“Dr. Danvers, I have been fifty times on the point of speaking to you—­confidentially of course—­while sitting here opposite to you, what I believe I could scarcely bring myself to hint to any other man living; yet I must tell it, and soon, too, or I fear it will have told itself.”

Dr. Danvers intimated his readiness to hear and advise, if desired; and Marston resumed abruptly, after a pause—­

“Pray, Doctor Danvers, have you heard any stories of an odd kind; any surmises—­I don’t mean of a moral sort, for those I hold very cheap—­to my prejudice?  Indeed I should hardly say to my prejudice; I mean—­I ought to say—­in short, have you heard people remark upon any fancied eccentricities, or that sort of thing, about me?”

He put the question with obvious difficulty, and at last seemed to overcome his own reluctance with a sort of angry and excited self-contempt and impatience.  Doctor Danvers was a little puzzled by the interrogatory, and admitted, in reply, that he did not comprehend its drift.

“Doctor Danvers,” he resumed, sternly and dejectedly, “I told you, in the chance interview we had some months ago, that I was haunted by a certain fear.  I did not define it, nor do I think you suspect its nature.  It is a fear of nothing mortal, but of the immortal tenant of this body.  My mind; sir, is beginning to play me tricks; my guide mocks and terrifies me.”

There was a perceptible tinge of horror in the look of astonishment with which Dr. Danvers listened.

“You are a gentleman, sir, and a Christian clergyman; what I have said and shall say is confided to your honor; to be held sacred as the confession of misery, and hidden from the coarse gaze of the world.  I have become subject to a hideous delusion.  It comes at intervals.  I do not think any mortal suspects it, except, maybe, my daughter Rhoda.  It comes and disappears, and comes again.  I kept my pleasant secret for a long time, but at last I let it slip, and committed myself fortunately, to but one person, and that my daughter; and, even so, I hardly think she understood me.  I recollected myself before I had disclosed the grotesque and infernal chimera that haunts me.”

Marston paused.  He was stooped forward, and looking upon the floor of the vehicle, so that his companion could not see his countenance.  A silence ensued, which was interrupted by Marston, who once more resumed.

“Sir,” said he, “I know not why, but I have longed, intensely longed, for some trustworthy ear into which to pour this horrid secret; why I repeat, I cannot tell, for I expect no sympathy, and hate compassion.  It is, I suppose, the restless nature of the devil that is in me; but, be it what it may, I will speak to you, but to you only, for the present, at least, to you alone.”

Doctor Danvers again assured him that he might repose the most entire confidence in his secrecy.