The Anna Katharine Green Mystery Megapack

by Anna Katharine Green

  This was of old date also, and gave no clue to the sender, save such as was conveyed by the signature Mary. Mary what? Mr. Huckins was the only person who was likely to know.

  Frank, who had but little confidence in this man and none in his desire to be of use in finding the legal heir, still thought it best to ask him if there was any old friend of the family whose first name was Mary. So he went to Flatbush one afternoon, and finding the old miser in his house, put to him this question and waited for his reply.

  It came just as he expected, with a great show of willingness that yet was without any positive result.

  “Mary? Mary?” he repeated, “we have known a dozen Marys. Do you mean any one belonging to this town?”

  “I mean someone with whom your sister was intimate thirty years ago. Some one who knew your other sister, the one who married Smith; someone who would simply sign her first name in writing to Mrs. Wakeham, and who in speaking of Mrs. Smith would call her Harriet.”

  “Ah!” ejaculated the cautious Huckins, dropping his eyes for fear they would convey more than his tongue might deem fit. “I’m afraid I was too young in those days to know much about my sister’s friends. Can you tell me where she lived, or give me any information beyond her first name by which I could identify her?”

  “No,” was the lawyer’s quick retort; “if I could I should not need to consult you; I could find the woman myself.”

  “Ah, I see, I see, and I wish I could help you, but I really don’t know whom you mean, I don’t indeed, sir. May I ask where you got the name, and why you want to find the woman?”

  “Yes, for it involves your prospects. This Mary, whoever she may have been, was the one to tell Mrs. Wakeham that Harriet Smith lived in Marston. Doesn’t that jog your memory, Huckins? You know you cannot inherit the property till it is proved that Harriet is dead and left no heirs.”

  “I know,” he whined, and looked quite disconsolate, but he gave the lawyer no information, and Frank left at last with the feeling that he had reached the end of his rope.

  As a natural result, his thoughts turned to Marston—were they ever far away from there? “I will go and ease my heart of some of its burden,” thought he; “perhaps my head may be clearer then, and my mind freer for work.” Accordingly he took the train that day, and just as the dew of evening began to fall, he rode into Marston and stopped at Miss Cavanagh’s door.

  He found Hermione sitting at an old harp. She did not seem to have been playing but musing, and her hands hung somewhat listlessly upon the strings. As she rose the instrument gave out a thrilling wail that woke an echo in his sensibilities for which he was not prepared. He had considered himself in a hopeful frame of mind, and behold, he was laboring instead under a morbid fear that his errand would be in vain. Emma was not present, but another lady was, whose aspect of gentle old age was so sweet and winning that he involuntarily bent his head in reverence to her, before Hermione could utter the introduction which was trembling on her tongue.

  “My father’s sister,” said she, “and our very dear aunt. She is quite deaf, so she would not hear you speak if you attempted it, but she reads faces wonderfully, and you see she is smiling at you as she does not smile at every one. You may consider yourself introduced.”

  Frank, who had a tender heart for all misfortune, surveyed the old lady wistfully. How placid she looked, how at home with her thoughts! It was peacefulness to the spirit to meet her eye. Bowing again, he turned towards Hermione and remarked:

  “What a very lovely face! She looks as if she had never known anything but the pleasures of life.”

  “On the contrary,” returned Hermione, “she has never known much but its disappointments. But they have left no trace on her face, or in her nature, I think. She is an embodiment of trust, and in the great silence there is about her, she hears sounds and sees visions which are denied to others. But when did you come to Marston?”

  He told her he had just arrived, and, satisfied with the slight look of confusion which mantled her face at this acknowledgment, launched into talk all tending to one end, his love for her. But he did not reach that end immediately; for if the old lady could not hear, she could see, and Frank, for all his impetuosity, possessed sufficient restraint upon himself not to subject himself or Hermione to the criticism of even this most benignant relative. Not till Mrs. Lovell left the room, as she did after a while—being a very wise old lady as well as mild—did he allow himself to say:

  “There can be but one reason now for my coming to Marston—to see you, Miss Cavanagh; I have no other business here.”

  “I thought,” she began, with some confusion—evidently she had been taken by surprise—“that you were looking for someone, a Harriet Smith, I think, whom you had reason to believe once lived here.”

  “I did come to Marston originally on that errand, but I have so far failed in finding any trace of her in this place that I begin to think we were mistaken in our inferences that she had ever lived here.”

  “Yet you had reason for thinking that she did,” Hermione went on, with the anxiety of one desirous to put off the declaration she probably saw coming.

  “Yes; we had reasons, but they prove to have been unfounded.”

  “Was—was your motive for finding her an important one?” she asked, with some hesitation, and a look of curiosity in her fine eyes.

  “Quite; a fortune of some thousands is involved in her discovery. She is heiress to at least a hundred thousand dollars from a sister she has not seen since they were girls together.”

  “Indeed!” and Hermione’s eyes opened in some surprise, then fell before the burning light in his.

  “But do not let us talk of a matter that for me is now of secondary interest,” cried he, letting the full stream of his ardor find its way. “You are all I can think of now; you, you, whom I have loved since I caught the first glimpse of your face one night through the window yonder. Though I have known you but a little while, and though I cannot hope to have awakened a kindred feeling in you, you have so filled my mind and heart during the few short weeks since I learned your name, that I find it impossible to keep back the words which the sight of your face calls forth. I love you, and I want to guard you from loneliness forever. Will you give me that sweet right?”

  “But,” she cried, starting to her feet in an excitement that made her face radiantly beautiful, “you do not seem to think of my misfortune, my—”

  “Do you mean this scar?” he whispered softly, gliding swiftly to her side. “It is no misfortune in my eyes; on the contrary, I think it endears you to me all the more. I love it, Hermione, because it is a part of you. See how I feel towards it!” and he bent his head with a quick movement, and imprinted a kiss upon the mark she had probably never touched herself but with shrinking.

  “Oh!” went up from her lips in a low cry, and she covered her face with her hands in a rush of feeling that was not entirely connected with that moment.

  “Did you think I would let that stand in my way?” he asked, with a proud tenderness with which no sensitive woman could fail to be impressed. “It is one reason more for a man to love your beautiful face, your noble manners, your soft white hand. I think half the pleasure would be gone from the prospect of loving you if I did not hope to make you forget what you have perhaps too often remembered.”

  She dropped her hands, and he saw her eyes fixed upon him with a strange look.

  “O how wicked I have been!” she murmured. “And what good men there are in the world!”

  He shook his head.

  “It is not goodness,” he began, but she stopped him with a wave of her hand.

  A strange elation seemed to have taken hold of her, and she walked the floor with lifted head and sparkling eye.

  “It restores my belief in love,” she exclaimed, “and in mankind.” And she seemed content just to brood upon that thought.

  But he was not; naturally he wished for some assurance from her; so he stepped in her path as she was
crossing the room, and, taking her by the hands, said, smilingly:

  “Do you know how you can testify your appreciation in a way to make me perfectly happy?”

  She shook her head, and tried to draw her hands away.

  “By taking a walk, the least walk in the world, beyond that wooden gate.”

  She shuddered and her hands fell from his.

  “You do not know what you ask,” said she; then after a moment, “it was that I meant and not the scar, when I spoke of my misfortune. I cannot go outside the garden wall, and I was wrong to listen to your words for a moment, knowing what a barrier this fact raises up between us.”

  “Hermione—” he was very serious now, and she gathered up all her strength to meet the questions she knew were coming—“why cannot you go beyond the garden gate? Cannot you tell me? Or do you hesitate because you are afraid I shall smile at your reasons for this determined seclusion?”

  “I am not afraid of your smiling, but I cannot give my reasons. That I consider them good must answer for us both.”

  “Very well, then, we will let them answer. You need not take the walk I ask, but give me instead another pleasure—your promise to be my wife.”

  “Your wife?”

  “Yes, Hermione.”

  “With such a secret between us?”

  “It will not be a secret long.”

  “Mr. Etheridge,” she cried with emotion, “you do not know the woman you thus honor. If it had been Emma—”

  “It is you I love.”

  “It would have been safe,” she went on as if she had not heard him. “She is lovely, and amiable, and constant, and in her memory there is no dark scar as there is in mine, a scar deeper than this,” she said, laying her finger on her cheek, “and fully as ineffaceable.”

  “Some day you will take me into your confidence,” he averred, “and then that scar will gradually disappear.”

  “What confidence you have in me?” she cried. “What have you seen, what can you see in me to make you trust me so in face of my own words?”

  “I think it is the look in your eyes. There is purity there, Hermione, and a deep sadness which is too near like sorrow to be the result of an evil action.”

  “What do you call evil?” she cried. Then suddenly, “I once did a great wrong—in a fit of temper—and I can never undo it, never, yet its consequences are lasting. Would you give your heart to a woman who could so forget herself, and who is capable of forgetting herself again if her passions are roused as they were then?”

  “Perhaps not,” he acknowledged, “but my heart is already given and I do not know how to take it back.”

  “Yet you must,” said she. “No man with a career before him should marry a recluse, and I am that, whatever else I may or may not be. I would be doing a second ineffaceable wrong if I took advantage of your generous impulse and bound you to a fate that in less than two months would be intolerably irksome to one of your temperament.”

  “Now you do not know me,” he protested.

  But she heeded neither his words nor his pleading look.

  “I know human nature,” she avowed, “and if I do not mingle much with the world I know the passions that sway it. I can never be the wife of any man, Mr. Etheridge, much less of one so generous and so self-forgetting as yourself.”

  “Do you—are you certain?” he asked.

  “Certain.”

  “Then I have not succeeded in raising one throb of interest in your breast?”

  She opened her lips and his heart stood still for her answer, but she closed them again and remained standing so long with her hands locked together and her face downcast, that his hopes revived again, and he was about to put in another plea for her hand when she looked up and said firmly:

  “I think you ought to know that my heart does not respond to your suit. It may make any disappointment which you feel less lasting.”

  He uttered a low exclamation and stepped back.

  “I beg your pardon,” said he, “I ought not to have annoyed you. You will forget my folly, I hope.”

  “Do you forget it!” cried she; but her lips trembled and he saw it.

  “Hermione! Hermione!” he murmured, and was down at her feet before she could prevent it. “Oh, how I love you!” he breathed, and kissed her hand wildly, passionately.

  XII

  HOW MUCH DID IT MEAN?

  Frank Etheridge left the presence of Hermione Cavanagh, carrying with him an indelible impression of her slender, white-robed figure and pallid, passion-drawn face. There was such tragedy in the latter, that he shuddered at its memory, and stopped before he reached the gate to ask himself if the feeling she displayed was for him or another. If for another, then was that other Dr. Sellick, and as the name formed itself in his thoughts, he felt the dark cloud of jealousy creep over his mind, obscuring the past and making dangerous the future.

  “How can I know,” thought he, “how can I know?” and just as the second repetition passed his lips, he heard a soft step near him, and, looking up, saw the gentle Emma watering her flowers.

  To gain her side was his first impulse. To obtain her confidence the second. Taking the heavy watering-pot from her hand, he poured its contents on the rose-bush she was tending, and then setting it down, said quietly:

  “I have just made your sister very unhappy, Miss Cavanagh.”

  She started and her soft eyes showed the shadow of an alarm.

  “I thought you were her friend,” she said.

  He drew her around the corner of the house towards the poplar trees. “Had I been only that,” he avowed, “I might have spared her pain, but I am more than that, Miss Cavanagh, I am her lover.”

  The hesitating step at his side paused, and though no great change came into her face, she seemed to have received a shock.

  “I can understand,” said she, “that you hurt her.”

  “Is she so wedded to the past, then?” he cried. “Was there someone, is there someone whom she—she—”

  He could not finish, but the candid-eyed girl beside him did not profess to misunderstand him. A pitiful smile crossed her lips, and she looked for a minute whiter than her sister had done, but she answered firmly:

  “You could easily overcome any mere memory, but the decision she has made never to leave the house, I fear you cannot overcome.”

  “Does it spring—forgive me if I go beyond the bounds of discretion, but this mystery is driving me mad—does it spring from that past attachment you have almost acknowledged?”

  She drooped her head and his heart misgave him. Why should he hurt both these women when his whole feeling towards them was one of kindness and love?

  “Pardon me,” he pleaded. “I withdraw the question; I had no right to put it.”

  “Thank you,” said she, and looked away from him towards the distant prospect of hill and valley lying before them.

  He stood revolving the matter in his disturbed mind.

  “I should have been glad to have been the means of happiness to your sister and yourself. Such seclusion as you have imposed upon yourselves seems unnecessary, but if it must be, and this garden wall is destined to be the boundary of your world, it would have been a great pleasure to me to have brought into it some freshness from the life which lies beyond it. But it is destined not to be.”

  The sad expression in her face changed into one of wistfulness.

  “Then you are not coming any more?” said she.

  He caught his breath. There was disappointment in her tones and this could mean nothing but regret, and regret meant the loss of something which might have been hope. She felt, then, that he might have won her sister if he had been more patient.

  “Do you think it will do for me to come here after your sister has told me that it was useless for me to aspire to her hand?”

  She gave him for the first time a glance that had the element of mirthfulness in it.

  “Come as my friend,” she suggested; then in a more serious mood added:
“It is her only chance of happiness, but I do not know that I would be doing right in influencing you to pursue a suit which may not be for yours. You know, or will know after reflection (and I advise you to reflect well), whether an alliance with women situated as we are would be conducive to your welfare. If you decide yes, think that a woman taken by surprise, as my sister undoubtedly was, may not in the first hurried moment of decision know her own mind, but also remember that no woman who has taken such a decision as she has, is cast in the common mould, and that you may but add to your regrets by a persistency she may never fully reward.”

  Astonished at her manner and still more astonished at the intimation conveyed in her last words, he looked at her as one who would say:

  “But you also share her fate and the resolve that made it.”

  She seemed to understand him.

  “Free Hermione,” she whispered, “from the shackles she has wound about herself and you will free me.”

  “Miss Emma,” he began, but she put her finger on her lips.

  “Hush!” she entreated; “let us not talk any more about it. I have already said what I never meant should pass my lips; but the affection I bear my sister made me forget myself; she does so need to love and be loved.”

  “And you think I—”

  “Ah, sir, you must be the judge of your own chances. You have heard her refusal and must best know just how much it means.”

  “How much it means!” Long did Frank muse over that phrase, after he had left the sweet girl who had uttered it. As he sat with Edgar at supper, his abstracted countenance showed that he was still revolving the question, though he endeavored to seem at home with his friend and interested in the last serious case which had occupied the attention of the newly settled doctor. How much it means! Not much, he was beginning to say to himself, and insensibly his face began to brighten and his manner to grow less restrained, when Edgar, who had been watching him furtively, broke out: