The Evil Guest Read online

except atthe usual hours, or in obedience to Sir Wynston's bell, nothing moredispleased his master than his presuming to enter his sleeping-apartmentwhile he was there, the servant quietly retreated, and, perfectlysatisfied that all was right, composed himself to slumber, and was soonbeginning to dose again.

  The adventures of the night, however, were not yet over. Waking, as mensometimes do, without any ascertainable cause; without a start or anuneasy sensation; without even a disturbance of the attitude of repose,he opened his eyes and beheld Merton, the servant of whom we have spoken,standing at a little distance from his bed. The moonlight fell in a clearflood upon this figure: the man was ghastly pale; there was a blotch ofblood on his face; his hands were clasped upon something which theynearly concealed; and his eyes, fixed on the servant who had justawakened, shone in the cold light with a wild and lifeless glitter. Thisspecter drew close to the side of the bed, and stood for a few momentsthere with a look of agony and menace, which startled the newly-awakenedman, who rose upright, and said--

  "Mr. Merton, Mr. Merton--in God's name, what is the matter?"

  Merton recoiled at the sound of his voice; and, as he did so, droppedsomething on the floor, which rolled away to a distance; and he stoodgazing silently and horribly upon his interrogator.

  "Mr. Merton, I say, what is it?" urged the man. "Are you hurt? Your faceis bloody."

  Merton raised his hand to his face mechanically, and Sir Wynston's manobserved that it, too, was covered with blood.

  "Why, man," he said, vehemently, and actually freezing with horror, "youare all bloody; hands and face; all over blood."

  "My hand is cut to the bone," said Merton, in a harsh whisper; andspeaking to himself, rather than addressing the servant--"I wish it wasmy neck; I wish to God I bled to death."

  "You have hurt your hand, Mr. Merton," repeated the man, scarce knowingwhat he said.

  "Aye," whispered Merton, wildly drawing toward the bedside again; "whotold you I hurt my hand? It is cut to the bone, sure enough."

  He stooped for a moment over the bed, and then cowered down toward thefloor to search for what he had dropped.

  "Why, Mr. Merton, what brings you here at this hour?" urged the man,after a pause of a few seconds. "It is drawing toward morning."

  "Aye, aye," said Merton, doubtfully, and starting upright again, whilehe concealed in his bosom what he had been in search of. "Near morning,is it? Night and morning, it is all one to me. I believe I am goingmad, by--"

  "But what do you want? What did you come here for at this hour?"persisted the man.

  "What! Aye, that is it; why, his boots and spurs, to be sure. Iforgot them. His--his--Sir Wynston's boots and spurs; I forgot totake them, I say," said Merton, looking toward the dressing room, asif about to enter it.

  "Don't mind them tonight, I say, don't go in there," said the man,peremptorily, and getting out upon the floor. "I say, Mr. Merton, this isno 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 befor tonight."

  Thus speaking, in a resolute and somewhat angry under-key, the valetstood between Merton and the entrance of the dressing-room; and, signingwith his hand toward the other door of the apartment, continued--

  "Go down, I say, Mr. Merton, go down; you may as well quietly, for, Itell you plainly, you shall neither go a step further, nor stay here amoment longer."

  The man drew his shoulders up, and made a sort of shivering moan, andclasping his hands together, shook them, as it seemed, in great agony. Hethen turned abruptly, and hurried from the room by the door leading tothe kitchen.

  "By my faith," said the servant, "I am glad he is gone. The poor chap isturning crazy, as sure as I am a living man. I'll not have him prowlingabout here anymore, however; that I am resolved on."

  In pursuance of this determination, by no means an imprudent one, as itseemed, he fastened the door communicating with the lower apartments uponthe inside. He had hardly done this, when he heard a step traversing thestable-yard, which lay under the window of his apartment. He looked out,and saw Merton walking hurriedly across, and into a stable at thefarther end.

  Feeling no very particular curiosity about his movements, the man hurriedback to his bed. Merton's eccentric conduct of late had become sogenerally remarked and discussed among the servants, that Sir Wynston'sman 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 appearance of bloodhad been accounted for, had he entertained any suspicions whateverconnected with the man's unexpected presence in the room. Merton was inthe 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 thisattention had been civilly undertaken as a proof of good-will toward thevalet, whose duty this somewhat soiling and ungentlemanlike process wouldotherwise have been. So far, the nature of the visit was explained; andthe remembrance of the friendly feeling and good offices which had beenmutually interchanged, as well as of the inoffensive habits for whichMerton had earned a character for himself, speedily calmed theuneasiness, for a moment amounting to actual alarm, with which theservant had regarded his appearance.

  We must now pass on to the morrow, and ask the reader's attention for afew moments to a different scene.

  In contact with Gray Forest upon the northern side, and divided by acommon boundary, lay a demesne, in many respects presenting a verystriking contrast to its grander neighbor. It was a comparatively modernplace. It could not boast the towering timber which enriched andovershadowed the vast and varied expanse of its aristocratic rival; but,if it was inferior in the advantages of antiquity, and, perhaps, also insome of those of nature, its superiority in other respects wasstriking, and important. Gray Forest was not more remarkable for itswild and neglected condition, than was Newton Park for the care andelegance with which it was kept. No one could observe the contrast,without, at the same time, divining its cause. The proprietor of the onewas a man of wealth, fully commensurate with the extent and pretensionsof the residence he had chosen; the owner of the other was a man ofbroken fortunes.

  Under a green shade, which nearly met above, a very young man, scarcelyone-and-twenty, of a frank and sensible, rather than a strictlyhandsome countenance, was walking, followed by half a dozen dogs of asmany breeds and sizes. This young man was George Mervyn, the only sonof the present proprietor of the place. As he approached the greatgate, the clank of a horse's hoofs in quick motion upon the sequesteredroad which ran outside it, reached him; and hardly had he heard thesesounds, when a young gentleman rode briskly by, directing his look intothe demesne as he passed. He had no sooner seen him, than wheeling hishorse about, he rode up to the iron gate, and dismounting, threw itopen, and let his horse in.

  "Ha! Charles Marston, I protest!" said the young man, quickening his paceto meet his friend. "Marston, my dear fellow," he called aloud, "how gladI 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 liethrough this. Thus the young people walked on, talking of a hundredthings as they proceeded, in the mirth of their hearts.

  Between the fathers of the two young men, who thus walked soaffectionately together, there subsisted unhappily no friendly feelings.There had been several slight disagreements between them, touching theirproprietary rights, and one of these had ripened into a formal andsomewhat expensive litigation, respecting a certain right of fishingclaimed by each. This legal encounter had terminated in the defeat ofMarston. Mervyn, however, promptly wrote to his opponent, offering himthe free use of the waters for which they had thus sharply contested, andreceived a curt and scarcely civil reply, declining the proposedcourtesy. This exhibition of resentment on Marston's part had beenfollowed by some rather angry collisions, where chance or duty happenedto throw them together. It is but justice to say that, upon all suchoccasions, Marston was the aggressor. But Mervyn was a somewhat testy oldgentleman,
and had a certain pride of his own, which was not to betrifled with. Thus, though near neighbors, the parents of the youngfriends were more than strangers to each other. On Mervyn's side,however, this estrangement was unalloyed with bitterness, and simply ofthat kind which the great moralist would have referred to "defensivepride." It did not include any member of Marston's family, and Charles,as often as he desired it, which was, in truth, as often as his visitscould escape the special notice of his father, was a welcome guest atNewton Park.

  These details respecting the mutual relation in which the two familiesstood, it was necessary to state, for the purpose of making what followsperfectly clear. The young people had now reached the further gate, atwhich they were to part. Charles Marston, with