The Evil Guest Read online

men; and that Sir Wynston never took trouble of anykind without a sufficient purpose, having its center in his own personalgratification.

  This visit greatly puzzled Marston; it gave him even a vague sense ofuneasiness. Could there exist any flaw in his own title to the estate ofGray Forest? He had an unpleasant, doubtful sort of remembrance of someapprehensions of this kind, when he was but a child, having beenwhispered in the family. Could this really be so, and could thebaronet have been led to make this unexpected visit merely for thepurpose of personally examining into the condition or a property ofwhich he was about to become the legal invader? The nature of thissuspicion affords, at all events, a fair gauge of Marston's estimateof his cousin's character. And as he revolved these doubts from time totime, and as he thought of Mademoiselle de Barras's transient, butunaccountable embarrassment at the mention of Rouen by Sir Wynston--anembarrassment which the baronet himself appeared for a moment toreciprocate--undefined, glimmering suspicions of another kind flickeredthrough the darkness of his mind. He was effectually puzzled; hissurmises and conjectures baffled; and he more than half repented that hehad acceded to his cousin's proposal, and admitted him as an inmate ofhis house.

  Although Sir Wynston comported himself as if he were conscious of beingthe very most welcome visitor who could possibly have established himselfat Gray Forest, he was, doubtless, fully aware of the real feelings withwhich he was regarded by his host. If he had in reality an object inprolonging his stay, and wished to make the postponement of his departurethe direct interest of his entertainer, he unquestionably took effectualmeasures for that purpose.

  The little party broke up every evening at about ten o'clock, and SirWynston retired to his chamber at the same hour. He found littledifficulty in inducing Marston to amuse him there with a quiet game ofpiquet. In his own room, therefore, in the luxurious ease of dressinggown and slippers he sat at cards with his host, often until an hour ortwo past midnight. Sir Wynston was exorbitantly wealthy, and veryreckless in expenditure. The stakes for which they played, although theygradually became in reality pretty heavy, were in his eyes a veryunimportant consideration. Marston, on the other hand, was poor, andplayed with the eye of a lynx and the appetite of a shark. The ease andperfect good-humor with which Sir Wynston lost were not unimproved by hisentertainer, who, as may readily be supposed, was not sorry to reap thisgolden harvest, provided without the slightest sacrifice, on his part, ofpride or independence. If, indeed, he sometimes suspected that his guestwas a little more anxious to lose than to win, he was also quite resolvednot to perceive it, but calmly persisted in, night after night, givingSir Wynston, as he termed it, his revenge; or, in other words, treatinghim to a repetition of his losses. All this was very agreeable toMarston, who began to treat his visitor with, at all events, moreexternal cordiality and distinction than at first.

  An incident, however, occurred, which disturbed these amicable relationsin an unexpected way. It becomes necessary here to mention thatMademoiselle de Barras's sleeping apartment opened from a long corridor.It was en suite with two dressing rooms, each opening also upon thecorridor, but wholly unused and unfurnished. Some five or six otherapartments also opened at either side, upon the same passage. Theselittle local details being premised, it so happened that one day Marston,who had gone out with the intention of angling in the trout-stream whichflowed through his park, though at a considerable distance from thehouse, having unexpectedly returned to procure some tackle which he hadforgotten, was walking briskly through the corridor in question to hisown apartment, when, to his surprise, the door of one of the deserteddressing-rooms, of which we have spoken, was cautiously pushed open, andSir Wynston Berkley issued from it. Marston was almost beside him as hedid so, and Sir Wynston made a motion as if about instinctively to drawback again, and at the same time the keen ear of his host distinctlycaught the sound of rustling silks and a tiptoe tread hastily withdrawingfrom the deserted chamber. Sir Wynston looked nearly as much confused asa man of the world can look. Marston stopped short, and scanned hisvisitor for a moment with a very peculiar expression.

  "You have caught me peeping, Dick. I am an inveterate explorer," said thebaronet, with an effectual effort to shake off his embarrassment. "Anopen door in a fine old house is a temptation which--"

  "That door is usually closed, and ought to be kept so," interruptedMarston, drily; "there is nothing whatever to be seen in the room butdust and cobwebs."

  "Pardon me," said Sir Wynston, more easily, "you forget the view fromthe window."

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

  "Yes, I do think it is a good view," said Marston; and as he turnedcarelessly away, he darted a swift glance round the chamber. The dooropening toward the French lady's apartment was closed, but not actuallyshut. This was enough; and as they left the room, Marston repeated hisinvitation to his guest to accompany him; but in a tone which showed thathe 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 today?"

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

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

  A few minutes more, and Marston, from the parlor-window, beheld Rhoda andthe elegant French girl walking together towards the woodlands. Hewatched them gloomily, himself unseen, until the crowding underwoodconcealed their receding figures. Then, with a sigh, he turned, andreascended the great staircase.

  "I shall sift this mystery to the bottom," thought he. "I shall foil theconspirators, if so they be, with their own weapons; art with art;chicane with chicane; duplicity with duplicity."

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

  Sustained throughout his dishonorable task by some strong and angrypassion, the sight of the open escritoire checked and startled him for amoment. Violated privilege, invaded secrecy, base, perfidious espionageupbraided and stigmatized him, as the intricacies of the outragedsanctuary opened upon his intrusive gaze. He felt for a moment shockedand humbled. He was impelled to lock and replace the desk where he hadoriginally found it, without having effected his meditated treason; butthis hesitation was transient; the fiery and reckless impulse which hadurged him to the act returned to enforce its consummation. With a guiltyeye and eager hands, he searched the contents of this tiny repository ofthe fair Norman's written secrets.

  "Ha! the very thing," he muttered, as he detected the identical letterwhich he himself had handed to Mademoiselle de Barras but a few daysbefore. "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 hisbreath while he read it. First he grew pale, then a shadow came over hisface, and then another, and another, darker and darker, shade upon shade,as if an exhalation from the pit was momentarily blackening the air abouthim. He said nothing; there was but one long, gentle sigh, and in hisface a mortal sternness, as he folded the letter again, replaced it, andlocked the desk.

  Of course, when Mademoiselle de Barras returned from her accustomedwalk, she found everything in her room, to all appearances, undisturbed,and just as when s
he left it. While this young lady was making hertoilet for the evening, and while Sir Wynston Berkley was worryinghimself with conjectures as to whether Marston's evil looks, when heencountered him that morning in the passage, existed only in his ownfancy, or were, in good truth, very grim and significant realities,Marston himself was striding alone through the wildest and darkestsolitudes of his park, haunted by his own unholy thoughts, and, it maybe, by those other evil and unearthly influences which wander, as weknow, "in desert places." Darkness overtook him, and the chill of night,in these lonely tracts. In his solitary walk, what fearful company hadhe been keeping! As the shades of night deepened round him, the sense ofthe neighborhood of ill, the consciousness of the foul fancies or which,where he was now treading, he had been for hours the sport, oppressedhim with a vague and