tuft-hunter, a good deal faded,with a somewhat sallow and puffy face, charged with a pleasantcombination at once of meanness, insolence, and sensuality--just such aperson as Sir Wynston's parasite might have been expected to prove.
However well disposed to impress the natives with high notions of hisextraordinary refinement and importance, he very soon discovered that, inMarston, he had stumbled upon a man of the world, and one thoroughlyversed in the ways and characters of London life. After some ineffectualattempts, therefore, to overawe and astonish his host, Mr. Skelton becameaware of the fruitlessness of the effort, and condescended to abatesomewhat of his pretensions. Marston could not avoid inviting thisperson to pass the night at his house, an invitation which was accepted,of course; and next morning, after a late breakfast, Mr. Skeltonobserved, with a yawn--"And now, about this body--poor Berkley!--what doyou propose to do with him?"
"I have no proposition to make," said Marston, drily. "It is no affair ofmine, except that the body may be removed without more delay. I have nosuggestion 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 not there, in the demesne, a familyburial-place?" inquired the visitor.
"Yes, sir," replied Marston, curtly.
"Well?" drawled Skelton.
"Well, sir, what then?" responded Marston.
"Why, as the wish of the parties is to have him buried--poor fellow!--asquietly as possible, I think he might just as well be laid there asanywhere else!"
"Had I desired it, Mr. Skelton, I should myself have made the offer,"said Marston, abruptly.
"Then you don't wish it?" said Skelton.
"No, sir; certainly not--most peremptorily not," answered Marston, withmore sharpness than, in his early days, he would have thought quiteconsistent with politeness.
"Perhaps," replied Skelton, for want of something better to say, and witha callous sort of levity; "perhaps you hold the idea--some peopledo--that murdered men can't rest in their graves until their murderershave expiated their guilt?"
Marston made no reply, but shot two or three lurid glances from under hisbrow at the speaker.
"Well, then, at all events," continued Skelton, indolently resuming histheme, "if you decline your assistance, may I, at least, hope for youradvice? Knowing nothing of this country, I would ask you whither youwould recommend me to have the body conveyed?"
"I don't care to advise in the matter," said Marston; "but if I weredirecting, I should have the remains buried in Chester. It is not morethan twenty miles from this; and if, at any future time, his familyshould desire to remove the body, it could be effected more easily fromthence. But you can decide."
"Egad! I believe you are right," said Skelton, glad to be relieved of thetrouble of thinking about the matter; "and I shall take your advice."
In accordance with this declaration the body was, within four-and-twentyhours, removed to Chester, and buried there, Mr. Skelton attending onbehalf of Sir Wynston's numerous and afflicted friends and relatives.
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 thiskind, perhaps, were the stern and bitter feelings which now darkened theface of Marston with an almost perpetual gloom. His habits became evenmore unsocial than before. The society of his son he no longer seemed toenjoy. Long and solitary rambles in his wild and extensive demesneconsumed the listless hours or his waking existence; and when theweather 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 theintended departure of Mademoiselle de Barras. Truth to say, his feelingswith respect to that young lady were of a conflicting and mysteriouskind; and as often as his dark thoughts wandered to her (which, indeed,was frequently enough), his muttered exclamation seemed to imply somepainful and horrible suspicions respecting her.
"Yes," he would mutter, "I thought I heard your light foot upon thelobby, on that accursed night. Fancy! Well, it may have been, butassuredly a strange fancy. I cannot comprehend that woman. She baffles myscrutiny. I have looked into her face with an eye she might wellunderstand, were it indeed as I sometimes suspect, and she has been calmand unmoved. I have watched and studied her; still--doubt, doubt, hideousdoubt!--is she what she seems, or--a tigress?"
Mrs. Marston, on the other hand, procrastinated from day to day thepainful task of announcing to Mademoiselle de Barras the stern messagewith which she had been charged by her husband. And thus several weekshad passed, and she began to think that his silence upon the subject,notwithstanding his seeing the young French lady at breakfast everymorning, amounted to a kind of tacit intimation that the sentence ofbanishment was not to be carried into immediate execution, but to be keptsuspended over the unconscious offender.
It was now six or eight weeks since the hearse carrying away the remainsof the ill-fated Sir Wynston Berkley had driven down the dusky avenue;the autumn was deepening into winter, and as Marston gloomily trod thewoods of Gray Forest, the withered leaves whirled drearily along hispathway, and the gusts that swayed the mighty branches above him wererude and ungenial. It was a bleak and somber day, and as he broke into along and picturesque vista, deep among the most sequestered woods, hesuddenly saw before him, and scarcely twenty paces from the spot on whichhe stood, an apparition, which for some moments absolutely froze him tothe earth.
Travel-soiled, tattered, pale, and wasted, John Merton, the murderer,stood before him. He did not exhibit the smallest disposition to turnabout and make his escape. On the contrary, he remained perfectlymotionless, looking upon his former master with a wild and sorrowfulgaze. Marston twice or thrice essayed to speak; his face was white asdeath, and had he beheld the specter of the murdered baronet himself, hecould not have met the sight with a countenance of ghastlier horror.
"Take me, sir," said Merton, doggedly.
Still Marston did not stir.
"Arrest me, sir, in God's name! here I am," he repeated, dropping hisarms 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--take that!"
And, as he spoke, he discharged one of the pistols he always carriedabout him full at the wretched man. The shot did not take effect, andMerton made no other gesture but to clasp his hands together, with anagonized pressure, while his head sunk upon his breast.
"Shoot me; shoot me," he said hoarsely; "kill me like a dog: better forme to be dead than what I am."
The report of Marston's pistol had, however, reached another ear; and itsringing echoes had hardly ceased to vibrate among the trees, when a sternshout was heard not fifty yards away, and, breathless and amazed, CharlesMarston sprang to the place. His father looked from Merton to him, andfrom him again to Merton, with a guilty and stupefied scowl, stillholding the smoking pistol in his hand.
"What--how! Good God--Merton!" ejaculated Charles.
"Aye, sir, Merton; ready to go to gaol, or wherever you will," said theman, recklessly.
"A murderer; a madman; don't believe him," muttered Marston, scarceaudibly, with lips as white as wax.
"Do you surrender yourself, Merton?" demanded the young man, sternly,advancing toward him.
"Yes, sir; I desire nothing more; God knows I wish to die," responded he,despairingly, and advancing slowly to meet Charles.
"Come, then," said young Marston, seizing him by the collar, "comequietly to the house. Guilty and unhappy man, you are now my prisoner,and, depend upon it, I shall not let you go."
"I don't want to go, I tell you, sir. I have traveled fifteen milestoday, to come here and give myself up to the master."
"Accursed madman," said Marston unconsciously, gazing at the prisoner;and then suddenly rousing himself, he said, "Well, miscreant, you wish todie, and, by ----, you are in a fair way to have your wish."
"So b
est," said the man, doggedly. "I don't want to live; I wish I was inmy grave; I wish I was dead a year ago."
Some fifteen minutes afterwards, Merton, accompanied by Marston and hisson Charles, entered the hall of the mansion which, not ten weeksbefore, he had quitted under circumstances so guilty and terrible. Whenthey reached the house, Merton seemed much agitated, and wept bitterlyon seeing two or three of his former fellow servants, who looked on himin silence as they passed, with a gloomy and fearful curiosity. These,too, were succeeded by others, peeping and whispering, and upon onepretence or another crossing and re-crossing the hall, and stealinghurried glances at the criminal. Merton sate with his face buried in hishands, sobbing, and