The Evil Guest | Page 9

him that morning in the passage, existed only in
his own fancy, or were, in good truth, very grim and significant
realities, Marston himself was striding alone through the wildest and
darkest solitudes of his park, haunted by his own unholy thoughts, and,
it may be, by those other evil and unearthly influences which wander,
as we know, "in desert places." Darkness overtook him, and the chill of
night, in these lonely tracts. In his solitary walk, what fearful company
had he been keeping! As the shades of night deepened round him, the
sense of the neighborhood of ill, the consciousness of the foul fancies
or which, where he was now treading, he had been for hours the sport,
oppressed him with a vague and unknown terror; a certain horror of the
thoughts which had been his comrades through the day, which he could
not now shake off, and which haunted him with a ghastly and defiant
pertinacity, scared, while they half-enraged him. He stalked swiftly
homewards, like a guilty man pursued.
Marston was not perfectly satisfied, though very nearly, with the
evidence now in his possession. The letter, the stolen perusal of which
had so agitated him that day, bore no signature; but, independently of
the handwriting, which seemed, spite of the constraint of an attempted
disguise, to be familiar to his eye, there existed, in the matter of the
letter, short as it was, certain internal evidences, which, although not
actually conclusive, raised, in conjunction with all the other
circumstances, a powerful presumption in aid of his suspicions. He
resolved, however, to sift the matter further, and to bide his time.
Meanwhile his manner must indicate no trace of his dark surmises and
bitter thoughts. Deception, in its two great branches, simulation and
dissimulation, was easy to him. His habitual reserve and gloom would
divest any accidental and momentary disclosure of his inward trouble
of everything suspicious or unaccountable, which would have
characterized such displays and eccentricities in another man.
His rapid and reckless ramble, a kind of physical vent for the paroxysm
which had so agitated him throughout the greater part of the day, had
soiled and disordered his dress, and thus had helped to give to his
whole appearance a certain air of haggard wildness, which, in the
privacy of his chamber, he hastened carefully and entirely to remove.

At supper, Marston was apparently in unusually good spirits. Sir
Wynston and he chatted gaily and fluently upon many subjects, grave
and gay. Among them the inexhaustible topic of popular superstition
happened to turn up, and especially the subject of strange prophecies of
the fates and fortunes of individuals, singularly fulfilled in the events of
their afterlife.
"By-the-by, Dick, this is rather a nervous topic for me to discuss," said
Sir Wynston.
"How so?" asked his host.
"Why, don't you remember?" urged the baronet.
"No, I don't recollect what you allude to," replied Marston, in all
sincerity.
"Why, don't you remember Eton?" pursued Sir Wynston.
"Yes, to be sure," said Marston.
"Well?" continued his visitor.
"Well, I really don't recollect the prophecy," replied Marston.
"What! do you forget the gypsy who predicted that you were to murder
me, Dick--eh?"
"Ah-ha, ha!" laughed Marston, with a start.
"Don't you remember it now?" urged his companion.
"Ah, why yes, I believe I do," said Marston; "but another prophecy was
running in my mind; a gypsy prediction, too. At Ascot, do you recollect
the girl told me I was to be Lord Chancellor of England, and a duke
besides?"
"Well, Dick," rejoined Sir Wynston, merrily, "if both are to be fulfilled,
or neither, I trust you may never sit upon the woolsack of England."

The party soon after broke up: Sir Wynston and his host, as usual, to
pass some hours at piquet; and Mrs. Marston, as was her wont, to,
spend some time in her own boudoir, over notes and accounts, and the
worrying details of housekeeping.
While thus engaged, she was disturbed by a respectful tap at her door,
and an elderly servant, who had been for many years in the
employment of Mr. Marston, presented himself.
"Well, Merton, do you want anything?" asked the lady.
"Yes, ma'am, please, I want to give warning; I wish to leave the service,
ma'am;" replied he, respectfully, but doggedly.
"To leave us, Merton!" echoed his mistress, both surprised and sorry
for the man had been long her servant, and had been much liked and
trusted.
"Yes, ma'am," he repeated.
"And why do you wish to do so, Merton? Has anything occurred to
make the place unpleasant to you?" urged the lady.
"No, ma'am--no, indeed," said he, earnestly, "I have nothing to
complain of--nothing, indeed, ma'am."
"Perhaps, you think you can do better, if you leave us?" suggested his
mistress.
"No, indeed, ma'am, I