THE porter who let me into the house where Monkton lived directed me to the floor on which his rooms were situated.On getting upstairs, I found his door on the landing ajar.He heard my footsteps, I suppose, for he called to me to come in before Icould knock.
I entered, and found him sitting by the table, with some loose letters in his hand, which he was just tying together into a packet.I noticed, as he asked me to sit down, that his express ion looked more composed, though the paleness had not yet left his face.He thanked me for coming; repeated that he had something very important to say to me; and then stopped short, apparently too much embarrassed to proceed.I tried to set him at his ease by assuring him that, if my assistance or advice could be of any use, I was ready to place myself and my time heartily and unreservedly at his service.
As I said this I saw his eyes beginning to wander away from my face--to wander slowly, inch by inch, as it were, until they stopped at a certain point, with the same fixed stare into vacancy which had so often startled me on former occasions.The whole expression of his face altered as I had never yet seen it alter; he sat before me looking like a man in a death-trance.
"You are very kind," he said, slowly and faintly, speaking, not to me, but in the direction in which his eyes were still fixed.
"I know you can help me; but--"
He stopped; his face whitened horribly, and the perspiration broke out all over it.He tried to continue--said a word or two--then stopped again.Seriously alarmed about him, I rose from my chair with the intention of getting him some water from a jug which I saw standing on a side-table.
He sprang up at the same moment.All the suspicions I had ever heard whispered against his sanity flashed over my mind in an instant, and I involuntarily stepped back a pace or two.
"Stop," he said, seating himself again; "don't mind me; and don't leave your chair.I want--I wish, if you please, to make a little alteration, before we say anything more.Do you mind sitting in a strong light?""Not in the least."
I had hitherto been seated in the shade of his reading-lamp, the only light in the room.
As I answered him he rose again, and, going into another apartment, returned with a large lamp in his hand; then took two candles from the side-table, and two others from the chimney piece; placed them all, to my amazement, together, so as to stand exactly between us, and then tried to light them.His hand trembled so that he was obliged to give up the attempt, and allow me to come to his assistance.By his direction, I took the shade off the reading-lamp after I had lit the other lamp and the four candles.When we sat down again, with this concentration of light between us, his better and gentler manner began to return, and while he now addressed me he spoke without the slightest hesitation.
"It is useless to ask whether you have heard the reports about me," he said; "I know that you have.My purpose to-night is to give you some reasonable explanation of the conduct which has produced those reports.My secret has been hitherto confided to one person only; I am now about to trust it to your keeping, with a special object which will appear as I go on.First, however, Imust begin by telling you exactly what the great difficulty is which obliges me to be still absent from England.I want your advice and your help; and, to conceal nothing from you, I want also to test your forbearance and your friendly sympathy, before I can venture on thrusting my miserable secret into your keeping.
Will you pardon this apparent distrust of your frank and open character--this apparent ingratitude for your kindness toward me ever since we first met?"I begged him not to speak of these things, but to go on.
"You know," he proceeded, "that I am here to recover the body of my Uncle Stephen, and to carry it back with me to our family burial-place in England, and you must also be aware that I have not yet succeeded in discovering his remains.Try to pass over, for the present, whatever may seem extraordinary and incomprehensible in such a purpose as mine is, and read this newspaper article where the ink-line is traced.It is the only evidence hitherto obtained on the subject of the fatal duel in which my uncle fell, and I want to hear what course of proceeding the perusal of it may suggest to you as likely to be best on my part."He handed me an old French newspaper.The substance of what Iread there is still so firmly impressed on my memory that I am certain of being able to repeat correctly at this distance of time all the facts which it is necessary for me to communicate to the reader.
The article began, I remember, with editorial remarks on the great curiosity then felt in regard to the fatal duel between the Count St.Lo and Mr.Stephen Monkton, an English gentleman.The writer proceeded to dwell at great length on the extraordinary secrecy in which the whole affair had been involved from first to last, and to express a hope that the publication of a certain manuscript, to which his introductory observations referred, might lead to the production of fresh evidence from other and better-informed quarters.The manuscript had been found among the papers of Monsieur Foulon, Mr.Monkton's second, who had died at Paris of a rapid decline shortly after returning to his home in that city from the scene of the duel.The document was unfinished, having been left incomplete at the very place where the reader would most wish to find it continued.No reason could be discovered for this, and no second manuscript bearing on the all-important subject had been found, after the strictest search among the papers left by the deceased.
The document itself then followed.
It purported to be an agreement privately drawn up between Mr.