No; he simply desired to win the heart of Claribel, and
succeeding in that, he looked upon his prey as certain. But as yet he
had not succeeded; nay, more, he had a favoured rival--a young man of
good natural advantages, and in every way qualified to make Claribel
happy, even though he were only his uncle's gamekeeper and had not
received a gentleman's education. He thought of the difference of
Claribel's treatment of this young boor and that of himself--he, the
scion of a noble house! Then jealously began to gnaw his heart, and he found it to his interest
that John Archer should be removed for ever from his path. Being
perfectly unscrupulous and selfish, he cared not what means he employed
to execute his design, as long as no suspicion should be attached to
himself. He could have waylaid and murdered his rival, if he chose; have
introduced poison in his cup, or bribed an assassin to murder him, but
none of these modes suited De Chevron. The law was vigilant, inquiries
would be made, and the murder probably traced to his own door. His
reputation would suffer, to say nothing of his own life being
endangered. He would have no accomplices, as he knew that no man was to
be depended upon; he would trust to no one but himself and his own
resources. Like a wily Jesuit, he would work in the dark, would be the cause of all
the mischief that his own atrocious brain could dictate, but himself
remain hid. Now, when Richard de Chevron first met John Archer at my
father's house, he treated him with coldness, not to say haughtiness. He
now completely changed his tactics. He saw that the least show of
contempt or dislike towards the young gamekeeper, who was a general
favourite--and especially with Claribel--would be construed into
jealously on his part; and though this was really the case, it did not
suit him that everyone should know it; therefore he entirely altered his
conduct towards his rival, and nothing now could be more kind and
courteous, more apparently generous than his treatment of his uncle's
gamekeeper. He apologised if by any former brusqueness of manner he had offended
him, pleading that he had not had the opportunity hitherto of studying
his estimable character, but that after long observation he had learnt
to appreciate his noble qualities, and should henceforth entertain for
him the highest esteem and friendship. He would pat him playfully on the
shoulder, call him his friend, would make him every now and then some
trifling present, and even put in a good word for him to my friend
Claribel. All this had the appearance of generosity, as De Chevron designed it
should have, and thus avert suspicion from himself. We were all of us at
home much surprised and pleased at this extraordinary change, especially
as he had ceased for a time to persecute Claribel with his attentions. Richard de Chevron appeared to be turning over a new leaf. When I say we
were all deceived in De Chevron's behaviour, I must not omit to state
that there was one exception, and that was Claribel herself, who from
the first had behaved with a freezing coldness towards De Chevron, and,
little as she knew of the world and its wickedness, had such an
instinctive distrust of this man, that when he began to speak favourably
to her of John Archer, she trembled violently, and looked into his face
with such a searching glance that it seemed to peer into the inmost
recesses of his soul. De Chevron cowered beneath her gaze; he felt himself distrusted, and was
probably little flattered at the opinion of himself he saw written in
her eyes. Nevertheless, he would not have shown for the world that he
was disconcerted; he was a practised dissembler, and instead of being
abashed, grew more witty and talkative than ever, more and more friendly
to his rival, only I noticed that he avoided the eyes of Claribel as
much as possible. The fact was, he feared her; he, the artful, experienced man of the
world, crouched like an abject slave before a simple village maiden. His
guilty soul could not brook the chaste glance of innocence. He knew
himself to be a false degraded wretch, and quailed before her moral
superiority. However, Richard de Chevron had worked himself into favour with all of
us; in fact, we grew delighted with him, still excepting Claribel, who
seemed very unreasonably prejudiced against him, as we all thought. She
would declare to me in private that from the very first the aspect of De
Chevron had been repulsive to her; but of late, so far from having
overcome her impression, he had grown perfectly intolerable in her eyes;
nay, that she was seized with such horror and loathing when he was in
the room as she could not find words to express. She had a presentiment of evil, and it seemed to her, moreover, as if he
were using some occult power over her that she, however, was determined
to resist. I tried to laugh her out of these fancies as being quite unfounded, and
attributed them to her nerves being over-wrought from want of sufficient
air and exercise; but all without avail; she remained as confirmed as
ever in her prejudices. It is now some time since I made allusion to
Claribel's spiritual visitant. She had long been undisturbed by its
visits; indeed, ever since De Chevron and John had commenced calling at
the house, and even before. It is uncertain whether either of them had
ever heard of the phenomenon. I rather think not, as De Chevron, who
mixed almost entirely in the upper circles, would not easily have come
in the way of our village cackle, especially as he was often absent
from the village for months at a time; and as for John, being constantly
engaged on Lord Edgedown's estate, he knew comparatively little of the
world without. But whether they did or not, it is certain that the
subject was never broached during all that time. We have mentioned before that Claribel's spiritual visitor was fitful
and capricious in its visits. It might appear at any moment; but then we
had been free from its company for so long, that we had dared to hope
that it had forgotten all about us and would never return, until one
morning new fears arose in my mind from a little circumstance which I
shall now relate to you. Observing that my young friend rose from her couch looking poorly, I
inquired into the cause of her jaded looks. "Oh, Molly," she replied, "I've had such a dreadful dream about poor
John. I am sure that some danger threatens him." "What danger do you imagine threatens him, Claribel?" said I. "Tell me
your dream." "I really do not know if I can," she replied; "it was so very confused. I thought that John Archer stood in danger of his life at the hands of
Richard de Chevron, and yet it was not Richard de Chevron, but another;
then, again, it was. I remember something about a murdered man, and
fearing it was John Archer, but on examining the corpse it was another. Then I remember seeing John Archer handcuffed, and in great agony of
mind, and I thought him guilty of the murder, and then he was not
guilty.