 CHAPTER 32 Mrs. Belden's narrative. First destructive avarice, thou everlasting foe to love and honour, traps Abram. Mischief never thrives without the help of woman. The same. It will be a year next July since I first saw Mary Leavenworth. I was living at that time a most monotonous existence, loving what was beautiful, hating what was sordid, drawn by nature towards all that was romantic and uncommon, but doomed by my straightened position and the loneliness of my widowhood to spend my days in the weary round of plain sowing, I had begun to think that the shadow of a humdrum old age was settling down upon me, when one morning, in the full tide of my dissatisfaction, Mary Leavenworth stepped across the threshold of the door and, with one smile, changed the whole tenor of my life. This may seem exaggeration to you, especially when I say that her errand was 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 look with which she approached me, and the smile with which she left, you would pardon the folly of a romantic old woman who beheld a fairy-queen in this lovely young lady. The fact is I was dazzled by her beauty and her charms, and when a few days after she came again, and crouching down on the stool at my feet said she was so tired of the gossip and tumult down at the hotel, that it was a relief to run away and hide with someone who would let her act like the child she was, I experienced for the moment, I believe, the truest happiness of my life. Meeting her advances, with all the warmth her manor invited, I found her erelong listening eagerly while I told her, almost without my own volition, the story 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 the eager laughing eyes, and the fluttering uneasy hands that grasped everything they touched, and broke everything they grasped. But the fourth day she was not there, nor the fifth, nor the sixth, and I was beginning to feel the old shadow settling back upon me, when one night, just as the dusk of twilight was merging into evening gloom, she came stealing in at the front door, and creeping up to my side, put her hands 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 her cloak, and revealing herself in the full splendor of evening attire. I don't know what to make of myself! Though it seems folly I felt that I must run away, and tell someone that a certain pair of eyes have been looking into mine, and that for the first time in my life I feel myself a woman as well as a queen. And with a glance, in which coiness struggled with pride, she gathered up her cloak around her, and laughingly cried, Have you had a visit from a flying sprite? Has one ray of moonlight found its way into your prison for a wee moment, with Mary's laugh and Mary's snowy silk and flashing diamonds? Say! And she patted my cheek, and smiled so bewilderingly that even now, with all the dull horror of these after-events crowding upon me, I cannot but feel something 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 I had 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 lordly knight who was to raise her from a hovel to a throne, died just as her one 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 in amassing for her sake. But at this she flushed, and drew back towards the door. I don't know. I'm afraid not. I— I don't think anything about that. Princes are not so 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 be spoiling the romance indeed. I have come upon you like a sprite, and like a sprite I will go. And flashing like the moonbeam she was, she glided 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 planer than the coy sweetness displayed in our last interview, that her heart had been touched by her lover's attentions. Indeed she hinted as much before she left, saying in a melancholy tone, when I had ended my story in the usual happy way with kisses and marriage, I shall never marry. Finishing the exclamation with a long-drawn sigh, that somehow emboldened me to say, perhaps because I knew she had no mother. And why? What reason can there be for such rosy lips saying their possessor will never marry? She gave me one quick look, and then dropped her eyes. I feared I had offended her, and was feeling very humble when she suddenly replied in an even but low tone. I said I should never marry, because the one man who 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 as to—she would not say fall in love, she was a proud woman. Admire a man 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 not allow you to marry, I repeated. Why, because he is poor? No, uncle loves money, but not to such an extent as that. Besides, Mr. Clavvering is not poor. He is the owner of a beautiful place in his own country. Own country, I interrupted. Is he not an American? No, she returned. He is an Englishman. I did not see why she needs to 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 say steady, but refrained. He is an Englishman, she emphasized, in the same bitter tone as before. In saying that, I say it all. Uncle will never let me marry an Englishman. I looked at her in amazement. Such a poor I'll reason as this had never entered my mind. He has an absolute mania on the subject, resumed she. I might as well ask 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 is so, why not discard from your breast all thought of him? Why dance with him, and talk to him, and let your admiration develop into love? But I was all romance then, and angry at a prejudice I could neither understand nor appreciate. I said, but this is mere tyranny. Why should he hate the English so? And if he does, why should you feel yourself obliged to gratify him in a whim so unreasonable? Why? Shall I tell you, aunty?" 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 know the best, I hate to incur my uncle's displeasure, because—because—I have always been brought up to regard myself as his heiress, and I know that if I were to marry contrary to his wishes he would instantly change his mind and leave me penniless. But I cried, my romance a little dampened by this admission. You tell me Mr. Clavering has enough to live on, 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 uncle is rich. I shall be a queen." There she paused, trembling, and falling on my breast. Oh, it sounds mercenary, I know, but it is the fault of my bringing up. I have been taught to worship money. I would be utterly lost without it, and yet—her whole face softening with the light of another emotion. I cannot say to Henry Clavering, Go, my prospects are dearer to me than you. I cannot. Oh, I cannot! You love him, then, said I, determined to get at the truth of the matter, if possible. She rose restlessly. Isn't that a proof of love? If you knew me, you would say it was. And turning, she took her stand before a picture that hung on the wall 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 exquisite face before her. That is a winning face, I heard her say—sweeter than mine. I wonder if she would ever hesitate between love and money. I do not believe she would. Her own countenance growing gloomy and sad as she said so. She would think only of the happiness she would confer. She's not hard like me. Eleanor herself would love this girl. I think she had forgotten my presence, for at the mention of her cousin's name she turned quickly round with a half-suspicious look, saying lightly, My dear old Mama Hubbard looks horrified. She did not know she had such a very unromantic little wretch for a listener when she was telling all those wonderful stories of love slaying dragons and living in caves and walking over burning plowshares as if they were tufts of spring grass. No, I said, taking her with an irresistible impulse of admiring affection 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 this weary work-a-day 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, and frankly told her so. Instantly she brightened into her very gayest self. Not that I thought then, much less do I think now she particularly cared for my good opinion. But her nature demanded admiration, and unconsciously 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, if I go on being bad, as I doubtless shall to the end of this chapter. You will not turn me off? I would never turn you off. Not if I should do a dreadful thing? Not if I should run away with my lover some fine night, and leave Uncle to discover how his affectionate partiality had been requited? It was lightly said, and lightly meant, for she did not even wait for my reply, but its seed sank deep into our two hearts for all that, and for the next few days I spent my time in planning how I should manage if it should ever fall my lot to conduct to a successful issue so enthralling a piece of business as an elopement. You may imagine then how delighted I was when one evening Hannah, this unhappy girl who is now lying dead under my roof, and who is occupying the position of a ladies maid to Miss Mary Leavenworth at that time, came to my door with a note from her mistress running thus, have the loveliest story of the season ready for me to-morrow, and let the prince be as handsome 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 day did not bring me my Mary, nor the next, nor the next, and beyond hearing that Mr. Leavenworth had returned from his trip I received neither word nor token. Two more days dragged by when, just as twilight set in, she came. It had been a week since I had seen her, but it might have been a year from the change I observed in her countenance and expression. I could scarcely greet her with any show of pleasure she was so unlike her former self. You are disappointed, are you not, said she, looking at me. You expected revelations, whispered hopes, and all manner of sweet confidences, and you see instead a cold, bitter woman, who for the first time in your presence feels inclined to be reserved and uncommunicative. That is because you have had more to trouble than encourage you in your love, I said, though not without a certain shrinking, caused more by her manner than words. She did not reply to this, but rose and paced the floor, coldly at first, but afterwards with a certain degree of excitement that proved to be the prelude to a change in her manner, for suddenly pausing she turned to me and said, Mr. Clavering has left our Mrs. Belden. Left? Yes, my uncle commanded me to dismiss him, and I obeyed. The work dropped from my hands and my heart felt disappointment. Ah, then he knows of your engagement to Mr. Clavering? Yes, he had not been in the house five minutes before Eleanor told him. Then she knew? Yes, with a half sigh. She could hardly help it. I was foolish enough to give her the cue in my first moment of joy and weakness. I did not think of the consequences, but I might have known. She is so conscientious. I do not call it conscientiousness to tell another's secrets, I returned. This is because you are not Eleanor. Without having a reply for this, I said, and so your uncle did not regard your engagement with favour. Favour? Did I not tell you he would never allow me to marry an Englishman? He said he would sooner see me buried. And you yielded? Made no struggle? Let the hard, cruel man have his way? She was walking off again to look at that picture which had attracted her attention the time before, but at this word gave me one side-long little look that was inexpressibly suggestive. I obeyed him when he commanded, if that is what you mean. And dismissed, Mr. Clevering, after having given him your word of honour to be his wife? Why not, when I found out 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 the picture. My uncle would tell you that I had decided to be governed wholly by his wishes. She responded at last with what I felt was self-scornful bitterness. And disappointed I burst into tears. Oh, Mary, I cried. Oh, Mary! And instantly blushed, startled that I had called her by her first name. But she did not appear to notice. Have you any complaint to make? She asked. Is it not my manifest duty to be governed by my uncle's wishes? Has he not brought me up from childhood? Lavished every luxury upon me, made me all I am, even to the love of riches which he has instilled in my soul, with every gift he has thrown into my lap, every word he has dropped into my ear, since I was old enough to know what riches meant? Is it for me now to turn my back upon fostering care so wise, beneficent, and free, just because a man whom I have known some two weeks chances to offer me in exchange what he pleases to call his love? But, I feebly assayed, convinced, perhaps, by the tone of sarcasm in which this was uttered, that she was not far from my way of thinking at all. Even two weeks you have learned to love this man more than everything else, even the riches which make your uncle's favor a thing of such moment. Well, said she, what then? Why then, I would say, secure your happiness with the man of your choice, if you have to marry him in secret, trusting to your influence over your uncle to win the forgiveness he can never persistently deny. You should have seen the arch-expression which stole across her face at that. Would it not be better, she asked, creeping to my arms and laying her head on my shoulder. Would it not be better for me to make sure of that uncle's favor first, before undertaking the hazardous experiment of running away with a two ardent lover? Struck by her manner, I lifted her face and looked at it. It was one amused smile. Oh, my darling, said I, you have not, then, dismissed Mr. Claffering. I have sent him away, she whispered demurely. But not without hope. She burst into a ringing laugh. Oh, you dear old mama-hubbered, 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, she said. The next day I submitted to her the plan I had formed for her clandestine intercourse with Mr. Claffering. It was for them both to assume names, she taking mine as one less liable to provoke conjecture than a strange name, and he that of Leroy Robbins. The plan pleased her, and with the slight modification of a secret sign being used on the envelope, 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 this trouble, with the gift of my name to this young girl to use as she would and sign what she would, I seemed to part with what was left me of judgment and discretion. Henceforth I was only her scheming, planning, devoted slave, now copying the letters which she brought me and enclosing them to the false name we had agreed upon, and now busying myself in devising ways to forward to her those which I received from him, without risk of discovery. Hannah was the medium we employed, as Mary 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 in any other way, secure in the reticence of her nature, as well as in her inability to read, that these letters addressed to Mrs. Amy Belden would arrive at their proper destination without mishap. And I believe they always did. At L events no difficulty that I ever heard of arose out of the use of this girl as a go-between. But a change was at hand. Mr. Clevering, who had left an invalid mother in England, was suddenly summoned home. He prepared to go, but, flushed with love, distracted by doubts, smitten with the fear that, once withdrawn from the neighborhood of a woman so universally courted as Mary, he would stand small chance of retaining his position in her regard, he wrote to her, telling his fears and asking her to marry him before he went. Make me your husband, and I will follow your wishes in all things, he wrote. The certainty that your mind will make parting possible. Without it I cannot go. No not if my mother should die without the comfort of saying goodbye to her only child. By some chance she was in my house when I brought this letter from the post 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 settled down into a calm consideration of the subject, writing and delivering into my charge for copying a few lines in which she promised to exceed to his request, if he would agree, to leave the public declaration of the marriage to her discretion, and consent to bid her farewell at the door of the church or wherever the ceremony of marriage should take place, never to come into her presence again until such a declaration had been made. 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 into requisition for the second time, to devise how this matter could be arranged without subjecting the parties to the chance of detection. I found the thing very difficult. In the first place it was essential that the marriage should come off within three days. Mr. Clevering having, upon the receipt of her letter, secured his passage upon a steamer that sailed on the following Saturday. And next both he and Miss Leavenworth were too conspicuous in their personal appearance to make it at all possible for them to be secretly married anywhere within gossiping distance of this place. Even yet it was desirable that the scene of the ceremony should not be too far away, or the time occupied in effecting the journey to and from the place would necessitate an absence from the hotel on the part of Miss Leavenworth long enough to arouse the suspicions of Eleanor, something which Mary felt it wiser to avoid. Her uncle, I have forgotten to say, was not here, having gone away again shortly after the apparent dismissal of Mr. Clevering. F then was the only town I could think of which combined the two advantages of distance and accessibility. Although upon the railroad it was an insignificant place, and had what was better yet a very obscure man for its clergyman which was best of all not ten rods from the depot. If they could meet there. Making enquiries I found that it could be done, and all in life to the romance of the occasion proceeded to plan the details. And now I am coming to what might have caused the overthrow of the whole scheme. I allude to the detection on the part of Eleanor of the correspondence between Mary and Mr. Clevering. It happened thus. Hannah, who, in her frequent visits to my house, had grown very fond of my society, had come in to sit with me for a while one evening. She had not been in the house, however, more than ten minutes before there came a knock at the front door, and going to it I saw Mary as I supposed from the long cloak she wore, standing before me. Thinking she had come with a letter for Mr. Clevering, I grasped her arm and drew her into the hall, saying, Have you got it? I must post it to-night, or he will not receive it in time. There I paused for the panting creature I had by the arm turning upon me. I saw myself confronted by a stranger. You have made a mistake, she cried. I am Eleanor Leavenworth, and I have come for my girl, Hannah. Is she here? I could only raise my hand in apprehension and point to the girl sitting in the corner of the room before her. Miss Leavenworth immediately turned back. Hannah, I want you, she said, and would have left the house without another 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. Do not 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. Then I 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 and into the room where I was, with the letter for Mr. Clevering trembling in 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 you mean Eleanor, yes. She is duly initiated, Mama Hubbard, knows that I love Mr. Clevering and write to him. I couldn't keep it secret after the mistake you made last evening, so I did the next best thing, and told her the 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 Eleanor's lofty indignation anger. She was grieved, Mama Hubbard—grieved. And with a laugh which I believe was rather the result of her own relief than of any wish to reflect on her cousin, she threw her head on one side and eyed me with a look which seemed to say, Do I plague you so very much, you dear old Mama Hubbard? She did plague me, and I could not conceal it. And will she not tell her 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 can still go on. She held out the letter for reply. The plan agreed upon between us, for the carrying out of our intentions was this. At the time appointed, Mary was to excuse herself to her cousin upon the plea that she had promised to take me to see a friend in the next town. She was then to enter a buggy previously ordered and drive here where I was to join her. We were then to proceed immediately to the minister's house in F, where we had reason to believe we should find everything prepared for us. But in this plan, simple as it was, one thing was forgotten, and that was the character of Eleanor's love for her cousin. That her suspicions would be aroused, we did not doubt, but that she would actually follow Mary up and demand an explanation 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 was just what occurred. But let me explain. Mary, who had followed out the program to the point of leaving a little note of excuse on Eleanor's dressing-table, had come to my house, and was just taking off her long cloak, to show me her dress, when there came a commanding knock at the front door. Hastily pulling her cloak about her, I ran to open it, meaning you may be sure to dismiss my visitor with short ceremony, when I heard a voice behind me say, Good heavens, it is Eleanor! And, glancing back, saw Mary looking through the window-blind upon the porch without. What shall we do, I cried, in very natural dismay. Do! Why, open the door and let her in! I am not afraid of Eleanor. I immediately did so, and Eleanor Leavenworth, very pale but with a 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, she said, lifting a face whose expression of mingled sweetness and power I could not but admire, even in that moment of apprehension, to ask you without any excuse for my request, if you will allow me to accompany you upon your drive this morning. Mary, who had drawn herself up to meet some word of accusation or appeal, turned carelessly away to the glass. I am very sorry, she said, but the buggy holds only two and I shall be obliged to refuse. I will order a carriage. I do not wish your company, Eleanor. We are off on a pleasure-trip, 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. Eleanor's face grew yet more earnest in its expression. Mary, she said, we have been brought up together. I am your sister in affection, if not in blood, and I cannot see you start upon this adventure with no other companion than this woman. Then tell me, shall I go with you as a sister, or on the road behind you as the enforced guardian of your honor against your will? My honor? You are going to meet Mr. Clevering. Well? Twenty miles from home. Well? Is it discreet or honorable in you to do this? Mary's haughty lip took an ominous curve. The same hand that raised you has raised me, she cried bitterly. This is no time to speak of that, returned Eleanor. Mary's countenance flushed. All the antagonism of her nature was aroused. She looked absolutely Juno-like in her wrath and reckless menace. Eleanor, she cried, I am going to eff to Mary, Mr. Clevering. Now do you wish to accompany me? I do. Mary's whole manner changed. Going forward she grasped her cousin's arm and shook it. For what reason, she cried, what do you intend to do? To witness the marriage, if it be a true one. To step between you and shame if any element of falsehood should come in to affect its legality. Mary's hand fell from her cousin's arm. I do not understand you, she said. I thought you never gave countenance to what you considered wrong. Nor do I. Anyone who knows me will understand that I do not give my approval to this marriage, just because I attended ceremonial in the capacity of an unwilling witness. Then why go? Because I value your honor above my own peace. Because I love our common benefactor, and know that he would never pardon me if I let his darling be married, however contrary her union might be to his wishes, without lending the support of my presence to make the transaction at least a respectable one. But in doing so, you will be involved in a world of deception, which you hate. Any more so than now? Mr. Clavering does not return with me, Eleanor. No, I suppose not. I leave him immediately after the ceremony. Eleanor bowed her head. He goes to Europe. A pause. And I return home. There to wait for what, Mary? His face crimsoned, and she turned slowly away. What every other girl does in such circumstances, I suppose. The development of more reasonable feelings in an obdurate parent's heart. Eleanor sighed, and a short silence ensued, broken by Eleanor suddenly falling upon her knees and clasping her cousin's hand. Oh, Mary! she sobbed, her haughtiness all disappearing in a gush of wild entreaty. Consider what you are doing. Think before it is too late, of the consequences which must follow such an act as this. Marriage founded upon deception can never lead to happiness. Love, but it is not love. 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 stooped to subterfuge like this. And you! she continued, rising and turning toward me in a sort of forlorn hope very touching to see. When you see this young motherless girl, driven by Caprice, and acknowledging no moral restraint enter upon the dark and crooked path she is planning for herself, without uttering one word of warning and appeal, tell me, mother of children dead and buried, what excuse you will have for your own part in this day's work when she, with her face marred by the sorrows which must follow this deception, comes to you. The same excuse, probably, Mary's voice broken, chill and restrained, which you will have when Uncle inquires how you came to allow such an act of disobedience to be perpetrated in his absence, that she could not help herself, that Mary would gang her eyengate, and every one around must accommodate themselves to it. It was like a draft of icy air suddenly poured into a room heated up to fever-point. Eleanor stiffened immediately, and drawing back, pale and composed, turned upon her cousin with the remark. 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 first great distrust I ever felt of my wisdom in pursuing this matter so far came with that curl of Mary's lip. More plainly than Eleanor's words it showed me the temper with which she was entering upon this undertaking, and struck with momentary dismay, I advanced to speak when Mary stopped me. There now, Mama Hubbard, don't you go and acknowledge that you are frightened, for I won't hear it. I have promised to Mary Henry-clavering 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 which caused me to forget everything saved the fact that she was going to her bridle. She handed me her veil to Fasson. As I was doing this, with very trembling fingers, she said, looking straight at Eleanor, you have shown yourself more interested in my fate than I had any reason to expect. Will you continue to display this concern all the way to F? or may I hope for a few moments of peace in which to dream upon the step which, according to you, is about to hurl me upon such dreadful consequences? If I go with you to F, Eleanor returned, it is as a witness no more. My sisterly duty is done. Very well, then, Mary said, dimpling with sudden gaiety, I suppose I shall have to accept the situation. Mama Hubbard, I am so sorry to disappoint you, but the buggy won't hold three. If you are good, you shall 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 that was waiting by the door. Good-bye, said Mary, waving her hand from the back, wish me much joy of my ride. I tried to do so, but the words wouldn't come. I could only wave my hand in response and rush sobbing into the house. Of that day, and the long hours of alternate remorse and anxiety, I cannot trust myself to speak. Let me come at once to the time when seated alone in my lamp-lighted room I watched and waited for the token of their return which Mary had promised me. It came in the shape of Mary herself, who, wrapped in her long cloak, and with her beautiful face a glow with blushes came stealing into the house just as I was beginning to despair. A strain of wild music from the hotel porch, where they were having a dance, entered with her, producing such a weird effect upon my fancy that I was not at all surprised when, in flinging off her cloak, she displayed garments of bridal white and a head crowned with snowy roses. Oh, Mary! I cried, bursting into tears! You are, then! Mrs. Henry Clavaring at your service! I'm a bride, aunty. Without a bridal, I murmured, taking her passionately into my embrace. She was not insensible to my emotion. Nestling close to me, she gave herself up for one wild moment to a genuine burst of tears, saying between her sobs all manner of tender things, telling me how she loved me, and how I was the only one in all the world to whom she dared come on this her wedding night for comfort or congratulation, and of how frightened she felt now it was all over, as if with her name she had parted with something of inestimable value. And does not the thought of having made someone the proudest of men solace you, I asked, more than dismayed at this failure of mine to make these lovers happy? I don't know, she sobbed. What satisfaction can it be for him to feel himself tied for life to a girl who, sooner than lose a prospective fortune, subjected him to such a parting? Tell me about it, said I. But she was not in the mood at the moment. The excitement of the day had 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 folded, and a glare on her face that lent an aspect of strange unreality to her brilliant attire. How shall I keep it secret? The thought haunts me every moment. How can I keep it secret? Why is there any danger of its being known? I inquired. Were you seen 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 will or not. I did not think of this before. I was mad, reckless, what you will. But ever since the night has come, I have felt it crushing upon me like a pall that smothers life and youth and love out of my heart. While the sunlight remained I could endure it, but now—oh, Auntie, I have done something that will keep me in constant fear. I have allied myself to 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 were wedding-guests, and made believe to myself that all the compliments bestowed upon me, and they are only too numerous, were just so many congratulations upon my marriage. But it was no use. Eleanor knew it was no use. She has gone to her room to pray, while I—I have come here for the first time, perhaps for the last, to fall at someone's feet and cry, God have mercy upon me. I looked at her in uncontrollable emotion. Oh, Mary, have I only succeeded then in making you miserable? She did not answer. She was engaged in picking up the crown of roses which had fallen from her hair to the floor. If I had not been taught to love money so, she said at length, if like Eleanor I could look upon the splendor which has been ours from childhood, as a mere accessory of life, easy to be dropped at the call of duty or affection. If prestige, adulation, and elegant belongings were not so much to me, or love, friendship, and domestic happiness more, if only I could walk a step without dragging the chain of a thousand luxurious longings after me. Eleanor can. Imperious as she often is in her beautiful womanhood, haughty as she can be when the delicate quake of her personality has touched too rudely. I have known her to sit by the hour in a low, chilly, ill-lighted and ill-smelling garret, cradling a dirty child on her knee, and feeding with her own hand an impatient old woman whom no one else would consent to touch. Oh, they talk about repentance and a change of heart, if some one or some thing would only change mine. But there's no hope of that. No hope of my ever being anything else than what I am. A selfish, willful, mercenary girl. Nor was this mood a mere transitory one. That same night she made a discovery which increased her apprehension almost to terror. This was nothing less than the fact that Eleanor had been keeping a diary of the 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 remains to confront me every time I go into her room? And she will not consent to destroy it, though I've done my best to show her that it is a betrayal of the trust I reposed in her. She says it is all she has to show in the way of defense, if Uncle should ever accuse her of treachery to him and his happiness. She promises to keep it locked up, but what good will that do? A thousand accidents might happen, any one of them sufficient to throw it into Uncle's hands. I shall never feel safe for a moment while it exists. I endeavored to calm her by saying that if Eleanor was without malice such fears were groundless. But she would not be comforted, and seeing her so wrought up I suggested that Eleanor should be asked to trust it into my keeping until such time as she should feel the necessity of using it. The idea struck Mary favorably. Oh, yes, she cried, and I will put my certificate with it, and so get rid of all my care at once. And before the afternoon was over she had seen Eleanor and made her request. It was exceeded to, with this proviso, that I was neither to destroy nor give up any or all of the papers except upon their united demand. A small tin box was accordingly procured into which were put all the proofs of Mary's marriage then existing, the deli-seed, the certificate, Mr. Clavering's letters, and such leaves from Eleanor's diary as referred to this matter. It was then handed over to me, with the stipulation I have already mentioned, and I stowed it away in a certain closet upstairs, where it has laid undisturbed until last night. Here Mrs. Belton paused, and blushing painfully raised her eyes to mine, with a look in which anxiety and entreaty were curiously blended. I don't know what you will say she began, but let away my fears I took that box out of its hiding-place last evening, and notwithstanding your advice carried it from the house, and it is now, in my possession, I quietly finished. I don't think I ever saw her look more astounded, not even when I told her of Hannah's death. Impossible, she exclaimed. I left it last night in the old barn that was burned down. I merely meant to hide it for the present and could think of no better place in my hurry, for the barn is said to be haunted. A man hung himself there once, and no one ever goes there. I—I—you cannot have it, she cried—unless—unless I found it and brought it away before the barn was destroyed, I suggested. Her face flushed deeper. Then you followed me? Yes, said I. Then as I felt my own countenance red and hasten to add, we have been playing strange and unaccustomed parts, you and I. Sometime, when all these dreadful events shall be a mere dream of the past, we will ask each other's pardon, but never mind all this now. The box 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 me fear that, with locking up the proofs of her marriage, she had been indulging the idea that the marriage itself had become void. But I may have wronged her in this. The story of those few weeks is almost finished. On the eve of the day before she left, Mary came to my house to bid me good-bye. She had a present in her hand, the value of which I will not state, as I did not take it, though she coaxed me with all her prettiest wiles. But she said something 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, she would find herself in a position to send for Mr. Clavering, and that when the day came I should wish to be advised of it, when she suddenly interrupted me by saying, Uncle will never be one upon, as you call it, while he lives. If I was convinced of it before, I am sure of it now. Nothing but his death will ever make it possible for me to send for Mr. Clavering. Then seeing me look aghast at the long period of separation which this seemed to be token, blushed a little and whispered, the prospect looks somewhat dubious, doesn't it? But if Mr. Clavering loves me he can wait. But, said I, your uncle is only a little past the prime of life, and appears 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 he looks, and—she did not say any more, horrified, perhaps, at the turn the conversation was taking. But there was an expression on her countenance that 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 happened, came 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 anything calculated to throw a shadow over her image to remain long in my thoughts. But when some time in the fall a letter came to me personally for Mr. Clavering, filled with a vivid appeal to tell him something of the woman who, in spite of her vows, doomed him to a suspense so cruel, and when on the evening of the same day a friend of mine who had just returned from New York spoke of meeting Mary Leavenworth at some gathering, surrounded by manifest admirers, I began to realize the alarming features of the affair, and sitting down I wrote her a letter. Not in the strain in which I had been accustomed to talk to her. I had not her pleading eyes and trembling caressing hands ever before me to beguile my judgment from its proper exercise. But honestly and earnestly, telling her how Mr. Clavering felt, and what a risk she ran in keeping so ardent a lover from his rights. The reply she sent rather startled me. I have put Mr. Robbins out of my calculations for the present, and advise you to do the same. As for the gentleman himself, I have told him that when I could receive him I would be careful to notify him. That day has not yet come. But she added in a post-script, do not let him be discouraged. When he does 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 letter to Mr. Clavering, in which I stated what she had said, and begged him to have patience, adding that I would surely let him know if any change took place in Mary or her circumstances. And having dispatched it to his address in London, awaited the development of events. They were not slow and transpiring. In two weeks I heard of the sudden death of Mr. Steppens, the minister who had married them, and while yet laboring under the agitation produced by this shock, I was further startled by seeing, in a New York paper, the name of Mr. Clavering among the list of arrivals at the Hoffman House, showing that my letter to him had failed in its intended effect, and that the patience Mary had calculated upon so blindly was verging to its end. I was consequently far from being surprised when, in a couple of weeks or so afterwards, a letter came from him to my address, which, owing to the careless omission of the private mark upon the envelope, I opened, and read enough to learn that, driven to desperation by the constant failures which he had experienced in all his endeavors to gain access to her in public or in private, a failure which he was not backward in ascribing to her in disposition to seeing him, he had made up his mind to risk everything, even her displeasure, and by making an appeal to her uncle end the suspense under which he was laboring, definitely and at once. I want you, he wrote, dowered or dourless it makes little difference to me. If you will not come of yourself, then I must follow the example of the brave knights my ancestors, storm the castle that holds you, and carry you off by force of arms. Neither can I say I was much surprised, knowing Mary as I did when, in a few days from this, she forwarded to me for copying this reply. If Mr. Robbins ever expects to be happy with Amy Belden, let him reconsider the determination of which he speaks. Not only would he by such an action succeed in destroying the happiness of her he professes to love, but run the greater risk of effectually annulling the affection which makes the tie between them indurable. To this there was neither date nor signature. It was the cry of warning which a spirited, self-contained creature gives when brought to bay. It made even me recoil, though I had known from the first that her pretty willfulness was but the tossing foam floating above the soundless depths of 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 found murdered in his room, and Hannah Chester, coming direct to my door from the scene of violence, begged me to take her in and secret her from public inquiry, as I loved and desired to serve Mary Leavenworth. CHAPTER 33 UNEXPECTED TESTIMONY Pellonius. What do you read, my lord? Hamlet. Words, words, words. Hamlet. Mrs. Belden-Paul's lost in the somber shadow of which these words were calculated to evoke, and a short silence fell upon the room. It was broken by my asking for some account of the occurrence she had just mentioned. It being considered a mystery, how Hannah could have found entrance into her house without the knowledge of the neighbors? Well, said she, it was a chilly night, and I had gone to bed early. I was sleeping then in the room off this. When at about a quarter to one, the last train goes through R at twelve-fifty, there came a low knock on the window-pane at the head of my bed. Thinking that some of the neighbors were sick, I hurriedly rose on my elbow and asked who was there. The answer came in low muffled tones. Hannah, Miss Leavenworth's girl, please let me in at the kitchen door. Startled at hearing the well-known voice and fearing I knew not what, I caught up a lamp and hurried round to the door. Is anyone with you, I asked? No, she replied. Then come in. But no sooner had she done so than my strength failed me, and I had to sit down, for I saw she looked very pale and strange, was without baggage, and altogether had the appearance of some wandering spirit. Hannah, I gasp. What is it? What has happened? What brings you here in this condition and at this time of night? Miss Leavenworth has sent me, she replied, in the low monotonous tone of one repeating a lesson by road. She told me to come here, said you would keep me. I am not to go out of the house, and no one is to know I am here. But why, I asked, trembling with a thousand undefined fears, what has occurred? I dare not say, she whispered. I am forbid. I am just to stay here and keep quiet. But I began, helping her to take off her shawl, the dingy blanket advertised for in the papers. You must tell me, she surely did not forbid you to tell me. Yes, she did, everyone, the girl replied, growing white in her persistence, and I never break my word. Fire couldn't draw it out of me. She looked so determined, so utterly unlike herself as I remembered her in the meek unobtrusive days of our old acquaintance, that I could do nothing but stare at her. You will keep me, she said. You will not turn me away. No, I said. I will not turn you away. And tell no one, she went on. And tell no one, I repeated. This seemed to relieve her. Thanking me, she quietly followed me upstairs. I put her into the room in which you found her, because it was the most secret one in the house, and there she has remained ever since, satisfied and contented as far as I could see, till this very same horrible day. And is that all I asked? Did you have no explanation of with her afterwards? Did she never give you any information in regard to the transactions which led to her flight? No, sir. She kept a most persistent silence. Neither then nor when upon the next day I confronted her with the papers in my hand, and the awful question upon my lips as to whether her flight had been occasioned by the murder which had taken place in Mr. Leavenworth's household, did she do more than acknowledge she had run away on this account? Some one or some thing had sealed her lips, and as she said, fire and torture would never make her speak. Another short pause followed this. Then, with my mind still hovering about the one point of intense interest to me, I said, This story then, this account which you have just given me of Mary Leavenworth's secret marriage, and the great straight it put her into, a straight from which nothing but her uncle's death could relieve her, together with this acknowledgement of Hannah's that she had left home and taken refuge here on the insistence of Mary Leavenworth is the groundwork you have for the suspicions you've mentioned. Yes, sir. That and the proof of her interest in the matter which is given by the letter I received from her yesterday, and which you say you now have in your possession. Oh, that letter! I know, Mrs. Belden went on at a broken voice, that it is wrong in a serious case like this to draw hasty conclusions. But oh, sir, how can I help it, knowing what I do? I did not answer. I was revolving in my mind the old question. Was it possible, in the face of all these later developments, still to believe Mary Leavenworth's own hand guiltless of her uncle's blood? It is dreadful to come to such conclusions, preceded Mrs. Belden, and nothing but her own words written in her own hand would ever have driven me to them, but—pardon me, I interrupted—but you said in the beginning of this interview that you did not believe Mary herself had any direct hand in her uncle's murder. Are you ready to repeat that assertion? Yes, yes, indeed. Whatever I may think of her influence in inducing it, I never could imagine her as having anything to do with its actual performance. Oh, no, oh, no, whatever was done on that dreadful night Mary Leavenworth never put hand to pistol or ball or even stood by while they were used. That you may be sure of. Only the man who loved her, longed for her and felt the impossibility of obtaining her by any other means could have found the nerve for an act so horrible. Then you think—Mr. Clavering is the man? I do. Oh, and sir, when you consider that he is her husband, is it not dreadful enough? It is indeed, I said, rising to conceal how much I was affected by this conclusion of hers. Something in my tone or appearance seemed to startle her. I hope and trust I have not been indiscreet, she cried, eyeing me with something like an incipient distrust. With this dead girl lying in my house I ought to be very careful, I know, but you have said nothing, was my earnest assurance, as I edged toward the door in my anxiety to escape, if but for a moment from an atmosphere that was stifling me. No one can blame you for anything you have either said or done to-day. But—and here I paused and walked hurriedly back—I wish to ask one question more. Have you any reason beyond that of natural repugnance to believe a young and beautiful woman guilty of a great crime, for saying what you have of Henry Clavering, a gentleman who has hitherto been mentioned by you with respect? No, she whispered, with a touch of her old agitation. I felt the reason insufficient, and turned away with something of the same sense of suffocation with which I had heard that the missing key had been found in Eleanor Leavenworth's possession. You must excuse me, I said. I want to be a moment by myself in order to ponder over the facts which I have just heard. I will soon return. And without further ceremony I hurried from the room. By some indefinable impulse I went immediately upstairs, and took my stand at the western window of the large room directly over Mrs. Belden. The blinds were closed, the room was shrouded in funereal gloom, but its somberness and horror were for the moment unfelt. I was engaged in a fearful debate with myself. Was Mary Leavenworth the principal? Or merely the accessory in this crime? Did the determined prejudice of Mr. Grice, the conviction of Eleanor, the circumstantial evidence even of such facts as had come to our knowledge preclude the possibility that Mrs. Belden's conclusions were correct? That all the detectives interested in the affair would regard the question as settled, I did not doubt. But need it be? Was it utterly impossible to find evidence that yet Henry Clavering was after all the assassin of Mr. Leavenworth? Filled with the thought, I looked across the room to the closet where lay the body of the girl who, according to all probability, had known the truth of the matter, and a great longing seized me. Why could the dead not be made to speak? Why should she lie there so silent, so pulseless, so inert, when a word from her were enough to decide the awful question? Is there no power to compel those pallid lips to move? Carried away by the fervor of the moment I made my way to her side. Ah, God, how still! With what a mockery the closed lips and lids confronted my demanding gaze! A stone could not have been more unresponsive. With a feeling that was almost like anger, I stood there when—what was it I saw protruding from beneath her shoulders where they crushed against the bed? An envelope? A letter? Yes! Dizzy with the sudden surprise, overcome with the wild hopes this discovery awakened, I stooped in great agitation and drew the letter out. It was sealed but not directed. Breaking it hastily open, I took a glance at its contents. Good heavens! It was the work of the girl herself. Its very appearance was enough to make that evident. Feeling as if a miracle had happened, I hastened with it to the other room and set myself to decipher the awkward scrawl. This is what I saw, rudely printed in lead pencil on the inside of a sheet of common writing paper. I am a wicked girl. I have known things all the time which I had ought to have told, but I didn't dare to, he said he would kill me if I did. I mean the tall, splendid-looking gentleman with the black moustache who I met coming out of Mr. Leavenworth's room with a key in his hand the night Mr. Leavenworth was murdered. He was so scared he gave me money and made me go away and come here and keep everything secret, but I can't do so no longer. I seemed to see Miss Eleanor crying all the time and asking me if I want her sent to prison. God knows I'd rather die, and this is the truth and my last words, and I pray everybody's forgiveness and hope nobody will blame me and that they won't bother Miss Eleanor any more but will go and look after the handsome gentleman with the black moustache. Mr. Grice resumes control. It outherds Herod, Hamlet. A thing devised by the enemy. Richard III. A half-hour had passed. The train upon which I had every reason to expect Mr. Grice had arrived, and I stood in the doorway awaiting with indescribable agitation the slow and laboured approach of the motley group of men and women whom I had observed leave the depot at the departure of the cars. Would he be among them? Was the telegram of a nature peremptory enough to make his presence here, sick as he was, an absolute certainty? The written confession of Hannah throbbing against my heart, a heart all elation now as but a short half-hour before it had been all doubt and struggle, seemed to rustle distrust, and the prospect of a long afternoon spent in impatience was rising before me, when a portion of the advancing crowd turned off into a side street, and I saw the form of Mr. Grice hobbling, not on two sticks, but very painfully on one, coming slowly down the street. His face, as he approached, was a study. "'Well, well, well,' he exclaimed, as we met at the gate. "'This is a pretty how-do-you-do, I must say. Hannah dead-ah! and everything turned topsy-turvy. Humph! and what do you think of Mary Leavenworth now?' It would therefore seem natural in the conversation which followed his introduction into the house and instalment in Mrs. Belden's parlour, that I should begin my narration by showing him Hannah's confession, but it was not so. Whether it was that I felt anxious to have him go through the same alternations of hope and fear it had been my lot to experience since I came to R, or whether in the depravity of human nature there lingered within me sufficient resentment for the persistent disregard he had always paid to my suspicions of Henry Clevering to make it a matter of moment to me, to spring this knowledge upon him just at the instant his own convictions seem to have reached the point of absolute certainty, I cannot say. Enough that it was not till I had given him a full account of every other matter connected with my stay in the house, not till I saw his eye beaming and his lip quivering with the excitement incident upon the perusal of the letter from Mary found in Mrs. Belden's pocket. Not indeed until I became assured from such expressions as, tremendous, the deepest game of the season, nothing like it's in Sylla Farge affair, that in another moment he would be uttering some theory or belief that once heard would forever stand like a barrier between us, did I allow myself to hand him the letter I had taken from under the dead body of Hannah. I shall never forget his expression as he received it. Good heavens, cried he, what's this? A dying confession of the girl Hannah. I found it lying in her bed when I went up half an hour ago to take a second look at her. Opening it, he glanced over it with an incredulous air that speedily, however, turned to one of the utmost astonishment as he hastily perused it and then stood turning it over and over in his hand, examining it. A remarkable piece of evidence I observed, not without a certain feeling of triumph, quite changes the aspect of affairs. You think so, he sharply retorted. Then, whilst I stood staring at him in amazement, his manner was so different from what I expected, looked up and said, You tell me that you found this in her bed. Whereabouts in her bed? Under the body of the girl herself I returned. I saw one corner of it protruding from beneath her shoulders and drew it out. He came and stood before me. Was it folded or opened when you first looked at it? Folded. Fastened up in this envelope. Showing it to him. He took it, looked at it for a moment, and went on with his questions. This envelope has a very crumpled appearance, as well as the letter itself. Were they so when you found them? Yes, not only so, but doubled up as you see. Doubled up. You're sure of that. Folded, sealed, and then doubled up as if her body had rolled across it while alive. Yes. No trickery. No look as if the thing had been insinuated there since her death. Not at all. I should rather say that to her three appearance she held it in her hand when she lay down, but turning over dropped it and then laid upon it. Mr. Grice's eyes, which had been very bright, ominously clouded. Evidently he had been disappointed in my answers. Laying the letter down, he stood musing, but suddenly lifted it again, scrutinized the edges of the paper on which it was written, and darting me a quick look, vanished with it into the shade of the window curtain. His manner was so peculiar I involuntarily rose to follow, but he waved me back, saying, "'Amuse yourself with that box on the table, which you had such an a do-over. See if it contains all we have a right to expect to find in it. I want to be by myself for a moment.'" Subduing my astonishment, I proceeded to comply with his request. But scarcely had I lifted the lid of the box before me when he came hurrying back, flung the letter down on the table with an air of the greatest excitement, and cried, "'Did I say there had never been anything like it since the Lafarge affair? I tell you there has never been anything like it in any affair. It is the rummest case on record. Mr. Raymond, and his eyes in his excitement, actually met mine for the first time in my experience of him. Prepare yourself for a disappointment. This pretended confession of Hannah is a fraud." "'A fraud?' "'Yes, fraud, forgery, what you will.' The girl never wrote it. Amazed, outraged almost, I bounded from my chair. "'How do you know that?' I cried." He put the letter into my hand. "'Look at it,' he said, examine it closely. Now tell me, what is the first thing you notice in regard to it? Why, the first thing that strikes me is that the words are printed, instead of written, something which might be expected from the girl, according to all accounts, well, that they are printed on the inside of a sheet of ordinary paper.'" "'Ordinary paper?' "'Yes.' "'That is a sheet of commercial note of the ordinary quality?' "'Of course.' "'But is it?' "'Why, yes, I should say so. Look at the lines. One of them. Oh, I see. They run up close to the top of the page. Evidently scissors have been used here. In short, it is a large seat, trimmed down to the size of a commercial note.' "'Yes.' "'And is that all you see?' "'All but the words.' "'Don't you perceive what has been lost by means of this trimming down?' "'No. Unless you mean the manufacturers stamp in the corner.' Mr. Grice's glance took meaning. "'But I don't see why the loss of that should be deemed a manner of any importance.' "'Don't you? Not when you consider that by it we seem to be deprived of all opportunity of tracing this sheet back to the choir of paper from which it was taken.' "'No.' "'Humph! And you are more of an amateur than I thought you. Don't you see that, as Hannah could have no motive for concealing where the paper came from on which she wrote her dying words, this sheet must have been prepared by someone else?' "'No,' said I. I cannot say that I see all that.' "'Can't.' "'Well, then answer me this. Why should Hannah, a girl about to commit suicide, care whether any clue was furnished in her confession to the actual desk drawer or choir of paper from which this sheet was taken, on which she wrote it?' "'She—she wouldn't.' "'Yet a special pains have been taken to destroy that clue.' "'But—' "'And there's another thing. Read the confession itself, Mr. Raymond, and tell me what you gather from it.' "'Why,' said I, after complying, that the girl, worn out with constant apprehension, has made up her mind to do away with herself, and that Henry Clavering—' "'Henry Clavering?' "'The interrogation was put with so much meaning I looked up.' "'Yes,' said I. "'I didn't know Mr. Clavering's name was mentioned there. Excuse me.' "'Well, his name is not mentioned, but a description is given so strikingly in accordance—' "'Here, Mr. Grice interrupted me. "'Does it not seem a little surprising to you that a girl like Hannah should have stopped to describe a man she knew by name?' "'I started. It was unnatural, surely.' "'You believe Mrs. Belden's story, don't you?' "'Yes. Consider her accurate in her relation of what took place here a year ago.' "'I do. Must believe, then, that Hannah the go-between was acquainted with Mr. Clavering and with his name?' "'Undoubtedly.' "'Then why didn't she use it? If her intention was, as she here professes to save Eleanor Leavenworth from the false imputation which had fallen upon her, she would naturally take the most direct method of doing it. This description of a man whose identity she could at once have put beyond a doubt by the mention of his name is the work not of a poor ignorant girl, but of some person who, in attempting to play the role of one, has signally failed. "'But that is not all. Mrs. Belden, according to you, maintains that Hannah told her upon entering the house that Mary Leavenworth sent her here. But in this document she declares it to have been the work of Black Moustache.' "'I know, but could they not both have been parties to the transaction?' "'Yes,' said he. Yet it is always a suspicious circumstance when there is a discrepancy between the written and spoken declaration of a person. But why do we stand here fooling when a few words from this person Mrs. Belden you talk so much about will probably settle the whole matter?' "'A few words from Mrs. Belden,' I repeated. I've had thousands of words from her to-day and I find the matter no nearer settled than in the beginning.' "'You have had,' said he. But I have not.' "'Fetch her in, Mr. Raymond.' I rose. One thing said I before I go. What if Hannah had found the sheet of paper, trimmed it just as it is, and used it without any thought of the suspicions it would occasion?' "'Ah,' said he. That is just what we're going to find out.' Mrs. Belden was in a flutter of impatience when I entered the sitting-room. When did I think the coroner would come? And what did I imagine this detective would do for us? It was dreadful waiting there alone for something she knew not what. I calmed her as well as I could, telling her the detective had not yet informed me what he could do, having some questions to ask her first. Would she come in to see him?' She rose with alacrity. Anything was better than suspense. Mr. Grice, who in the short interim of my absence had altered his mood from the severe to the beneficent, received Mrs. Belden with just that show of respectful courtesy likely to impress a woman as dependent as she upon the good opinion of others. "'Ah! and this is the lady in whose house this very disagreeable event has occurred,' he exclaimed, partly rising in his enthusiasm to greet her. "'May I request you to sit?' he asked, if a stranger may be allowed to take the liberty of inviting a lady to sit in her own house.' "'It does not seem like my own house any longer,' said she, but in a sad rather than an aggressive tone, so much had his genial way imposed upon her. "'I'm little better than a prisoner here. Go and come, keep silence or speak, just as I am bidden, and all because an unhappy creature whom I took in for the most unselfish of motives has chance to die in my house.' "'Just so!' exclaimed Mr. Grice. "'It is very unjust. But perhaps we can write matters. I have every reason to believe that we can. This sudden death ought to be easily explained. You say you had no poison in the house?' "'No, sir.' "'And that the girl never went out?' "'No, sir.' "'And that no one has ever been here to see her?' "'No one, sir.' "'So that she could not have procured any such thing if she'd wished?' "'No, sir.' "'Unless,' he added, swavly, she had it with her when she came here.' "'Oh, that couldn't have been, sir. She brought no baggage, and as for her pocket I know everything there was in it, for I looked.' "'And what did you find in there?' "'Some money and bills. More than you would have expected such a girl to have. Some loose pennies and a common handkerchief.' "'Well, then it's proved that the girl didn't die of poison. There are being none in the house.' "'He said this in so convinced a tone that she was deceived.' "'That is just what I have been telling Mr. Raymond, giving me a triumphant look.' "'Must have been heart disease,' he went on. "'You say she was well yesterday?' "'Yes, sir. Or seemed so.' "'Though not cheerful?' "'I did not say that. She was, sir. Very.' "'What, ma'am, this girl?' "'Giving me a look. I don't understand that. I should think her anxiety about those she had left behind her in the city would have been enough to keep her from being very cheerful.' "'So you would,' returned Mrs. Belden. But it wasn't so. On the contrary, she never seemed to worry about them at all.' "'What? Not about Miss Eleanor, who, according to the paper, stands in so cruel a position before the world? But perhaps she didn't know anything about that. Miss Leavenworth's position, I mean.' "'Yes, she did, for I told her. I was so astonished I could not keep it to myself. You see, I had always considered Eleanor as one above reproach, and it so shocked me to see her name mentioned in the newspaper in such a connection that I went to Hannah and read the article aloud, and watched her face to see how she took it.' "'And how did she?' "'I can't say. She looked as if she didn't understand, asked me why I read such things to her, and told me she didn't want to hear any more, that I had promised not to trouble her about this murder, and that if I continued to do so she wouldn't listen.' "'Hmph! And what else?' "'Nothing else. She put her hand over her ears and frowned in such a sullen way I left the room.' "'And that was when?' "'About three weeks ago.' "'She has, however, mentioned the subject since.' "'No, sir, not once.' "'What? Not asked what they were going to do with her mistress?' "'No, sir.' "'She has shown, however, that something was preying on her mind, fear or remorse or anxiety.' "'No, sir, on the contrary, she has oftener appeared like one secretly elated.' "'But,' exclaimed Mr. Grice, with another side-long look at me, "'that was very strange and unnatural. I cannot account for it.' "'Nor I, sir. I used to try to explain it by thinking her sensibilities had been blunted, or that she was too ignorant to comprehend the seriousness of what had happened, but as I learned to know her better I gradually changed my mind. There was too much method in her gaiety for that. I could not help seeing she had some future before her for which she was preparing herself. As for instance, she asked me one day if I thought she could learn to play on the piano. And I finally came to the conclusion she had been promised money if she kept the secret entrusted to her, and was so pleased with the prospect that she forgot the dreadful past and all connected with it. At all events that was the only explanation I could find for her general industry and desire to improve herself, or for the complacent smiles I detected now and then stealing over her face when she didn't know I was looking. Not such a smile as crept over the countenance of Mr. Grice at that moment I warrant. "'It was all this,' continued Mrs. Belden, which made her death such a shock to me. I couldn't believe that so cheerful and healthy a creature could die like that all in one night without anybody knowing anything about it, but—' Wait, one moment, Mr. Grice here broke in. You speak of her endeavours to improve herself. What do you mean by that?" Her desire to learn things she didn't know, as for instance to write and re-writing, she could only clumsily print when she came here. "'I thought Mr. Grice would take a piece out of my arm,' he gripped it so. "'When she came here, do you mean to say that since she has been with you she has learned to write?' "'Yes, sir. I used to set her copies, and—' "'Where are these copies?' broke in Mr. Grice, subduing his voice to its most professional tone. And where are her attempts at writing? I'd like to see some of them. Can't you get them for us?' "'I—I don't know, sir. I always made it a point to destroy them as soon as they had answered their purpose. I didn't like to have such things lying around. But I will go see.' "'Do,' said he, and I will go with you. I want to take a look at things upstairs anyway. And heedless of his romantic feet, he rose and prepared to accompany her. "'This is getting very intense,' I whispered as he passed me. The smile he gave me in reply would have made the fortune of a thespian Mephistopheles. "'Of the ten minutes of suspense which I endured in their absence I say nothing. At the end of that time they returned, with their hands full of paper boxes, which they flung down on the table. "'The writing paper of the household,' observed Mr. Grice. "'Every scrap and half sheet which could be found. But before you examine it, look at this. And he held out a sheet of bluish foolscap, on which were written some dozen imitations of that time-worn copy. Be good, and you will be happy. With an occasional, beauty soon fades, and evil communications corrupt good manners.' "'What do you think of that?' "'Very neat and legible.' "'That his hand is latest. The only specimens of her writing to be found. Not much like some scrolls we have seen, eh?' "'No.' "'Mrs. Belden says this girl has known how to write as good as this for more than a week. Took great pride in it, and was continually talking about how smart she was. Leaning over he whispered in my ear. This thing you have in your hand must have been scrawled some time ago, if she did it.' "'Then allowed. But let us look at the paper she used to write on.' Dashing open the covers of the boxes on the table, he took out the loose sheets lying inside and scattered them out before me. One glance showed that they were all of an utterly different quality from that used in the confession. "'This is all the paper in the house,' said he. "'Are you sure of that?' I asked, looking at Mrs. Belden, who stood in a sort of maze before us. Wasn't there one stray sheet lying around somewhere, foolscap, or something like that which she might have got hold of and used without your knowing it?' "'No, sir, I don't think so. I only had these kinds. Besides, Hannah had a whole pile of paper like this in her room, and wouldn't have been apt to go hunting round after any stray sheets.' "'But you don't know what a girl like that might do. Look at this one,' said I, showing her the blank side of the confession. Couldn't a sheet like this have come from somewhere about the house? Examine it well, the matter is important.' "'I have, and I say no, I never had a sheet of paper like that in my house.' Mr. Grice advanced, and took the confession from my hand. As he did so he whispered, "'What do you think now?' Many chances that Hannah got up this precious document.' I shook my head, convinced at last, but in another moment turned to him and whispered back, "'But if Hannah didn't write it, who did? And how came it to be found where it was?' That, said he, is just what is left for us to learn.' And beginning again he put question after question concerning the girl's life in the house, receiving answers which tended only to show that she could not have brought the confession with her. Much less received it from a secret messenger. Unless we doubted Mrs. Belden's word, the whole mystery seemed impenetrable, and I was beginning to despair of success when Mr. Grice, with a look of scance at me, leaned toward Mrs. Belden and said, "'You received a letter from Miss Mary Leavenworth yesterday I hear.' "'Yes, sir.' "'This letter?' he continued, showing it to her. "'Yes, sir.' "'Now I want to ask you a question. Was the letter, as you see it, the only contents of the envelope in which it came? Was there one for Hannah enclosed with it?' "'No, sir. There was nothing in my letter for her, but she had a letter herself yesterday. It came in the same mail with mine.' "'Hannah had a letter?' We both exclaimed. "'And in the mail?' "'Yes, but it was not directed to her. It was, casting me a look full of despair. Directed to me. It was only by a certain mark in the corner of the envelope that I knew.' "'Good heavens!' I interrupted. Where is this letter? Why didn't you speak of it before? What do you mean by allowing us to flounder about here in the dark when a glimpse at this letter might have set us right at once?' "'I didn't think anything about it until this minute. I didn't know it was of importance. I—' "'But I couldn't restrain myself. Mrs. Belden, where is this letter?' I demanded. Have you got it?' "'No,' said she. I gave it to the girl yesterday. I haven't seen it since.' "'It must be upstairs, then. Let us take another look.' "'And I hastened toward the door.' "'You won't find it,' said Mr. Grice at my elbow. "'I've looked. There is nothing but a pile of burned paper in the corner.' "'By the way, what could that have been?' he asked of Mrs. Belden. "'I don't know, sir. She hadn't anything to burn, unless it was the letter.' "'We will see about that,' I muttered, hurrying upstairs and bringing down the wash bowl with its contents. If the letter was the one I saw in your hand at the post-office, it was in a yellow envelope.' "'Yes, sir.' "'Yellow envelopes burned differently from white paper. I ought to be able to tell the tinder made by a yellow envelope when I see it. Ah, the letter's been destroyed. There's a piece of the envelope.' I drew out the heap of charred scraps, a small bit less burnt than the rest, and held it up. "'Then there is no use looking here for what the letter contained,' said Mr. Grice, putting the wash bowl aside. "'We will have to ask you, Mrs. Belden.' "'But I don't know. It was directed to me to be sure, but Hannah told me when she first requested me to teach her how to write, that she expected such a letter, so I knew when it came, but gave it to her just as it was. You, however, stayed by to see her read it.' "'No, sir. I was in too much of a flurry. Mr. Raymond had just come, and I had no time to think of her. My own letter, too, was troubling me.' "'But surely you asked her some questions about it before the day was out.' "'Yes, sir, when I went up with her tea-things. But she had nothing to say. Hannah could be as reticent as anyone I ever knew when she pleased. She wouldn't even admit it was this.' "'Ah, then you thought it was for Miss Leavenworth.' "'Why, yes, sir. What else was I to think, seeing that mark in the corner, though to be sure it might have been put there by Mr. Clavering?' she thoughtfully added. "'You say she was cheerful yesterday. Was she so after receiving this letter?' "'Yes, sir. As far as I could see. I wasn't with her long. The necessity I felt of doing something with the box in my charge. But perhaps Mr. Raymond has told you?' "'Mr. Grice nodded.' "'It was an exhausting evening, and quite put Hannah out of my head. But—' "'Wait!' cried Mr. Grice, and beckoning me into a corner he whispered. "'Now comes in that experience of cues. While you are gone from the house, and before Mrs. Belden sees Hannah again, he has a glimpse of the girl bending over something in the corner of her room, which may very fairly be the washbowl we found there, after which he sees her swallow, in the most lively way, a dose of something from a bit of paper. Was there anything more?' "'No,' said I. "'Very well, then,' he cried, going back to Mrs. Belden. "'But—' "'But when I went upstairs to bed, I thought of the girl, and going to her door I opened it. The light was extinguished, and she seemed asleep, so I closed it again and came out. "'Without speaking?' "'Yes, sir.' "'Did you notice how she was lying?' "'Not particularly. I think on her back.' "'In something of the same position in which she was found this morning.' "'Yes, sir.' "'And that is all you can tell us, either of her letter or her mysterious death.' "'All, sir.' Mr. Grice straightened himself up. "'Mrs. Belden,' said he. "'You know Mr. Clavering's handwriting when you see it?' "'I do.' "'And Miss Leavenworth's?' "'Yes, sir.' "'Now which of the two was upon the envelope of the letter you gave Hannah?' "'I couldn't say. It was a disguised handwriting and might have been that of either, but I think—' "'Well?' "'That it was more like hers than his, though it wasn't like hers, either.' "'With a smile, Mr. Grice enclosed the confession in his hand in the envelope in which it had been found. "'Do you remember how large the letter was which you gave her?' "'Oh, it was large—very large—one of the largest sort.' "'And thick?' "'Oh, yes—thick enough for two letters.' "'Large enough and thick enough to contain this, laying the confession, folded and enveloped as it was, before her.' "'Yes, sir.' "'Giving it a look of startled amazement. Large enough and thick enough to contain that.' Mr. Grice's eyes, bright as diamonds, flashed around the room, and finally settled upon a fly traversing my coat sleeve. "'Do you need to ask now?' he whispered in a low voice, where and from whom this so-called confession comes.' He allowed himself one moment of silent triumph, then, rising, began folding the papers on the table and putting them in his pocket. "'What are you going to do?' I asked, hurriedly approaching. He took me by the arm and led me across the hall into the sitting-room. "'I am going back to New York. I am going to pursue this matter. I am going to find out from whom came the poison which killed this girl and by whose hand this vile forgery of a confession was written. "'But,' said I, rather thrown off my balance by all this, Q, and the coroner will be here presently. Won't you wait to see them?' "'No. Clues such as are given here must be followed while the trail is hot. I can't afford to wait.' "'If I am not mistaken. They have already come,' I remarked, as a tramping of feet without announced that someone stood at the door. "'That is so,' he assented, hastening to let them in. Judging from common experience we had every reason to fear that an immediate stop would be put to all proceedings on our part as soon as the coroner was introduced upon the scene. But happily for us, and the interest at stake, Dr. Fink, of our, proved to be a very sensible man. He had only to hear a true story of the affair to recognize at once its importance and the necessity of most cautious action in this matter. Further, by a sort of sympathy with Mr. Grice, all the more remarkable that he had never seen him before, he expressed as willing to enter into our plans, offering not only to allow us the temporary use of such papers as we desired, but even undertaking to conduct the necessary formalities of calling a jury and instituting an inquest in such a way as to give us time for the investigations we proposed to make. The delay was therefore short. Mr. Grice was enabled to take the 6.30 train for New York, and eye to follow on the ten p.m.—the calling of a jury, ordering of an autopsy, and final adjournment of the inquiry till the following Tuesday, having all taken place in the interim. CHAPTER 35 No hinge or loop to hang a doubt on, but yet the pity of it, Iago. Oh, Iago, the pity of it. Othello. One sentence dropped by Mr. Grice before leaving R. prepared me for his next move. The clue to this murder is supplied by the paper on which the confession is written, fine from whose desk or portfolio this special sheet was taken, and you find the double murderer, he had said. Consequently I was not surprised when, upon visiting his house early the next morning, I beheld him seated before a table on which lay a lady's writing desk and a pile of paper, till told that the desk was Eleanor's. Then did I show astonishment. What, said I, are you not satisfied yet of her innocence? Oh, yes, but one must be thorough. No conclusion is valuable which is not preceded by a full and complete investigation. Why, he cried, casting his eyes complacently toward the fire tongs. I have even been rummaging through Mr. Clavering's effects, though the confession bears the proof upon its face that it could not have been written by him. It is not enough to look for evidence where you expect to find it. You must sometimes search for it where you don't. Now, said he, drawing the desk before him. I don't anticipate finding anything here of a criminating character, but it is among the possibilities that I may, and that is enough for a detective. Did you see Miss Leavenworth this morning? I asked, as he proceeded to fulfill his intention by emptying the contents of the desk upon the table. Yes, I was unable to procure what I desired without it, and she behaved very handsomely, gave me the desk with her own hands, and never raised an objection. To be sure she had little idea of what I was looking for, thought perhaps I wanted to make sure it did not contain the letter about which so much has been said. But it would have made but little difference if she had known the truth. This desk contains nothing we want. Was she well? And had she heard of Hannah's sudden death, I asked in my irrepressible anxiety. Yes, and feels it, as you might expect her to. But let us see what we have here, said he, pushing aside the desk and drawing towards him the stack of paper I have already referred to. I found this pile, just as you see it, in a drawer of the library table at Miss Mary Leavenworth's house in Fifth Avenue. If I am not mistaken it will supply us with the clue we want. But—but this paper is square, while that of the confession is of the size and shape of commercial note? I know, but you remember the sheet used in the confession was trimmed down. Let us compare the quality. Taking the confession from his pocket and the sheet from the pile before him, he carefully compared them, then held them out for my inspection. A glance showed them to be alike in color. Hold them up to the light, said he. I did so. The appearance presented by both was precisely alike. Now let us compare the ruling. And laying them both down on the table, he placed the edges of the two sheets together. The lines on one accommodated themselves to the lines on the other, and that question was decided. His triumph was assured. I was convinced of it, said he. From the moment I pulled open that drawer and saw this mass of paper I knew the end was come. But I objected, in my old spirit of combativeness. Isn't there any room for doubt? This paper is of the commonest kind. Every family on the block might easily have specimens of it in their library. That isn't so, he said. It is letter-size, and that has gone out. Mr. Leavenworth used it for his manuscript, or I doubt if it would have been found in his library. But if you're still incredulous, let us see what can be done. And jumping up, he carried the confession to the window, looked at it this way and that, and finally discovering what he wanted came back, and laying it before me pointed out one of the lines of ruling which was markedly heavier than the rest, and another which was so faint as to be almost undistinguishable. Defects like these often run through a number of consecutive sheets, said he. If we could find the identical half-quire from which this was written, I might show you proof that would dispel every doubt. And taking up the one that lay on top, he rapidly counted the sheets. There were but eight. It might have been taken from this one, said he. But upon looking closely at the ruling, he found it to be uniformly distinct. Humpf! That won't do! came from his lips. The remainder of the paper, some dozen or so half-quires looked undisturbed. Mr. Grice tapped his fingers on the table, and a frown crossed his face. Such a pretty thing if it could have been done, he longingly exclaimed. Suddenly he took up the next half-quire. Count the sheets, said he, thrusting it toward me, and himself lifting another. I did as I was bid. Twelve. He counted his and laid it down. Go on with the rest, he cried. I counted the sheets in the next. Twelve. He counted those in the one following, and paused. Eleven. Count again, I suggested. He counted again, and quietly put them aside. I made a mistake, said he. But he was not to be discouraged. Taking another half-quire he went through with the same operation, in vain. With a sigh of impatience he flung it down on the table, and looked up. Hello! he cried. What is the matter? There are but eleven sheets in this package, I said, placing it in his hand. The excitement he immediately evinced was contagious, impressed as I was, I could not resist his eagerness. Oh, beautiful he exclaimed! Oh, beautiful! See! The light on the inside, the heavy on the outside, and both in positions precisely corresponding to those on this sheet of hannas. What do you think now? Is any further proof necessary? The various doubter must succumb before this, returned I. With something like a considerate regard for my emotion he turned away. I am obliged to congratulate myself, notwithstanding the gravity of the discovery that has been made, said he. It is so neat, so very neat, and so conclusive. I declare I am myself astonished at the perfection of the thing. But what a woman that is! he suddenly cried, in a tone of the greatest admiration. What an intellect she has! What a shrewdness! What skill! I declare it is almost a pity to entrap a woman who has done as well as this. Taken a sheet from the very bottom of the pile, trimmed it into another shape, and then, remembering the girl couldn't write, put what she had to say into coarse awkward printing, Hanna-like. Splendid! Or it would have been, if any other man than myself had had this thing in charge. And all animated and glowing with his enthusiasm, he eyed the chandelier above him as if it were the embodiment of his own sagacity. Sunk in despair. I let him go on. Could she have done any better, he now asked. Watched, circumscribed as she was, could she have done any better? I hardly think so. The fact of Hanna's having learned to write after she left here was fatal. No, she could not have provided against that contingency. Mr. Grice, I hear, interposed, unable to endure this any longer. Did you have an interview with Miss Mary Leavenworth this morning? No, said he. It was not in the line of my present purpose to do so. I doubt indeed if she knew I was in her house. A servant maid who has a grievance is a very valuable assistant to a detective. With Molly at my side I didn't need to pay my respects to Mistress. Mr. Grice, I asked, after another moment of silent self-congratulation on his part, and of desperate self-control on mine. What do you propose to do now? You have followed your clue to the end and are satisfied. Such knowledge as this is the precursor of action. Humpf! We will see, he returned, going to his private desk and bringing out the box of papers which we had no opportunity of looking at while in R. Let us examine these documents and see if they do not contain some hint which may be of service to us. And taking out the dozen or so loose sheets which had been torn from Eleanor's diary, he began turning them over. While he was doing this, I took occasion to examine the contents of the box. I found them to be precisely what Mrs. Belden had led me to expect—a certificate of marriage between Mary and Mr. Clavering, and a half-dozen or more letters. While glancing over the former, a short exclamation from Mr. Grice startled me into looking up. What is it, I cried? He thrust into my hand the leaves of Eleanor's diary. Reed said he, most of it is a repetition of what you've already heard from Mrs. Belden, though given from a different standpoint. But there is one passage in it which, if I am not mistaken, opens up the way to an explanation of this murder such as we have not had yet. Begin at the beginning. You won't find it, dull. Eleanor's feelings and thoughts during that anxious time, dull? Mustering up my self-possession, I spread out the leaves in their order, and commenced. R. July 6. Two days after they got there you perceive, Mr. Grice explained. A gentleman was introduced to us today upon the piazza whom I cannot forbear mentioning, first because he is the most perfect specimen of manly beauty I ever beheld, and secondly, because Mary, who is usually so voluble where gentlemen are concerned, had nothing to say when, in the privacy of our own apartment, I questioned her as to the effect his appearance and conversation had made upon her. The fact that he is an Englishman may have something to do with this. Uncle's antipathy to every one of that nation being as well known to her as to me. But somehow I cannot feel satisfied of this. Her experience with Charlie Somerville has made me suspicious. What if the story of last summer were to be repeated here, with an Englishman for the hero? But I will not allow myself to contemplate such a possibility. Uncle will return in a few days, and then all communication with one whom, however prepossessing, is of a family and a race with whom it is impossible for us to unite ourselves, must of necessity cease. I doubt if I should have thought twice of all this if Mr. Clavering had not betrayed upon his introduction to Mary such intense and unrestrained admiration. July 8. The old story is to be repeated. Mary not only submits to the attentions of Mr. Clavering but encourages them. Today she sat two hours at the piano, singing over to him her favourite songs, and to-night—but I will not put down every trivial circumstance that comes under my observation. It is unworthy of me. And yet how can I shut my eyes when the happiness of so many I love is at stake? July 11. If Mr. Clavering is not absolutely in love with Mary—he is on the verge of it—he is a very fine-looking man and too honourable to be trifled with in this reckless fashion. Mary's beauty blossoms like the rose. She was absolutely wonderful to-night. In scarlet and silver I think her smile the sweetest I ever beheld, and in this I am sure Mr. Clavering passionately agrees with me. He never looked away from her to-night. But it is not so easy to read her heart. To be sure she appears anything but indifferent to his fine appearance, strong sense, and devoted affection. But did she not deceive us into believing she loved Charlie Somerville? In her case, blush and smile go for little I fear. Would it not be wiser under the circumstances to say, I hope? July 17. Oh, my heart! Mary came into my room this evening and absolutely startled me by falling at my side and burying her face in my lap. Oh, Eleanor! Eleanor! she murmured, quivering with what seemed to me very happy sobs. But when I strove to lift her head to my breast, she slid from my arms, and drawing herself up into her old attitude of reserved pride, raised her hand as if to impose silence, and haughtily left the room. There is but one interpretation to put upon this. Mr. Clavering has expressed his sentiments, and she is filled with that reckless delight which in its first flush makes one insensible to the existence of barriers which have hitherto been deemed impassable. When will Uncle come? July 18. Little did I think when I wrote the above that Uncle was already in the house. He arrived unexpectedly on the last train and came into my room just as I was putting away my diary. Looking a little care-worn, he took me in his arms and then asked for Mary. I dropped my head and could not help stammering as I replied that she was in her room. Instantly his love took alarm, and leaving me he hastened to her apartment where I afterwards learned he came upon her sitting abstractedly before her dressing-table with Mr. Clavering's family ring on her finger. I do not know what followed. An unhappy scene I fear, for Mary is ill this morning and Uncle exceedingly melancholy and stern. Afternoon. We are an unhappy family. Uncle not only refuses to consider for a moment the question of Mary's alliance with Mr. Clavering, but even goes so far as to demand his instant and unconditional dismissal. The knowledge of this came to me in the most distressing way, recognizing the state of affairs but secretly rebelling against a prejudice which seemed destined to separate two persons otherwise fitted for each other. I sought Uncle's presence this morning after breakfast and attempted to plead their cause. But he almost instantly stopped me with the remark, You are the last one, Eleanor, who should seek to promote this marriage. Trumbling with apprehension I asked him why. For the reason that by doing so you work entirely for your own interest. More and more troubled I begged him to explain himself. I mean, said he, that if Mary disobeys me by marrying this Englishman I shall disinherit her and substitute your name for hers in my will as well as in my affection. For a moment everything swam before my eyes. You will never make me so wretched I untreated. I will make you my heiress if Mary persists in her present determination, he declared, and without further word sternly left the room. What could I do but fall on my knees and pray? Of all in this miserable house I am the most wretched, to supplant her. But I shall not be called upon to do it. Mary will give up, Mr. Clevering. There exclaimed Mr. Grice, what do you think of that? Isn't it becoming plain enough what was Mary's motive for this murder? But go on, let us hear what followed. With sinking heart I continued. The next entry is dated July 19th and runs thus. I was right. After a long struggle with Uncle's invincible will, Mary has consented to dismiss Mr. Clevering. I was in the room when she made known her decision, and I shall never forget our Uncle's look of gratified pride as he clasped her in his arms and called her his own true heart. He has evidently been much exercised over this matter, and I cannot but feel greatly relieved that affairs have terminated so satisfactorily. But Mary, what is there in her manner that vaguely disappoints me? I cannot say. I only know that I felt a powerful shrinking overwhelm me when she turned her face to me and asked if I was satisfied now. But I conquered my feelings, and held out my hand. She did not take it. July 26th. How long the days are! The shadow of our late trial is upon me yet. I cannot shake it off. I seem to see Mr. Clevering's despairing face wherever I go. How is it that Mary preserves her cheerfulness? If she does not love him, I should think the respect which she must feel for his disappointment would keep her from levity at least. Uncle has gone away again. Nothing I could say suffice to keep him. July 28th. It has all come out. Mary has only nominally separated from Mr. Clevering. She still cherishes the idea of one day uniting herself to him in marriage. The fact was revealed to me in a strange way not necessary to mention here, and has since been confirmed by Mary herself. I admire the man she declares, and have no intention of giving him up. Then why not tell Uncle so, I asked. Her only answer was a bitter smile and a short, I leave that for you to do. July 30th. Midnight. Worn completely out, but before my blood cools let me write. Mary is a wife. I have just returned from seeing her give her hand to Henry Clevering. Strange that I can write it without quivering when my whole soul is one flush of indignation and revolt, but let me state the facts. Having left my room for a few minutes this morning I returned to find on my dressing-table a note from Mary, in which she informed me that she was going to take Mrs. Belden for a drive and would not be back for some hours. Convinced as I had every reason to be that she was on her way to meet Mr. Clevering, I only stopped to put on my hat. There the diary ceased. She was probably interrupted by Mary at this point, explained Mr. Grice. But we have come upon the one thing we wanted to know. Mr. Levin were threatened to supplant Mary with Eleanor if she persisted in marrying contrary to his wishes. She did so marry, and to avoid the consequences of her act she— Say no more, I returned, convinced at last. It is only too clear. Mr. Grice rose. But the writer of these words is saved, I went on, trying to grasp the one comfort left me. No one who reads this diary will ever dare to insinuate she is capable of committing a crime. Assuredly not, the diary settles that matter effectually. I tried to be man enough to think of that and nothing else. She rejoiced in her deliverance and let every other consideration go, but in this I did not succeed. But Mary, her cousin, almost her sister is lost, I muttered. Mr. Grice thrust his hands into his pockets, and for the first time showed some evidence of secret disturbance. Yes, I'm afraid she is. I really am afraid she is. Then after a pause, during which I felt a certain thrill of vague hope—such an entrancing creature, too—it is a pity. It positively is a pity. I declare now that the thing has worked up. I begin to feel almost sorry we have succeeded so well. Strange but true. If there was the least loophole out of it, he muttered. But there isn't. The thing is clear as ABC. Suddenly he rose, and began pacing the floor very thoughtfully, casting his glances here, there, and everywhere except at me. Though I believe now as then, my face was all he saw. Would it be a very great grief to you, Mr. Raymond, if Miss Mary Leavenworth should be arrested on this charge of murder, he asked, pausing before a sort of tank in which two or three solid-looking fishes were slowly swimming about. Yes, said I, it would—a very great grief. Yet it must be done, said he, though with a strange lack of his usual decision, as an honest official trusted to bring the murderer of Mr. Leavenworth to the notice of the proper authorities I have got to do it. Again that strange thrill of hope at my heart induced by his peculiar manner. Then my reputation as a detective. I ought surely to consider that. I am not so rich or so famous that I can afford to forget all that a success like this may bring me. No, lovely as she is, I have got to push it through. But even as he said this, he became still more thoughtful, gazing down into the murky depths of the wretched tank before him with such an intentness I half expected the fascinated fishes to rise from the water and return his gaze. What was in his mind? After a little while he turned, his indecision utterly gone. Mr. Raymond, come here again at three. I shall then have my report ready for the superintendent. I should like to show it to you first, so don't fail me." There was something so repressed in his expression I could not prevent myself from venturing one question. Is your mind made up, I asked? Yes, he returned. But in a peculiar tone, and with a peculiar gesture. And you are going to make the arrest you speak of? Come at three. End of chapter thirty-five.