The Evil Guest | Page 8

distinctly caught the sound of rustling silks
and a tiptoe tread hastily withdrawing from the deserted chamber. Sir
Wynston looked nearly as much confused as a man of the world can
look. Marston stopped short, and scanned his visitor for a moment with
a very peculiar expression.
"You have caught me peeping, Dick. I am an inveterate explorer," said
the baronet, with an effectual effort to shake off his embarrassment.
"An open door in a fine old house is a temptation which--"
"That door is usually closed, and ought to be kept so," interrupted
Marston, drily; "there is nothing whatever to be seen in the room but
dust and cobwebs."

"Pardon me," said Sir Wynston, more easily, "you forget the view from
the window."
"Aye, the view, to be sure; there is a good view from it," said Marston,
with as much of his usual manner as he could resume so soon; and, at
the same time, carelessly opening the door again, he walked in,
accompanied by Sir Wynston, and both stood at the window together,
looking out in silence upon a prospect which neither of them saw.
"Yes, I do think it is a good view," said Marston; and as he turned
carelessly away, he darted a swift glance round the chamber. The door
opening toward the French lady's apartment was closed, but not
actually shut. This was enough; and as they left the room, Marston
repeated his invitation to his guest to accompany him; but in a tone
which showed that he scarcely followed the meaning of what he
himself was saying.
He walked undecidedly toward his own room, then turned and went
down stairs. In the hall he met his pretty child.
"Ha! Rhoda," said he, "you have not been out today?"
"No, papa; but it is so very fine, I think I shall go now."
"Yes; go, and mademoiselle can accompany you. Do you hear, Rhoda,
mademoiselle goes with you, and you had better go at once."
A few minutes more, and Marston, from the parlor-window, beheld
Rhoda and the elegant French girl walking together towards the
woodlands. He watched them gloomily, himself unseen, until the
crowding underwood concealed their receding figures. Then, with a
sigh, he turned, and reascended the great staircase.
"I shall sift this mystery to the bottom," thought he. "I shall foil the
conspirators, if so they be, with their own weapons; art with art;
chicane with chicane; duplicity with duplicity."
He was now in the long passage, which we have just spoken of, and

glancing back and before him, to ascertain that no chance eye discerned
him, he boldly entered mademoiselle's chamber. Her writing desk lay
upon the table. It was locked; and coolly taking it in his hands, Marston
carried it into his own room, bolted his chamber-door, and taking two
or three bunches of keys, he carefully tried nearly a dozen in succession,
and when almost despairing of success, at last found one which fitted
the lock, turned, and opened the desk.
Sustained throughout his dishonorable task by some strong and angry
passion, the sight of the open escritoire checked and startled him for a
moment. Violated privilege, invaded secrecy, base, perfidious
espionage upbraided and stigmatized him, as the intricacies of the
outraged sanctuary opened upon his intrusive gaze. He felt for a
moment shocked and humbled. He was impelled to lock and replace the
desk where he had originally found it, without having effected his
meditated treason; but this hesitation was transient; the fiery and
reckless impulse which had urged him to the act returned to enforce its
consummation. With a guilty eye and eager hands, he searched the
contents of this tiny repository of the fair Norman's written secrets.
"Ha! the very thing," he muttered, as he detected the identical letter
which he himself had handed to Mademoiselle de Barras but a few days
before. "The handwriting struck me, ill-disguised; I thought I knew it;
we shall see."
He had opened the letter; it contained but a few lines: he held his breath
while he read it. First he grew pale, then a shadow came over his face,
and then another, and another, darker and darker, shade upon shade, as
if an exhalation from the pit was momentarily blackening the air about
him. He said nothing; there was but one long, gentle sigh, and in his
face a mortal sternness, as he folded the letter again, replaced it, and
locked the desk.
Of course, when Mademoiselle de Barras returned from her
accustomed walk, she found everything in her room, to all appearances,
undisturbed, and just as when she left it. While this young lady was
making her toilet for the evening, and while Sir Wynston Berkley was
worrying himself with conjectures as to whether Marston's evil looks,

when he encountered