The Leavenworth Case

by Anna Katharine Green

  XXXII. MRS. BELDEN’S NARRATIVE

  “Cursed, destructive Avarice, Thou everlasting foe to Love and Honor.” --Trap’s Abram.

  “Mischief never thrives Without the help of Woman.” --The Same.

  IT will be a year next July since I first saw Mary Leavenworth. Iwas living at that time a most monotonous existence. Loving what wasbeautiful, hating what was sordid, drawn by nature towards all thatwas romantic and uncommon, but doomed by my straitened position and theloneliness of my widowhood to spend my days in the weary round of plainsewing, I had begun to think that the shadow of a humdrum old agewas settling down upon me, when one morning, in the full tide of mydissatisfaction, Mary Leavenworth stepped across the threshold of mydoor and, with one smile, changed the whole tenor of my life.

  This may seem exaggeration to you, especially when I say that her errandwas simply one of business, she having heard I was handy with my needle;but if you could have seen her as she appeared that day, marked the lookwith which she approached me, and the smile with which she left, youwould pardon the folly of a romantic old woman, who beheld a fairy queenin this lovely young lady. The fact is, I was dazzled by her beauty andher charms. And when, a few days after, she came again, and crouchingdown on the stool at my feet, said she was so tired of the gossip andtumult down at the hotel, that it was a relief to run away and hide withsome one who would let her act like the child she was, I experiencedfor the moment, I believe, the truest happiness of my life. Meeting heradvances with all the warmth her manner invited, I found her ere longlistening eagerly while I told her, almost without my own volition, thestory of my past life, in the form of an amusing allegory.

  The next day saw her in the same place; and the next; always with theeager, laughing eyes, and the fluttering, uneasy hands, that graspedeverything they touched, and broke everything they grasped.

  But the fourth day she was not there, nor the fifth, nor the sixth, andI was beginning to feel the old shadow settling back upon me, when onenight, just as the dusk of twilight was merging into evening gloom, shecame stealing in at the front door, and, creeping up to my side, put herhands over my eyes with such a low, ringing laugh, that I started.

  “You don’t know what to make of me!” she cried, throwing aside hercloak, and revealing herself in the full splendor of evening attire. “Idon’t know what to make of myself. Though it seems folly, I felt thatI must run away and tell some one that a certain pair of eyes have beenlooking into mine, and that for the first time in my life I feelmyself a woman as well as a queen.” And with a glance in which coynessstruggled with pride, she gathered up her cloak around her, andlaughingly cried:

  “Have you had a visit from a flying sprite? Has one little ray ofmoonlight found its way into your prison for a wee moment, with Mary’slaugh and Mary’s snowy silk and flashing diamonds? Say!” and she pattedmy cheek, and smiled so bewilderingly, that even now, with all thedull horror of these after-events crowding upon me, I cannot but feelsomething like tears spring to my eyes at the thought of it.

  “And so the Prince has come for you?” I whispered, alluding to a story Ihad told her the last time she had visited me; a story in which a girl,who had waited all her life in rags and degradation for the lordlyknight who was to raise her from a hovel to a throne, died just as herone lover, an honest peasant-lad whom she had discarded in her pride,arrived at her door with the fortune he had spent all his days inamassing for her sake.

  But at this she flushed, and drew back towards the door. “I don’t know;I am afraid not. I--I don’t think anything about that. Princes are notso easily won,” she murmured.

  “What! are you going?” I said, “and alone? Let me accompany you.”

  But she only shook her fairy head, and replied: “No, no; that would bespoiling the romance, indeed. I have come upon you like a sprite, andlike a sprite I will go.” And, flashing like the moonbeam she was, sheglided out into the night, and floated away down the street.

  When she next came, I observed a feverish excitement in her manner,which assured me, even plainer than the coy sweetness displayed inour last interview, that her heart had been touched by her lover’sattentions. Indeed, she hinted as much before she left, saying in amelancholy tone, when I had ended my story in the usual happy way, withkisses and marriage, “I shall never marry!” finishing the exclamationwith a long-drawn sigh, that somehow emboldened me to say, perhapsbecause I knew she had no mother:

  “And why? What reason can there be for such rosy lips saying theirpossessor will never marry?”

  She gave me one quick look, and then dropped her eyes. I feared I hadoffended her, and was feeling very humble, when she suddenly replied, inan even but low tone, “I said I should never marry, because the one manwho pleases me can never be my husband.”

  All the hidden romance in my nature started at once into life. “Why not?What do you mean? Tell me.”

  “There is nothing to tell,” said she; “only I have been so weak asto”--she would not say, fall in love, she was a proud woman--“admire aman whom my uncle will never allow me to marry.”

  And she rose as if to go; but I drew her back. “Whom your uncle will notallow you to marry!” I repeated. “Why? because he is poor?”

  “No; uncle loves money, but not to such an extent as that. Besides, Mr.Clavering is not poor. He is the owner of a beautiful place in his owncountry----”

  “Own country?” I interrupted. “Is he not an American?”

  “No,” she returned; “he is an Englishman.”

  I did not see why she need say that in just the way she did, but,supposing she was aggravated by some secret memory, went on to inquire:“Then what difficulty can there be? Isn’t he--” I was going to saysteady, but refrained.

  “He is an Englishman,” she emphasized in the same bitter tone asbefore. “In saying that, I say it all. Uncle will never let me marry anEnglishman.”

  I looked at her in amazement. Such a puerile reason as this had neverentered my mind.

  “He has an absolute mania on the subject,” resumed she. “I might as wellask him to allow me to drown myself as to marry an Englishman.”

  A woman of truer judgment than myself would have said: “Then, if that isso, why not discard from your breast all thought of him? Why dance withhim, and talk to him, and let your admiration develop into love?” ButI was all romance then, and, angry at a prejudice I could neitherunderstand nor appreciate, I said:

  “But that is mere tyranny! Why should he hate the English so? And why,if he does, should you feel yourself obliged to gratify him in a whim sounreasonable?”

  “Why? Shall I tell you, auntie?” she said, flushing and looking away.

  “Yes,” I returned; “tell me everything.”

  “Well, then, if you want to know the worst of me, as you already knowthe best, I hate to incur my uncle’s displeasure, because--because--Ihave always been brought up to regard myself as his heiress, and Iknow that if I were to marry contrary to his wishes, he would instantlychange his mind, and leave me penniless.”

  “But,” I cried, my romance a little dampened by this admission, “youtell me Mr. Clavering has enough to live upon, so you would not want;and if you love--”

  Her violet eyes fairly flashed in her amazement.

  “You don’t understand,” she said; “Mr. Clavering is not poor; but uncleis rich. I shall be a queen--” There she paused, trembling, and fallingon my breast. “Oh, it sounds mercenary, I know, but it is the fault ofmy bringing up. I have been taught to worship money. I would be utterlylost without it. And yet”--her whole face softening with the light ofanother emotion, “I cannot say to Henry Clavering, ‘Go! my prospects aredearer to me than you!’ I cannot, oh, I cannot!”

  “You love him, then?” said I, determined to get at the truth of thematter if possible.

  She rose restlessly. “Isn’t that a proof of love? If you knew me, youwould say it was.” And, turning, she took her stand before a picturethat hung on the w
all of my sitting-room.

  “That looks like me,” she said.

  It was one of a pair of good photographs I possessed.

  “Yes,” I remarked, “that is why I prize it.”

  She did not seem to hear me; she was absorbed in gazing at the exquisiteface before her. “That is a winning face,” I heard her say. “Sweeterthan mine. I wonder if she would ever hesitate between love and money. Ido not believe she would,” her own countenance growing gloomy and sadas she said so; “she would think only of the happiness she would confer;she is not hard like me. Eleanore herself would love this girl.”

  I think she had forgotten my presence, for at the mention of hercousin’s name she turned quickly round with a half suspicious look,saying lightly:

  “My dear old Mamma Hubbard looks horrified. She did not know she hadsuch a very unromantic little wretch for a listener, when she wastelling all those wonderful stories of Love slaying dragons, and livingin caves, and walking over burning ploughshares as if they were tufts ofspring grass?”

  “No,” I said, taking her with an irresistible impulse of admiringaffection into my arms; “but if I had, it would have made no difference.I should still have talked about love, and of all it can do to make thisweary workaday world sweet and delightful.”

  “Would you? Then you do not think me such a wretch?”

  What could I say? I thought her the winsomest being in the world, andfrankly told her so. Instantly she brightened into her very gayest self.Not that I thought then, much less do I think now, she partiallycared for my good opinion; but her nature demanded admiration, andunconsciously blossomed under it, as a flower under the sunshine.

  “And you will still let me come and tell you how bad I am,--that is, ifI go on being bad, as I doubtless shall to the end of the chapter? Youwill not turn me off?”

  “I will never turn you off.”

  “Not if I should do a dreadful thing? Not if I should run away with mylover some fine night, and leave uncle to discover how his affectionatepartiality had been requited?”

  It was lightly said, and lightly meant, for she did not even wait for myreply. But its seed sank deep into our two hearts for all that. And forthe next few days I spent my time in planning how I should manage, ifit should ever fall to my lot to conduct to a successful issue soenthralling a piece of business as an elopement. You may imagine, then,how delighted I was, when one evening Hannah, this unhappy girl whois now lying dead under my roof, and who was occupying the position oflady’s maid to Miss Mary Leavenworth at that time, came to my door witha note from her mistress, running thus:

  “Have the loveliest story of the season ready for me tomorrow; and let the prince be as handsome as--as some one you have heard of, and the princess as foolish as your little yielding pet,

  “MARY.”

  Which short note could only mean that she was engaged. But the next daydid not bring me my Mary, nor the next, nor the next; and beyond hearingthat Mr. Leavenworth had returned from his trip I received neither wordnor token. Two more days dragged by, when, just as twilight set in, shecame. It had been a week since I had seen her, but it might have beena year from the change I observed in her countenance and expression. Icould scarcely greet her with any show of pleasure, she was so unlikeher former self.

  “You are disappointed, are you not?” said she, looking at me. “Youexpected revelations, whispered hopes, and all manner of sweetconfidences; and you see, instead, a cold, bitter woman, who forthe first time in your presence feels inclined to be reserved anduncommunicative.”

  “That is because you have had more to trouble than encourage you in yourlove,” I returned, though not without a certain shrinking, caused moreby her manner than words.

  She did not reply to this, but rose and paced the floor, coldly atfirst, but afterwards with a certain degree of excitement that provedto be the prelude to a change in her manner; for, suddenly pausing, sheturned to me and said: “Mr. Clavering has left R----, Mrs. Belden.”

  “Left!”

  “Yes, my uncle commanded me to dismiss him, and I obeyed.”

  The work dropped from my hands, in my heartfelt disappointment. “Ah!then he knows of your engagement to Mr. Clavering?”

  “Yes; he had not been in the house five minutes before Eleanore toldhim.”

  “Then _she_ knew?”

  “Yes,” with a half sigh. “She could hardly help it. I was foolish enoughto give her the cue in my first moment of joy and weakness. I didnot think of the consequences; but I might have known. She is soconscientious.”

  “I do not call it conscientiousness to tell another’s secrets,” Ireturned.

  “That is because you are not Eleanore.”

  Not having a reply for this, I said, “And so your uncle did not regardyour engagement with favor?”

  “Favor! Did I not tell you he would never allow me to marry anEnglishman? He said he would sooner see me buried.”

  “And you yielded? Made no struggle? Let the hard, cruel man have hisway?”

  She was walking off to look again at that picture which had attractedher attention the time before, but at this word gave me one littlesidelong look that was inexpressibly suggestive.

  “I obeyed him when he commanded, if that is what you mean.”

  “And dismissed Mr. Clavering after having given him your word of honorto be his wife?”

  “Why not, when I found I could not keep my word.”

  “Then you have decided not to marry him?”

  She did not reply at once, but lifted her face mechanically to thepicture.

  “My uncle would tell you that I had decided to be governed wholly byhis wishes!” she responded at last with what I felt was self-scornfulbitterness.

  Greatly disappointed, I burst into tears. “Oh, Mary!” I cried, “Oh,Mary!” and instantly blushed, startled that I had called her by herfirst name.

  But she did not appear to notice.

  “Have you any complaint to make?” she asked. “Is it not my manifestduty to be governed by my uncle’s wishes? Has he not brought me up fromchildhood? lavished every luxury upon me? made me all I am, even to thelove of riches which he has instilled into my soul with every gift hehas thrown into my lap, every word he has dropped into my ear, since Iwas old enough to know what riches meant? Is it for me now to turn myback upon fostering care so wise, beneficent, and free, just becausea man whom I have known some two weeks chances to offer me in exchangewhat he pleases to call his love?”

  “But,” I feebly essayed, convinced perhaps by the tone of sarcasm inwhich this was uttered that she was not far from my way of thinkingafter all, “if in two weeks you have learned to love this man more thaneverything else, even the riches which make your uncle’s favor a thingof such moment--”

  “Well,” said she, “what then?”

  “Why, then I would say, secure your happiness with the man of yourchoice, if you have to marry him in secret, trusting to your influenceover your uncle to win the forgiveness he never can persistently deny.”

  You should have seen the arch expression which stole across her faceat that. “Would it not be better,” she asked, creeping to my arms, andlaying her head on my shoulder, “would it not be better for me to makesure of that uncle’s favor first, before undertaking the hazardousexperiment of running away with a too ardent lover?”

  Struck by her manner, I lifted her face and looked at it. It was oneamused smile.

  “Oh, my darling,” said I, “you have not, then dismissed Mr. Clavering?”

  “I have sent him away,” she whispered demurely.

  “But not without hope?”

  She burst into a ringing laugh.

  “Oh, you dear old Mamma Hubbard; what a matchmaker you are, to be sure!You appear as much interested as if you were the lover yourself.”

  “But tell me,” I urged.

  In a moment her serious mood returned. “He will wait for me,” said she.

  The next day I submitted to her the plan I had
formed for herclandestine intercourse with Mr. Clavering. It was for them both toassume names, she taking mine, as one less liable to provoke conjecturethan a strange name, and he that of LeRoy Robbins. The plan pleasedher, and with the slight modification of a secret sign being used on theenvelope, to distinguish her letters from mine, was at once adopted.

  And so it was I took the fatal step that has involved me in all thistrouble. With the gift of my name to this young girl to use as shewould and sign what she would, I seemed to part with what was left me ofjudgment and discretion. Henceforth, I was only her scheming, planning,devoted slave; now copying the letters which she brought me, andenclosing them to the false name we had agreed upon, and now busyingmyself in devising ways to forward to her those which I received fromhim, without risk of discovery. Hannah was the medium we employed, asMary felt it would not be wise for her to come too often to my house.To this girl’s charge, then, I gave such notes as I could not forward inany other way, secure in the reticence of her nature, as well as in herinability to read, that these letters addressed to Mrs. Amy Belden wouldarrive at their proper destination without mishap. And I believe theyalways did. At all events, no difficulty that I ever heard of arose outof the use of this girl as a go-between.

  But a change was at hand. Mr. Clavering, who had left an invalid motherin England, was suddenly summoned home. He prepared to go, but, flushedwith love, distracted by doubts, smitten with the fear that, oncewithdrawn from the neighborhood of a woman so universally courted asMary, he would stand small chance of retaining his position in herregard, he wrote to her, telling his fears and asking her to marry himbefore he went.

  “Make me your husband, and I will follow your wishes in all things,” he wrote. “The certainty that you are mine will make parting possible;without it, I cannot go; no, not if my mother should die without thecomfort of saying good-bye to her only child.”

  By some chance she was in my house when I brought this letter from thepost-office, and I shall never forget how she started when she read it.But, from looking as if she had received an insult, she speedily settleddown into a calm consideration of the subject, writing and deliveringinto my charge for copying a few lines in which she promised to accedeto his request, if he would agree to leave the public declaration of themarriage to her discretion, and consent to bid her farewell at the doorof the church or wherever the ceremony of marriage should take place,never to come into her presence again till such declaration had beenmade. Of course this brought in a couple of days the sure response:“Anything, so you will be mine.”

  And Amy Belden’s wits and powers of planning were all summoned intorequisition for the second time, to devise how this matter could bearranged without subjecting the parties to the chance of detection. Ifound the thing very difficult. In the first place, it was essentialthat the marriage should come off within three days, Mr. Claveringhaving, upon the receipt of her letter, secured his passage upon asteamer that sailed on the following Saturday; and, next, both he andMiss Leavenworth were too conspicuous in their personal appearance tomake it at all possible for them to be secretly married anywhere withingossiping distance of this place. And yet it was desirable that thescene of the ceremony should not be too far away, or the time occupiedin effecting the journey to and from the place would necessitate anabsence from the hotel on the part of Miss Leavenworth long enough toarouse the suspicions of Eleanore; something which Mary felt it wiserto avoid. Her uncle, I have forgotten to say, was not here--having goneaway again shortly after the apparent dismissal of Mr. Clavering.F----, then, was the only town I could think of which combined the twoadvantages of distance and accessibility. Although upon the railroad, itwas an insignificant place, and had, what was better yet, a very obscureman for its clergyman, living, which was best of all, not ten rods fromthe depot. If they could meet there? Making inquiries, I found that itcould be done, and, all alive to the romance of the occasion, proceededto plan the details.

  And now I am coming to what might have caused the overthrow of thewhole scheme: I allude to the detection on the part of Eleanore of thecorrespondence between Mary and Mr. Clavering. It happened thus. Hannah,who, in her frequent visits to my house, had grown very fond of mysociety, had come in to sit with me for a while one evening. She had notbeen in the house, however, more than ten minutes, before there came aknock at the front door; and going to it I saw Mary, as I supposed, fromthe long cloak she wore, standing before me. Thinking she had come witha letter for Mr. Clavering, I grasped her arm and drew her into thehall, saying, “Have you got it? I must post it to-night, or he will notreceive it in time.”

  There I paused, for, the panting creature I had by the arm turning uponme, I saw myself confronted by a stranger.

  “You have made a mistake,” she cried. “I am Eleanore Leavenworth, and Ihave come for my girl Hannah. Is she here?”

  I could only raise my hand in apprehension, and point to the girlsitting in the corner of the room before her. Miss Leavenworthimmediately turned back.

  “Hannah, I want you,” said she, and would have left the house withoutanother word, but I caught her by the arm.

  “Oh, miss--” I began, but she gave me such a look, I dropped her arm.

  “I have nothing to say to you!” she cried in a low, thrilling voice. “Donot detain me.” And, with a glance to see if Hannah were following her,she went out.

  For an hour I sat crouched on the stair just where she had left me. ThenI went to bed, but I did not sleep a wink that night. You can imagine,then, my wonder when, with the first glow of the early morning light,Mary, looking more beautiful than ever, came running up the steps andinto the room where I was, with the letter for Mr. Clavering tremblingin her hand.

  “Oh!” I cried in my joy and relief, “didn’t she understand me, then?”

  The gay look on Mary’s face turned to one of reckless scorn. “If youmean Eleanore, yes. She is duly initiated, Mamma Hubbard. Knows that Ilove Mr. Clavering and write to him. I couldn’t keep it secret after themistake you made last evening; so I did the next best thing, told herthe truth.”

  “Not that you were about to be married?”

  “Certainly not. I don’t believe in unnecessary communications.”

  “And you did not find her as angry as you expected?”

  “I will not say that; she was angry enough. And yet,” continued Mary,with a burst of self-scornful penitence, “I will not call Eleanore’slofty indignation anger. She was grieved, Mamma Hubbard, grieved.” Andwith a laugh which I believe was rather the result of her own reliefthan of any wish to reflect on her cousin, she threw her head on oneside and eyed me with a look which seemed to say, “Do I plague you sovery much, you dear old Mamma Hubbard?”

  She did plague me, and I could not conceal it. “And will she not tellher uncle?” I gasped.

  The naive expression on Mary’s face quickly changed. “No,” said she.

  I felt a heavy hand, hot with fever, lifted from my heart. “And we canstill go on?”

  She held out the letter for reply.

  The plan agreed upon between us for the carrying out of our intentionswas this. At the time appointed, Mary was to excuse herself to hercousin upon the plea that she had promised to take me to see a friendin the next town. She was then to enter a buggy previously ordered, anddrive here, where I was to join her. We were then to proceed immediatelyto the minister’s house in F----, where we had reason to believe weshould find everything prepared for us. But in this plan, simple as itwas, one thing was forgotten, and that was the character of Eleanore’slove for her cousin. That her suspicions would be aroused we didnot doubt; but that she would actually follow Mary up and demand anexplanation of her conduct, was what neither she, who knew her so well,nor I, who knew her so little, ever imagined possible. And yet that wasjust what occurred. But let me explain. Mary, who had followed out theprogramme to the point of leaving a little note of excuse on Eleanore’sdressing-table, had come to my house, and was just taking off her longcloak to show me her d
ress, when there came a commanding knock atthe front door. Hastily pulling her cloak about her I ran to open it,intending, you may be sure, to dismiss my visitor with short ceremony,when I heard a voice behind me say, “Good heavens, it is Eleanore!” and,glancing back, saw Mary looking through the window-blind upon the porchwithout.

  “What shall we do?” I cried, in very natural dismay.

  “Do? why, open the door and let her in; I am not afraid of Eleanore.”

  I immediately did so, and Eleanore Leavenworth, very pale, but witha resolute countenance, walked into the house and into this room,confronting Mary in very nearly the same spot where you are now sitting.“I have come,” said she, lifting a face whose expression of mingledsweetness and power I could not but admire, even in that moment ofapprehension, “to ask you without any excuse for my request, if you willallow me to accompany you upon your drive this morning?”

  Mary, who had drawn herself up to meet some word of accusation orappeal, turned carelessly away to the glass. “I am very sorry,” shesaid, “but the buggy holds only two, and I shall be obliged to refuse.”

  “I will order a carriage.”

  “But I do not wish your company, Eleanore. We are off on a pleasuretrip, and desire to have our fun by ourselves.”

  “And you will not allow me to accompany you?”

  “I cannot prevent your going in another carriage.”

  Eleanore’s face grew yet more earnest in its expression. “Mary,” saidshe, “we have been brought up together. I am your sister in affectionif not in blood, and I cannot see you start upon this adventure with noother companion than this woman. Then tell me, shall I go with you, as asister, or on the road behind you as the enforced guardian of your honoragainst your will?”

  “My honor?”

  “You are going to meet Mr. Clavering.”

  “Well?”

  “Twenty miles from home.”

  “Well?”

  “Now is it discreet or honorable in you to do this?”

  Mary’s haughty lip took an ominous curve. “The same hand that raised youhas raised me,” she cried bitterly.

  “This is no time to speak of that,” returned Eleanore.

  Mary’s countenance flushed. All the antagonism of her nature wasaroused. She looked absolutely Juno-like in her wrath and recklessmenace. “Eleanore,” she cried, “I am going to F---- to marry Mr.Clavering! _Now_ do you wish to accompany me?”

  “I do.”

  Mary’s whole manner changed. Leaping forward, she grasped her cousin’sarm and shook it. “For what reason?” she cried. “What do you intend todo?”

  “To witness the marriage, if it be a true one; to step between youand shame if any element of falsehood should come in to affect itslegality.”

  Mary’s hand fell from her cousin’s arm. “I do not understand you,” said she. “I thought you never gave countenance to what you consideredwrong.”

  “Nor do I. Any one who knows me will understand that I do not give myapproval to this marriage just because I attend its ceremonial in thecapacity of an unwilling witness.”

  “Then why go?”

  “Because I value your honor above my own peace. Because I love ourcommon benefactor, and know that he would never pardon me if I let hisdarling be married, however contrary her union might be to his wishes,without lending the support of my presence to make the transaction atleast a respectable one.”

  “But in so doing you will be involved in a world of deception--which youhate.”

  “Any more so than now?”

  “Mr. Clavering does not return with me, Eleanore.”

  “No, I supposed not.”

  “I leave him immediately after the ceremony.”

  Eleanore bowed her head.

  “He goes to Europe.” A pause.

  “And I return home.”

  “There to wait for what, Mary?”

  Mary’s face crimsoned, and she turned slowly away.

  “What every other girl does under such circumstances, I suppose. Thedevelopment of more reasonable feelings in an obdurate parent’s heart.”

  Eleanore sighed, and a short silence ensued, broken by Eleanore’ssuddenly falling upon her knees, and clasping her cousin’s hand. “Oh,Mary,” she sobbed, her haughtiness all disappearing in a gush of wildentreaty, “consider what you are doing! Think, before it is too late, ofthe consequences which must follow such an act as this. Marriage foundedupon deception can never lead to happiness. Love--but it is not that.Love would have led you either to have dismissed Mr. Clavering at once,or to have openly accepted the fate which a union with him would bring.Only passion stoops to subterfuge like this. And you,” she continued,rising and turning toward me in a sort of forlorn hope very touchingto see, “can you see this young motherless girl, driven by caprice, andacknowledging no moral restraint, enter upon the dark and crooked pathshe is planning for herself, without uttering one word of warning andappeal? Tell me, mother of children dead and buried, what excuse youwill have for your own part in this day’s work, when she, with herface marred by the sorrows which must follow this deception, comes toyou----”

  “The same excuse, probably,” Mary’s voice broke in, chill and strained,“which you will have when uncle inquires how you came to allow such anact of disobedience to be perpetrated in his absence: that she could nothelp herself, that Mary would gang her ain gait, and every one aroundmust accommodate themselves to it.”

  It was like a draught of icy air suddenly poured into a room heated upto fever point. Eleanore stiffened immediately, and drawing back, paleand composed, turned upon her cousin with the remark:

  “Then nothing can move you?”

  The curling of Mary’s lips was her only reply.

  Mr. Raymond, I do not wish to weary you with my feelings, but the firstgreat distrust I ever felt of my wisdom in pushing this matter so farcame with that curl of Mary’s lip. More plainly than Eleanore’s words itshowed me the temper with which she was entering upon this undertaking;and, struck with momentary dismay, I advanced to speak when Mary stoppedme.

  “There, now, Mamma Hubbard, don’t you go and acknowledge that youare frightened, for I won’t hear it. I have promised to marry HenryClavering to-day, and I am going to keep my word--if I don’t love him,” she added with bitter emphasis. Then, smiling upon me in a way whichcaused me to forget everything save the fact that she was going to herbridal, she handed me her veil to fasten. As I was doing this, with verytrembling fingers, she said, looking straight at Eleanore:

  “You have shown yourself more interested in my fate than I had anyreason to expect. Will you continue to display this concern all the wayto F----, or may I hope for a few moments of peace in which to dreamupon the step which, according to you, is about to hurl upon me suchdreadful consequences?”

  “If I go with you to F----,” Eleanore returned, “it is as a witness, nomore. My sisterly duty is done.”

  “Very well, then,” Mary said, dimpling with sudden gayety; “I supposeI shall have to accept the situation. Mamma Hubbard, I am so sorry todisappoint you, but the buggy _won’t_ hold three. If you are good youshall be the first to congratulate me when I come home to-night.” And,almost before I knew it, the two had taken their seats in the buggy thatwas waiting at the door. “Good-by,” cried Mary, waving her hand from theback; “wish me much joy--of my ride.”

  I tried to do so, but the words wouldn’t come. I could only wave my handin response, and rush sobbing into the house.

  Of that day, and its long hours of alternate remorse and anxiety, Icannot trust myself to speak. Let me come at once to the time when,seated alone in my lamp-lighted room, I waited and watched for the tokenof their return which Mary had promised me. It came in the shape of Maryherself, who, wrapped in her long cloak, and with her beautiful faceaglow with blushes, came stealing into the house just as I was beginningto despair.

  A strain of wild music from the hotel porch, where they were having adance, entered with her, producing such a weird effec
t upon my fancythat I was not at all surprised when, in flinging off her cloak, shedisplayed garments of bridal white and a head crowned with snowy roses.

  “Oh, Mary!” I cried, bursting into tears; “you are then----”

  “Mrs. Henry Clavering, at your service. I’m a bride, Auntie.”

  “Without a bridal,” I murmured, taking her passionately into my embrace.

  She was not insensible to my emotion. Nestling close to me, she gaveherself up for one wild moment to a genuine burst of tears, sayingbetween her sobs all manner of tender things; telling me how she lovedme, and how I was the only one in all the world to whom she dared comeon this, her wedding night, for comfort or congratulation, and of howfrightened she felt now it was all over, as if with her name she hadparted with something of inestimable value.

  “And does not the thought of having made some one the proudest of mensolace you?” I asked, more than dismayed at this failure of mine to makethese lovers happy.

  “I don’t know,” she sobbed. “What satisfaction can it be for him tofeel himself tied for life to a girl who, sooner than lose a prospectivefortune, subjected him to such a parting?”

  “Tell me about it,” said I.

  But she was not in the mood at that moment. The excitement of the dayhad been too much for her. A thousand fears seemed to beset her mind.Crouching down on the stool at my feet, she sat with her hands foldedand a glare on her face that lent an aspect of strange unreality to herbrilliant attire. “How shall I keep it secret! The thought haunts meevery moment; how can I keep it secret!”

  “Why, is there any danger of its being known?” I inquired. “Were youseen or followed?”

  “No,” she murmured. “It all went off well, but----”

  “Where is the danger, then?”

  “I cannot say; but some deeds are like ghosts. They will not be laid;they reappear; they gibber; they make themselves known whether we willor not. I did not think of this before. I was mad, reckless, what youwill. But ever since the night has come, I have felt it crushing upon melike a pall that smothers life and youth and love out of my heart. Whilethe sunlight remained I could endure it; but now--oh, Auntie, I havedone something that will keep me in constant fear. I have allied myselfto a living apprehension. I have destroyed my happiness.”

  I was too aghast to speak.

  “For two hours I have played at being gay. Dressed in my bridal white,and crowned with roses, I have greeted my friends as if they werewedding-guests, and made believe to myself that all the complimentsbestowed upon me--and they are only too numerous--were just so manycongratulations upon my marriage. But it was no use; Eleanore knew itwas no use. She has gone to her room to pray, while I--I have come herefor the first time, perhaps for the last, to fall at some one’s feet andcry,--’ God have mercy upon me!’”

  I looked at her in uncontrollable emotion. “Oh, Mary, have I onlysucceeded, then, in making you miserable?”

  She did not answer; she was engaged in picking up the crown of roseswhich had fallen from her hair to the floor.

  “If I had not been taught to love money so!” she said at length. “If,like Eleanore, I could look upon the splendor which has been ours fromchildhood as a mere accessory of life, easy to be dropped at the call ofduty or affection! If prestige, adulation, and elegant belongings werenot so much to me; or love, friendship, and domestic happiness more!If only I could walk a step without dragging the chain of a thousandluxurious longings after me. Eleanore can. Imperious as she often is inher beautiful womanhood, haughty as she can be when the delicate quickof her personality is touched too rudely, I have known her to sit by thehour in a low, chilly, ill-lighted and ill-smelling garret, cradling adirty child on her knee, and feeding with her own hand an impatient oldwoman whom no one else would consent to touch. Oh, oh! they talk aboutrepentance and a change of heart! If some one or something would onlychange mine! But there is no hope of that! no hope of my ever beinganything else than what I am: a selfish, wilful, mercenary girl.”

  Nor was this mood a mere transitory one. That same night she made adiscovery which increased her apprehension almost to terror. This wasnothing less than the fact that Eleanore had been keeping a diary ofthe last few weeks. “Oh,” she cried in relating this to me the next day,“what security shall I ever feel as long as this diary of hers remainsto confront me every time I go into her room? And she will not consentto destroy it, though I have done my best to show her that it is abetrayal of the trust I reposed in her. She says it is all she has toshow in the way of defence, if uncle should ever accuse her of treacheryto him and his happiness. She promises to keep it locked up; but whatgood will that do! A thousand accidents might happen, any of themsufficient to throw it into uncle’s hands. I shall never feel safe for amoment while it exists.”

  I endeavored to calm her by saying that if Eleanore was without malice,such fears were groundless. But she would not be comforted, and seeingher so wrought up, I suggested that Eleanore should be asked to trust itinto my keeping till such time as she should feel the necessity of usingit. The idea struck Mary favorably. “O yes,” she cried; “and I willput my certificate with it, and so get rid of all my care at once.” And before the afternoon was over, she had seen Eleanore and made herrequest.

  It was acceded to with this proviso, that I was neither to destroy norgive up all or any of the papers except upon their united demand. Asmall tin box was accordingly procured, into which were put all theproofs of Mary’s marriage then existing, viz.: the certificate, Mr.Clavering’s letters, and such leaves from Eleanore’s diary as referredto this matter. It was then handed over to me with the stipulationI have already mentioned, and I stowed it away in a certain closetupstairs, where it has lain undisturbed till last night.

  Here Mrs. Belden paused, and, blushing painfully, raised her eyes tomine with a look in which anxiety and entreaty were curiously blended.

  “I don’t know what you will say,” she began, “but, led away by myfears, I took that box out of its hiding-place last evening and,notwithstanding your advice, carried it from the house, and it isnow----”

  “In my possession,” I quietly finished.

  I don’t think I ever saw her look more astounded, not even when I toldher of Hannah’s death. “Impossible!” she exclaimed. “I left it lastnight in the old barn that was burned down. I merely meant to hide itfor the present, and could think of no better place in my hurry; for thebarn is said to be haunted--a man hung himself there once--and no oneever goes there. I--I--you cannot have it!” she cried, “unless----”

  “Unless I found and brought it away before the barn was destroyed,” Isuggested.

  Her face flushed deeper. “Then you followed me?”

  “Yes,” said I. Then, as I felt my own countenance redden, hastened toadd: “We have been playing strange and unaccustomed parts, you and I.Some time, when all these dreadful events shall be a mere dream of thepast, we will ask each other’s pardon. But never mind all this now. Thebox is safe, and I am anxious to hear the rest of your story.”

  This seemed to compose her, and after a minute she continued:

  Mary seemed more like herself after this. And though, on account of Mr.Leavenworth’s return and their subsequent preparations for departure,I saw but little more of her, what I did see was enough to make mefear that, with the locking up of the proofs of her marriage, she wasindulging the idea that the marriage itself had become void. But I mayhave wronged her in this.

  The story of those few weeks is almost finished. On the eve of the daybefore she left, Mary came to my house to bid me good-by. She had apresent in her hand the value of which I will not state, as I did nottake it, though she coaxed me with all her prettiest wiles. But she saidsomething that night that I have never been able to forget. It was this.I had been speaking of my hope that before two months had elapsed shewould find herself in a position to send for Mr. Clavering, and thatwhen that day came I should wish to be advised of it; when she suddenlyinterrupted me by saying:

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p; “Uncle will never be won upon, as you call it, while he lives. If I wasconvinced of it before, I am sure of it now. Nothing but his death willever make it possible for me to send for Mr. Clavering.” Then, seeingme look aghast at the long period of separation which this seemed tobetoken, blushed a little and whispered: “The prospect looks somewhatdubious, doesn’t it? But if Mr. Clavering loves me, he can wait.”

  “But,” said I, “your uncle is only little past the prime of life andappears to be in robust health; it will be years of waiting, Mary.”

  “I don’t know,” she muttered, “I think not. Uncle is not as strong as helooks and--” She did not say any more, horrified perhaps at the turn theconversation was taking. But there was an expression on her countenancethat set me thinking at the time, and has kept me thinking ever since.

  Not that any actual dread of such an occurrence as has since happenedcame to oppress my solitude during the long months which now intervened.I was as yet too much under the spell of her charm to allow anythingcalculated to throw a shadow over her image to remain long in mythoughts. But when, some time in the fall, a letter came to mepersonally from Mr. Clavering, filled with a vivid appeal to tellhim something of the woman who, in spite of her vows, doomed him to asuspense so cruel, and when, on the evening of the same day, a friendof mine who had just returned from New York spoke of meeting MaryLeavenworth at some gathering, surrounded by manifest admirers, I beganto realize the alarming features of the affair, and, sitting down, Iwrote her a letter. Not in the strain in which I had been accustomed totalk to her,--I had not her pleading eyes and trembling, caressing handsever before me to beguile my judgment from its proper exercise,--buthonestly and earnestly, telling her how Mr. Clavering felt, and what arisk she ran in keeping so ardent a lover from his rights. The reply shesent rather startled me.

  “I have put Mr. Robbins out of my calculations for the present, andadvise you to do the same. As for the gentleman himself, I have told himthat when I could receive him I would be careful to notify him. That dayhas not yet come.

  “But do not let him be discouraged,” she added in a postscript. “When hedoes receive his happiness, it will be a satisfying one.”

  _When, _I thought. Ah, it is that _when_ which is likely to ruin all!But, intent only upon fulfilling her will, I sat down and wrote a letterto Mr. Clavering, in which I stated what she had said, and begged himto have patience, adding that I would surely let him know if any changetook place in Mary or her circumstances. And, having despatched it tohis address in London, awaited the development of events.

  They were not slow in transpiring. In two weeks I heard of the suddendeath of Mr. Stebbins, the minister who had married them; and whileyet laboring under the agitation produced by this shock, was furtherstartled by seeing in a New York paper the name of Mr. Clavering amongthe list of arrivals at the Hoffman House; showing that my letter tohim had failed in its intended effect, and that the patience Mary hadcalculated upon so blindly was verging to its end. I was consequentlyfar from being surprised when, in a couple of weeks or so afterwards,a letter came from him to my address, which, owing to the carelessomission of the private mark upon the envelope, I opened, and readenough to learn that, driven to desperation by the constant failureswhich he had experienced in all his endeavors to gain access to her inpublic or private, a failure which he was not backward in ascribingto her indisposition to see him, he had made up his mind to riskeverything, even her displeasure; and, by making an appeal to her uncle,end the suspense under which he was laboring, definitely and at once. “Iwant you,” he wrote; “dowered or dowerless, it makes little differenceto me. If you will not come of yourself, then I must follow the exampleof the brave knights, my ancestors; storm the castle that holds you, andcarry you off by force of arms.”

  Neither can I say I was much surprised, knowing Mary as I did, when, ina few days from this, she forwarded to me for copying, this reply: “IfMr. Robbins ever expects to be happy with Amy Belden, let him reconsiderthe determination of which he speaks. Not only would he by such anaction succeed in destroying the happiness of her he professes to love,but run the greater risk of effectually annulling the affection whichmakes the tie between them endurable.”

  To this there was neither date nor signature. It was the cry of warningwhich a spirited, self-contained creature gives when brought to bay. Itmade even me recoil, though I had known from the first that her prettywilfulness was but the tossing foam floating above the soundless depthsof cold resolve and most deliberate purpose.

  What its real effect was upon him and her fate I can only conjecture.All I know is that in two weeks thereafter Mr. Leavenworth was foundmurdered in his room, and Hannah Chester, coming direct to my door fromthe scene of violence, begged me to take her in and secrete her frompublic inquiry, as I loved and desired to serve Mary Leavenworth.