There are certain heartaches for which time brings no healing; nay,
which grow but the sorer and fiercer as days and years roll on; of this
kind, perhaps, were the stern and bitter feelings which now darkened the
face of Marston with an almost perpetual gloom. His habits became even
more unsocial than before. The society of his son he no longer seemed to
enjoy. Long and solitary rambles in his wild and extensive demesne
consumed the listless hours or his waking existence; and when the
weather prevented this, he shut himself up, upon pretence of business,
in his study. He had not, since the occasion we have already mentioned, referred to the
intended departure of Mademoiselle de Barras. Truth to say, his feelings
with respect to that young lady were of a conflicting and mysterious
kind; and as often as his dark thoughts wandered to her (which, indeed,
was frequently enough), his muttered exclamation seemed to imply some
painful and horrible suspicions respecting her. "Yes," he would mutter, "I thought I heard your light foot upon the
lobby, on that accursed night. Fancy! Well, it may have been, but
assuredly a strange fancy. I cannot comprehend that woman. She baffles my
scrutiny. I have looked into her face with an eye she might well
understand, were it indeed as I sometimes suspect, and she has been calm
and unmoved. I have watched and studied her; still--doubt, doubt, hideous
doubt!--is she what she seems, or--a tigress?" Mrs. Marston, on the other hand, procrastinated from day to day the
painful task of announcing to Mademoiselle de Barras the stern message
with which she had been charged by her husband. And thus several weeks
had passed, and she began to think that his silence upon the subject,
notwithstanding his seeing the young French lady at breakfast every
morning, amounted to a kind of tacit intimation that the sentence of
banishment was not to be carried into immediate execution, but to be kept
suspended over the unconscious offender. It was now six or eight weeks since the hearse carrying away the remains
of the ill-fated Sir Wynston Berkley had driven down the dusky avenue;
the autumn was deepening into winter, and as Marston gloomily trod the
woods of Gray Forest, the withered leaves whirled drearily along his
pathway, and the gusts that swayed the mighty branches above him were
rude and ungenial. It was a bleak and somber day, and as he broke into a
long and picturesque vista, deep among the most sequestered woods, he
suddenly saw before him, and scarcely twenty paces from the spot on which
he stood, an apparition, which for some moments absolutely froze him to
the earth. Travel-soiled, tattered, pale, and wasted, John Merton, the murderer,
stood before him. He did not exhibit the smallest disposition to turn
about and make his escape. On the contrary, he remained perfectly
motionless, looking upon his former master with a wild and sorrowful
gaze. Marston twice or thrice essayed to speak; his face was white as
death, and had he beheld the specter of the murdered baronet himself, he
could not have met the sight with a countenance of ghastlier horror. "Take me, sir," said Merton, doggedly. Still Marston did not stir. "Arrest me, sir, in God's name! here I am," he repeated, dropping his
arms by his side; "I'll go with you wherever you tell me." "Murderer!" cried Marston, with a sudden burst of furious horror,
"murderer--assassin--miscreant--take that!" And, as he spoke, he discharged one of the pistols he always carried
about him full at the wretched man. The shot did not take effect, and
Merton made no other gesture but to clasp his hands together, with an
agonized pressure, while his head sunk upon his breast. "Shoot me; shoot me," he said hoarsely; "kill me like a dog: better for
me to be dead than what I am." The report of Marston's pistol had, however, reached another ear; and its
ringing echoes had hardly ceased to vibrate among the trees, when a stern
shout was heard not fifty yards away, and, breathless and amazed, Charles
Marston sprang to the place. His father looked from Merton to him, and
from him again to Merton, with a guilty and stupefied scowl, still
holding the smoking pistol in his hand. "What--how! Good God--Merton!" ejaculated Charles. "Aye, sir, Merton; ready to go to gaol, or wherever you will," said the
man, recklessly. "A murderer; a madman; don't believe him," muttered Marston, scarce
audibly, with lips as white as wax. "Do you surrender yourself, Merton?" demanded the young man, sternly,
advancing toward him. "Yes, sir; I desire nothing more; God knows I wish to die," responded he,
despairingly, and advancing slowly to meet Charles. "Come, then," said young Marston, seizing him by the collar, "come
quietly to the house. Guilty and unhappy man, you are now my prisoner,
and, depend upon it, I shall not let you go." "I don't want to go, I tell you, sir. I have traveled fifteen miles
today, to come here and give myself up to the master." "Accursed madman," said Marston unconsciously, gazing at the prisoner;
and then suddenly rousing himself, he said, "Well, miscreant, you wish to
die, and, by ----, you are in a fair way to have your wish." "So best," said the man, doggedly. "I don't want to live; I wish I was in
my grave; I wish I was dead a year ago." Some fifteen minutes afterwards, Merton, accompanied by Marston and his
son Charles, entered the hall of the mansion which, not ten weeks
before, he had quitted under circumstances so guilty and terrible. When
they reached the house, Merton seemed much agitated, and wept bitterly
on seeing two or three of his former fellow servants, who looked on him
in silence as they passed, with a gloomy and fearful curiosity. These,
too, were succeeded by others, peeping and whispering, and upon one
pretence or another crossing and re-crossing the hall, and stealing
hurried glances at the criminal. Merton sate with his face buried in his
hands, sobbing, and taking no note of the humiliating scrutiny of which
he was the subject. Meanwhile Marston, pale and agitated, made out his
committal, and having sworn in several of his laborers and servants as
special constables, dispatched the prisoner in their charge to the
county gaol, where, under lock and key, we leave him in safe custody for
the present. After this event Marston became excited and restless. He scarcely ate or
slept, and his health seemed now as much scattered as his spirits had
been before. One day he glided into the room in which, as we have said,
it was Mrs. Marston's habit frequently to sit alone. His wife was there,
and, as he entered, she uttered an exclamation of doubtful joy and
surprise. He sate down near her in silence, and for some time looked
gloomily on the ground. She did not care to question him, and anxiously
waited until he should open the conversation. At length he raised his
eyes, and, looking full at her, asked abruptly--"Well, what about
mademoiselle?" Mrs. Marston was embarrassed, and hesitated.