Tarlton Law Library
Jamail Center for Legal Research

     "YOU have never heard, then, the particulars of Mr. Leavenworth's
marriage?"
     It was my partner who spoke. I had been asking him to explain to me
Mr. Leavenworth's well-known antipathy to the English race.
     "No."
     "If you had, you would not need to come to me for this explanation.
But it is not strange you are ignorant of the matter. I doubt if there
are half a dozen persons in existence who could tell you where Horatio
Leavenworth found the lovely woman who afterwards became his wife, 
much less give you any details of the circumstances which led to his
marriage."
     "I am very fortunate, then, in being in the confidence of one who
can. What were those circumstances, Mr. Veeley?"
     "It will aid you but little to hear. Horatio Leavenworth, when a
young man, was very ambitious; so much so, that at one time he aspired
to marry a wealthy lady of Providence. But, chancing to go to England,

he there met a young woman whose grace and charm had such an effect
upon him that he relinquished all thought of the Providence lady,
though it was some time before he could face the prospect of marrying
the one who had so greatly interested him; as she was not only in
humble circumstances, but was encumbered with a child concerning whose
parentage the neighbors professed ignorance, and she had nothing to
say. But, as is very apt to be the case in an affair like this, love
and admiration soon got the better of worldly wisdom. Taking his future
in his hands, he offered himself as her husband, when she immediately
proved herself worthy of his regard by entering at once into those
explanations he was too much of a gentleman to demand. 
     The story she told was pitiful. She proved to be an American by 
birth, her father having been a well-known merchant of Chicago. While 
he lived, her home was one of luxury, but just as she was emerging into 
womanhood he died. It was at his funeral she met the man destined to be 
her ruin. How he came there she never knew; he was not a friend of her 
father's. It is enough he was there, and saw her, and that in three 
weeks—don't shudder, she was such a child—they were married. In 
twenty-four hours she knew what that word meant for her; it meant blows. 
Everett, I am telling no fanciful story. In twenty-four hours after that girl
was married, her husband, coming drunk into the house, found her in his
way, and knocked her down. It was but the beginning. Her father's
estate, on being settled up, proving to be less than expected, he
carried her off to England, where he did not wait to be drunk in order
to maltreat her. She was not free from his cruelty night or day. Before
she was sixteen, she had run the whole gamut of human suffering; and

that, not at the hands of a coarse, common ruffian, but from an
elegant, handsome, luxury-loving gentleman, whose taste in dress was so
nice he would sooner fling a garment of hers into the fire than see her
go into company clad in a manner he did not consider becoming. She bore
it till her child was born, then she fled. Two days after the little
one saw the light, she rose from her bed and, taking her baby in her
arms, ran out of the house. The few jewels she had put into her pocket
supported her till she could set up a little shop. As for her husband,
she neither saw him, nor heard from him, from the day she left him till
about two weeks before Horatio Leavenworth first met her, when she
learned from the papers that he was dead. She was, therefore, free;
but though she loved Horatio Leavenworth with all her heart, she would
not marry him. She felt herself forever stained and soiled by the one
awful year of abuse and contamination. Nor could he persuade her. Not
till the death of her child, a month or so after his proposal, did she
consent to give him her hand and what remained of her unhappy life. He
brought her to New York, surrounded her with luxury and every tender
care, but the arrow had gone too deep; two years from the day her
child breathed its last, she too died. It was the blow of his life to
Horatio Leavenworth; he was never the same man again. Though Mary 
and Eleanore shortly after entered his home, he never recovered his old
light-heartedness. Money became his idol, and the ambition to make and
leave a great fortune behind him modified all his views of life. But
one proof remained that he never forgot the wife of his youth, and that
was, he could not bear to have the word 'Englishman' uttered in his
hearing."

     Mr. Veeley paused, and I rose to go. "Do you remember how Mrs.
Leavenworth looked?" I asked. "Could you describe her to me?"
     He seemed a little astonished at my request, but immediately replied:
"She was a very pale woman; not strictly beautiful, but of a
contour and expression of great charm. Her hair was brown, her eyes
gray—"
     "And very wide apart?"
     He nodded, looking still more astonished. "How came you to know?
Have you seen her picture?"
     I did not answer that question.

     On my way downstairs, I bethought me of a letter which I had in my
pocket for Mr. Veeley's son Fred, and, knowing of no surer way of
getting it to him that night than by leaving it on the library table, I
stepped to the door of that room, which in this house was at the rear
of the parlors, and receiving no reply to my knock, opened it and
looked in.
     The room was unlighted, but a cheerful fire was burning in the
grate, and by its glow I espied a lady crouching on the hearth, whom at
first glance I took for Mrs. Veeley. But, upon advancing and addressing
her by that name, I saw my mistake; for the person before me not only
refrained from replying, but, rising at the sound of my voice, revealed
a form of such noble proportions that all possibility of its being that
of the dainty little wife of my partner fled.
     "I see I have made a mistake," said I. "I beg your pardon "; and
would have left the room, but something in the general attitude of the
lady before me restrained me, and, believing it to be Mary
Leavenworth, I inquired:

     "Can it be this is Miss Leavenworth?"
     The noble figure appeared to droop, the gently lifted head to fall,
and for a moment I doubted if I had been correct in my supposition.
Then form and head slowly erected themselves, a soft voice spoke, and I
heard a low "yes," and hurriedly advancing, confronted—not Mary,
with her glancing, feverish gaze, and scarlet, trembling lips—but
Eleanore, the woman whose faintest look had moved me from the first,
the woman whose husband I believed myself to be even then pursuing to
his doom!
     The surprise was too great; I could neither sustain nor conceal it.
Stumbling slowly back, I murmured something about having believed it to
be her cousin; and then, conscious only of the one wish to fly a
presence I dared not encounter in my present mood, turned, when her
rich, heart-full voice rose once more and I heard:
     "You will not leave me without a word, Mr. Raymond, now that
chance has thrown us together?" Then, as I came slowly forward: "Were
you so very much astonished to find me here?"
     "I do not know—I did not expect—" was my incoherent reply. "I
had heard you were ill; that you went nowhere; that you had no wish to
see your friends."
     "I have been ill," she said; "but I am better now, and have come
to spend the night with Mrs. Veeley, because I could not endure the
stare of the four walls of my room any longer."
     This was said without any effort at plaintiveness, but rather as if
she thought it necessary to excuse herself for being where she was.
     "I am glad you did so," said I. "You ought to be here all the

while. That dreary, lonesome boarding-house is no place for you, Miss
Leavenworth. It distresses us all to feel that you are exiling yourself
at this time."
     "I do not wish anybody to be distressed," she returned. "It is best
for me to be where I am. Nor am I altogether alone. There is a child
there whose innocent eyes see nothing but innocence in mine. She will
keep me from despair. Do not let my friends be anxious; I can bear
it." Then, in a lower tone: "There is but one thing which really
unnerves me; and that is my ignorance of what is going on at home.
Sorrow I can bear, but suspense is killing me. Will you not tell me
something of Mary and home? I cannot ask Mrs. Veeley; she is kind,
but has no real knowledge of Mary or me, nor does she know anything of
our estrangement. She thinks me obstinate, and blames me for leaving my
cousin in her trouble. But you know I could not help it. You know,—"
her voice wavered off into a tremble, and she did not conclude.
     "I cannot tell you much," I hastened to reply; "but whatever
knowledge is at my command is certainly yours. Is there anything in
particular you wish to know?"
     "Yes, how Mary is; whether she is well, and — and composed."
     "Your cousin's health is good," I returned; "but I fear I cannot
say she is composed. She is greatly troubled about you."
     "You see her often, then?"
     "I am assisting Mr. Harwell in preparing your uncle's book for the
press, and necessarily am there much of the time."

     "My uncle's book!" The words came in a tone of low horror.
     "Yes, Miss Leavenworth. It has been thought best to bring it before
the world, and——"
     "And Mary has set you at the task?"
     "Yes."
     It seemed as if she could not escape from the horror which this
caused. "How could she? Oh, how could she!"
     "She considers herself as fulfilling her uncle's wishes. He was
very anxious, as you know, to have the book out by July."
     "Do not speak of it!" she broke in, "I cannot bear it." Then, as
if she feared she had hurt my feelings by her abruptness, lowered her
voice and said: "I do not, however, know of any one I should be better
pleased to have charged with the task than yourself. With you it will
be a work of respect and reverence; but—a stranger—Oh, I could not
have endured a stranger touching it."
     She was fast falling into her old horror; but rousing herself,
murmured: "I wanted to ask you something; ah, I know"—and she
moved so as to face me. "I wish to inquire if everything is as before
in the house; the servants the same and—and other things?"
     "There is a Mrs. Darrell there; I do not know of any other change."
     "Mary does not talk of going away?"
     "I think not."
     "But she has visitors? Some one besides Mrs. Darrell to help her
bear her loneliness?"
     I knew what was coming, and strove to preserve my composure.
     "Yes," I replied; "a few."

     "Would you mind naming them?" How low her tones were, but how
distinct!
     "Certainly not. Mrs. Veeley, Mrs. Gilbert, Miss Martin, and
a—a——"
     "Go on," she whispered.
     "A gentleman by the name of Clavering."
     "You speak that name with evident embarrassment," she said, after
a moment of intense anxiety on my part. "May I inquire why?"
     Astounded, I raised my eyes to her face. It was very pale, and wore
the old look of self-repressed calm I remembered so well. I immediately
dropped my gaze.
     "Why? because there are some circumstances surrounding him which
have struck me as peculiar."
     "How so?" she asked.
     "He appears under two names. To-day it is Clavering; a short time
ago it was—"
     "Go on."
     "Robbins."
     Her dress rustled on the hearth; there was a sound of desolation in
it; but her voice when she spoke was expressionless as that of an
automaton.
     "How many times has this person, of whose name you do not appear
to be certain, been to see Mary?"
     "Once."
     "When was it?"
     "Last night."
     "Did he stay long?"
     "About twenty minutes, I should say."
     "And do you think he will come again?"
     "No."
     "Why?"
     "He has left the country."
     A short silence followed this, I felt her eyes searching my face,

but doubt whether, if I had known she held a loaded pistol, I could
have looked up at that moment.
     "Mr. Raymond," she at length observed, in a changed tone, "the
last time I saw you, you told me you were going to make some endeavor
to restore me to my former position before the world. I did not wish
you to do so then; nor do I wish you to do so now. Can you not make me
comparatively happy, then, by assuring me you have abandoned or will
abandon a project so hopeless?"
     "It is impossible," I replied with emphasis. "I cannot abandon it.
Much as I grieve to be a source of sorrow to you, it is best you should
know that I can never give up the hope of righting you while I live."
     She put out her hand in a sort of hopeless appeal inexpressibly
touching to behold in the fast waning firelight. But I was relentless.
     "I should never be able to face the world or my own conscience if,
through any weakness of my own, I should miss the blessed privilege of
setting the wrong right, and saving a noble woman from unmerited
disgrace." And then, seeing she was not likely to reply to this, drew a
step nearer and said: "Is there not some little kindness I can show
you, Miss Leavenworth? Is there no message you would like taken, or
act it would give you pleasure to see performed?"
     She stopped to think. "No," said she; "I have only one request to
make, and that you refuse to grant."
     "For the most unselfish of reasons," I urged.
     She slowly shook her head. "You think so "; then, before I could
reply, "I could desire one little favor shown me, however."
     "What is that?"

     "That if anything should transpire; if Hannah should be found, or
—or my presence required in any way,—you will not keep me in
ignorance. That you will let me know the worst when it comes, without
fail."
     "I will."
     "And now, good-night. Mrs. Veeley is coming back, and you would
scarcely wish to be found here by her."
     "No," said I.
     And yet I did not go, but stood watching the firelight flicker on
her black dress till the thought of Clavering and the duty I had for
the morrow struck coldly to my heart, and I turned away towards the
door. But at the threshold I paused again, and looked back. Oh, the
flickering, dying fire flame! Oh, the crowding, clustering shadows!
Oh, that drooping figure in their midst, with its clasped hands and its
hidden face! I see it all again; I see it as in a dream; then darkness
falls, and in the glare of gas-lighted streets, I am hastening along,
solitary and sad, to my lonely home.