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, for ceaseless mischief.  There is not a friend of mine he can get hold of, but he whispered in his ear some damned slander of me.  He is drawing them all into a common understanding against me; and he takes an actual pleasure in telling me how the thing goes on—­how, one after the other, he has converted my friends into conspirators and libelers, to blast my character, and take my life, and now the monster essays to lure my children into the hellish confederation.”

“Who is he, father, who is he?” faltered Rhoda.

“You never saw him,” retorted Marston, sternly.