"I don't, and I won't (as you say) believe one word of it; so, pray spare
yourself further trouble about the matter." She raised her head, and darted after him a glance that seemed absolutely
to blaze, and at the same time smote her little hand fast clenched upon
her breast. The words, however, that trembled on her pale lips were not
uttered; her eyes were again cast down, and her fingers played with the
little locket that hung round her neck. "I must make, before I go," she said, with a deep sigh and a melancholy
voice, "one confidence--one last confidence: judge me by it. You cannot
choose but believe me now: it is a secret, and it must even here be
whispered, whispered, whispered!" As she spoke, the color fled from her face, and her tones became so
strange and resolute, that Marston turned short upon his heel, and
stopped before her. She looked in his face; he frowned, but lowered his
eyes. She drew nearer, laid her hand upon his shoulder, and whispered for
a few moments in his ear. He raised his face suddenly: its features were
sharp and fixed; its hue was changed; it was livid and moveless, like a
face cut in gray stone. He staggered back a little and a little more, and
then a little more, and fell backward. Fortunately, the chair in which he
had been sitting received him, and he lay there insensible as a corpse. When at last his eyes opened, there was no gleam of triumph, no shade of
anger, nothing perceptible of guilt or menace, in the young woman's
countenance. The flush had returned to her cheeks; her dimpled chin had
sunk upon her full white throat; sorrow, shame, and pride seemed
struggling in her handsome face, and she stood before him like a
beautiful penitent, who has just made a strange and humbling shrift to
her father confessor. 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 today." "The devil it does!" said Marston, with discontented surprise. "Truly it does, sir," repeated he, with a look of gentle reproof, for the
profanity of Marston's ejaculation, 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, drily, and without
heeding his concluding remark, "if you really have business with me, it
is, at all events, of no very pressing kind, and may be as well told
after supper as now. So, pray, go into the house and rest yourself: we
can talk together in the evening." "My horse is not tired," said the clergyman, patting his steed's neck;
"and if you do not object, I will ride by your side for a short time, and
as we go, I can say out what I have to tell." "Well, well, be it so," said Marston, with suppressed impatience, and
without more ceremony, he rode slowly along the avenue, and turned off
upon the soft sward in the direction of the wildest portion of his wooded
demesne, the clergyman keeping close beside him. They proceeded some
little way at a walk before Doctor Danvers spoke. "I have been twice or thrice with that unhappy man," at length he said. "What unhappy man? Unhappiness is no distinguishing singularity, is it?" said Marston, sharply. "No, truly, you have well said," replied Doctor Danvers. "True it is that
man is born unto trouble as the sparks fly upward. I speak, however, of
your servant, Merton--a most unhappy wretch." "Ha! you have been with him, you say?" replied Marston, with evident
interest and anxiety. "Yes, several times, and conversed with him long and gravely," continued
the clergyman. "Humph! I thought that had been the chaplain's business, not yours, my
good friend," observed Marston. "He has been unwell," replied Dr. Danvers; "and thus, for a day or two,
I took his duty, and this poor man, Merton, 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?" 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; confesses his guilt?" Marston put his question so rapidly and excitedly, that the clergyman
looked 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 hereafter." "I did not question him upon the subject," said Doctor Danvers; "I even
declined to hear him speak upon it at first; but he told me he was
resolved to offer no defense, and that he saw the finger of God in the
fate which had overtaken him." "He will plead guilty, then, I suppose?" 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 possibly 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 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.