ked, I may say incensed," said Marston
excitedly, "by a passage in his last letter to me. Not that it says
anything specific; but--but it amazes me--it enrages me."

He again checked himself, and Rhoda, much surprised, and even shocked,
said, stammeringly--

"I am sure, sir, that dear Charles would not intentionally say or do
anything that could offend you."

"Ah, as to that, I believe so, too. But it is not with him I am
indignant; no, no. Poor Charles! I believe he is, as you say, disposed to
conduct himself as a son ought to do, respectfully and obediently. Yes,
yes, Charles is very well; but I fear he is leading a bad life,
notwithstanding--a very bad life. He is becoming subject to influences
which never visit or torment the good; believe me, he is."

Marston shook his head, and muttered to himself, with a look of almost
craven anxiety, and then whispered to his daughter--

"Just read this, and then tell me is it not so. Read it, read it, and
pronounce."

As he thus spoke, he placed in her hand the letter of which he had
spoken, and with the passage to which he invited her attention folded
down. It was to the following effect:--

"I cannot tell you how shocked I have been by a piece of scandal, as I
must believe it, conveyed to me in an anonymous letter, and which is of
so very delicate a nature, that without your special command I should
hesitate to pain you by its recital. I trust it may be utterly false.
Indeed I assume it to be so. It is enough to say that it is of a very
distressing nature, and affects the lady (Mademoiselle de Barras) whom
you have recently honored with your hand."

"Now you see," cried Marston, with a shuddering fierceness, as she
returned the letter with a blanched cheek and trembling hand--"now you
see it all. Are you stupid?--the stamp of the cloven hoof--eh?"

Rhoda, unable to gather his meaning, but, at the same time, with a heart
full and trembling very much, stammered a few frightened words, and
became silent.

"It is he, I tell you, that does it all; and if Charles were not living
an evil life, he could not have spread his nets for him," said Marston,
vehemently. "He can't go near anything good; but, like a scoundrel, he
knows where to find a congenial nature; and when he does, he has skill
enough to practice upon it. I know him well, and his arts and his smiles;
aye, and his scowls and his grins, too. He goes, like his master, up and
down, and to and fro upon the earth,