Willing to Die: A Novel. Le Fanu Joseph Sheridan

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      "What the devil brings you here?" inquired the stranger, almost at the same moment. "Who sent you? What is the meaning of it?"

      Mr. Carmel did not approach him. He stood where he had first seen him, and his looks darkened.

      "You are the last man living I should have looked for here," said he.

      "I suppose we shall find out what we mean by-and-by," said Marston, cynically; "at present I can only tell you that when I saw you I honestly thought a certain old gentleman, I don't mean the devil, had sent you in search of me."

      Carmel looked hard at him. "I've grown a very dull man since I last saw you, and I don't understand a joke as well as I once did," said he; "but if you are serious you cannot have learnt that this house has been lent to me by Mr. Ware, its owner, for some months at least; and these, I suppose, are your things? There is not room to put you up here."

      "I didn't want to come. I am the famous man you may have read of in the papers – quite unique – the man who escaped alive from the Conway Castle. No Christian refuses shelter to the shipwrecked; and you are a Christian, though an odd one."

      Edwyn Carmel looked at him for some seconds in silence.

      "I am still puzzled," he said. "I don't know whether you are serious; but, in any case, there's a good hotel in the town – you can go there."

      "Thank you – without a shilling," laughed the young man, a little wickedly.

      "A word from me will secure you credit there."

      "But I'm in the doctor's hands, don't you see?"

      "It is nothing very bad," answered Mr. Carmel; "and you will be nearer the doctor there."

      The stranger, sitting up straight, replied:

      "I suppose I shall; but the doctor likes a walk, and I don't wish him a bit nearer."

      "But this is, for the time being, my house, and you must go," replied Edwyn Carmel, coldly and firmly.

      "It is also my house, for the time being; for Miss Ware has given me leave to stay here."

      The ecclesiastic's lips trembled, and his pale face grew paler, as he stared on the young man for a second or two in silence.

      "Marston," he said, "I don't know, of all men, why you should specially desire to pain me."

      "Why, hang it! Why should I wish to pain you, Edwyn? I don't. But I have no notion of this sort of hectoring. The idea of your turning me out of the – my house – the house they have lent me! I told you I didn't want to come here; and now I don't want to go away, and I won't."

      The churchman looked at him, as if he strove to read his inmost thoughts.

      "You know that your going to the hotel could involve no imaginable trouble," urged Edwyn Carmel.

      "Go to the hotel yourself, if you think it so desirable a place. I am satisfied with this, and I shall stay here."

      "What can be the motive of your obstinacy?"

      "Ask that question of yourself, Mr. Carmel, and you may possibly obtain an answer," replied the stranger.

      The priest looked again at him, in stern doubt.

      "I don't understand your meaning," he said, at last.

      "I thought my meaning pretty plain. I mean that I rather think our motives are identical."

      "Honestly, Marston, I don't understand you," said Mr. Carmel, after another pause.

      "Well, it is simply this: that I think Miss Ware a very interesting young lady, and I like being near her – don't you?"

      The ecclesiastic flushed crimson; Marston laughed contemptuously.

      "I have been away for more than a month," said the priest, a little paler, looking up angrily; "and I leave this to-day for as long a time again."

      "Conscious weakness! Weakness of that sentimental kind sometimes runs in families," said the stranger with a sneer. It was plain that the stranger was very angry; the taunt was wicked, and, whatever it meant, stung Mr. Carmel visibly. He trembled, with a momentary quiver, as if a nerve had been pierced.

      There was a silence, during which Mr. Carmel's little French clock over the chimney-piece, punctually wound every week by old Rebecca, might be heard sharply tick, tick, ticking.

      "I shall not be deterred by your cruel tongue," said he, very quietly, at length, with something like a sob, "from doing my duty."

      "Your duty! Of course, it is always duty; jealousy is quite unknown to a man in holy orders. But there is a difference. You can't tell me the least what I'm thinking of; you always suppose the worst of every one. Your duty! And what, pray, is your duty?"

      "To warn Miss Ware and her governess," he answered promptly.

      "Warn her of what?" said the stranger, sternly.

      "Warn her that a villain has got into this house."

      The interesting guest sprang to his feet, with his fists clenched. But he did not strike. He hesitated, and then he said:

      "Look here; I'll not treat you as I would a man. You wish me to strike you, you Jesuit, and to get myself into hot water. But I shan't make a fool of myself. I tell you what I'll do with you – if you dare to injure me in the opinion of any living creature, by one word of spoken or hinted slander, I'll make it a police-office affair; and I'll bring out the whole story you found it on; and we'll see which suffers most, you or I, when the world hears it. And now, Mr. Carmel, you're warned. And you know I'm a fellow that means what he says."

      Mr. Carmel turned with a pale face, and left the room.

      I wonder what the stranger thought. I have often pondered over that scene; and, I believe, he really thought that Mr. Carmel would not, on reflection, venture to carry out his threat.

      CHAPTER XV

      a warning

      We had heard nothing of Mr. Carmel's arrival. He had not passed our windows, but drove up instead by the back avenue; and now he was gone, and there remained no record of his visit but the letter which Laura held in her fingers, while we both examined it on all sides, and turned it over. It was directed, "To Miss Ware and Miss Grey. Malory." And when we opened it we read these words:

      "Dear Young Ladies, – I know a great deal of the gentleman who has been permitted to take up his residence in the house adjoining Malory. It is enough for me to assure you that no acquaintance could be much more objectionable and unsafe, especially for young ladies living alone as you do. You cannot, therefore, exercise too much caution in repelling any advances he may make. —

      Your true friend, E. Carmel."

      The shock of reading these few words prevented my speaking for some seconds. I had perfect confidence in Mr. Carmel's warning. I was very much frightened. And the vagueness of his language made it the more alarming. The same thoughts struck us both. What fools we were! How is he to be got out of the house? Whom have we to advise with? What is to be done?

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