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 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 joyless being as heretofore. Sometimes moody and apathetic, sometimes wayward and even savage, but
never for a moment at ease, never social--an isolated, disdainful,
ruined man. One day as Rhoda sate and read under the shade of some closely-interwoven
evergreens, in a lonely and sheltered part of the neglected
pleasure-grounds, with her honest maid Willett in attendance, she was
surprised by the sudden appearance of her father, who stood unexpectedly
before her. Though his attitude for some time was fixed, his countenance
was troubled with anxiety and pain, and his sunken eyes rested upon her
with a fiery and fretted gaze. He seemed lost in thought for a while, and
then, touching Willett sharply on the shoulder, said abruptly:

"Go; I shall call you when you are wanted. Walk down that alley." And,
as he spoke, he indicated with his walking-cane the course he desired
her to take. When the maid was sufficiently distant to be quite out of hearing,
Marston sate down beside Rhoda upon the bench, and took her hand in
silence. His grasp was cold, and alternately relaxed and contracted
with an agitated uncertainty, while his eyes were fixed upon the
ground, and he seemed meditating how to open the conversation. At last,
as if suddenly awaking from a fearful reverie, he said--"You correspond
with Charles?" "Yes, sir," she replied, with the respectful formality prescribed by the
usages of the time, "we correspond regularly." "Aye, aye; 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? Come, come, you know what I speak of." He stopped
abruptly, and stared in her face with an agitated gaze. "No, indeed, sir; there was not anything of the kind," she replied. "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 surprised, and even shocked,
said, stammeringly--

"I am sure, sir, that dear Charles would not intentionally 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 obediently. Yes,
yes, Charles is very well; but I fear 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 honored with your hand." "Now you see," cried Marston, with a shuddering fierceness, as she
returned the letter with a blanched cheek and trembling hand--"now you
see it all. Are you stupid?--the stamp of the cloven hoof--eh?" Rhoda, unable to gather his meaning, but, at the same time, with a heart
full and trembling very much, stammered a few frightened words, and
became silent. "It is he, I tell you, that does it all; and if Charles were not living
an evil life, he could not have spread his nets for him," said Marston,
vehemently. "He can't go near anything good; but, like a scoundrel, he
knows where to find a congenial nature; and when he does, he has skill
enough to practice upon it. I know him well, and his arts and his smiles;
aye, and his scowls and his grins, too. He goes, like his master, up and
down, and to and fro upon the earth, for ceaseless mischief. There is not
a friend of mine he can get hold of, but he whispered 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 libelers, 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?" 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? 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, 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.