As the old man thus spake--as if in symbolic answering to his prayer--a
sudden glory from the setting sun streamed through the funereal pile of
clouds which filled the western horizon, and flooded the chamber where
they were. After a silence, Charles Marston said, with some little
embarrassment--"It may be a strange confession to make, though, indeed,
hardly so to you--for you know but too well the gloomy reserve with which
my father has uniformly treated me--that the exact nature of Merton's
confession never reached my ears; and once or twice, when I approached
the subject, in conversation with you, it seemed to me that the subject
was one which, for some reason, it was painful to you to enter upon." "And so it was, in truth, my young friend--so it was; for that confession
left behind it many fearful doubts, proving, indeed, nothing but the one
fact, that, morally, the wretched man was guilty of the murder." Charles, urged by a feeling of the keenest interest, requested Dr.
Danvers to detail to him the particulars of the dying man's narration. "Willingly," answered Dr. Danvers, with a look of gloom, and heaving a
profound sigh--"willingly, for you have now come to an age when you may
safely be entrusted with secrets affecting your own family, and which,
although, thank God, as I believe they in no respect involve the honor of
anyone of its members, yet might deeply involve its peace and its
security against the assaults of vague and horrible slander. Here, then,
is the narrative: Merton, when he was conscious of the approach of death,
qualified, by a circumstantial and detailed statement, the absolute
confession of guilt which he had at first sullenly made. In this he
declared that the guilt of design and intention only was his--that in
the act itself he had been anticipated. He stated, that from the moment
when Sir Wynston's servant had casually mentioned the circumstance of his
master's usually sleeping with his watch and pocketbook under his pillow,
the idea of robbing him had taken possession of his mind. With the idea
of robbing him (under the peculiar circumstances, his servant sleeping in
the apartment close by, and the slightest alarm being, in all
probability, sufficient to call him to the spot) the idea of anticipating
resistance by murder had associated itself. He had contended against
these haunting and growing solicitations of Satan, with an earnest agony. He had intended to leave his place, and fly from the mysterious
temptation which he felt he wanted power to combat, but accident or fate
prevented him. In a state of ghastly excitement he had, on the memorable
night of Sir Wynston's murder, proceeded, as had afterwards appeared in
evidence, by the back stair to the baronet's chamber; he had softly
stolen into it, and gone to the bedside, with the weapon in his hand. He
drew his breath for the decisive stroke, which was to bereave the
(supposedly) sleeping man of life, and when stretching his left hand
under the clothes, it rested upon a dull, cold corpse, and, at the same
moment, his right hand was immersed in a pool of blood. He dropped the
knife, recoiled a pace or so. With a painful effort, however, he again
grasped with his hand to recover the weapon he had suffered to escape,
and secured, as it afterwards turned out, not the knife with which he had
meditated the commission of his crime, but the dagger which was
afterwards found where he had concealed it. He was now fully alive to the
horror of his situation; he was compromised as fully as if he had in very
deed driven home the weapon. To be found under such circumstances, would
convict him as surely as if fifty eyes had seen him strike the blow. He
had nothing now for it but flight; and in order to guard himself against
the contingency of being surprised from the door opening upon the
corridor, he bolted it; then groped under the murdered man's pillow for
the booty which had so fatally fascinated his imagination. Here he was
disappointed. What further happened you already know." Charles listened with breathless attention to this recital, and, after a
painful interval, said--

"Then the actual murderer is, after all, unascertained. This is, indeed,
horrible; it was very natural that my father should have felt the danger
to which such a disclosure would have exposed the reputation of our
family, yet I should have preferred encountering it, were it ten times as
great, to the equivocal prudence of suppressing the truth with respect to
a murder committed under my own roof." "He has, however, it would seem, arrived at some new conclusions," said
Dr. Danvers, "and is now prepared to throw some unanticipated light upon
the whole transaction." Even as they were talking, a knocking was heard at the hall-door, and
after a brief and hurried consultation, it was agreed, that, considering
the strict condition of privacy attached to this visit by Mr. Marston
himself, as well as his reserved and wayward temper, it might be better
for Charles to avoid presenting himself to his father on this occasion. A
few seconds afterwards the door opened, and Mr. Marston entered the
apartment. It was now dark, and the servant, unbidden, placed candles
upon the table. Without answering one word to Dr. Danvers' greeting,
Marston sat down, as it seemed, in agitated abstraction. Removing his hat
suddenly (for he had not even made this slight homage to the laws of
courtesy), he looked round with a care-worn, fiery eye, and a pale
countenance, and said--

"We are quite alone, Dr. Danvers--no one anywhere near?" Dr. Danvers assured him that all was secure. After a long and agitated
pause, Marston said--

"You remember Merton's confession. He admitted his intention to kill
Berkley, but denied that he was the actual murderer. He spoke truth--no
one knew it better than I; for I am the murderer." Dr. Danvers was so shocked and overwhelmed that he was utterly
unable to speak. "Aye, sir, in point of law and of morals, literally and honestly, the
murderer of Wynston Berkley. I am resolved you shall know it all. Make
what use of it you will--I care for nothing now, but to get rid of the
d----d, unsustainable secret, and that is done. I did not intend to kill
the scoundrel when I went to his room; but with the just feelings of
exasperation with which I regarded him, it would have been wiser had I
avoided the interview; and I meant to have done so. But his candle was
burning; I saw the light through the door, and went in. It was his evil
fortune to indulge in his old strain of sardonic impertinence. He
provoked me; I struck him--he struck me again--and with his own dagger I
stabbed him three times. I did not know what I had done; I could not
believe it. I felt neither remorse nor sorrow--why should I?--but the
thing was horrible, astounding. There he sat in the corner of his
cushioned chair, with the old fiendish smile on still. Sir, I never
thought that any human shape could look so dreadful.