsome and attractive. Expressive
dark eyes, a clear olive complexion, small even teeth,
and a beautiful dimpling smile, more perhaps than a
strictly classic regularity of features, were the secrets
of her unquestionable influence, at first sight, upon
the fancy of every man of taste who beheld her.
Marston's fortune, never very large, had been
shattered by early dissipation. Naturally of a proud
and somewhat exacting temperament, he felt acutely
the mortifying consequences of his poverty. The want
of what he felt ought to have been his position and
influence in the county in which he resided, fretted
and galled him ; and he cherished a resentful and
bitter sense of every slight, imaginary or real, to
which the same fruitful source of annoyance and
humiliation had exposed him. He held, therefore,
but little intercourse with the surrounding gentry,
and that little not of the pleasantest possible kind ;
for, not being himself in a condition to entertain in
that style which accorded with his own ideas of his
station, he declined, as far as was compatible with
good breeding, all the proffered hospitalities of the
neighbourhood; and, from his wild and neglected
park, looked out upon the surrounding world in
a spirit of moroseness and defiance, very unlike,
indeed, to that of neighbourly good-will.
In the midst of many of the annoyances attendant
upon crippled means, he enjoyed a few of those


6 THE EVIL GUEST.
shadowy indications of hereditary importance which
are all the more dearly prized when the substantial
accessories of wealth have disappeared. The man-
sion in which he dwelt was, though old-fashioned,
imposing in its aspect; its walls were hung with
ancestral portraits, and he managed to maintain
about him a large and tolerably respectable staff of
servants. In addition to these, he had his extensive
demesne, his deer-park, and his unrivalled timber;
and, in the consciousness of these possessions, he
found some imperfect assuagement of those bitter
feelings of suppressed scorn and resentment which
a sense of lost station and slighted importance
engendered. - -
Marston’s early habits had, unhappily, been of a
kind to aggravate, rather than alleviate, the annoy-
ances incidental to reduced means. He had been a
gay man, a voluptuary, and a gambler. His vicious
tastes had survived the means of their gratification.
His love for his wife had been nothing more than one
of those vehement and headstrong fancies which, in
self-indulgent men, sometimes result in marriage, and
which seldom outlive the first few months of that
life-long connection. w
Mrs. Marston was a gentle, noble-minded woman.
After agonies of disappointment, which none ever
suspected, she had at length learned to submit in sad
and gentle acquiescence to her fate. Those feelings


THE EVIL GUEST. 7
which had been the charm of her young days were
gone, and, as she bitterly felt, for ever. For them
there was no recall—they could not return ; and with-
out complaint or reproach she yielded to what she
felt was inevitable. It was impossible to look at Mrs.
Marston and not to discern at a glance the ruin of a
Surpassingly lovely woman; a good deal wasted,
pale, and chastened with a deep, untold sorrow, but
still possessing the outlines, both in face and form, of
that noble beauty and matchless grace which had
made her, in happier days, the admired of all
observers. Equally impossible was it to converse
with her for even a minute without hearing in the
gentle and melancholy music of her voice the sad
echoes of those griefs to which her early beauty had
been sacrificed, an undying sense of lost love, and
happiness departed, never to come again.
One morning, Mr. Marston had walked, as was his
custom when he expected the messenger who brought
his letters from the neighbouring post-office, some
way down the broad, straight avenue, with its double
rows of lofty trees at each side. He took the letter-
bag in silence from the messenger. It contained but
two letters, one addressed to “Mademoiselle de
Barras, chez M. Marston,” and the other to himself.
Opening the letter addressed to himself, he read as
follows, while he slowly retraced his steps towards the
house :-


8 THE EVIL GUEST.
“DEAR RICHARD,--I am a whimsical fellow, as
you doubtless remember, and have lately grown, they
tell me, rather hippish besides. I do not know to
which infirmity I am to attribute a sudden fancy
which urges me to pay you a visit, if you will admit
me. To say truth, my dear Dick, I wish to see a
little of your part of the world, and I will confess it,
en passant, to see a little of you too. I really wish to
make acquaintance with your family; and though
they tell me my health is much shaken, I must Say,
in self-defence, I am not a troublesome inmate. I
can perfectly take care of myself, and need no
nursing. Will you present this, my petition, to Mrs.
Marston, and report her decision thereon. Seriously,
I know that your house may be full, or some other
contre/emps may make it impracticable for me just
now to invade you. If it be so, tell me, my dear
Richard, frankly, as my movements are perfectly free,
and my time all my own, so that I can arrange my
visit to suit your convenience.
“Yours, etc.,
“WYNSTON E. BERKLEY,
“P.S.—Direct to me at Hotel, in Chester,
as I shall probably be there by the time this reaches
you.
“Ill-bred and pushing as ever,” quoth Mr. Marston,
angrily, as he thrust the unwelcome letter into his


THE EVIL GUEST. 9
pocket. “This fellow, wallowing in wealth, without
one nearer relation than I, and associated more
nearly still with me by the—pshal not affection—the
recollections of early and intimate companionship,
leaves me unaided, through years of desertion and
suffering, to the buffetings of the world, and the
troubles of all but overwhelming pecuniary difficulties,
and now, with the cool confidence of one entitled to
respect and welcome, invites himself to my house.
Coming here,” he continued, after a gloomy pause,
and still pacing slowly towards the house, “to collect
amusing materials for next season's gossip—stories
about the married Benedict—the bankrupt beau—the
outcast tenant of a Cheshire wilderness l’ And, as
he said this, he looked at the neglected prospect
before him with an eye almost of hatred. “Ay, to
see the nakedness of the land is he coming, but he
shall be disappointed. His money may buy him a
cordial welcome at an inn, but curse me if it shall
purchase him a reception here !”
He again opened and glanced through the letter.
“Ay, purposely put in such a way that I can’t
decline it without affronting him,” he continued
doggedly. “Well, then, he has no one to blame but
himself—affronted he shall be ; I shall effectually put
an end to this humorous excursion. Egad, it is
rather hard if a man cannot keep his poverty to
himself.”


IO THE EVIL GUEST.
Sir Wynston Berkley was a baronet of large for-
tune—a selfish, fashionable man, and an inveterate
“I shall effectually put an end to this humorous excursion.”
bachelor. He and Marston had been schoolſellows,
and the violent and implacable temper of the latter
had little impressed his companion with feelings of re-


I 2 TſIE EVIL GUEST.
cherished no good-will towards him, and that in the
project which he had thus unexpectedly broached,
whatevcr indirect or selfish schemes might possibly
be at the bottom of it, no friendly feeling had ever
mingled. He was, therefore, resolved to avoid the
trouble and the expense of a visit in all respects dis-
tasteful to him, and in a gentlemanlike way, but, at
the same time, with very little anxiety as to whether
or not his gay correspondent should take offence at
his reply, to decline, once for all, the proposed dis-
tinction.
With this resolution he returned home, and
entering a sitting-room appropriated to imis daughter's
use, he found her there, in company with her beau-
tiful French governess. He kissed his child, and
saluted her young preceptress with formal courtesy.
“Mademoiselle,” said he, “I have got a letter for
you ; and, Rhoda,” he continued, addressing his
pretty daughter, “give this to your mother, and say
I request her to read it.”
He gave his daughter Sir Wynston’s letter, and
the girl tripped lightly away upon her mission.
Had he narrowly scrutinized the countenance of
the fair Frenchwoman, as she glanced at the direction
of the note he had just placed in her hand, he might
have seen certain transient, but very unmistakable
evidences of excitement and agitation. She quickly
concealed the letter; and then the momentary flush


THE EVIL GUEST. I3
which it had called to her cheek subsided, and she
was as tranquil as usual.
Mr. Marston remained for some minutes, pretty
much where he had stood on first entering the
chamber, doubtless awaiting the return of his mes-
senger, or the appearance of his wife. At length he
left the room to seek his wife. During his brief stay
his previous resolution had vanished—by what in-
fluence it would be difficult to determine; but
removed completely it unquestionably was, and a
final resolution had taken its place, that Sir Wynston
Berkley should become his guest.
As Marston walked along the passages which led
from this room, he encountered his wife and
his daughter.
“Well,” said he, addressing Mrs. Marston, “you
have read Wynston's letter P’’
“Yes,” she replied, returning it to him ; “and
what answer, Richard, do you purpose giving
him P "
She was about to hazard a conjecture, but checked
herself, remembering that even so faint an evidence
of a disposition to advise, might possibly be resented
by her cold and imperious lord.
“I have considered it, and decided to receive him,”
he replied.
“Ah! I am afraid—that is, I hope—he may find
our housekeeping such as he can enjoy,” she said,


I 4 THE EVIL GUEST.
with an involuntary expression of surprise; for she
had scarcely had a doubt that her husband would
have preferred evading the visit of his fine friend,
under his gloomy circumstances
“If our modest fare does not suit him,” said
“I have decided to receive him.”
Marston, with sullen bitterness, “he can depart as
easily as he came. We poor gentlemen can but do
our best. I have thought it over, and made up my
mind.”
“And how soon, my dear Richard, do you intend
fixing his arrival?” she inquired, with the natural


THE EVIL GUEST. I 5
yr she
would
friend,
” said
art 35
but do
up my
intend
natural
uneasiness of one upon whom, in an establishment
whose pretensions considerably exceeded its re-
Sources, the perplexing cares of housekeeping
devolved.
“Why, as soon as he pleases,” replied he. “I
suppose you can easily have his room prepared by
to-morrow, or next day. I shall write by this mail,
and tell him to come down at once.”
Having said this in a cold, decisive way, he turned
and left her, not caring to be teased with further
questions. Then the Master of Gray Forest took his
solitary way to a distant part of his wild park, where,
far from the likelihood of disturbance or intrusion,
he was often wont to amuse himself for the livelong
day in the sedentary sport of shooting rabbits; the
industrious pursuit of his unsocial occupation being
signified to the distant inmates of the house, by the
dropping fire which sullenly echoed at intervals from
the remote woods.


THE EVIL GUEST. 17
his simple manners and unaffected benignity and
tenderness of heart had won the love of all, with the
exception of its master, and commanded even his
respect. In the ready sympathy and consolatory
counsels of Mademoiselle de Barras, Mrs. Marston
found no small happiness. The society of this
young lady had indeed become, next to that of her
daughter, her greatest comfort and pleasure.
Mademoiselle de Barras was of a noble, though
ruined French family, and a certain nameless
elegance and dignity attested, in spite of her fallen
condition, the purity of her descent. She was
accomplished—possessed of that fine perception and
sensitiveness, and that ready power of self-adaptation
to the peculiarities and moods of others, which we
term tact—and was, moreover, gifted with a certain
natural grace, and with manners the most winning
imaginable. In short, she was a fascinating com-
panion, and when the melancholy circumstances of
her own situation and the sad history of her once
rich and noble family were taken into account, to-
gether with her striking attractions of person and air,
the combination of all these associations and impres-
sions rendered her one of the most interesting
persons that could well be imagined. The circum-
stances of Mademoiselle de Barras's history and
descent seemed to warrant, on Mrs. Marston's part,
a closer intimacy and confidence than usually subsists
C


I8 THE EVIL GUEST.
between parties occupying the relation of mistress
and dependent.
Mrs. Marston had hardly established herself in her
little boudoir, when a light foot approached, a gentle
tap was given at the door, and the governess
entered.
“Ah, mademoiselle, so kind—such pretty flowers.
Pray sit down,” said the lady, with a sweet and
grateful smile, as she took from the taper fingers of
the foreigner the little bouquet which she had been
at the pains to gather. -
Mademoiselle sat down, and gently took the iady’s
hand and kissed it. A small matter will overflow
a heart charged with sorrow—a chance word, a look,
some little office of kindness —and so it was with
mademoiselle’s bouquet and gentle kiss. Mrs.
Marston's heart was touched; her eyes filled with
bright tears; she smiled gratefully upon her fair and
humble companion, and as she Smiled, her tears
overflowed, and for some minutes she wept in silence.
“My poor mademoiselle,” she said, at last, “you
are so very, very kind.”
Mademoiselle said nothing; she lowered her eyes,
and pressed the poor lady's hand.
Apparently to interrupt an embarrassing silence,
and to give a more cheerful tone to their little inter-
view, the governess, in a gay tone, said, somewhat
abruptly:


THE EVIL GUEST. I9
“And so, madame, we are to have a visitor, Miss
Rhoda tells me—a baronet, is he not ?”
“Yes, indeed, mademoiselle—Sir Wynston Berkley,
a gay London gentleman, and a cousin of Mr.
Marston,” she replied.
“Ha—a cousin l’’ exclaimed the young lady, with
a little more surprise in her tone than seemed alto-
gether called for—“a cousin Then that is the
reason of his visit. Do, pray, madame, tell me all
about him ; I am so much afraid of strangers, and
what you call men of the world. Oh, dear Mrs.
Marston, I am not worthy to be here, and he will see
all that in a moment ; indeed, indeed, I am afraid.
Pray tell me all about him.”
She said this with a simplicity which made the elder
lady smile, and while mademoiselle re-adjusted the
tiny flowers which formed the bouquet she had just
presented to her, Mrs. Marston good-naturedly
recounted to her all she knew of Sir Wynston
Berkley, which, in substance, amounted to no more
than has been already stated. When she concluded,
the young Frenchwoman continued for some time
silent, still busy with her flowers. But suddenly
she heaved a deep sigh, and shook her head.
“You seem disquieted, mademoiselle,” said Mrs.
Marston, in a tone of kindness.
“I am thinking, madame,” she said, still looking
upon the flowers she was adjusting, and again sighing
C 2


2O THE EVIL GUEST.
profoundly, “I am thinking of what you said to me a
week ago, alas !”
“I do not remember what it was, my good
mademoiselle—nothing, I am sure, that ought to
grieve you—at least, nothing that was intended to
have that effect,” replied the lady, in a tone of gentle
encouragement,
“No, not intended, madame,” said the young
Frenchwoman, sorrowfully.
“Well, what was it? Perhaps you misunderstood ;
perhaps I can explain what I said,” replied Mrs.
Marston, affectionately.
“Ah, madame, you think—you think I am unlucky,”
answered the young lady, slowly and faintly.
“ Unlucky | Dear mademoiselle, you surprise me,”
rejoined her companion.
“I mean—what I mean is this, madame; you date
unhappiness—if not its beginning, at least its great
aggravation and increase,” she answered, dejectedly,
“from the time of my coming here, madame ; and
though I know you are too good to dislike me on
that account, yet I must, in your eyes, be ever con-
nected with calamity, and look like an ominous
thing.”
“Dear mademoiselle, allow no such thought to
enter your mind. You do me great wrong, indeed
you do,” said Mrs. Marston, laying her hand upon
the young Frenchwoman's kindly.


THE EVIL GUEST. 2 I
There was a silence for a little time, and the elder
lady resumed :-
“I remember now what you allude to, dear made-
moiselle—the increased estrangement, the widening
separation which severs me from one unutterably
dear to me—the first and bitter disappointment of
my life, which seems to grow more hopelessly in-
curable day by day.”
Mrs. Marston paused, and, after a brief silence, the
governess said :
“I am very superstitious myself, dear madame, and
I thought I must have seemed to you an inauspicious
inmate—in short, unlucky, as I have said; and the
thought made me very unhappy—so unhappy that I
was going to leave you, madame—I may now tell
you frankly—going away; but you have set my
doubts at rest, and I am quite happy again.”
“Dear mademoiselle !” cried the lady, tenderly,
and rising as she spake to kiss the cheek of her
humble friend; “never, never speak of this again.
God knows I have too few friends on earth, to spare
the kindest and tenderest among them all. No, no
You little think what comfort I have found in your
warm-hearted and ready sympathy, and how dearly
I prize your affection, my poor mademoiselle.”
The young Frenchwoman rose, with downcast eyes
and a dimpling, happy Smile ; and as Mrs. Marston
drew her affectionately toward her and kissed her,


22 THE EVIL GUEST.
she timidly returned the embrace of her kind
patroness. For a moment her graceful arms en-
“Her actual revision of the letter itself was interrupted by long
intervals of profound abstraction.”
circled her, and she whispered her, “Dear madame,
how happy—how very happy you make me!”
Had Ithuriel touched with his spear the beautiful
young woman, thus for a moment, as it seemed, lost


THE EVIL GUEST. 23
in a trance of gratitude and love, would that angelic
form have stood the test unscathed P A spectator
marking the scene might have observed a strange
gleam in her eyes—a strange expression in her face—
an influence for a moment not angelic, like a shadow
of some passing spirit, cross her visibly, as she leaned
over the gentle lady’s neck, and murmured, “Dear
madame, how happy—how very happy you make
me!” Such a spectator, as he looked at that gentle
lady, might have seen, for one dreamy moment, a lithe
and painted serpent, coiled round and round, and
hissing in her ear.
A few minutes more, and mademoiselle was in the
solitude of her own apartment. She shut and bolted
the door, and taking from her desk the letter which
she had that morning received, threw herself into
an armchair and studied the document profoundly.
Her actual revision of the letter itself was interrupted
by long intervals of profound abstraction ; and, after
a full hour thus spent, she locked it carefully up again,
and with a clear brow and a gay smile, rejoined her
pretty pupil for a walk.


CHAPTER III.
AFTER an interval of a few days, Sir Wynston
Berkley arrived at Gray Forest. The baronet
descended from his chaise but a short time before
the hour at which the little party which formed the
family at Gray Forest were wont to assemble for the
social meal of supper. A few minutes devoted to the
mysteries of the toilet, with the aid of an accom-
plished valet, enabled him to appear, as he conceived,
without disadvantage at this domestic reunion.
Sir Wynston Berkley was a particularly gentleman-
like 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 roué,
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


26 THE EVIL GUEST.
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 Cheshire, 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.”
Inspite of this cheering assurance, Marston remained
sullenly taciturn. Supper 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 have 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
xy
Rouen three years ago
“ Ha! Rouen P 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 the moment a little dis-
concerted too, but rallied speedily, and pursued his
detail of his doings at that fair town of Normandy.


THE EVIL GUEST. 27
Marston knew Sir Wynston well, and he rightly
calculated that whatever effect his experience of the
world might have had in intensifying his selfishness,
of 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 Gray Forest ?
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 pro-
perty of which he was about to become the legal
invader 2 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 he thought of Mademoiselle
de Barras's transient, but unaccountable, embarrass-
ment at the mention of Rouen by Sir Wynston—an


28 THE EVIL GUEST.
d
embarrassment which the baronet himself appeared
for a moment to reciprocate—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 of 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 Gray Forest, 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 depar-
ture the direct interest of his entertainer, he unques-
tionably took effectual measures for that purpose.
The little party broke up every evening about ten
o'clock, and Sir Wynston usually retired to his cham-
ber 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 very wealthy, and
reckless in matters of expenditure. The stakes for
which they played, although they gradually became
in reality pretty heavy, were in his eyes a very unim-


THE EVIL GUEST. 29
portant 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 good-humour
with which Sir Wynston lost were not unwelcome to
his entertainer, who, as may readily be supposed, was
not sorry to reap this golden harvest, provided he could
do so without the sacrifice on his part of pride or inde-
pendence. 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, night after night, in 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 soon 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 Made-
moiselle 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 each side upon the
same passage. 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 at a
considerable distance from the house, having unex-


3O THE EVIL GUEST.
pectedly 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 was cautiously pushed open, and Sir Wynston
Berkley issued from the room. 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 dis-
tinctly 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 with a very peculiar ex-
pression.
“You have caught me peeping, Dick. I am an
inveterate explorer,” said the baronet, with an effec-
tual effort to shake off his embarrassment. “An
open door in a fine old house is a temptation
which xx
“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 cob-
webs..”
“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


TI] E. EVIL GUEST. 3 I
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 downstairs. 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 2 mademoiselle goes with you,
and you had better go at once.”
A few minutes inore, and Marston from the parlour
window beheld Rhoda and the elegant French gover-
ness walking together towards the woodlands. He
watched them gloomily, himself unseen, until the


32 THE EVIL GUEST.
crowding underwood concealed their receding figures.
Then, with a sigh, he turned and re-ascended 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, 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 the desk 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 at last, when almost despairing of success, found
one which fitted the lock. He turned the key, and
opened the desk.
Sustained throughout his dishonourable task by
some strong and angry passion, the sight of the open
escritoire 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 the desk and
replace it where he had originally found it, without
having effected his meditated treason, but this hesita-


THE EVIL GUEST. 33
tion 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 reposi-
tory of the fair Norman's written secrets.
“Ha! the verything !” he muttered, as he detected
“Opened the desk.”
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
D


CHAPTER IV.
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 had 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 the night, in these lonely tracts. In his solitary
walk what fearful company had he been keeping !
As the shades of night deepened around him, the
sense of the neighbourhood of ill, the consciousness
of the foul fancies of which, where he was now tread-
ing, he had been for hours the sport, oppressed him
D 2


36 THE EVIL GUEST.
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
haunted him with a ghastly and defiant pertinacity,
scared, while they half enraged him. He stalked
Swiftly homewards, like a guilty man pursued.
Marston was not perfectly satisfied with the evi-
dence now in his possession. The letter, the stolen
perusal of which had so agitated him that day, bore
no signature; but, independently of the hand-
writing, 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 actu-
ally 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 sur-
mises 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 ac-
countable.
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


THE EVIL GUEST. 37
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 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 in-
dividuals, singularly fulfilled in the events of their
after-life.
“By-the-bye, Dick, this is rather a nervous topic
for me to discuss,” said Sir Wynston.
“How so 2 ” asked his host.
“Why, don't you remember 2 ” urged the
baronet.
“No, I don’t recollect what you allude to,” replied
Marston, in all sincerity.
“Why, don't you remember Eton 2 ” pursued Sir
Wynston.
“Yes, to be sure,” said Marston.
“Well ?” continued his visitor.
“Well, I really don't recollect the prophecy,”
replied Marston.
“What I do you forget the gipsy who predicted
that you were to murder me, Dick—eh 2 ”
“Ah-ha, ha!” laughed Marston, with a start.


38 THE EVIL GUEST.
“Don’t you remember it now 2° urged his com-
panion.
“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 P”
“Well, Dick,” rejoined Sir Wynston, merrily, “if
the fulfilment of one prophecy depends upon the
ſulfilment of the other, 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,
who had been for many years in the employment of
Mr. Marston, presented himself.
“Well, Cartwright, do you want anything P” asked
the lady.
“Yes, ma'am, please, I want to give warning; I
wish to leave the service, ma'am,” replied he, re-
spectfully, but doggedly.
“To leave us !” echoed his mistress, both surprised
and sorry, for the man had been long her servant,
and had been much liked and trusted.


THE EVIL GUEST. 39
“Yes, ma'am,” he repeated.
“And why do you wish to do so, Cartwright 2
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, Cartwright—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, Cartwright, you had better
think the matter over; and if you still, upon re-
flection, 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 Cartwright 2'


4O THE EVIL GUEST.
“No, ma'am, I don't know of anything; but he is
very changed, indeed, of late,” replied the maid.
“He has not been quarrelling 2 ” 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 2" continued the lady; for there was something
strangely excited and unpleasant in the man's
manner, during the little interview, which struck Mrs.
Marston, and alarmed her. He had seemed like one
charged with some horrible, intolerable secret, which
he dared not reveal.
“What,” proceeded Mrs. Marston, “is the nature
of the change of which you speak 2 ”
“Why, ma'am, he is like one frightened, and in
sorrow,” the maid 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 l’” said the lady of the house.
“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. Cartwright on his knees
by the bedside, praying or crying, he don't know


THE EVIL GUEST. 4 I
which ; but, any way, he is not happy, poor man
and that is plain enough.”
“It is very strange,” said Mrs. Marston, 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—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 the poor fellow P” 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 calamity.
For two or three days everything went on Smoothly,


42 THE EVIL GUEST.
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 give up his situation. Cartwright again
stood before her, and repeated the intimation he had
already given.
“Really, 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 l’”
“If anything weighs upon your mind, Cartwright, 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, Cartwright, 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, in-
offensive person P” she inquired.


THE EVIL GUEST. 43
“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 P”
said Mrs. Marston.
The man hesitated, and shifted his position un-
easily.
“You need not answer if you don't wish it,” she
said kindly.
“ hy, ma'am, yes, it has something to say to
them both,” he replied, with some agitation.
“I really cannot understand this,” said she.
Cartwright 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, Cartwright,” 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 pur-
port.”
“No, ma'am, there is nothing in what I heard that
could touch anybody but myself. It was nothing


44 THE EVIL GUEST.
but what others heard, without remarking it, or
thinking about it. I can't tell you any more, 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.
“Don’t agitate yourself so, Cartwright; 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. God knows, it would be well for me I was
dead this minute '''
“I am very sorry for your unhappiness,” 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.


CHAPTER V.
MR. MARSTON usually passed the early part of the
day in active exercise, and his wife, 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 Cartwright.
Just as she reached the door of the governess's
chamber, she heard voices within exerted in evident
excitement. She stopped in amazement. The voices
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 which 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


46 THE EVIL GUEST.
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 endeavoured to speak;
but, though her lips moved, no sound escaped her;
and from very weakness, she sank, half-ſainting, 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, how-
ever, 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 signifi-
cance, 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 endeavouring to make
you despise his authority. Madame, speak for me.
Say, madame, have I ever done so 2–say, madame,





46 THE EVIL GUEST.
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 endeavoured to speak;
but, though her lips moved, no sound escaped her ;
and from very weakness, she sank, half-ſainting, 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, how-
ever, 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 signifi-
cance, 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 endeavouring to make
you despise his authority. Madame, speak for me.
Say, madame, have I ever done so 2–say, madame,


-
-º
N-
S - -
w
--
º & - #: i. Nº º § §§
“His gaze fixed upon the Frenchwoman.”





THE EVIL GUEST. 49
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 P”
As she thus spoke, mademoiselle again burst into
a paroxysm of weeping, and again the same signifi-
cant 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 con-
fidences 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 2’
“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 2 ” 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 re-
proaches about ; what have I done 2'' interposed
E


5O THE EVIL GUEST.
mademoiselle, with indignant vehemence, standing
erect, and viewing Marston with a flashing eye and a
flushed cheek. “Yes, I am called conspirator,
meddler, intriguante. Ah, madame, it is intolerable.”
“But what have I done, Richard P’’ 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 2 Yes, dear madame,
there is the question ; and if he cannot answer, is it
not most cruel to call me conspirator and spy, and
intriguante, because I talk to my dear madame, who
is my only friend in this place 2°
“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 estrange-
ment—eh 2 These are the words, are not they 2”
“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 2" persisted the governess
—“bear witness for me!”
“I have told you my mind, Mademoiselle de
Barras,” interrupted Marston ; “I will have no alter-


THE EVIL G UEST. 5 I
cation, if you please. I think, Mrs. Marston, we
have had enough of this ; may I accompany you
hence 2'' -
So saying, he took the poor lady's passive hand,
and led her from the room.
Mademoiselle stood in the centre of the apart-
ment, alone, erect, with heaving breast and burning
cheek—beautiful, thoughtful, guilty—her heart all
confusion, her mind darkened, 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 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 oblite-
rating influence of what followed. She was in this
state of agitation when Mademoiselle de Barras
entered her chamber, resolved with all her art to
E 2


52 THE EVIL GUEST.
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, insult and reproach had been 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
endeavouring to procure her removal, and had but
too effectually succeeded. Mademoiselle was deter-
mined 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.
The wild and ghastly suspicions which had for a
moment flashed terribly upon the mind of Mrs.
Marston faded away under the influences of reason
and reflection—although, indeed, much painful ex-
citement still remained—before Mademoiselle de
Barras had visited her room. Her husband's temper
she knew but too well ; it was violent, bitter, and
impetuous; and though he cared little, if at all, for
her, she had ever perceived that he was angrily
jealous of the slightest intimacy or confidence by
which any other than himself might establish an
influence over her mind. That he had learned the


THE EVIL GUEST. 53
subject of some of her most interesting conversations
with mademoiselle she could not doubt, for he had
violently upbraided that young lady in her presence
with having discussed it, and here now was made-
moiselle herself taking refuge with her from galling
affront and unjust reproach—incensed, wounded, and
weeping. The whole thing was consistent; all the
circumstances bore plainly in the same direction;
the evidence was conclusive ; and Mrs. Marston's
thoughts and feelings respecting her fair young
confidante quickly found their old level, and flowed
on tranquilly and sadly in their accustomed channel.


CHAPTER VI.
WHILE Mademoiselle de Barras was thus, with the
persevering industry of the spider, repairing the
meshes which a chance breath had shattered, she
would, perhaps, have been in her turn shocked and
startled, could she have glanced into Marston's mind
and seen, in what was passing there, the real extent
of her danger.
Marston was walking, as usual, alone, in the most
solitary region of his lonely park. One hand grasped
his walking-stick, not to lean upon it, but as if it
were the handle of a battle-axe ; the other was buried
in his bosom ; his dark face looked upon the ground,
and he strode onward with a slow but energetic step,
which had the air of deep resolution. He found
himself at last in a little churchyard situated in
the wild forest of his demesne, and in the midst of
which, covered with ivy and tufted plants, now ruddy
with autumnal tints, stood the ruined walls of a small
chapel. In a dilapidated vault close by lay buried
many of his ancestors, and under the little wavy
hillocks of fern and nettles slept many an humble


THE EVIL GUEST. 55
villager. He sat down upon a worn tombstone in
this lowly ruin, and with his eyes fixed upon the
ground, he surrendered his spirit to the stormy and
evil thoughts which he had invited. Long and
motionless he sat there, his foul fancies and schemes
beginning to assume shape and order. The
“A skull which some wanton hand had placed in a crevice of the
wall.”
wind rushing through the ivy roused him for a
moment, and as he raised his gloomy eyes he found
his gaze fixed upon a skull, which some wanton hand
had placed in a crevice of the wall. He averted his
glance quickly, but almost as quickly refixed it
upon the impassive symbol of death, with an ex-


56 THE EVIL GUEST.
.
pression lowering and contemptuous, and then with
an angry gesture struck the skull down among the
weeds with his stick. He left the place, and
wandered on through the woods.
“Men can't control the thoughts that flit across
their minds,” he muttered, as he went along, “any
more than they can direct the shadows of the clouds
that sail above them. They come and pass, and
leave no stain behind. What, then, of omens,
and that wretched effigy of death P Stuff—psha
Murder, indeed I’m incapable of murder. I have
drawn my sword upon a man in fair duel; but
imurder 1 out upon the thought, out upon it !”
He stamped upon the ground with a pang at
once of fury and horror. He walked on a little,
stopped again, and, folding his arms, leaned against
an ancient tree.
“Mademoiselle de Barras, vous etes une traitresse,
and you shall go. Yes, go you shall; you have
deceived me, and we must part.”
He said this with melancholy bitterness; and,
after a pause, continued :-
“I will have no other revenge. No ; though I
dare say she will care but little for this ; very little,
if at all.”
“And then, as to the other person,” he resumed,
after a pause, “it is not the first time he has acted like
a trickster. He has crossed me before, and I will
;


THE EVIL GUEST. 57
choose an opportunity to tell him my mind. I won't
mince matters with him either, and will not spare
him one insulting syllable that he deserves. He
wears a sword, and so do I ; if he pleases, he may
draw it; he shall have the opportunity; but, at all
events, I will make it impossible for him to prolong
his disgraceful visit at my house.”
On reaching home and his own study, the servant
Cartwright presented himself; and his master, too
deeply excited to hear him then, appointed the next
day for the purpose. There was no contending against
Marston's peremptory will, and the man reluctantly
withdrew. Here was, apparently, a matter of no
imaginable moment; whether this menial should be
discharged on that day or on the morrow ; and yet
mighty things were involved in the alternative.
There was a deeper gloom than usual over the
house. The servants seemed to know that some.
thing had gone wrong, and looked grave and
mysterious. Marston was more than ever dark and
moody. Mrs. Marston's dimmed and swollen eyes
showed that she had been weeping. Mademoiselle
absented herself from supper, on the plea of a bad
headache. Rhoda saw that something, she knew not
what, had occurred to agitate her elders, and was
depressed and anxious. The old clergyman, of
whom mention has already been made, had called,
and stayed to supper.


58 - THE EVIL GUEST.
:
Dr. Danvers was a man of considerable learning,
strong sense, and remarkable simplicity of character.
His thoughtful blue eyes and his well-marked coun-
tenance were full of gentleness and benevolence, and
elevated by a certain natural dignity of which purity
and goodness, without one, debasing shade of self-
esteem and arrogance, were the animating spirit.
Mrs. Marston loved and respected this good minister
of God; and many a time had sought and found in
his gentle and earnest counsels and in the over-
flowing tenderness of his sympathy, much comfort
and support in the progress of her sore and pro-
tracted earthly trial. Most especially at one critical
period in her history had he endeared himself to
her by interposing, and successfuly, to prevent
a formal separation which (as ending for ever the
one hope that cheered her on, even in the front
of despair) she would probably not long have
survived.
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
*


THE EVIL GUEST. 59
resent the involuntary homage which its exhibition
in Dr. Danvers' person invariably extorted from him.
In this good man's presence Marston felt under a
kind of irritating restraint; 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 the host 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 despatched 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 in his guest's manner very evident indica-
tions 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.


THE EVIL GUEST. 6I
affectionate creature,” said Mrs. Marston, who felt
called upon to say something.
“Come, Marston, will you contribute nothing to
the general fund of 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 hand-
some 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 good-will, 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 down here 2 ” 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.


THE EVIL GUEST. 63
persons or places, to propose, before taking his de-
parture 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 his gloomy reverie, he himself
was the first to remind the clergyman of his cus-
tomary 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
heaven-sent 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 P. The unseen, intan-
gible, was ever 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


64 THE EVIL GUEST.
objects, would, like a spell, chase away the foul fiend
that was busy with his soul.
Marston sat, looking into the fire, with a counte-
nance of stern gloom, upon which the wayward lights
of the flickering hearth sported fitfully; while at a
distant table Doctor Danvers sat 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 imaginable
gleam of ridicule might, perhaps, have been dis-
cerned 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 cheerfulness to an inevitable bore.
The judgment troubled not Sir Wynston; he had
no fear of death; yet there was a heart beating near
him, the mysteries of which, could they glide out and
stand before his face, would perchance appal the
cold, easy man of the world. Ay, could he but see
with those cunning eyes of his, but twelve brief hours
into futurity, each syllable now falling from that good
man's lips unheeded, would peal through his heart
and brain like maddening thunder |
The party broke up. Doctor Danvers took his
leave, and rode homeward, down the broad avenue,


THE EVIL GUEST. 65
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 glaring !
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 to-night; Sir Wynston.”
“Ah, ha! very particularly engaged P” suggested
the baronet, with a faint, mocking smile. “Well, my
dear fellow, we must endeavour to make up for it
to-morrow—eh P”
“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 under-
stands the other. I wish to have a word or two
with you in your room to-night, when we shan't be
interrupted.”
Marston spoke in a fierce and grating whisper, and
F


THE EVIL GUEST. 67
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, with-
out compromising himself in a most unpleasant way.
Animated with these amiable feelings, Sir Wynston
Berkley sat 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 bed-rooms 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 bed-room removed into the large dressing-room
which opens upon the bed-room I have named.
Make everything as comfortable as possible. If any-
thing is wanted in the way of furniture, drapery,
ornament, &c., you need only write to John Skelton,
Esq., Spring Gardens, 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.
F 2


68 THE EVIL GUEST.
“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 con-
siderably greater length, and from which we shall
only offer a few extracts. It was addressed to John
Skelton, Esq., and began as follows:—
“MY DEAR SKELTON,+You are, doubtless, sur-
prised at my long silence, but I have had nothing very
particular to say. My visit to this dull and uncomfort-
able 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 truth, 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 Penrudduck, who has carried all his
London tastes into his savage retreat, a paradise of
bogs and bushes. There is, I am very confident, a
Jiaison in that quarter. The young lady is evidently


THE EVIL GUEST. 69
a good deal afraid of him, and insists upon such pre-
cautions 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 l) 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 great
deal of brushing and scouring. I shall see you in
town very soon. By the way, has the claret I ordered
from the Dublin house arrived yet? 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 fol-
lowed ; and having subscribed the despatch, and


7o THE EVIL GUEST.
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
“Leaned back in his easy chair.”
himself to the post office 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.


CHAPTER VII.
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 looked down coldly from their tar-
nished 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 cntrance,
he beheld the door noiselessly and slowly pushed


THE EVIL GUEST. 73
you can imagine; and all your suspicions have
wronged her deeply,” said Mrs. Marston.
Her husband darted a sudden flashing glance of
suspicious scrutiny upon her face; but its expression
was frank, earnest and noble. He was disarmed ; he
hung his head gloomily upon his breast, and was
silent for a time. She came nearer, and laid her
hand upon his arm. He looked darkly into her up-
turned eyes, and a feeling which had not touched his
heart for many a day—an emotion of pity, transient,
indeed, but vivid, revisited him. He took her hand
in his, and said, in gentler terms than she had heard
him use for a long time;-
“No, indeed, Gertrude, you have deceived your-
self; no misfortune has happened, and if I am
gloomy, the source of all my troubles is within.
Leave me, Gertrude, for the present. As to the other
matter, the departure of Mademoiselle de Barras, we
can talk of that to-morrow—now I cannot; so let us
part. Go to your room ; good-night.”
She was withdrawing, and he added, in a subdued
tone—
“Gertrude, I am very glad you came—very glad.
Pray for me to-night.”
He had followed her a few steps towards the door,
and now stopped short, turned about, and walked
dejectedly back again. -
“I am right glad she came,” he muttered, as soon


74 THE EVIL GUEST.
as he was once more alone. “Wynston is provoking
and fiery, too. Were I, in my present mood, to seek
a tête-d-tête with him, who knows what might come
of it? Blood, my own heart whispers—blood I'll
not trust myself.”
He strode to the study door, locked it, and,
taking out the key, shut it in the drawer of one of the
cabinets.
“Now it will need more than accident or impulse
to lead me to him. I cannot go, at least, without
reflection, without premeditation.”
He stood in the centre of the room, cowering and
scowling as he muttered these words, and looked
round with a glance half-defiant, half-fearful, as if he
expected to see some dreadful form in the dusky
recesses of the desolate chamber. He sat himself by
the Smouldering fire, in sombre and agitated rumina-
tion. He was restless. He rose again, unbuckled his
sword, which he had not loosed since evening, and
threw it hastily into a corner. He looked at his
watch, it was half-past twelve; he glanced at the
door, and thence at the cabinet in which he had
placed the key ; then he turned hastily, and sat down
again. He leaned his elbows on his knees, and his
chin upon his clenched hands. Still he was restless
and excited. Once more he arose, and paced up and
down. He consulted his watch again ; it was now
but a quarter to one.


76 THE EVIL GUEST.
and heard some sentences spoken vehemently, and
gabbled very fast. He thought he distinguished
the words “wretch " and “God”; and there was
something so strange in the tone in which they were
spoken, that the man got up and stole noiselessly
through the dressing-room, and listened at the door.
He heard his master, as he thought, walking in his
slippers through the room, and making his customary
arrangements previously to getting into bed. He
knew that Sir Wynston had a habit of speaking when
alone, and concluded that the accidental breakage of
some glass or chimney-ornament had elicited the
volley of words he had overheard. Well knowing
that, except at the usual hours, or in obedience to
Sir Wynston's bell, nothing more displeased his
master than his presuming to enter his sleeping-
apartment while he was there, the servant quietly
retreated, and perfectly satisfied that all was right,
composed himself to slumber, and was soon beginning
to doze again.
The adventures of the night, however, were not
yet over. Waking, as men sometimes do, without any
ascertainable cause, without a start or an uneasy
sensation, without even a disturbance of the attitude
of repose, he opened his eyes and beheld Cartwright,
the domestic of whom we have spoken, standing
at a little distance from his bed. The moonlight fell
in a clear flood upon this figure : the man was ghastly


THE EVIL GUEST. 77
pale; there was a blotch of blood on his face; his
hands were clasped upon something which they
nearly concealed ; and his eyes, fixed on the servant
who had just awakened, shone in the cold light with
a wild and lifeless glitter. This spectre drew close
to the side of the bed, and stood for a few moments
“The moonlight ſell . . . upon this figure.”
there with a look of agony and menace, which
startled the newly-awakened man, who rose upright,
and said,
“Mr. Cartwright, Mr. Cartwright—in God's name,
what is the matter?”
Cartwright recoiled at the sound of his voice; and
as he did so, dropped on the floor something which


78 THE EVIL GUEST.
rolled away to a distance ; and he stood gazing
silently and horribly upon his interrogator.
“Mr. Cartwright, I say, what is it 2" urged the
man. “Are you hurt? your face is bloody.”
The intruder raised his hand to his face mechanic-
ally, and Sir Wynston's man observed that it, too,
was covered with blood.
“Why, man,” he said, vehemently, and actually
freezing with horror, “you are all bloody ; hands and
face ; all over blood l’’
“My hand is cut to the bone,” said Cartwright, in a
harsh whisper; and speaking to himself, rather than
addressing the servant—“I wish it was my neck; I
wish to God I had bled to death.”
“You have hurt your hand,” repeated the man
scarce knowing what he said.
“Ay,” whispered the other, wildly drawing to-
wards the bedside again; “who told you I hurt my
hand P. It is cut to the bone.”
He stooped for a moment over the bed, and then
cowered down towards the floor to search for what he
had dropped.
“Why, Mr. Cartwright, what brings you here at
this hour P” urged the man, after a pause of a few
seconds. “It is drawing toward morning.”
“Ay, ay,” said the intruder, doubtfully, and starting
upright again, while he concealed in his bosom what
he had been in search of “Near morning, is it P


THE EVIL GUEST. 79
Night and morning, it is all one to me. I believe I
am going mad, by xy
“But what do you want 2 what did you come here
for at this hour P” persisted the baronet's valet.
“What ay, that is it; why, his boots and Spurs,
to be sure. I forgot them. His—his—Sir Wynston's
boots and spurs; I forgot to take them, I say,” said
Cartwright, looking toward the dressing-room, as if
about to enter it.
“Don’t mind them to-night, I say; don't go in
there,” said the man peremptorily, and getting out
upon the floor. “I say, you know this is no hour
to be going about searching in the dark for boots and
Spurs. You'll waken the master. I can't have it, I
say ; go down, and let it be for to-night.”
Thus speaking, in a resolute and somewhat angry
under-key, the valet stood between Cartwright and the
entrance of the dressing-room; and, signing with his
hand toward the outer door of the apartment, con-
tinued,—
“Go down, I say. Pray go down ; you may as
well go quietly, for, I tell you plainly, you shall neither
move a step further, nor stay here a moment longer.”
The man drew his shoulders up, and made a sort of
shivering moan, and clasping his hands together,
shook them, as it seemed, in great agony. He then
turned abruptly, and hurried from the room by the
door leading to the kitchen.


8O THE EVIL GUEST.
“By my faith,” said the valet, “I am glad he is
gone. The poor chap is turning crazy, as sure as I
am a living man. I'll not have him prowling about
here any more, however; that I am resolved on.”
In pursuance of this determination, by no means
an imprudent one, as it seemed, he fastened the door
communicating with the lower apartments upon the
inside. He had hardly done this, when he heard a
step traversing the stable-yard, which lay under the
window of his apartment. He looked out, and saw
his recent visitor walking hurriedly across, and into a
stable at the farther end. -
Feeling no very particular curiosity about his
movements, the valet hurried back to his bed.
Cartwright's eccentric conduct of late had become so
generally remarked and discussed among the servants,
that Sir Wynston's man was by no means surprised
at the oddity of the visit he had just had ; nor, after
the first few moments of doubt, before the appear-
ance of blood had been accounted for, had he en-
tertained any suspicions whatever connected with the
man's unexpected presence in the room. Cartwright
was in the habit of coming up every night to take
down Sir Wynston's boots, whenever the baronet
had ridden in the course of the day; and this atten-
tion had been civilly undertaken as a proof of good-
will toward the valet, whose duty this somewhat
soiling and servile process would otherwise have


THE EVIL GUEST. 8 I
been. So far, the nature of the visit was explained ;
and the remembrance of the friendly feeling and
good offices which had been mutually interchanged,
as well as of the inoffensive habits for which Cartwright
had earned a character, speedily calmed the un-
easiness, for a moment amounting to actual alarm,
with which the baronet's servant had regarded his
appearance.


CHAPTER IX.
IN contact with Gray Forest upon the northern side,
and divided by a common boundary, lay a demesne,
in many respects presenting a very striking contrast
to its grander neighbour. It was a comparatively
modern place. It could not boast the towering
timber which enriched and overshadowed the vast
and varied expanse of its aristocratic rival; but, if it
was inferior in the advantages of antiquity, and,
perhaps, also in some of those of nature, its
superiority in other respects was striking and im-
portant. Gray Forest was not more remarkable for
its wild and neglected condition, than was Newton
Park for the care and elegance with which it was
kept. No one could observe the contrast without,
at the same time, divining its cause. The proprietor
of the one was a man of wealth, fully commensurate
with the extent and pretensions of the residence he
had chosen ; the owner of the other was a man of
broken fortunes.
Under a green shade, which nearly met above, a
very young man, scarcely one-and-twenty, of a frank,


84 THE EVIL GUEST.
rode up to the iron gate, and dismounting, threw it
open, and let his horse in.
“Ha! Charles Marston, I protest!” said the young
man, quickening his pace to meet his friend.
“Marston, my dear fellow,” he called aloud, “how
glad I am to see you !”
There was another entrance into Newton Park,
opening from the same road, about half a mile
further on ; and Charles Marston made his way lie
through this.
Between the fathers of the two young men, now
walking so affectionately together, there subsisted
unhappily no friendly feelings. There had been
several slight disagreements between them touching
their proprietary rights, and one of these had ripened
into a formal and somewhat expensive litigation
respecting a certain right of fishing claimed by each.
This legal encounter had terminated in the defeat of
Marston. Mervyn, however, promptly wrote to his
opponent, offering him the free use of the waters for
which they had thus sharply contested, and received
a curt and scarcely civil reply, declining the proposed
courtesy. This exhibition of resentment on Marston's
part had been followed by some rather angry colli-
sions, where chance or duty happened to throw
them together. It is but justice to say that upon
all such occasions Marston was the aggressor. But
Mervyn was a somewhat testy old gentleman, and


TIHE EVIL GUEST. 85
had a certain pride of his own, which was not to be
trifled with. Thus, though near neighbours, the
parents of the young friends were more than strangers
to each other. On Mervyn's side, however, this
estrangement was unalloyed with bitterness, and
simply of that kind which the great moralist would
have ascribed to “defensive pride.” It did not in-
clude any member of Marston's family, and Charles,
as often as he desired it (which was, in truth, as
often as his visits could escape the special notice of
his father) was a welcome guest at Newton Park.
The young people had now reached the further
gate, at which they were to part. Charles Marston,
with a heart beating happily in the anticipation of
many a pleasant meeting, bade farewell to his com-
panion, and in a few minutes more was riding up the
broad, straight avenue, towards the gloomy mansion
which closed in the hazy and sombre perspective.
As he moved onward, he passed a labourer, with
whose face he had from childhood been familiar.
“How do you do, Tom 2 ” he cried.
“At your service, sir,” replied the man, uncover-
ing, “and welcome home, sir.”
There was something dark and anxious in the
man's looks which ill-accorded with the welcome he
spoke, and which suggested some undefined alarm.
“The master, and mistress, and Miss Rhoda—are
all well ?” he asked, eagerly.


THE EVIL GUEST. 87
is bad work, sir—very bad, I'm afraid,” replied the
IIlan,
Charles did not wait to inquire further, but, with a
feeling of mingled horror and curiosity, entered the
house.
He hurried up the stairs, and entered his mother's
sitting-room. She was there, alone, and so deadly
pale that she scarcely looked like a living being. In
an instant they were locked in one another's arms.
“Mother—my dear mother, you are ill,” said the
young man, anxiously.
“Oh, no, no, dear Charles, but frightened, horri-
fied;” and as she said this, the poor lady burst into
tears. -
“What is this terrible affair 2 something about Sir
Wynston. He is dead, I know, but is it—is it
suicide 2" he asked.
“Oh, no, not suicide,” said Mrs. Marston, greatly
agitated.
“Good God then he is murdered,” whispered
the young man, growing very pale.
“Yes, Charles—horrible—dreadfull I can scarcely
believe it,” replied she, shuddering while she wept.
“Where is my father?” inquired the young man,
after a pause.
“Why, why, Charles darling—why do you ask
for him P” she said, wildly, grasping him by the arm,
as she looked into his face with a terrified expression.


88 THE EVIL GUEST.
“Why—because he could tell me the particulars
of this horrible tragedy,” answered he, meeting her
agonized look with one of alarm and surprise, “as far
“Why do you ask for him P”
as they have been as yet collected. How is he,
mother—is he well ?”
“Oh, yes, quite well, thank God,” she answered,
more collectedly—“quite well, but of course greatly,
dreadfully shocked.”


90 THE EVIL GUEST.
“Not that it signifies to us, of course—but I would
fain have justice satisfied.”
“And who is the wretch—the murderer?” inquired
Charles.
“Who? Why, everyone knows l—that scoundrel,
Cartwright,” answered Marston, in an irritated tone.
“The ruffian murdered him in his bed, and fled
last night; he is gone—escaped—and I suspect Sir
Wynston's man of being an accessory.”
“Which was Sir Wynston's bedroom P” asked the
young man, nervously.
“The room that old Lady Mostyn had—the room
with the portrait of Grace Hamilton in it.”
“I know—I know,” said the young man, much
excited. “I should wish to see the room.”
“Stay,” said Marston; “the door from the passage
is bolted on the inside, and I have locked the other.
Here is the key, if you choose to go, but you must
bring Hughes with you, and do not disturb anything;
leave all as it is ; the jury ought to see and examine
for themselves.”
Charles took the key, and, accompanied by the
awe-struck servant, he made his way by the back
stairs to the door opening from the dressing-room,
which intervened between the valet's chamber and
Sir Wynston's. After a momentary hesitation,
Charles turned the key in the door, and stood “ in
the dark chamber of white death.”


…’ qſt ºp 9ļļqAA JO 19queqo >{Iep 9q) u I ,,


THE EVIL GUEST. 93
The shutters lay partly open, as the valet had left
them some hours before on making the astounding
discovery which the partially-admitted light re-
vealed. The corpse lay in the silk-embroidered
dressing-gown and other habiliments which Sir
Wynston had worn while taking his ease in his
chamber on the preceding night. The coverlet was
partially dragged over it. The mouth was gaping,
and filled with clotted blood ; a wide gash was also
visible in the neck, under the ear; and there was a
thickening pool of blood at the bedside, and quanti-
ties of blood, doubtless from other wounds, had
saturated the bedclothes under the body. There
lay Sir Wynston, stiffened in the attitude in
which the struggle of death had left him, his
stern, stony face, and dim, terrible gaze turned
upwards.
Charles looked breathlessly upon this mute and
unchanging spectacle, and then silently suffered the
curtain to fall back, and stepped, with the light tread
of awe, again to the door. There he turned back,
and pausing for a minute, said, in a whisper, to the
attendant,<-
“And Cartwright did this?”
“I fear he did, sir,” answered the man, gloomily.
“And has made his escape P” continued Charles.
“Yes, sir; he stole away in the night-time,”
replied the servant, “after the murder was done.”


94 THE EVIL GUEST.
(He glanced fearfully toward the bed as he spoke.)
“God knows where he's gone.”
“The villain l’ muttered Charles. “But what
was his motive P why did he do all this 2–what does
it mean P”
“I don’t know exactly, sir, but he was very queer
for a week and more before it,” replied the man ;
“there was something bad over him for a long time.”
“It is a terrible thing,” said Charles, with a pro-
found sigh ; “a terrible and shocking occurrence.”
He hesitated again at the door, but his feelings
had sustained a terrible revulsion at sight of the
corpse, and he was no longer disposed to prosecute
his purposed examination of the chamber and its
contents, with a view to conjecturing the probable
circumstances of the murder.
“Observe, Hughes, that I have moved nothing in
the chamber from the place it occupied when we
entered,” he said to the servant, as they withdrew.
He locked the door, and as he passed through the
hall, on his return, he encountered his father, and,
restoring the key, said,
“I could not stay there; I am almost sorry I have
seen it; I am overpowered. What a determined,
ferocious murder it was the place is all in a pool of
gore; he must have received many wounds.”
“I can’t say; the particulars will be elicited soon
enough; those details are for the inquest; as for


96 THE EVIL GUEST.
“Of course; and therefore, the sooner you acquaint
her with it, and let her know that she must go, the
better.”
Having said this, Marston left his wife and went
to his own chamber, where he proceeded to make
his toilet with elaborate propriety, in preparation for
the scene which was about to take place under his
roof.
Mrs. Marston, meanwhile, suffered from a horrible
uncertainty. She never harboured, it is true, a doubt
as to her husband's perfect innocence of the ghastly
crime which filled their house with fear and gloom ;
but at the same time she experienced a nervous and
agonizing anxiety lest any one else should possibly
suspect him, however obliquely and faintly, of any
participation whatever in the foul deed. This vague
fear tortured her; it had taken possession of her
mind, and it was the more acutely painful, because it
was of a kind which precluded the possibility of her
dispelling it, as morbid fears so often are dispelled,
by taking counsel upon its suggestions with a friend.


CHAPTER X.
THE day wore on, and strange faces began to fill
the great parlour.
The coroner, accompanied by a physician, had
arrived. Several of the gentry in the immediate
vicinity had been summoned as jurors, and now
began to arrive in succession. Marston, in a hand-
some and sober suit, received these visitors with
a stately and melancholy courtesy befitting the
occasion. Mervyn and his son had both been
summoned, and, of course, were in attendance.
There being now a sufficient number to form a jury,
they were sworn, and immediately proceeded upstairs
to the chamber where the body of the murdered
man was lying.
Marston accompanied them, and with a pale and
stern countenance, and in a clear and subdued tone,
called their attention successively to every particular
detail which he conceived important to be noted.
Having thus employed some minutes, the jury again
returned to the parlour, and the examination of the
witnesses commenced.
H


THE EVIL GUEST. 99
servant of the late Sir Wynston Berkley. His
evidence was a narrative of the occurrences already
stated. He described the sounds which he had over-
heard from his master's room, the subsequent appear-
ance of Cartwright, and the conversation which had
passed between them. He then procceded to men-
tion that it was his master's custom to have himself
called at seven o'clock, at which hour he usually
took some medicine, which it was the valet's duty to
bring to him ; after this Sir Wynston either settled
again to rest, or rose in a short time, if unable to
sleep. Having measured and prepared this dose in the
dressing-room, the servant went on to say, he had
knocked at his master's door, and receiving no
answer, had entered the room, and partly unclosed
the shutters. He perceived the blood on the carpet,
and on opening the curtains, saw his master lying
with his mouth and eyes open, perfectly dead, and
weltering in gore. He had stretched out his hand,
and seized that of the dead man, which was quite
stiff and cold ; then, losing heart, he had run to the
door communicating with the passage, but found it
locked, and turned to the other entrance, and ran
down the back stairs, crying “murder.” Mr. Hughes,
the butler, and James Odgers, another servant, came
immediately, and they all three went back into the
room. The key was in the outer door, upon the
inside, but they did not unlock it until they had
H 2


IO2 THE EVIL GUEST.
-
the moonlight, and his description of his dress and
appearance tallied exactly with those of Cartwright.
This man occupied himself for some time in washing
his hands and face in a stable bucket, which happened
“Washing his hands and face in a stable bucket.”
to stand by the door; and, during the whole of this
process, he continued to moan and mutter, like one
in woeful perturbation. He said distinctly, twice or
thrice, “By , I am done for ”; and every now and
then he muttered, “and nothing for it, after all.”
s
*


IO4 THE EVIL GUEST.
colour with Sir Wynston's, was sticking in the
crevice between the blade and the handle.
“It appears very strange that one man should have
employed two distinct instruments of this kind,”
observed Mervyn, after a pause.
A silence followed.
“Yes, it does seem strange,” said Marston, clearing
his voice.
“Yet it is clear,” said another of the jury, “that
the same hand did employ them. It is proved that the
knife was in Cartwright's possession just as he left his
chamber ; and proved, also, that the dagger was
secreted by him aſter he quitted the house.”
“Yes,” said Marston, with a grisly sort of smile,
and glancing sarcastically at Mervyn, while he
addressed the last speaker, “I thank you for recall-
ing my attention to the facts. It certainly is not a
very pleasant suggestion, that there still remains
within my household an undetected murderer.”
Mervyn ruminatcd for a time, and said he should
wish to put a few more questions to Smith and Odgers.
They were accordingly recalled, and re-examined
in great detail, with a view to ascertain whether any
indication of the presence of a second person having
visited the chamber with Cartwright was discoverable.
Nothing, however, appeared except that the valet
mentioned the noise and the exclamations which he
had distinctly heard.


THE EVIL GUEST. IO5
“You did not mention that before, sir,” said
Marston, sharply.
“I did not think of it, sir,” replied the man, “the
gentlemen were asking me so many questions; but I
told you, sir, about it in the morning.”
“Oh, ah—yes, yes—I believe you did,” said
Marston; “but you then said that Sir Wynston often
talked when he was alone; eh, sir?”
“Yes, sir, and so he used, which was the reason
I did not go into the room when I heard his voice,”
replied the man.
“How long afterwards was it when you saw Cart-
wright in your own room 2" asked Mervyn.
“I could not say, sir,” answered Smith ; “I was
Soon asleep, and can't say how long I slept before
he came.”
“Was it an hour P” pursued Mervyn.
“I can’t say,” said the man, doubtfully.
“Was it five hours ?” asked Marston.
“No, sir, I am sure it was not five.”
“Could you swear it was more than half an hour "
persisted Marston.
“No I could not swear that,” answered he.
“I am afraid, Mr. Mervyn, you have found a mare's
nest,” said Marston, contemptuously.
“I have done my duty, sir,” retorted Mervyn, cynic-
ally. “And my duty requires that I shall have no
doubt, which the evidence of the witness can clear


IO6 THE EVIL GUEST.
up, unsifted and unsatisfied. I happened to think it
of some moment to ascertain, if possible, whether
more persons than one were engaged in this atrocious
murder. You don't seem to think the question so
important a one ; different men, sir, take different
views.”
“Views, sir, in matters of this sort, especially where
they tend to multiply suspicions, and to implicate
others, ought to be supported by something more
substantial than mere fancies,” retorted Marston.
“I don't know what you call fancies,” replied
Mervyn testily, “but here are two deadly weapons,
a knife and a dagger, each, it would seem, employed
in doing this murder; if you see nothing odd in
that, I can't enable you to do so.”
“Well, sir,” said Marston, grimly, “the whole thing
is, as you term it, odd; and I can see no object in
your picking out this particular singularity for long-
winded criticism, except to cast scandal upon my
household by leaving a hideous and vague imputation
floating among the members of it. Sir, sir, this is a
ſoul way,” he cried, sternly, “to gratify a paltry spite.”
“Mr. Marston,” said Mervyn, rising, and thrusting
his hands into his pockets, while he confronted him to
the full as sternly, “the county knows in which of
our hearts the spite, if any there be between us, is har-
boured. I owe you no friendship, but, sir, I cherish
no malice ; and against the worst enemy I have on


THE EVIL GUEST. Io?
earth I am incapable of perverting an opportunity
like this, and inflicting pain, under the pretence of
discharging a duty.”
Marston was on the point of retorting, but the
coroner interposed, and besought them to confine
their attention strictly to the solemn inquiry which
they were summoned together to prosecute.
There remained still to be examined the surgeon
who had accompanied the coroner, for the purpose
of reporting upon the extent and nature of the injuries
discoverable upon the person of the deceased. He,
accordingly, deposed, that having examined the body,
he found no less than three deep wounds, inflicted
with some sharp instrument; two of them had
actually penetrated the heart, and were, of course,
supposed to cause instant death. Besides these, there
were contusions, one upon the back of the head, and
the other upon the forehead, with a slight abrasion
of the eye-brow. There was a large lock of hair torn
out by the roots at the front of the head, and the
palm and fingers of the right hand were cut. This
evidence having been taken, the jury once more re-
paired to the chamber where the body lay, and pro-
ceeded with much minuteness to examine the room,
with a view to ascertain, if possible, more particularly
the exact circumstances of the murder.
The result of this elaborate scrutiny may be
summed up as follows:—


CHAPTER XI.
IMMEDIATELY after the inquest the master of Gray
Forest wrote to several of Sir Wynston's relatives
announcing the catastrophe, and requesting that
steps might immediately be taken to have the body
removed.
Meanwhile the undertakers were busy in the
chamber of death. The corpse was enclosed in lead,
and that again in cedar; and a great oak shell,
covered with crimson cloth and gold-headed nails,
and with a gilt plate, recording the age, title, etc.,
of the deceased, was screwed down firmly over all.
Nearly a fortnight elapsed before any reply to
Marston's letters was received. A short epistle at
last arrived from Lord H , the late Sir Wynston's
uncle, deeply regretting the “sad and inexplicable
occurrence”; and adding, that the will, which, on
receipt of the “ distressing intelligence,” was imme-
diately opened and read, contained no direction what-
ever respecting the sepulture of the deceased. The
burial had therefore better be completed as modestly
and expeditiously as possible, in the neighbourhood.


THE EVIL GUEST. I I I
In conclusion, Lord H directed that the accounts
of the undertakers, etc., employed upon the melancholy
occasion, might be sent in to Mr. Skelton, who had
kindly undertaken to leave London without any de-
lay for the purpose of completing these last arrange-
ments, and who would, in any matter of business
connected with the deceased, represent him, ‘Lord
H––, as executor of the late baronet.
This letter was followed, in a day or two, by the
arrival of Skelton, a well-dressed, languid, imper-
tinent London tuft-hunter, with a somewhat sallow
and puffy face, charged with a pleasant combination
at once of meanness, insolence, and sensuality—just
such a person as Sir Wynston's parasite might have
been expected to prove.
However well disposed to impress the natives with
high notions of his extraordinary refinement and im-
portance, he very soon discovered that, in Marston,
he had stumbled upon a man of the world, and one
thoroughly versed in the ways and characters of
London life. After some ineffectual attempts, there-
fore, to overawe and astonish his host, Mr. Skelton
became aware of the fruitlessness of the effort, and
condescended to abate somewhat of his pretensions.
Marston could not avoid inviting this person to
pass the night at his house, an invitation which was
accepted, of course; and next morning, after a late
breakfast, Mr. Skelton observed, with a yawn,


II 2 THE EVIL GUEST.
“And now, about this body—poor Berkley ! what
do you propose to do with him P”
“I have no proposition to make,” said Marston,
somewhat sulkily. “It is no affair of mine, except
“Poor Berkley !”
that the body may be removed without more delay. I
have no suggestion to offer. -
“H–—'s notion was to have him buried as near
the spot as may be,” said Skelton.
Marston nodded.
“There is a kind of vault, is there not, in the


THE EVIL GUEST. II 3
demesne, a family burial-place P” inquired the
visitor. -
“Yes, sir,” replied Marston, curtly.
“Well ?” drawled Skelton.
“Well, sir, what then P” responded Marston.
“Why, as the wish of the parties is to have him
buried—poor fellow—as quietly as possible, I think
he might just as well be laid there as anywhere else 2 ”
“Had I desired it, Mr. Skelton, I should myself
have made the offer,” said Marston, abruptly.
“Then you don't wish it P” said Skelton.
“No, sir; certainly not—most emphatically not,”
answered Marston, with more sharpness than in his
early days he would have thought quite consistent
with politeness.
“Perhaps,” replied Skelton, for want of something
better to say, and with a callous sort of levity; “per-
haps you hold the idea—some people do—that
murdered men can't rest in their graves until their
murderers have expiated their guilt P.”
Marston made no reply, but shot two or three
lurid glances from under his brow at the speaker.
“Well then, at all events,” continued Skelton,
indolently resuming his theme, “if you decline your
assistance, may I, at least, hope for your advice 2
Knowing nothing of this country, I would ask you
whither you would recommend me to have the body
conveyed.”


I [4 THE EVIL GUEST.
“I don’t care to advise in the matter,” said
Marston; “but if I were directing, I should have the
remains buried in Chester. It is not more than
twenty miles from this ; and if, at any future time,
his family should desire to remove the body, it could
be effected more easily from thence. But it is for
you to decide.”
“Egad I believe you are right,” said Skelton,
glad to be relieved of the trouble of thinking about
the matter; “and I shall take your advice.”
In accordance with this declaration the body was,
within four-and-twenty hours, removed to Chester
and buried there, Mr. Skelton attending on behalf of
Sir Wynston’s numerous and afflicted friends and
relatives.


CHAPTER XII.
THERE are certain heartaches for which time brings
no healing ; nay, which grow but the sorer and
fiercer as days and years roll on. Of this kind, per-
haps, were the stern and bitter feelings which now
darkened the face of Marston with an almost per-
petual gloom. His habits became even more unsocial
than before. The society of his son he no longer
seemed to enjoy. Long and solitary rambles in his
wild and extensive demesne consumed the listless
hours of his waking existence; and when the weather
prevented this, he shut himself up, upon pretence of
business, in his study.
He had not, since the occasion we have already
mentioned, referred to the intended departure of
Mademoiselle de Barras. Truth to say, his feelings
with respect to that young lady were of a conflicting
and mysterious kind; and as often as his dark
thoughts wandered to her (which, indeed, was fre-
quently enough), his muttered exclamations seemed
to imply some painful and horrible suspicions respect-
ing her.


II6 THE EVIL GUEST.
“Yes,” he would mutter, “I thought I heard your
light foot upon the lobby, on that accursed night.
Fancy Well, it may have been, but assuredly a sharp
strange fancy. I cannot comprehend that woman.
She baffles my scrutiny. I have looked into her face
with an eye she might well understand, were it in-
deed as I sometimes suspect, and she has been calm
and unmoved. I have watched and studied her;
still—doubt, doubt, hideous doubt l—is she what she
seems, or—a tigress 2"
Mrs. Marston, on the other hand, put off from
day to day the painful task of announcing to
Mademoiselle de Barras the stern message with
which she had been charged by her husband. And
thus several weeks had passed, and she began to
think that his silence upon the subject, notwithstand-
ing his seeing the young French lady at breakfast
every morning, amounted to a kind of tacit intimation
that the sentence of banishment was not to be carried
into immediate execution, but to be kept suspended
over the unconscious offender.
It was now six or eight weeks since the hearse
carrying away the remains of the ill-fated Sir Wynston
Berkley had driven down the dusky avenue. The
autumn was deepening into winter, and as Marston
gloomily trod the woods of Gray Forest, the withered
leaves whirled drearily along his pathway, and the
gusts that swayed the mighty branches above him


THE EVIL GUEST. II 7
were rude and ungenial. It was a bleak and sombre
day, and as he broke into a long and picturesque
vista, deep among the most sequestered woods, he
suddenly saw before him, and scarcely twenty paces
from the spot on which he stood, an apparition
“The murderer stood before him.”
which for some moments absolutely froze him to the
earth.
Travel-soiled, tattered, pale, and wasted, John
Cartwright, the murderer, stood before him. The
man did not exhibit the smallest disposition to turn


II 8 THE EVIL GUEST.
about and make his escape. On the contrary, he re-
mained perfectly motionless, looking upon his former
master with a wild and sorrowful gaze. Marston
twice or thrice essayed to speak; his face was white
as death, and had he beheld the spectre of the
murdered baronet himself, he could not have met
the sight with a countenance of ghastlier horror.
“Take me, sir,” said Cartwright, doggedly.
Still Marston did not stir.
“Arrest me, sir, in God’s name ! Here I am,” he
repeated, dropping his arms by his side. “I’ll go
with you wherever you tell me.”
“Murderer!” cried Marston, with a sudden burst
of furious horror. “Murderer—assassin—miscreant 1
—take that l”
And, as he spoke, he discharged one of the pistols
he always carried about him full at the wretched man.
The shot did not take effect, and Cartwright made
no other gesture but to clasp his hands together,
with an agonized pressure, while his head sank upon
his breast. -
“Shoot me; shoot me,” he said hoarsely; “kill
me like a dog : better for me to be dead than what I
am l’”
The report of Marston's pistol had, however,
reached another ear ; and its ringing echoes had
hardly ceased to vibrate among the trees, when a
stern shout was heard not fifty yards away, and


THE EVIL GUEST. I 2 I
of doubtful joy and surprise. He sat down near her
in silence, and for some time looked gloomily on the
ground. She did not care to question him, and
anxiously waited until he should open the conversa-
tion. At length he raised his eyes, and, looking full
at her, asked abruptly :
“Well, what about mademoiselle P’’
Mrs. Marston was embarrassed, and hesitated.
“I told you what I wished with respect to that
young lady some time ago, and commissioned you to
acquaint her with my pleasure; and yet I find her
still here, and apparently as firmly established as ever.”
Again Mrs. Marston hesitated. She scarcely knew
how to confess to him that she had not conveyed his
message. *
“Don’t suppose, Gertrude, that I wish to find fault.
I merely wanted to know whether you had told
Mademoiselle de Barras that we were agreed as to
the necessity or expediency, or what you please, of
dispensing henceforward with her services. I perceive
by your manner that you have not done so. I have
no doubt your motive was a kind one, but my deci-
sion remains unaltered ; and I now assure you again
that I wish you to speak to her—I wish you expli-
citly to let her know my wishes and yours.”
“Not mine, Richard,” she answered faintly.
“Well, mine, then,” he replied, roughly ; “we shan't
quarrel about that.”


THE EVIL GUEST. I 23
The outward contrast of the two women, whose hands
were so lovingly locked together, was almost as
striking as the moral contrast of their hearts. The
one so chastened, sad, and gentle ; the other so
capable of pride and passion, so darkly excitable, and
“These eyes . . . were sunk softly and sadly.”
yet so mysteriously beautiful. The one like a Niobe
seen in the softest moonshine ; the other a Venus,
glorified in the glare of distant conflagration.
“Mademoiselle, dear mademoiselle, I am so much
grieved at what I have to say that I hardly know how
to speak to you,” said poor Mrs. Marston, pressing


THE EVIL GUEST. I 25
despondingly, “I anticipate little success; but it is
well to leave no chance untried.”
Marston was sitting in his library. His agitation
had given place to a listless gloom, and he leaned
back in his chair, his head supported by his hand, and
undisturbed, except by the occasional fall of the
embers upon the hearth. There was a knock at the
chamber door. His back was towards it, and, without
turning or moving, he called to the applicant to enter.
The door opened—closed again ; a light tread was
audible—a tall shadow darkened the wall; Marston
looked round, and Mademoiselle de Barras was
standing before him. Without knowing how or why,
he rose, and stood gazing upon her in silence.
“Mademoiselle de Barras l’ he said at last, in a
tone of cold surprise.
“Yes, poor Mademoiselle de Barras,” replied the
sweet voice of the young Frenchwoman, while her
lips hardly moved as the melancholy tones passed
them.
“Well, mademoiselle, what do you desire?” he
asked, in the same cold accents, and averting his eyes.
“Ah, monsieur, do you ask 2–can you pretend to
be ignorant P Have you not sent me a message—a
cruel, cruel message P”
She spoke so low and gently that a person at the
other end of the room could hardly have heard her
words.


CHAPTER XIII.
NEXT day Marston was mounting his horse for a
solitary ride through his park, when Doctor Danvers
rode abruptly into the courtyard from the back
entrance. Marston touched his hat, and said :
“I don't stand on forms with you, doctor, and you,
I know, will waive ceremony with me. You will find
Mrs. Marston at home.”
“Nay, my dear sir,” interrupted the clergyman,
sitting firm in his saddle, “my business lies with you
to-day.”
“The devil it does ' " said Marston, with discon-
tented surprise.
“Truly it does, sir,” repeated he, with a look of
gentle reproof, for the profanity of Marston's ejacula-
tion, far more than the rudeness of his manner,
offended him ; “and I grieve that your surprise
should have somewhat carried you away »
“Well, then, Doctor Danvers,” interrupted Marston,
without heeding his concluding remark, “if you
really have business with me, it is, at all events, of no
very pressing kind, and may as well be told after
K


THE EVIL GUEST. I 3 I
“He has been unwell,” replied Doctor Danvers;
“ and thus, for a day or two, I took his duty, and this
wretched prisoner, having known something of me,
preferred seeing me rather than a stranger; and so,
at the chaplain's desire and his, I continued my
visits.”
“Well, and you have taught him to pray and sing
psalms, I suppose; and what has come of it all P”
demanded Marston, testily.
“He does pray, indeed, poor man and I trust his
prayers are heard with mercy at the throne of grace,”
said his companion, in his earnestness disregarding
the sneering tone of his companion. “He is full of
compunction, and admits his guilt.”
“Ho! that is well—well for himself—well for his
soul, at least; you are sure of it; he confesses—con-
fesses his guilt 2 ”
Marston put his question so rapidly and excitedly
that the clergyman looked at him with a slight
expression of surprise; and, recovering himself, he
added, in an unconcerned tone :
“Well, well, it was just as well he did so—the
evidence is too clear for doubt or mystification ; he
knew he had no chance, and has taken the seemliest
course, and doubtless the best for his hopes here-
after.”
“I did not question him upon the subject,” said
Doctor Danvers. “I even declined to hear him speak
K 2


132 THE EVIL GUEST.
upon it at first; but he told me he was resolved to
offer no defence, and that he saw the finger of God in
the fate which had overtaken him.”
“He will plead guilty, then, I suppose 2 ” suggested
Marston, watching the countenance of his companion
with an anxious and somewhat sinister eye.
“His words seem to imply so much,” answered he ;
“and having thus frankly owned his guilt, and avowed
his resolution to let the law take its due course in his
case, without obstruction or evasion, I urged him to
complete the grand work he had begun, and to confess
to you or to some other magistrate fully, and in detail,
every circumstance connected with the perpetration
of the dreadful deed.”
Marston knit his brows, and rode on for some
minutes in silence. At length he said, abruptly :
“In this, it seems to me, sir, you a little exceeded
your commission.”
“How so, my dear sir?” asked the clergyman.
“Why, sir,” answered Marston, “the man may pos-
sibly change his mind before the day of trial, and it is
the hangman's office, not yours, my good sir, to fasten
the halter about his neck. You will pardon my
freedom, but were this deposition made as you
suggest, it would undoubtedly hang him.” -
“God forbid, Mr. Marston,” rejoined Danvers,
“ that I should induce the unhappy man to forfeit his
last chances of escape, and to shut the door of human


THE EVIL GUEST. I33
mercy against himself! but on this he seems already
resolved. He says so—he has solemnly declared his
resolution to me—and, even against my warning,
again and again reiterated the same declaration.”
“That I should have thought quite enough, were I
in your place, without inviting a detailed description
of the whole process by which this detestable butchery
was consummated. What more than the simple
knowledge of the man's guilt does any mortal desire 2
Guilty, or not guilty 2 is the plain question which the
law asks, and no more. Take my advice, sir, as a
Protestant layman, and leave the arts of the confes-
sional and inquisition to the priests.”
“Nay, Mr. Marston, you greatly misjudge me.
As matters stand, there exists among the coroner's
jury, and thus among the public, some faint and
unfounded suspicion of the possibility of Cartwright's
having had an accessory or accomplice in the perpe-
tration of this foul murder.”
“It is a lie, sir—a malignant, d-d lie The jury
believe no such thing, nor the public either,” said
Marston, starting in his saddle, and speaking in a
voice of thunder. “You have been crammed with
lies, sir—malicious, unmeaning, vindictive lies—lies
invented to asperse my family and torture my feelings,
suggested in my presence by that scoundrel Mervyn,
and scouted by the common sense of the jury.”
“I do assure you,” replied Doctor Danvers, in a


I 34 THE EVIL GUEST.
voice which seemed scarcely audible, after the stunning
and passionate explosion of Marston's wrath, “I did
not imagine that you could feel thus sorely upon the
point—nay, I thought that you yourself were not
without such painful doubts.”
“Again I tell you, sir,” said Marston, in a tone
Somewhat calmer, but no less stern, “such doubts as
you describe have no existence; your unsuspecting
ear has been alarmed by a vindictive wretch—a
scoundrel who has scarce a passion left but spite
towards me ; few such there are, thank God—few
such villains as would, from a man's very calamities,
distil poison to kill the peace and character of his
family.” * . .
“I am sorry, Mr. Marston,” said the clergyman,
“you have formed so ill an opinion of a neighbour,
and I am very sure that Mr. Mervyn meant you no
ill in frankly expressing whatever doubts still rested
on his mind after the evidence was taken.” -
“He did—the scoundrel !” said Marston, furiously
striking his hand, in which his whip was clutched,
upon his thigh. “He did mean to wound and
torture me, and with the same object he persists in
circulating what he calls his doubts. Meant me no
ill, forsooth ! Why, my great God, sir! could any
man be so stupid as not to perceive that the Sug-
gestion of such suspicions—absurd, contradictory,
incredible as they were—was precisely the thing to


THE EVIL GUEST. I 35
exasperate feelings sufficiently troubled already ?
And, not content with raising the question, where it
was Scouted, as I said, as soon as named, the vindic-
tive slanderer proceeds to propagate and publish his
pretended surmises, d-n him ”
“Mr. Marston, you will pardon me when I say
that, as a Christian minister, I cannot suffer a spirit
so ill as that you manifest, and language so unseemly
as that you have just uttered, to pass unreproved,”
said Danvers, solemnly. “If you will cherish those
bitter and unchristian feelings, at least for the brief
space that I am with you, command your fierce,
unbecoming words.”
Marston was about to make a sneering retort, but
restrained himself, and turned his head away.
“The wretched man himself appears now very
anxious to make some further disclosures,” resumed
Doctor Danvers, after a pause, “ and I recommended
him to make them to you, Mr. Marston, as the most
natural depositary of such a statement.”
“Well, Mr. Danvers, to cut the matter short, as it
appears that a confession of some sort is to be made,
be it so. I will attend and receive it. The judges
will not be here for eight or ten weeks to come, so
there is no great hurry about it. I shall ride down to
the town and see him in the jail some time in the
next week.”
With this assurance Marston parted from the old


I 36 THE EVIL GUEST.
clergyman, and rode on alone through the furze and
fern of his wild and sombre park.
After supper that evening Marston found himself
alone in the parlour with his wife. Mrs. Marston
availed herself of the opportunity to redeem her
pledge to Mademoiselle de Barras. She was not
aware of the strange interview which had taken place
between him and the lady for whom she pleaded.
Marston listened, doubted—listened, hesitated again
—put questions, pondered the answers; debated the
matter inwardly, and at last gruffly consented to give
the young lady another trial, and permit her to
remain some time longer. Poor Mrs. Marston, little
suspecting the dreadful future, overwhelmed her
husband with gratitude for granting to her entreaties
(as he had predetermined to do) this fatal boon.
Not caring to protract this scene—either from a
disinclination to listen to expressions of affection,
which had long lost their charm for him and had
become even positively distasteful, or perhaps from
some instinctive recoil from the warm expression of
gratitude from lips which, were the truth revealed,
might justly have trembled with execration and
reproach—he abruptly left the room ; and Mrs.
Marston, full of her good news, hastened, in the kind-
ness of her heart, to communicate the fancied result
of her advocacy to Mademoiselle de Barras.


CHAPTER XIV.
IT was about a week after this that Marston was one
evening surprised in his study by the receipt of the
following letter ſrom Dr. Danvers:—
“MY DEAR SIR,-You will be shocked to hear
that John Cartwright is most dangerously ill, and at
this moment in imminent peril. He is thoroughly
conscious of his situation, and himself regards it as a
merciful interposition of Providence to spare him the
disgrace and terror of the dreadful fate which he
anticipated. The unhappy man has twice repeated
his anxious desire, this day, to state some facts con-
nected with the murder of the late Sir Wynston
Berkley, which, he says, it is of the utmost moment
that you should hear. He declares that he could not
leave the world in peace without having made this
disclosure, which he especially desires to make to
yourself, and entreats that you will come to receive
his communication as early as you can in the morn-
ing. This is indeed needful, as the physician Says
that he is fast sinking. I offer no apology for adding


138 THE EVIL GUEST.
my earnest solicitations to those of the dying man ;
and am, dear sir, your very obedient servant,
“J. DANVERs.”
“He regards it as a merciful interposition of Provi-
dence,” muttered Marston, as he closed the letter,
with a sneer. “Well, some men have odd notions
of mercy and Providence, to be sure; but if it pleases
him, certainly I shall not complain for one.”
Marston was all this evening in better spirits than
he had enjoyed for months, or even years. A
mountain seemed to have been lifted from his heart.
He joined in the conversation during and after
supper, listened with apparent interest, talked with
animation, and even laughed and jested. It is need-
less to say all this flowed not from the healthy cheer
of a heart at ease, but from the excited and almost
feverish sense of sudden and unexpected relief.
Next morning Marston rode into the old-fashioned
town, at the further end of which the dingy and
grated front of the jail looked warningly out upon the
rustic passengers. He passed the sentries, and made
his inquiries of the official at the hatch. He was
relieved from the necessity of pushing these into
detail, however, by the appearance of the physician,
who at that moment passed from the interior of the
prison.
“Dr. Danvers told me he expected to see you here


I4O THE EVIL GUEST.
with intense and agitating anxiety, the arrival of the
clergyman.
It was not for nearly ten minutes, however, which
his impatience magnified into an eternity, that the
well-known voice of Dr. Danvers reached him from
the little hall. It was in vain that Marston strove
to curb his violent agitation ; his heart swelled as if
it would smother him ; he felt, as it were, the chill of
death pervade his frame, and he could scarcely see
the door through which he momentarily expected the
entrance of the clergyman.
A few minutes more, and Dr. Danvers entered the
little apartment.
y
“My dear sir, said he, gravely and earnestly, as
he grasped the cold hand of Marston, “I am rejoiced
to see you. I have matters of great moment and the
strangest mystery to lay before you.”
“I dare say—I was sure—that is, I suspected so
much,” answered Marston, breathing fast, and look-
ing very pale. “I heard at the prison that the
murderer was fast dying, and now is in an uncon-
scious state ; and from the physician, that you had
seen him, at his urgent entreaty, last night. My
mind misgives me, sir. I fear I know not what. I
long, yet dread, to hear the wretched man's confes-
sion. For God's sake tell me, does it inplicate any-
body else in the guilt P.”
“No ; no one specifically ; but it has thrown a


THE EVIL GUEST. I4 I
hideous additional mystery over the occurrence.
Listen to me, my dear sir, and the whole narrative,
as he stated it to me, shall be related now to you,”
said the clergyman.
Marston had closed the door carefully, and they
sat down together at the further end of the apartment.
Marston breathless and ghastly pale ; his lips com-
pressed—his brows knit—and his dark, dilated gaze
fixed immovably upon the speaker. Dr. Danvers,
on the other hand, tranquil and solemn, and with,
perhaps, some shade of awe overcasting the habitual
sweetness of his countenance.
“His confession was a strange one,” renewed Dr.
Danvers, shaking his head gravely. “He said that
the first idea of the crime was suggested by Sir
Wynston's man accidentally mentioning, a few days
after their arrival, that his master slept with his bank-
notes, to the amount of some hundreds of pounds, in
a pocket-book under his pillow. He declared that
as the man mentioned this circumstance, something
muttered the infernal suggestion in his ear, and from
that moment he was the slave of that one idea; it
was ever present with him. He contended against it
in vain; he dreaded and abhorred it; but still it
possessed him; he felt his power of resistance yielding.
This horrible prompting which had stolen into his
heart waxed in power and importunity, and tor-
mented him day and night. He resolved to fly from


I42 THE Evil GUEST.
the house. He gave notice to you and Mrs. Marston
of his intended departure; but accident protracted
his stay until that fatal night which sealed his doom.
The influence which had mastered him forced him to
rise from his bed, and take the knife—the discovery
of which afterwards helped to convict him — and
led him to Sir Wynston's chamber. He entered ; it
was a moonlight night.”
Here the clergyman, glancing round the room,
lowered his voice, and advanced his lips so near to
Marston, that their heads nearly touched. In this
tone and attitude he continued his narrative for a few
minutes.
At the end of this brief space, Marston rose up
slowly, and with a movement backward, every feature
strung with horror, and saying in a long whisper, the
one word, “yes,” which seemed like the hiss of a
snake before he makes his last deadly spring. Both
were silent for a time. At last Marston broke out
with hoarse vehemence—
“Dreadful—horrible—oh, God . "
And throwing himself into a chair, he clasped his
hands across his eyes and forehead, while the sweat
of agony literally poured down his pale face.
“Truly it is so,” said the clergyman, scarcely above
his breath; and, after a long interval—“horrible
indeed l’’
“Well,” said Marston, rising suddenly to his feet,


THE EVIL GUEST. I43
wiping the dews of horror from his face, and looking
wildly round, like one newly awoke from a nightmare,
“I must make the most of this momentous and
startling disclosure. I shall spare no pains to come
“He clasped his hands across his eyes.”
at the truth,” said he, energetically. “Meanwhile, my
dear sir, for the sake of justice and of mercy, observe
secrecy. Leave me to sift this matter; give no note
anywhere that we suspect. Observe this reserve and
security, and with it detection will follow. Breathe


I44 THE EVIL GUEST.
but one word, and you arm the guilty with double
caution, and turn licentious gossip loose upon the
fame of an innocent and troubled family. Once riore
I entreat—I expect—I implore silence—silence, at
least, for the present—silence 1 °
“I quite agree with you, my dear Mr. Marston,”
answered Dr. Danvers. “I have not divulged one
syllable of that poor wretch's confession, save to your-
self alone. You, as a magistrate, a relative of the
murdered gentleman, and the head of that establish-
ment among whom the guilt rests, are invested with
an interest in detecting, and powers of sifting the
truth in this matter, such as none other possesses. I
clearly see, with you, too, the inexpediency and folly
of talking, for talking's sake, of this affair. I mean to
keep my counsel, and shall most assuredly, irrespec-
tively even of your respect—which should, however,
of course, have weight with me—maintain a strict and
cautious silence upon this subject.”
Some little time longer they remained together,
and Marston, buried in strange thoughts, took his
leave, and rode slowly back to Gray Forest.


CHAPTER XV.
MONTHS passed away—a year, and more—and
though no new character appeared upon the stage,
the relations which had subsisted among the old
ones became, in some respects, very materially
altered.
A gradual and disagreeable change came over
Mademoiselle de Barras's manner; her affectionate
attentions to Mrs. Marston become less and less fre-
quent ; nor was the change merely confined to this
growing coldness; there was something of a positive
and still more unpleasant kind in the alteration.
There was a certain independence and carelessness,
conveyed in a hundred intangible but significant little
incidents and looks—a something which, without
being open to formal rebuke or remonstrance, yet
bordered, in effect, upon impertinence, and even
insolence. This indescribable and provoking self-
assertion, implied in glances, tones, emphasis, and
general bearing, Surprised Mrs. Marston far more than
it irritated her. As often as she experienced one of
these studied slights or insinuated impertinences, she
L


I46 THE EVIL GUEST.
revolved in her own mind all the incidents of their
past intercourse, in the vain endeavour to recollect
Some one among them which could possibly account
for the offensive change so manifest in the conduct of
the young Frenchwoman.
Mrs. Marston, although she sometimes rebuked
these artful affronts by a grave look, a cold tone, or a
distant manner, yet had too much dignity to engage
in a petty warfare of annoyance, and had, in reality,
no substantial and well-defined ground of complaint
against her, such as would have warranted her either
in taking the young lady herself to task, or in bring-
ing her conduct under the censure of her husband.
One evening it happened that Mrs. Marston and
Mademoiselle de Barras had been left alone together,
after the supper-party had dispersed. They had
been for a long time silent, and Mrs. Marston re-
solved to improve the tete-à-tête, for the purpose of
eliciting from mademoiselle an explanation of her
strange behaviour. -
“Mademoiselle,” said she, “I have lately observed
a very marked change in your conduct to me.”
“Indeed!” said the Frenchwoman.
“Yes, mademoiselle ; you must be yourself perfectly
aware of that change; it is a studied and intentional
one,” continued Mrs. Marston, in a gentle but dignified
tone; “and although I have felt some doubt as to
whether it were advisable, so long as you observe to-


THE EVIL GUEST. I47
ward me the forms of external respect, and punctually
discharge the duties you have undertaken, to open
any discussion whatever upon the subject; yet I have
thought it better to give you a fair opportunity of
explaining frankly, should you desire to do so,
the feelings and impressions under which you are
acting.”
“Ah, you are very obliging, madame,” said the
other, coolly.
“It is quite clear, mademoiselle, that you have
either misunderstood me, or that you are dissatisfied
with your situation among us : your conduct cannot
otherwise be accounted for,” said Mrs. Marston
gravely.
“My conduct—ma foil what conduct?” retorted
the handsome Frenchwoman, confidently, and with a
disdainful glance.
“If you question the fact, mademoiselle,” said the
elder lady, “it is enough. Your ungracious manner
and ungentle looks, I presume, arise from what
appears to you a sufficient and well-defined cause, of
which, however, I know nothing.”
“I really was not aware,” said Mademoiselle de
Barras, with a supercilious smile, “that my looks and
my manner were subjected to so strict a criticism, or
that it was my duty to regulate both according to so
nice and difficult a standard.”
“Well, mademoiselle,” continued Mrs. Marston,
L 2


148 THE EVIL GUEST.
“it is plain that whatever may be the cause of your
dissatisfaction, you are resolved against confiding it
to me. I only wish to know frankly from your own
lips whether you have formed a wish to leave this
situation ; if so, I entreat of you to declare it freely.”
“You are very obliging indeed, madame,” said the
pretty foreigner, drily; “but I have no such wish, at
least, at present.”
2x
“Very well, mademoiselle,” replied Mrs. Marston,
with gentle dignity; “I regret your want of can dour
on your own account. You would, I am sure, be
much happier, were you to deal frankly with me.”
“May I now have your permission, madame, to
retire to my room P” asked the French girl, rising,
and making a low courtesy—“that is, if madame has
nothing further to censure.”
“Certainly, mademoiselle; I have nothing further
to say,” replied the elder lady.
The Frenchwoman made another, and a deeper
courtesy, and withdrew. Mrs. Marston, however,
heard, as she was designed to do, the young lady
tittering and whispering to herself, as she lighted her
candle in the hall. This scene mortified and grieved
poor Mrs. Marston inexpressibly. She was little, if
at all, accessible to emotions of anger, and certainly
none such mingled in the feelings with which she
regarded Mademoiselle de Barras. But she had
found in this girl a companion, and even a confidante


I 50 THE EVIL GUEST.
hints and inuendoes of her own maid, who never lost
an opportunity of insinuating her intense dislike of
the Frenchwoman, and appeared perpetually to be
on the very verge of making some explicit charges, or
some shocking revelations respecting her, which,
however, she invariably evaded ; and even when
Mrs. Marston once or twice insisted upon the maid
explaining her meaning distinctly, the girl eluded her
mistress's desire, and left her still in the same uneasy
uncertainty.
The master of Gray Forest, however much his
conduct might tend to confirm suspicion, certainly
did nothing to dissipate the painful and undefined
apprehensions respecting himself which Mademoiselle
de Barras with such malign and mysterious industry
laboured to raise. His spirits and temper were liable
to strange fluctuations. In the midst of that excited
gaiety to which, until lately, he had been so long a
stranger, would sometimes intervene paroxysms of the
blackest despair, all the ghastlier for the contrast, and
with a suddenness so abrupt and overwhelming, that
one might have fancied he was sometimes crossed by
the shadow of a terrific apparition.
Frequently for a whole day, or even more, he would
withdraw himself from the society of his family, and,
in morose and moody solitude, take his meals in his
library. Then he would steal out, unattended, to
wander among the thickets and glades of his park.


THE EVIL GUEST. I5 I
Sometimes, again, he would sit for hours in the room
which had been Sir Wynston's, and, with a kind of
“He would sit for hours in the room.”
horrible resolution, often loiter there till aſter night-
fall. In such hours the servants would listen with
curious awe as they heard his step pacing to and fro


I 52 THE EVIL GUEST.
in that deserted and inauspicious chamber, while his
voice, in broken sentences, imperfectly audible,
seemed to be maintaining a dialogue.
These eccentric practices gradually invested him,
in the eyes of his domestics, with a certain preter-
natural mystery which enhanced the fear with which
they habitually regarded him, and was subsequently
confirmed by his giving orders to have the furniture
taken out of the ominous suite of rooms, and the
doors nailed up and secured. He gave no reason for
this odd and abrupt measure, and gossip of course
reported that the direction had originated in his
having encountered the spectre of the murdered
baronet in one of these strange and unseasonable
visits to the scene of the fearful catastrophe.
In addition to all this, Marston's conduct towards
his wife became strangely capricious. He avoided
her society more than ever; and when he did happen
to exchange a few words with her, they were some-
times harsh and violent, and at others remorsefully
gentle and sad, and this without any changes of con-
duct upon her part to warrant the wayward uncer-
tainty of his treatment. Under all these circum-
stances, Mrs. Marston's unhappiness and uneasiness
greatly increased.
Mademoiselle de Barras, too, upon several late
occasions, had begun to assume a tone of authority
and dictation, which justly offended the mistress of


THE Evil GUEST. I 53
the establishment. Meanwhile Charles Marston had
returned to Cambridge; and Rhoda, no longer en-
joying happy walks with her brother, pursued her
light and easy studies with Mademoiselle de Barras,
and devoted her leisure hours to the loved society of
her mother.
One day Mrs. Marston, sitting in her room with
Rhoda, had happened to call her own maid, to take
down and carefully dust some richly-bound volumes
which filled a book-case in the little chamber.
“You have been crying, Willett,” said Mrs.
Marston, observing that the young woman's eyes
were red and swollen. -
“Indeed I was, ma'am,” she replied reluctantly,
“and I could not help it, so I could not.”
“Why, what has happened to vex you ? has any
one ill-treated you ?” said Mrs. Marston, who had
an esteem for the poor girl. “Come, come, you
must not fret about it, only tell me what has vexed
you.”
“Oh! ma'am, no one has ill-used me, but I can't
but be vexed sometimes, ma'am, and fretted to see
how things is going on. I have one wish, just one
wish, ma'am, and if I got that I’d ask no more,” said
the girl.
“And what is it 2 ° asked her mistress; “what
do you wish for P Speak plainly, Willett; what
is it? "


I 54 THE EVIL GUEST.
“Ah ! ma'am, if I said it, may be you might not
be pleased. Don't ask me, ma'am,” said the girl,
dusting the books very hard, and tossing them down
again with angry emphasis. “I don't desire any-
body’s harm, God knows ; but, for all that, I wish
what I wish—and that is the truth.”
“Why, Willett, I really cannot account for your
strange habit of lately hinting, and insinuating, and
always speaking riddles, and refusing to explain your
meaning. What do you mean P Speak plainly. If
there are any dishonest practices going on, it is your
duty to say so distinctly.” -
“Oh ma'am, it is just a wish I have. I wish—
but it's no matter. If I could once see the house
clear of that Frenchwoman—”
“If you mean Mademoiselle de Barras, she is a
lady,” interrupted Mrs. Marston.
“Well, ma'am, I beg pardon,” continued the
woman ; “lady or no lady, it is all one to me; for I'm
very sure, ma'am, she'll never leave the house till
there is something bad comes about; and—and–I
can't bring myself to talk to you about her, ma'am.
I can't say what I want to tell you ; but—but -
Oh! ma'am, for God's sake, try and get her out,
any way, no matter how—try and get rid of
her.”
As she said this, the poor girl burst into a passionate
agony of tears, and Mrs. Marston and Rhoda looked


THE EVIL GUEST. I 55
on in silent amazement while the servant for some
minutes continued to sob and weep.
The party were suddenly recalled from their
various reveries by a knock at the chamber door,
and in a moment the subject of the girl's depreca-
tory entreaty entered.
There was something unusually excited and assured
in Mademoiselle de Barras's air and countenance ;
perhaps she had a suspicion that she had been the
topic of the conversation. At all events, her beautiful
face wore a smile in which there was something
supercilious, and even defiant, and, without waiting to
be invited, she sat herself down, with a haughty air.
“I was about to ask you to sit down, mademoiselle,
but you have anticipated me,” said Mrs. Marston,
gravely. “You have something to say to me, I
suppose. I am quite at leisure, so pray let me hear
it now.”
“Thank you, thank you, madame,” replied she,
with a sharp, and even scornful glance. “I ought to
have asked your permission to sit—I forgot; but you
have condescendcq to give it without my doing so.
That was very kind—very kind indeed.”
“But I wish to know, mademoiselle, whether you
have anything very particular to say to me," said
Mrs. Marston.
“You wish to know !—and why, pray, madame 2 ”
asked Mademoiselle de Barras, sharply.


I 56 THE EVIL GUEST.
“Because, unless it is something very urgent, I
should prefer your talking to me some other time, as
at present I desire to be alone with my daughter.”
“Oh, hol I ought to ask pardon again,” said
mademoiselle, with the same glance and the same
smile. “I find I am de trop—quite in the way.
Helas ! I am very unfortunate to-day.”
Mademoiselle de Barras made not the slightest
movement, and it was evident that she was resolved
to prolong her stay, in sheer defiance of Mrs. Marston's
wishes.
“Mademoiselle, I conclude from your silence that
you have nothing very pressing to say, and therefore
must request that you will have the goodness to leave
me for the present,” said Mrs. Marston, who felt that
the spirit of the French girl's conduct was too appa-
rent not to have been understood by Rhoda and the
servant, and that it was of a kind, for example sake,
impossible to be tolerated.
Mademoiselle de Barras darted a fiery and insolent
glance at Mrs. Marston, and was doubtless upon the
point of precipitating the open quarrel which was
impending by setting her authority at defiance,
but she checked herself, and changed her line of
operations.
“We are not alone, madame,” she said, with a
heightened colour and a slight toss of the head. “I
was about to speak of Mr. Marston. I had something


THE EVIL GUEST. I 57
—not much, I confess—to say ; but before servants
I shan’t desire it. I shall no further interrupt you.
Come, Miss Rhoda, to the music-room, if you please,
and finish your practice for to-day !”
“You forget, mademoiselle, that I wish to have my
daughter with me at present,” said Mrs. Marston.
“I am very sorry, madame,” said the French lady,
with the same heightened colour and unpleasant
smile, her finely-pencilled brows just discernibly
knit, so as to give a novel and menacing expression
to her beautiful face—“I am very sorry, madame, but
she must, so long as I remain accountable for her
education, complete her allotted exercises at the
appointed hours; and nothing shall, I assure you,
with my consent, interfere with these duties. Come,
Miss Rhoda, precede me, if you please, to the music-
room. Come, come.”
“Stay where you are, Rhoda,” said Mrs. Marston,
firmly and gently, and betraying no symptom of
excitement, except in a slight tremor of her voice
and a faint flush upon her cheek—“Stay where you
are, my dear child. I am your mother and, next to
your father, have the first claim upon your obedience.
Mademoiselle,” she continued, addressing the French-
woman, calmly but firmly, “my daughter will remain
here for some time longer, and you will have the
goodness to withdraw. I insist upon it, Mademoiselle
de Barras.”


158 THE EVIL GUEST.
“I will not leave the room, I assure you, madame,
without my pupil,” retorted the governess, with
resolute insolence. “Your husband, madame, has
invested me with this authority, and she shall obey
me. Miss Rhoda, I say again, go down to the
music-room.”
“Remain where you are, Rhoda,” said Mrs. Mar-
ston again. “Mademoiselle, you have long been
acting as if your object were to provoke me to part
with you. I find it impossible any longer to overlook
this grossly disrespectful conduct—conduct of which
I had, indeed, believed you absolutely incapable.
Willett,” she continued, addressing the maid, who
was evidently bursting with rage at the scene she
had just witnessed, “your master is, I believe, in the
library; go down and tell him that I entreat him to
come here immediately.”
The maid started on her mission with angry
alacrity, darting a venomous glance at the handsome
Frenchwoman as she passed.
Mademoiselle de Barras meanwhile sat, listless and
defiant, in her chair, and tapping her little foot with
petulant excitement upon the floor. Rhoda sat close
by her mother, holding her hand fast, and looking
frightened, perplexed, and as if she were on the point
of weeping. Mrs. Marston, though flushed and
excited, yet maintained her dignified and grave
demeanour. And thus, in silence, did they all three


I6O THE EVIL GUEST.
matter. I simply wish to learn from you, in made-
moiselle's presence, whether she is to command my
daughter or I.”
“Command ' " said Marston, evading the direct
appeal; “and pray what is all this commanding
about 2—what do you want the girl to do?”
“I wish her to remain with me for a little time,
and mademoiselle, knowing this, desires her instantly
to go to the music-room and leave me. That is all.”
“And pray, is there nothing to make her going to
the music-room advisable or necessary 2 Has she
no music to learn, or studies to pursue P Pshal
Mrs. Marston, what needs all this noise about
nothing 2 Go, miss,” he added, sharply and
peremptorily addressing Rhoda, “go this moment to
the music-room.”
The girl glided from the room, and mademoiselle,
as she followed, shot a glance at her mistress which
wounded and humbled her in the dust.
“Oh ! Richard, Richard, if you knew all, you
would not have subjected me to this indignity,” she
said; and throwing her arms about his neck, she
wept, for the first time for many a long year, upon
his breast.
Marston was embarrassed and agitated. He dis-
engaged her arms from his neck, and placed her
gently in a chair. She sobbed on for some time in
silence—a silence which Marston himself did not


I62 THE EVIL GUEST.
“I blame nobody.”
“Indeed, I never meant to offend you, Richard,”
she urged.
“Of course not; no, no ; I never said so,” he
interrupted, sarcastically; “what could you gain by
that 2 °
“Oh, Richard, better feelings have governed me,”
she said, in a melancholy and reproachful tone.
“Well, well, I suppose so,” he muttered. After an
interval, he added, abstractedly, “This cannot, how-
ever, go on; no, no—it cannot. Sooner or later it
must have come ; better at once—better now.”
“What do you mean, Richard ” she said, greatly
alarmed, she knew not why. “What are you resolving
upon P Dear Richard, in mercy tell me. I implore
of you, tell me.”
“Why, Gertrude, you seem to me to fancy that,
because I don't talk about what is passing, that I
don't see it. Now this is quite a mistake,” said
Marston, calmly and resolutely. “I have long ob-
served your growing dislike to Mademoiselle de
Barras. I have thought it over; this fracas of to-day
has determined me; it is decisive. I suppose you
now wish her to go, as earnestly as you once wished
her to stay. You need not answer. I know it. I
neither ask nor care to whose fault I am to attribute
these changed feelings—female caprice accounts
sufficiently for it; but whatever the cause, the effect


THE EVII, GUEST. I63
is undeniable; and the only way to deal satisfactorily
with it is to dismiss Mademoiselle at once. You need
take no part in the matter; I take it all upon myself.
To-morrow morning she shall have left this house.
I have said it, and am perfectly resolved.”
As he thus spoke, as if to avoid the possibility of
any further discussion, he turned abruptly from her,
and left the room.
M
2


I66 - THE EVIL GUEST.
Mrs. Marston heard him and saw him, but she had
not the power, nor even the will, herself to speak or
move. He appeared before her passive senses like the
phantasm of a dream. He stood up at the bedside,
and looked on her steadfastly, with the same melan-
choly expression. For a moment he stooped over
her, as if about to kiss her face, but checked himself,
stood erect again at the bedside, and then suddenly
turned. The curtain fell back into its place, and she
saw him no more.
With a strange mixture of sweet and bitter feelings,
this vision rested upon the memory of the unhappy
woman until, gradually, deep slumber again over-
came her senses, and the incident and all its attend-
ant circumstances faded into oblivion.
It was past eight o'clock when Mrs. Marston awoke
next morning. The sun was shining richly and
cheerily in at the windows; and as the remembrance
of her husband's visit to her chamber, and the un-
wonted manifestations of tenderness and compunction
which accompanied it, returned, she felt something
like hope and happiness, to which she had long been
a stranger, flutter her heart. The pleasing reverie to
which she was yielding was, however, interrupted.
The sound of stifled sobbing in the room reached her
ear, and pushing back the bed-curtains, and leaning
forward to look, she saw her maid, Willett, sitting
with her back to the wall, crying bitterly, and striving,


THE EVIL GUEST. 167
as it seemed, to stifle her sobs with her apron, which
was wrapped about her face.
“Willett, Willett, is it you who are sobbing P
What is the matter with you, child P” said Mrs.
Marston, anxiously.
The girl checked herself, dried her eyes hastily,
and walking briskly to a little distance as if engaged
in arranging the chamber, she said, with an affectation
of carelessness:
“Oh, ma'am, it is nothing; nothing at all, indeed,
ma'am.”
Mrs. Marston remained silent for a time, while all
her vague apprehensions returned.
Meanwhile the girl continued to shove the chairs
hither and thither, and to arrange and disarrange
everything in the room with a fidgety industry, in-
tended to cover her agitation. A few minutes, how-
ever, served to weary her of this, for she abruptly
stopped, stood by the bedside, and, looking at her
mistress, burst into tears.
“Good God what is it 2 ” said Mrs. Marston,
shocked and even terrified, while new alarms dis-
placed her old ones. “Is Miss Rhoda—can it be—
is she—is my darling well ?”
“Oh, yes, ma'am,” answered the maid, “very well,
ma'am ; she is up and out walking, and knows nothing
of all this.”
“All what 2 ” urged Mrs. Marston. “Tell me, tell


I 68 THE EVIL GUEST.
me, Willett, what has happened. What is it 2 Speak,
child; say what it is 1"
“Oh, ma'am! oh, my poor dear mistress' " con-
tinued the girl, and stopped, almost stifled with sobs.
“Willett, you must speak; you must say what is
the matter, I implore of you—I desire you!” urged
the distracted lady.
Still the girl, having made one or two ineffectual
efforts to speak, continued to sob.
“Willett, you will drive me mad. For mercy's
sake, for God's sake, speak—tell me what it is ' " cried
the unhappy lady.
“Oh, ma'am, it is—it is about the master,” sobbed
the girl.
“Why he can't—he has not—oh, merciful God he
has not hurt himself l’” she almost screamed.
“No, ma'am, no; not himself; no, no, but—” and
again she hesitated.
“But what? Speak out, Willett; dear Willett, have
mercy on me, and speak out,” cried her wretched .
mistress.
“Oh, ma'am, don't be fretted ; don't take it to
heart, ma'am,” said the maid, clasping her hands
together in anguish.
“Anything, anything, Willett; only speak at once,”
she answered. -
“Well, ma'am, it is soon said—it is easy told. The
master, ma'am—the master is gone with the French-


CHAPTER XVII.
TWO or three days passed, and Dr. Danvers came and
sat for several hours with the lady of Gray Forest.
To comfort and console were, of course, out of his
power. The nature of the bereavement, far more
terrible than death—its recent occurrence—the dis-
tracting consciousness of all its complicated conse-
quences—rendered this a hopeless task. She bowed
herself under the blow with the submission of a
broken heart. The hope to which she had clung for
years had vanished ; the worst that ever her imagi-
nation feared had come in earnest.
One idea was now constantly present in her mind.
She felt a sad but immovable assurance that she
should not live long, and the thought, “What will
become of my darling when I am gone; who will
guard and love my children when I am in my grave;
to whom are they to look for tenderness and pro-
tection then 2° perpetually haunted her, and super-
added the pangs of a still wilder despair to the
desolation of a broken spirit.
It was not for more than a week after this event,


172 THE EVIL GUEST.
that one day Willett, with a certain air of anxious
mystery, entered the silent and darkened chamber
where her mistress lay. She had a letter in her
hand; the seal and handwriting were Mr. Marston's.
It was long before the injured wife was able to open
it; when she did so, the following sentences met her
eye :—
“GERTRUDE-You can be ignorant neither of the
nature nor of the consequences of the decisive step I
have taken : I do not seek to excuse it. For the
censure of the world, its meddling and mouthing
hypocrisy, I care absolutely nothing ; I have long
set it at defiance. And you yourself, Gertrude, when
you deliberately reconsider the circumstances of
estrangement and coldness under which, though
beneath the same roof, we have lived for years,
without either sympathy or confidence, can scarcely,
if at all, regret the rupture of a tie which had long
ceased to be anything better than an irksome and
galling formality. I do not desire to attribute
to you the smallest blame. There was an incom-
patibility, not of temper but of ſeelings, which made
us strangers, though calling one another man and
wife. Upon this fact I rest my own justification;
our living together under these circumstances was,
I dare say, equally undesired by us both. It was, in
fact, but a deference to the formal hypocrisy of the


THE EVII, GUEST. 173
world. At all events, the irrevocable act which
separates us for ever is done, and I have now merely
to state so much of my intentions as may relate in
anywise to your future arrangements. I have written
to your cousin and former guardian, Mr. Lattimer,
telling him how matters stand between us. You, I
told him, shall have, without opposition from me, the
whole of your own fortune to your own separate use,
together with whatever shall be mutually agreed
upon as reasonable, from my income, for your
support and that of my daughter. It will be neces-
sary to complete your arrangements with expedition,
as I purpose returning to Gray Forest in about three
weeks; and as, of course, a meeting between you and
those by whom I shall be accompanied is wholly out
of the question, you will see the expediency of losing
no time in adjusting everything for yours and my
daughter's departure. In the details, of course, I
shall not interfere. I think I have made myself
clearly intelligible, and would recommend your com-
municating at once with Mr. Lattimer, with a view
to completing temporary arrangements, until your
final plans shall have been decided upon,
“RICHARD MARSTON.”
The reader can easily conceive the feelings with
which this letter was perused. We shall not attempt
to describe them; nor shall we weary his patience


I 74 THE EVIL GUEST.
by a detail of all the circumstances attending Mrs.
Marston's departure. Suffice it to mention that, in
less than a fortnight after the receipt of her husband's
letter, she had for ever left the mansion of Gray
Forest.
In a small house, in a sequestered part of the rich
county of Warwick, the residence of Mrs. Marston
and her daughter was for the present fixed. And
there, for a time, the heart-broken and desolate lady
enjoyed at least the privilege of an immunity from
the intrusions of all external trouble. But the blow,
under which the feeble remains of her health and
strength were gradually to sink, had struck too surely
home; and from month to month—almost from
week to week—the progress of decay was perceptible.
Meanwhile, though grieved and humbled, and long-
ing to comfort his unhappy mother, Charles Marston,
for the present absolutely dependent upon his father,
had no choice but to remain at Cambridge, and to
pursue his studies there.


CHAPTER XVIII.
AT Gray Forest Marston and the partner of his
guilt continued to live. The old servants were all
gradually dismissed, and new ones hired by Made-
moiselle de Barras. There the pair dwelt, shunned by
everybody, in a stricter and more desolate seclusion
than ever. The novelty of the unrestraint and
license of their new mode of life speedily passed
away, and with it the excited and guilty sense of
relief which had for a time produced a false and
hollow gaiety. The sense of security prompted in
Mademoiselle a hundred indulgences which in her
former precarious position she would not have
dreamed of. Outbreaks of temper, sharp and some-
times violent, began to manifest themselves on her
part, and renewed disappointment and blacker re-
morse to darken the soul of Marston himself. Often,
in the dead of night, the servants would overhear
their bitter and fierce altercations ringing through
the melancholy mansion, and often the reckless use
of terrible and mysterious epithets of crime. Their
quarrels increased in violence and in frequency; and,


176 THE EVII, GUEST.
before two years had passed, feelings of bitterness,
hatred, and dread, alone seemed to subsist between
them. Yet upon Marston she continued to exercise
a powerful and mysterious influence. There was a
dogged, apathetic submission on his part, and a
growing insolence upon hers, constantly more and
more strikingly visible. Neglect, disorder, and decay,
too, were more than ever apparent in the dreary air
..of the place.
Doctor Danvers, save by rumour and conjecture,
knew nothing of Marston and his abandoned com-
panion. He had more than once felt a strong
disposition to visit Gray Forest, and expostulate,
face to face, with its guilty proprietor. This idea,
however, he had, upon consideration, dismissed ; not
on account of any shrinking from the possible re-
pulses and affronts to which the attempt might sub-
ject him, but from a thorough conviction that the
endeavour would be utterly fruitless for good, while
it might, very obviously, expose him to very painful
misinterpretation and suspicion, and leave it to be
imagined that he had been influenced, if by no
meaner motive, at least by the promptings of a
coarse curiosity.
Meanwhile, he maintained a correspondence with
Mrs. Marston, and had even once or twice since her
departure visited her. Latterly, however, this corre-
spondence had been a good deal interrupted, and its


I 8o THE EVIL GUEST.
almost sternly, though with some embarrassment,
“it is a long time since you and I have seen one
another, and many and painful events have passed in
the interval. I scarce know upon what terms we
meet. I am prompted to speak to you, and in a
tone, perhaps, which you will hardly brook; and yet
if we keep company, as it seems likely we may, I
cannot, and I ought not, to be silent.”
“Well, Mr. Danvers, I accept the condition—speak
what you will,” said Marston, with a gloomy
promptitude. “If you exceed your privilege, and
grow uncivil, I need but use my spurs, and leave you
behind me preaching to the winds.”.
“Ah! Mr. Marston,” said Dr. Danvers, almost
sadly, after a considerable pause, “when I saw
you close beside me, my heart was troubled within
me.”
“You looked on me as something from the nether
world, and expected to see the cloven hoof,” said
Marston, bitterly, and raising his booted foot a little
as he spoke ; “but, after all, I am but a vulgar sinner
of flesh and blood, without enough of the preter-
natural about me to frighten an old nurse, much less
to agitate a pillar of the Church.”
“Mr. Marston, you talk sarcastically; but you feel
that recent circumstances, as well as old recollections,
might well disturb and trouble me at sight of you,”
answered Dr. Danvers.


THE EVIL GUEST. 183
doctor, pray don't expect to frighten me with
that.”
Marston spoke with an angry scorn which had
the effect of interrupting the conversation for some
moments.
They rode on side by side for a long time without
speaking. At length, however, Marston unexpectedly
broke the silence.
“Dr. Danvers,” said he, “ you asked me some time
ago if I feared the hour of death and the day of
judgment. I answered you truly, I do not fear them
—nay, death, I think, I could meet with a happier
and a quieter heart than any other chance that can
befall me; but there are other fears—fears that do
trouble me much.”
Dr. Danvers looked inquiringly at him, but neither
spoke for a time.
“You have not seen the catastrophe of the tragedy
yet,” said Marston, with a stern, stony look, made
more horrible by a forced smile and something like
a shudder. “I wish I could tell you—you, Dr.
Danvers—for you are honourable and gentle-hearted.
I wish I durst tell you what I fear—the only, only
thing I really do fear. No mortal knows it but
myself, and I see it coming upon me with slow but
unconquerable power. Oh, God—dreadful Spirit—
spare me!”
Again they were silent, and again Marston resumed :


I84 THE EVIL GUEST.
“Doctor Danvers, don't mistake me,” he said,
turning sharply, and fixing his eyes with a strange
expression upon his companion. “I dread nothing
human ; I fear neither death, nor disgrace, nor
eternity; I have no secrets to keep, no exposures to
apprehend ; but I dread—I dread—”
He paused, Scowled darkly, as if stung with pain,
turned away, muttering to himself, and gradually
became much excited.
“I can't tell you now, sir, and I won't,” he said,
abruptly and fiercely, and with a countenance
darkened with a wild and appalling rage that was
wholly unaccountable. “I see you searching me
with your eyes. Suspect what you will, sir, you
shan't inveigle me into admissions. Ay, pry—whis-
per—stare—question, conjecture, sir—I suppose I
must endure the world's impertinence, but damn me
if I gratify it.”
It would not be easy to describe Dr. Danvers'
astonishment at this unaccountable explosion of fury.
He was resolved, however, to bear his companion's
violence with temper.
They rode on slowly for fully ten minutes in utter
silence, except that Marston occasionally muttered
to himself, as it seemed, in excited abstraction.
Danvers had at first felt naturally offended at the
violent and insulting tone in which he had been so
unexpectedly and unprovokedly addressed ; but this


CHAPTER XIX.
Two years had now passed since the decisive event
which had for ever separated Marston from her who
had loved him so devotedly and so fatally; two
years to him of disappointment, abasement, and
secret rage; two years to her of gentle and heart-
broken submission to the chastening hand of Heaven.
At the end of this time she died. Marston read the
letter that announced the event with a stern look, and
silently, but the shock he felt was terrific. No man
is so self-abandoned to despair and degradation that
at some casual moment thoughts of amendment—
some gleams of hope, however faint and transient,
from the distant future—will not visit him. With
Marston, those thoughts had, somehow, ever been
associated with vague ideas of a reconciliation with
the being whom he had forsaken—good and pure,
and looking at her from the darkness and distance of
his own fallen state, almost angelic as she seemed.
But she was now dead ; he could make her no atone-
ment; she could never smile forgiveness upon him.
This long-familiar image—the last that had reflected


THE EVIL GUEST. 189
Listen, Rhoda; the lady whom you have been in the
habit” (here he slightly averted his eyes) “ of calling
Mademoiselle de Barras, is no longer so ; she is
married ; she is my wife, and consequently you will
treat her with the respect due to ”—he would have
said “a mother,” but could not, and supplied the
phrase by adding, “to that relation.”
Rhoda was unable to speak, but almost uncon-
sciously bowed her head in token of attention and
submission, and her father pressed her hand more
kindly, as he continued :
“I have always found you a dutiful and obedient
child, Rhoda, and expected no other conduct from
you. Mrs. Marston will treat you with proper kind-
ness and consideration, and desires me to say that
you can, whenever you please, keep strictly to your-
self, and need not, unless you feel so disposed, attend
the regular meals of the family. This privilege may
suit your present depressed spirits, and you must not
scruple to use it.”
After a few words more, Marston withdrew, leaving
his daughter to her reflections, and bleak and bitter
enough they were.


CHAPTER XX.
IT may be well, at this stage, to substitute for the
formal precision of narrative, a few extracts from the
letters which Rhoda wrote from Gray Forest to her
brother, still at Cambridge. These will convey her
own impressions respecting the scenes and personages
among whom she was now to move.
“The house and place are much neglected, and the
former in some parts suffered almost to go to decay.
The windows broken in the last storm, nearly eight
months ago, they tell me, are still unmended, and
the roof, too, unrepaired. The pretty garden, near
the well, among the lime-trees, that our darling
mother was so fond of, is all but obliterated with
weeds and grass, and since my first visit I have not
had heart to go near it again. All the old servants
are gone; new faces everywhere.
“I have been obliged several times, through fear
of offending my father, to join the party in the draw-
ing-room. You may conceive what I felt at seeing
Mademoiselle in the place once filled by our dear


I92 THE EVIL GUEST.
whether it is fancy or not, I cannot say, but certainly
to me it seems that the expression of her face has
acquired something habitually lowering and malicious,
and which, I know not how, inspires me with an un-
definable dread. She has, however, been tolerably
civil to me, but seems contemptuous and rude to my
father, and I am afraid he is very wretched. I have
seen them exchange such looks, and overheard such
intemperate and even appalling altercations between
them, as indicate something worse and deeper than
ordinary ill-will. This makes me additionally
wretched, especially as I cannot help thinking that
some mysterious cause enables her to frighten and
tyrannize over my poor father. I sometimes think
he absolutely detests her; yet, though fiery alterca-
tions ensue, he ultimately submits to this bad and
cruel woman. Oh, my dear Charles, you have no idea
of the shocking, or rather the terrifying, reproaches I
have heard interchanged between them, as I accident-
ally passed the room where they were sitting—such
terms as have sent me to my room, feeling as if I
were in a horrid dream, and made me cry and
tremble for hours after I got there. . . . . I see
my father very seldom, and when I do, he takes but
little notice of me. . . . Poor Willett, you know,
returned with me. She accompanies me in my walks,
and is constantly dropping hints about Mademoiselle,
from which I know not what to gather.”


THE EVIL GUEST. I93
“I often fear that my father has some secret and
mortal ailment. He generally looks ill, and some-
times wretchedly ill. He came twice lately to my
room, I think, to speak to me on some matter of im-
portance; but he said only a sentence or two, and
even these broken and incoherent. He seemed un-
able to command spirits for the interview ; and, in-
deed, he grew so agitated and strange, that I was
alarmed, and felt greatly relieved when he left me.”
“I do not, you see, disguise my feelings, dear
Charles; I do not conceal from you the melancholy
and anguish of my present situation. How intensely
I long for your promised arrival. I have not a
creature to whom I can say one word in confidence,
except poor Willett, who, though very good-natured
and really dear to me, is yet far from being a com-
panion. I sometimes think my intense anxiety to
see you here is almost selfish, for I know you will
feel as acutely as I do, the terrible change observable
everywhere. But I cannot help longing for your
return, dear Charles, and counting the days and the
very hours till you arrive. . .
“Be cautious, in writing to me, not to say anything
which you would not wish Mademoiselle to see, for
Willett tells me she knows that Mademoiselle often
examines, and even intercepts the letters that arrive ;
O


I94 THE EVIL GUEST.
and though Willett may be mistaken, and I hope
she is, yet it is better that you should be upon your
guard. Ever since I heard this, I have brought my
letters to the post-office myself, instead of leaving
them with the rest upon the hall table, and you know
it is a long walk for me. . . .
“I go to church every Sunday, and take Willett
along with me. No one from this place seems to think
of doing so but ourselves. I see the Mervyns there.
Mrs. Mervyn is particularly kind, and I know that
she wishes to offer me an asylum at Newton Park,
and you cannot think with how much tenderness
and delicacy she conveys the wish. But I dare not
hint the subject to my father; and, earnestly as I
desire it, I could not but feel that I should go there,
not to visit, but to reside. And so even in this, in
many respects, delightful project, is mingled the
bitter apprehension of dependence—something so
humiliating, that kindly and delicately as the offer
is made, I could not bring myself to embrace it. I
have a great deal to say to you, and long to see
32
you.
These extracts will enable the reader to form a
tolerably accurate idea of the general state of affairs
at Gray Forest. Some particulars must, however, be
added.
Marston continued to be the same gloomy and


196 THE EVIL GUEST.
“You correspond with Charles P”
“Yes, sir,” she replied, with the respectful formality
prescribed by the usages of the time; “we correspond
regularly.”
“Ay, ay; and pray when did you last hear from
him?” he continued.
“About a month since, sir,” she replied.
“Ha!—and—and—was there nothing strange—
nothing—nothing mysterious and menacing in his
letter 2 Come, come, you know what I speak of 2 ”
He stopped abruptly, and stared in her face with an
agitated gaze.
“No, indeed, sir; there was not anything of the
kind.”
“I have been greatly shocked, I may say incensed,”
said Marston, excitedly, “by a passage in his last
letter to me. Not that it says anything specific, but
—but it amazes me—it enrages me.”
He again checked himself, and Rhoda, much sur-
prised and even shocked, said stammeringly,–
“I am sure, sir, that dear Charles would not in-
tentionally say or do anything that could offend
you.”
“Ah, as to that, I believe so, too. But it is not
with him I am indignant ; no, no. Poor Charles
I believe he is, as you say, disposed to conduct
himself as a son ought to do, respectfully and obe-
diently. Yes, yes, Charles is very well ; but I fear


'THE EVIL GUEST. I97
he is leading a bad life, notwithstanding—a very bad
life. He is becoming subject to influences which
never visit or torment the good; believe me, he is.”
Marston shook his head and muttered to himself,
with a look of almost craven anxiety, and then
whispered to his daughter,
“Just read this, and then tell me is it not so.
Read it, read it, and pronounce.”
As he thus spoke, he placed in her hand the letter
of which he had spoken, and with the passage to
which he invited her attention folded down. It was
to the following effect:—
“I cannot tell you how shocked I have been by a
piece of scandal, as I must believe it, conveyed to
me in an anonymous letter, and which is of so very
delicate a nature, that without your special command,
I should hesitate to pain you by its recital. I trust
it may be utterly false. Indeed I assume it to be so.
It is enough to say that it is of a very distressing
nature, and affects the lady (Mademoiselle de Barras)
whom you have recently honoured with your hand.”
“Mow you see," cried Marston, with a shuddering
fierceness, as Rhoda returned the letter with a blanched
cheek and trembling hand, “now you see it all.
Are you stupid 2—the stamp of the cloven hoof–
eh 2 ''
Rhoda, unable to gather his meaning, but at the
same time with a heart full, and trembling very


THE EVIL GUEST. I99
of mine he can get hold of, but he whispers in his
ear some damned slander of me. He is drawing
them all into a common understanding against me,
and he takes an actual pleasure in telling me how
the thing goes on—how, one after the other, he has
converted my friends into conspirators and libellers,
to blast my character, and take my life, and now the
monster essays to lure my children into the hellish
confederation.”
“Who is he, father, who is he P” faltered Rhoda.
“You never saw him,” retorted Marston, sternly.
“No, no ; you can't have seen him, and you probably
never will ; but if he does come here again, don't
listen to him. He is half-fiend and half-idiot, and no
good comes of his mouthing and muttering. Avoid
him, I warn you, avoid him. Let me see: how shall
I describe him P Let me see. You remember—you
remember Berkley—Sir Wynston Berkley. Well, he
greatly resembles that dead villain; he has all the
same grins, and shrugs, and monkey airs, and his
face and figure are like. But he is a grimed, ragged,
wasted piece of sin, little better than a beggar—a
shrunken, malignant libel on the human shape.
Avoid him, I tell you, avoid him He is steeped in
lies and poison, like the very serpent that betrayed
us. Beware of him, I say, for if he once gains your
ear, he will delude you, spite of all your vigilance;
he will make you his accomplice, and thenceforth,


2OO THE EVIL GUEST.
inevitably, there is nothing but mortal and implacable
hatred between us!”
Frightened at this wild language, Rhoda did not
answer, but looked up in his face in silence. A
fearful transformation was there—a scowl so livid
and maniacal that her very senses seemed leaving
her with terror. Perhaps the sudden alteration
observable in her countenance, as this spectacle so
unexpectedly encountered her, recalled Marston to
himself, for he added hurriedly, and in a tone of
gentler meaning :
“Rhoda, Rhoda, watch and pray. My daughter,
my child ! keep your heart pure, and nothing bad
can approach you for ill. No, no ; you are good,
and the good need not fear.”
Suddenly Marston burst into tears, as he ended
this sentence, and wept long and convulsively. She
did not dare to speak, or even to move ; but after a
while he ceased, appeared uneasy, half ashamed and
half angry ; and, looking with a horrified and
bewildered glance into her face, he said :
“Rhoda, child, what—what have I said P My
God what have I been saying 2 Did I–do I look
ill 2 Oh, Rhoda, Rhoda, may you never feel this ' "
He turned aside without awaiting his daughter's
answer, and walked away with the appearance of
intense agitation, as if to leave her. In a few
moments, however, he seemed to change his mind


THE EVIL GUEST. 2O I
again, and, with a face pallid and sunken as death,
approached her slowly.
“Rhoda,” said he, “don’t tell what I have said to
anyone—don't, I conjure you, even to Charles. I
speak too much at random, and say more than I
mean—a foolish, rambling habit; so do not repeat
one word of it—not one word to any living mortal.
You and I, Rhoda, must have our little secrets.”
He ended with an attempt at a smile, so obviously
painful and fear-stricken that as he walked hurriedly
away the astonished girl burst into a bitter flood of
tears. What was—what could be the meaning of the
shocking scene she had then been forced to witness P
She dared not answer the question. Yet one ghastly
doubt haunted her like her shadow—a suspicion that
the malign and hideous light of madness was already
glaring upon his mind. As, leaning upon the arm
of her astonished attendant, she retraced her steps,
the trees, the flowers, the familiar hall-door, the
echoing passages—every object that met her eye—
seemed Strange and unsubstantial, while she was
gliding on among them in a horrid dream.
There was no renewal of the painful scene which
dwelt so sensibly in the affrighted imagination of
Rhoda. Her father’s manner towards her was
changed ; he seemed shy, cowed, and uneasy in her
presence, and thenceforth she saw less than ever of


THE EVIL GUEST. 2O5
last seemed to overcome his own reluctance with a
sort of angry and excited self-contempt and impa-
tience. Dr. Danvers was a little puzzled by the
interrogatory, and admitted in reply that he did not
comprehend its drift.
“Dr. Danvers,” he resumed, sternly and dejectedly,
“I told you, in the chance interview we had some
months ago, that I was haunted by a certain fear. I
did not define it, nor do I think you suspect its
nature. It is a fear of nothing mortal, but of the
immortal tenant of this body. My mind, sir, is
beginning to play me tricks—my guide mocks and
terrifies me.”
There was a perceptible tinge of horror in the
look of astonishment with which Dr. Danvers
listened.
“You are a gentleman, sir, and a Christian clergy-
man ; what I have said and shall say is confided to
your honour, to be held sacred as a confession of
misery, and hidden from the coarse gaze of the
world. I have become subject to a hideous delusion.
It comes at intervals. I do not think any mortal
suspects it, except, maybe, my daughter Rhoda. It
comes and disappears, and comes again. I kept my
pleasant secret for a long time, but at last I let it
slip, and committed myself, fortunately to but one
person, and that my daughter; and even so, I hardly
think she understood me. I recollected myself


2O6 THE EVIL GUEST.
before I had disclosed the grotesque and infernal
chimera that haunts me.”
Marston paused. He was stooping forward, and
looking upon the floor of the vehicle, so that his
companion could not see his countenance. A silence
ensued, which was interrupted by Marston, who once
more resumed.
“Sir” said he, “I know not why, but I have longed,
intensely longed, for some trustworthy ear into which
to pour this horrid secret. Why, I repeat, I cannot
tell, for I expect no sympathy, and hate compassion.
It is, I suppose, the restless nature of the devil that
is in me; but, be it what it may, I will speak to you,
but to you only.”
Doctor Danvers again assured him that he might
repose the most entire confidence in his secrecy.
“The human mind, I take it, must have either
comfort in the past or hope in the future,” Marston
continued, “ otherwise it is in danger. To me, sir, the
past is intolerably repulsive; one boundless, barren,
and hideous Golgotha of dead hopes and murdered
opportunities; the future, still blacker and more
furious, peopled with dreadful features of horror and
menace, and losing itself in utter darkness. Sir, I
do not exaggerate. Between such a past and such
a future I stand upon this miserable present, and the
only comfort I still am capable of feeling is, that no
human being pities me, that I stand aloof from the


2O8 THE EVIL GUEST.
reason, the judgment, is untouched. I cannot choose
but see all the damned phantasmagoria, but I do not
believe it real, and this is the difference between my
case and—and—madness |"
They were now entering the suburbs of Chester,
and Doctor Danvers, pained and shocked beyond
measure by this unlooked-for disclosure, and not
“They bade one another farewell.” *
knowing what remark or comfort to offer, relieved
his temporary embarrassment by looking from the
window, as though attracted by the flash of the
lamps, among which the vehicle was now moving.
Marston, however, laid his hand upon his arm and
thus recalled hiſm, for a moment, to a forced atten-
tion.


CHAPTER XXII.
AT that time there resided in a decent mansion
about a mile from the town of Chester, a dapper
little doctor named Parkes. This gentleman was
the proprietor and sole professional manager of a
private asylum for the insane, and enjoyed a high
reputation and a proportionate amount of business
in his melancholy calling.
It was about the second day after the conversation
in the coach between Marston and Doctor Danvers,
that Parkes having visited, according to his custom,
all his domestic patients, was about to take a stroll
in his somewhat restricted pleasure-grounds, when
his servant announced a visitor.
“A gentleman,” he repeated ; “you have seen him
before—eh P”
“No, sir,” replied the man ; “he is in the study,
sir.” -
“Ha!—a professional call. Well, we shall see.”
So saying, the little gentleman summoned his
gravest look, and hastened to the chamber of audi-
en Ce.


2 I 2 THE EVIL GUEST.
“can you prevent the malady you profess to cure ?
can you meet and defeat the enemy half way 2 can
you scare away the spirit of madness before it takes
actual possession, and while it is still only hovering
over its threatened victim P”
“Sir,” replied Parkes, “in certain cases—in very
many, indeed—the enemy, as you well call it, may
thus be met, and effectually worsted at a distance.
Timely interposition, in ninety cases out of a hundred,
is everything ; and, I assure you, I hear your question
with much pleasure, inasmuch as I assume it to have
reference to the case of the patient about whom you
desire to consult me, and who is, therefore, I hope, as
yet merely menaced with the misfortune from which
you would save him.”
“I myself am that patient, sir,” said Marston,
with an effort. “Your surmise is right. I am not
mad, but unequivocally menaced with madness; it
is not to be mistaken. Sir, there is no misunder-
standing the tremendous and intolerable signs that
glare upon my mind.”
“And pray, sir, have you consulted your friends
or your family upon the course best to be pursued P”
inquired Doctor Parkes, with grave interest.
“No, sir,” answered Marston, sharply and almost
fiercely; “I have no fancy to make myself the
subject of a writ de lunatico inquirendo—I don't want
to lose my liberty and my property at a blow. The


THE EVIL GUEST. 213
course I mean to take has been advised by no one
but myself—is known to no other. I now disclose
it, and the causes of it, to you, a gentleman and my
professional adviser, in the expectation that you will
guard with the strictest secrecy my spontaneous
revelations. This you promise me 2 ” he added.
“Certainly, Mr. Marston ; I have neither the dis-
position nor the right to withhold such a promise.”
“Well, then, I will first tell you the arrangement. I
propose, with your permission, to make, and then I
shall answer all your questions respecting my own
case,” resumed Marston, gloomily. “I wish to place
myself under your care, to live under your roof,
reserving my full liberty of action. I must be free
to come and to go as I will ; and, on the other hand,
I undertake that you shall find me an amenable and
docile patient enough. In addition, I stipulate that
there shall be no attempt whatever made to com-
municate with those who are connected with me.
These terms agreed upon, I place myself in your
hands. You will find in me, as I said before, a
deferential patient, and I trust not a troublesome
one. I hope you will excuse my adding that I shall
myself pay the charge of my sojourn here from
week to week, in advance.” -
The proposed arrangement was a strange one;
and although Dr. Parkes dimly foresaw some of the
embarrassments which might possibly arise from his


2I4 THE EVIL GUEST.
accepting it, there was yet so much that was reason-
able as well as advantageous in the proposal that he
could not bring himself to decline it.
The preliminary arrangement concluded, Dr.
Parkes proceeded to his more strictly professional
investigation. It is, of course, needless to recapitu-
late the details of Marston's tormenting fancies, with
which the reader has, indeed, been already suffi-
ciently acquainted. Dr. Parkes, having attentively
listened to the narrative, and satisfied himself as to
the physical health of his patient, was still sorely
puzzled as to the probable issue of the awful struggle
already but too obviously commenced between the
mind and its destroyer in the strange case before
him. One satisfactory symptom unquestionably was
the as yet transitory nature of the delusion, and the
evident and energetic tenacity with which reason
contended for her vital ascendency. It was a case,
however, which for many reasons sorely perplexed
him, but of which he was disposed, whether rightly
or wrongly, to take by no means a decidedly gloomy
view.
Having unburdened his mind of his horrible
secret, Marston felt for a time a sense of relief
amounting almost to elation. With far less of
apprehension and dismay than he had known for
many months, he repaired to his bedroom that night.
There was nothing in his case, Dr. Parkes believed,


2I6 THE EVIL GUEST.
livid, his eyes burning with the preterhuman fires of
insanity.
As Dr. Parkes entered the chamber, another shout,
or rather yell, thundered from the lips of the de-
mented man, and the mad-doctor stood freezing
“Shaking and livid, his eyes burning.”
with horror in the doorway, and yet exerting what
remained to him of presence of mind in the vain
endeavour, in the flaring light of the candle, to catch
and fix with his own practised eye the gaze of his
patient. Second after second, and minute after
minute, he stood confronting this frightful slave of


THE EVIL GUEST. 217
Satan, in the momentary expectation that he would
close with and destroy him. On a sudden, however,
this brief agony of suspense was terminated ; a
change like an awaking consciousness of realities, or
rather like the withdrawal of some hideous and
visible influence from within, passed over the tense
and darkened features of the wretched being ; a look
of horrified perplexity, doubt, and inquiry supervened,
and he at last said, in a subdued and sullen tone:
“Who are you, sir? What do you want here P
Who are you, sir, I say ?”
“Who am I ? Why, your physician, sir—Dr.
Parkes, sir—the owner of this house, sir,” replied the
little man, with all the sternness he could command,
and yet white as a spectre with agitation. “For
shame, sir, for shame, to give way thus ! What do
you mean by creating this causeless alarm, and dis-
turbing the whole household at so unreasonable an
hour 2 For shame, sir! Go to your bed ; undress
yourself this moment. For shame !”
Dr. Parkes, as he spoke, was reassured by the
arrival of one of his servants, alarmed by the unmis-
takable sounds of violent frenzy. He signed, how-
ever, to the man not to enter, feeling confident that
the paroxysm had spent itself.
“Ay, ay,” muttered Marston, looking almost
sheepishly ; “Dr. Parkes, to be sure. What was I
thinking of? How cursedly absurd ' And this,”


CHAPTER XXIII.
WHEN Rhoda learned that her father, on leaving
Gray Forest, had fixed no definite period for his
return, she began to feel her situation at home so
painful and equivocal that, having taken honest
Willett to counsel, she came at last to the resolution
of accepting the often-conveyed invitation of Mrs.
Mervyn, and sojourning, at all events until her
father's return, at Newton Park.
“My dear young friend,” said the kind lady, as
soon as she heard Rhoda’s little speech to its close,
“I can scarcely describe the gratification with which
I see you here, the happiness with which I welcome
you to Newton Park, nor, indeed, the anxiety with
which I constantly contemplated your trying and
painful position at Gray Forest. Indeed, I ought to
be angry with you for having denied me this happi-
ness so long ; but you have made amends at last
—though, indeed, it was impossible to have deferred
it longer. You must not fancy, however, that I will
consent to lose you so soon as you seem to intend.
No, no ; I have found it too hard to catch you to let


22O THE EVIL GUEST.
you take wing so easily. Besides, I have others to
consult as well as myself—and persons, too, who are
just as anxious as I am to make a prisoner of you
here.”
The good Mrs. Mervyn accompanied these words
with looks so sly, and emphasis so significant, that
Rhoda was fain to look down, to hide her blushes ;
and compassionating the confusion she herself had
caused, the kind old lady led her guest to the chamber
which was henceforward, so long as she consented to
remain, to be her own apartment.
How that day was passed, and how fleetly its
hours sped away, it is needless to tell. Old Mervyn
had his gentle as well as his grim aspect; and no
welcome was ever more cordial and tender than that
with which he greeted the unprotected child of his
morose and repulsive neighbour. It would be impos-
sible to convey any idea of the countless assiduities
and the secret delight with which young Mervyn
attended their rambles. -
The party were assembled at supper. What a con-
trast did this cheerful, happy—unutterably happy—
gathering, present, in the mind of Rhoda, to the dull,
drear, fearful evenings which she had long been wont
to pass at Gray Forest
As they sat together in cheerful and happy
intercourse, a chaise drove up to the hall-door,
and the knocking had hardly ceased to rever-


THE EVIL GUEST, 22 I
berate, when a well-known voice was heard in the
hall. -
Young Mervyn started to his feet, and merrily
ejaculating “Charles Marston this is delightful!”
disappeared, and in an instant returned with Charles
himself.
We pass over all the embraces of brother and
sister; the tears and smiles of re-united affection.
We omit the cordial shaking of hands; the kind
looks; the questions and answers; all these, and all
the little attentions of that good old-fashioned hospi-
tality which was never, weary of demonstrating the
cordiality of its welcome.
Charles Marston, with the advice of his friend, Mr.
Mervyn, resolved to lose no time in proceeding to
Chester, whither it was ascertained his father had
gone, with the declared intention of meeting and
accompanying him home. He arrived in that town
in the evening ; and having previously learned that
Dr. Danvers had been for some time in Chester, he
at once sought him at his usual lodgings, and found
the worthy old gentleman at his solitary “dish " of
tea.
“My dear Charles,” said he, greeting his young
friend with earnest warmth, “I am rejoiced beyond
measure to see you. Your father is in town, as you
supposed ; and I have just had a note from him, which
has, I confess, not a little agitated me, referring, as it


THE EVIL GUEST. 223
possibly have relieved him from certain galling
anxieties. The fear that unjust suspicion should
light upon himself, or those connected with him, has,
I dare say, tormented him sorely. God grant, that
as the providential unfolding of all the details of this
mysterious crime comes about, he may be brought to
recognize, in the just and terrible process, the hand
of Heaven. God grant, that at last his heart may be
softened, and his spirit illuminated by the blessed
influence he has so long and so sternly rejected l’”
After a silence, Charles Marston said, with some
little embarrassment, “It may be a strange confes-
sion to make, though, indeed, hardly so to you—for
you know but too well the gloomy reserve with which
my father has uniformly treated me—that the exact
nature of Cartwright's confession never reached my
ears; and once or twice, when I approached the sub-
ject, in conversation with you, it seemed to me that
the topic was one which, for some reason, it was
painful to you to enter upon.”
“And so it was, in truth, my young friend—so it
was ; for that confession left behind it many fearful
doubts, proving, indeed, nothing but the one fact,
that, morally, the wretched man was guilty of the
murder.”
Charles, urged by a feeling of the keenest interest,
requested Dr. Danvers to detail to him the particu-
lars of the dying man's narration.


THE EVIL GUEST. 225
wanted power to combat, but accident or fate
prevented him. In a state of ghastly excitement he
had, on the memorable night of Sir Wynston's
murder, proceeded, as it afterwards appeared in
evidence, by the back stairs to the baronet's cham-
ber; he had softly stolen into it, and gone to the
bed-side, with the weapon in his hand. He drew his
breath for the decisive stroke which was to bereave
the (supposed) sleeping man of life, and when stretch-
ing his left hand under the clothes, it rested upon a
dull, cold corpse, and, at the same moment, his right
hand was immersed in a pool of blood. He dropped
the knife, recoiled a pace or so. With a painful
effort, however, he again groped with his hand to
recover the weapon he had suffered to escape, and
secured, as it afterwards turned out, not the knife
with which he had meditated the commission of his
crime, but the dagger which was afterwards found
where he had concealed it. He was now fully alive to
the horror of his situation ; he was compromised as
fully as if he had in very deed driven home the
weapon. To be found under such circumstances,
would convict him as surely as if fifty eyes had seen
him strike the blow. He had nothing now for it but
flight; and in order to guard himself against the con-
tingency of being surprised from the door opening
upon the corridor, he bolted it; then groped under the
murdered man's pillow for the booty which had so
Q


226 THE EVIL GUEST.
fatally fascinated his imagination. Here he was dis-
appointed. What further happened you already know.”
Charles listened with breathless attention to this
recital, and after a painful interval, said :—
“Then the actual murderer is, after all, undis-
covered. This is, indeed, horrible; it was very natural
that my father should have felt the danger to which
such a disclosure would have exposed the reputation of
our family, yet I should have preferred encountering
it, were it ten times as great, to the equivocal prudence
of suppressing the truth with respect to a murder
committed under my own roof,” said the young man,
somewhat sententiously.
“Your father has, it would seem, arrived at some
new conclusions,” said Dr. Danvers, “and is now pre-
pared to throw some unanticipated light upon the
whole transaction.”
Even as they were talking, a knocking was heard
at the hall-door, and after a brief and hurried consul-
tation, it was agreed, that, considering the strict con-
dition of privacy attached to this visit by Mr. Marston
himself, as well as his reserved and wayward temper,
it might be better for Charles to avoid presenting him-
self to his father on this occasion. A few seconds
afterwards the door opened, and Mr. Marston entered
the apartment. It was now dark, and the servant,
unbidden, placed candles upon the table. Without
answering one word to Dr. Danvers' greeting, Marston


THE EVIL GUEST. 227
sat down, as it seemed, in agitated abstraction. Re-
moving his hatsuddenly (for he had not even made
this slight homage to the laws of courtesy), he looked
round with a careworn, fiery eye, and a pale counten-
ance, and said,
“We are quite alone, Dr. Danvers—no one any-
where near P”
Dr. Danvers assured him that all was secure.
After a long and awkward pause, Marston said,
“You remember Cartwright's confession. He ad-
mitted his intention to kill Berkley, but denied that
he was the actual murderer. He spoke truth—no
one knew it better than I ; for I am the murderer | *
Dr. Danvers was so shocked and overwhelmed
that he was utterly unable to speak.
“Ay, sir, in point of law and of morals, literally
and honestly, the murderer of Wynston Berkley. I
am resolved you shall know it all. Make what use
of it you will—I care for nothing now, but to get rid
of the hellish, unsustainable secret, and that is done.
I did not intend to kill the scoundrel when I went
to his room ; but with the just feelings of exaspera-
tion with which I regarded him, it would have been
wiser had I avoided the interview ; and I meant to
have done so. But his candle was burning; I saw
the light through the door, and went in. It was his
evil fortune to indulge in his odd strain of sardonic
impertinence. He provoked me; I struck him—he
Q 2


228 THE EVIL GUEST.
struck me again—and with his own dagger I stabbed
him three times. I did not know what I had done ;
I could not believe it. I felt neither remorse nor
sorrow—why should I?—but the thing was horrible,
astounding. There he sat in the corner of his
cushioned chair, with the old fiendish smile still on
his face. Sir, I never thought that any human shape
could look so appalling. I don't know how long
I stayed there, freezing with horror and detesta-
tion, and yet unable to take my eyes from the
face. Did you see it in the coffin P Sir, there
was a sneer of triumph on it that was diabolic and
prophetic.”
Marston was fearfully agitated as he spoke, and
repeatedly wiped the cold sweat from his face.
“I could not leave the room by the back stairs,”
he resumed, “for the valet slept in the intervening
chamber. I felt such an unconquerable antipathy to
the body, that I could scarce muster.courage to pass
it. But, sir, I am not easily cowed—I mastered this
repugnance in a few minutes—or, rather, I acted in
spite of it, I knew not how. Instinctively it seemed
to me that it was better to lay the body in the bed
than leave it where it was, showing, as its position
might, that the thing occurred in an altercation. So,
sir, I raised it, and bore it softly across the room,
and laid it in the bed; and while I was carrying it,
it swayed forward, the arms glided round my neck,


230 THE EVIL GUEST.
like one pursuing a horrible reverie, than as a man
relating facts to a listener, “I heard a light tread,
and soft breathing in the lobby. A thunder-clap
would have stunned me less that minute. I moved
softly, holding my breath, to the door! I believe,
in moments of strong excitement, men hear more
acutely than at other times; anyhow, I thought I heard
the rustling of a gown. Going from the door again.
I waited—It ceased. I waited until all was quiet. I
then extinguished the candle, and groped my way to
the door; there was a faint light in the corridor, and
I thought I saw a head projected from the chamber-
door, next to the Frenchwoman's—Mademoiselle’s.
As I came on, it was softly withdrawn, and the door
not quite noiselessly closed. I could not be absolutely
certain, but I learned all afterward. . . . And, now,
sir, you have the story of Sir Wynston's murder.”
Dr. Danvers groaned in spirit, being wrung alike
with fear and sorrow. With hands clasped, and
head bowed down, in an exceeding bitter agony of
soul, he murmured only the words of the Litany—
“Lord, have mercy upon us; Christ, have mercy
upon us; Lord, have mercy upon us.” -
Marston had recovered his usual lowering aspect
and gloomy self-possession in a few moments, and
was now standing erect and defiant before the
humbled and afflicted minister of God. The con-
trast was terrible—almost sublime.


CHAPTER XXIV.
DOCTOR DANVERS resolved to keep secret this
dreadful confession, at least for a time. He could
not make up his mind to inflict upon those whom
he loved so well as Charles and Rhoda the shame
and agony of such a disclosure; yet he was Sorely
troubled, for his was a conflict of duty and mercy, of
love and justice.
He informed Charles Marston, when urged with
earnest inquiry, that what he had heard that evening
was intended solely for his own ear, and gently but
peremptorily declined telling, at least until some
future time, the substance of his father's communi-
cation.
Charles now felt it necessary to see his father, for
the purpose of letting him know the substance of
the letter respecting “Mademoiselle” and the late
Sir Wynston which had reached him. Accordingly,
he proceeded, accompanied by Dr. Danvers, on the
next morning, to the hotel where Marston had inti-
mated his intention of passing the night.
When they inquired for him in the hall, the porter


232 THE EVIL GUEST.
appeared much perplexed and disturbed, and as they
pressed him with questions, his answers became con-
flicting and mysterious. Mr. Marston was there—
he had slept there last night; he could not say
whether or not he was then in the house; but he
knew that no one could be admitted to see him.
He would, if the gentlemen wished it, send their
cards to the proprietor—not to Mr. Marston. And,
finally, he concluded by begging that they would
themselves see “the proprietor,” and despatched a
waiter to apprise him of the circumstances of the
visit.
There was something odd and even sinister in all
this, which, along with the whispering and the
curious glances of the waiters, who happened to
hear the errand on which they came, inspired the
two companions with vague misgivings which they
did not care mutually to disclose.
In a few moments they were shown into a small
sitting-room upstairs, where the proprietor, a fussy
little gentleman, and apparently very uneasy and
frightened, received them.
“We have called here to see Mr. Marston,” said
Doctor Danvers, “and the porter has referred us to
you.”
“Yes, sir, exactly—precisely so,” answered the
little man, fidgeting excessively, and, as it seemed
growing paler every instant; “but—but in fact, sir,


THE EVIL GUEST. 235
A few words, in conclusion, as to Mademoiselle de
Barras. Naturally ambitious and intriguing, the peril-
“He drew the drapery aside.”
ous tendencies of such a spirit had never been schooled
by the mighty and benignant principles of religion.
Of her accidental acquaintance at Rouen with Sir


THE EVIL GUEST. 237
After Marston's death she made her way to Paris.
Arrived in the capital of France, she speedily dissi-
pated whatever remained of the money and valuables
which she had taken with her from Gray Forest; and
Madame Marston, as she now styled herself, was glad
to place herself once more as a governess in an aris-
tocratic family.
So far her good fortune had prevailed in averting
the punishment but too well earned by her past life.
But a day of reckoning was to come.
A few years later France was involved in the up-
roar and conflagration of Revolution. Noble families
were scattered, beggared, decimated; and their
dependents, often dragged along with them into the
flaming abyss, in many instances suffered the last dire
extremities of human ill. It was at this awful period
that a retribution so frightful and extraordinary
overtook Madame Marston, that we may here-
after venture to make it the subject of a separate
narrative.
The concluding chapter in a novel is usually brief,
though seldom so short as the world would have it.
We, too, may be all the briefer, inasmuch as the
reader has doubtless anticipated the little there is to
be said.
It amounts, then, to this:—Within two years after
the fearful event which occurred at the hotel in


238 THE EVIL GUEST.
Chester, an alliance had drawn together, in nearer
and dearer union, the inmates of Gray Forest and
Newton Park. Rhoda had given her hand to young
Mervyn.
GILBERT AND RIVINGTON, LTD., S.T. John’s House, clerkeNWELL, E. c.


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