Her own room had been invaded, that insult and reproach might be
heaped upon her; how utterly unmerited Mrs. Marston knew. She had been
called by every foul name which applied to the spy and the maligner; she
could not bear it. Some one had evidently been endeavoring to procure her
removal, and had but too effectually succeeded. Mademoiselle was
determined to go early the next morning; nothing should prevent or retard
her departure; her resolution was taken. In this strain did mademoiselle
run on, but in a subdued and melancholy tone, and weeping profusely. The wild and ghastly suspicions which had for a moment flashed terribly
upon the mind of Mrs. Marston, had faded away under the influences of
reason and reflection, although, indeed, much painful excitement still
remained, before Mademoiselle de Barras had visited her room. Marston's
temper she knew but too well; it was violent, bitter, and impetuous; and
though he cared little, if at all, for her, she had ever perceived that
he was angrily jealous of the slightest intimacy or confidence by which
any other than himself might establish an influence over her mind. That
he had learned the subject of some of her most interesting conversations
with mademoiselle she could not doubt, for he had violently upbraided
that young lady in her presence with having discussed it, and here now
was mademoiselle herself taking refuge with her from galling affront and
unjust reproach, incensed, wounded, and weeping. The whole thing was
consistent; all the circumstances bore plainly in the same direction; the
evidence was conclusive; and Mrs. Marston's thoughts and feelings
respecting her fair young confidante quickly found their old level, and
flowed on tranquilly and sadly in their accustomed channel. While Mademoiselle de Barras was thus, with the persevering industry of
the spider, repairing the meshes which a chance breath had shattered, she
would, perhaps, have been in her turn shocked and startled, could she
have glanced into Marston's mind, and seen, in what was passing there,
the real extent of her danger. Marston was walking, as usual, alone, and in the most solitary region of
his lonely park. One hand grasped his walking stick, not to lean upon it,
but as if it were the handle of a battle-axe; the other was buried in his
bosom; his dark face looked upon the ground, and he strode onward with a
slow but energetic step, which had the air of deep resolution. He found
himself at last in a little churchyard, lying far among the wild forest
of his demesne, and in the midst of which, covered with ivy and tufted
plants, now ruddy with autumnal tints, stood the ruined walls of a little
chapel. In the dilapidated vault close by lay buried many of his
ancestors, and under the little wavy hillocks of fern and nettles, slept
many an humble villager. He sat down upon a worn tombstone in this lowly
ruin, and with his eyes fixed upon the ground, he surrendered his spirit
to the stormy and evil thoughts which he had invited. Long and motionless
he sat there, while his foul fancies and schemes began to assume shape
and order. The wind rushing through the ivy roused him for a moment, and
as he raised his gloomy eye it alighted accidentally upon a skull, which
some wanton hand had fixed in a crevice of the wall. He averted his
glance quickly, but almost as quickly refixed his gaze upon the impassive
symbol of death, with an expression glowering and contemptuous, and with
an angry gesture struck it down among the weeds with his stick. He left
the place, and wandered on through the woods. "Men can't control the thoughts that flit across their minds," he
muttered, as he went along, "anymore than they can direct the shadows
of the clouds that sail above them. They come and pass, and leave no
stain behind. What, then, of omens, and that wretched effigy of
death? Stuff--pshaw! Murder, indeed! I'm incapable of murder. I have
drawn my sword upon a man in fair duel; but murder! Out upon the
thought, out upon it." He stamped upon the ground with a pang at once of fury and horror. He
walked on a little, stopped again, and folding his arms, leaned against
an ancient tree. "Mademoiselle de Barras, _vous êtes une traîtresse_, and you shall go. Yes, go you shall; you have deceived me, and we must part." He said this with melancholy bitterness; and, after a pause, continued:

"I will have no other revenge. No; though, I dare say, she will care but
little for this; very little, if at all." "And then, as to the other person," he resumed, after a pause, "it is not
the first time he has acted like a trickster. He has crossed me before,
and I will choose an opportunity to tell him my mind. I won't mince
matters with him either, and will not spare him one insulting syllable
that he deserves. He wears a sword, and so do I; if he pleases, he may
draw it; he shall have the opportunity; but, at all events, I will make
it impossible for him to prolong his disgraceful visit at my house." On reaching home and his own study, the servant, Merton, presented
himself, and his master, too deeply excited to hear him then, appointed
the next day for the purpose. There was no contending against Marston's
peremptory will, and the man reluctantly withdrew. Here was, apparently,
a matter of no imaginable moment; whether this menial should be
discharged on that day, or on the morrow; and yet mighty things were
involved in the alternative. There was a deeper gloom than usual over the house. The servants seemed
to know that something had gone wrong, and looked grave and mysterious. Marston was more than ever dark and moody. Mrs. Marston's dimmed and
swollen eyes showed that she had been weeping. Mademoiselle absented
herself from supper, on the plea of a bad headache. Rhoda saw that
something, she knew not what, had occurred to agitate her elders, and was
depressed and anxious. The old clergyman, whom we have already mentioned,
had called, and stayed to supper. Dr. Danvers was a man of considerable
learning, strong sense, and remarkable simplicity of character. His
thoughtful blue eye, and well-marked countenance, were full of gentleness
and benevolence, and elevated by a certain natural dignity, of which
purity and goodness, without one debasing shade of self-esteem and
arrogance, were the animating spirit. Mrs. Marston loved and respected
this good minister of God; and many a time had sought and found, in his
gentle and earnest counsels, and in the overflowing tenderness of his
sympathy, much comfort and support in the progress of her sore and
protracted earthly trial. Most especially at one critical period in her
history had he endeared himself to her, by interposing, and successfully,
to prevent a formal separation which (as ending forever the one hope that
cheered her on, even in the front of despair) she would probably not long
have survived. With Mr. Marston, however, he was far from being a favorite.