Jamail Center for Legal Research
Tarlton Law Library

     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 straitened position and the
loneliness of my widowhood to spend my days in the weary round of plain
sewing, 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 my
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 some one 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 manner
invited, I found her ere long 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 some one 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
coyness struggled with pride, she gathered up her cloak around her, and
laughingly cried:
     "Have you had a visit from a flying sprite? Has 

one little 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 am 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 plainer 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. Clavering 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 need say that in just the way she did, but,
supposing she was aggravated by some secret memory, went on to inquire:
"Then what difficulty can there be? Isn't he—" I was going to 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 puerile 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 that is mere tyranny! Why should he hate the English so? And
why, if he does, should you feel yourself obliged to gratify him in a
whim so unreasonable?"
     "Why? Shall I tell you, auntie?" she said, flushing and looking
away.
     "Yes," I returned; "tell me everything."
     "Well, then, if you want to know the worst of me, as you already
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 upon, so you would not
want; and if you love—"
     Her violet eyes fairly flashed in her amazement.
     "You don't understand," she said; "Mr. Clavering is not poor; but
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 is not hard like me. Eleanore 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 Mamma 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 ploughshares 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 workaday world sweet and delightful."
     "Would you? Then you do not think me such a wretch?"
     What could I say? I thought her the winsomest being in the world,
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 the
chapter? You will not turn me off?"
     "I will never turn you off."
     "Not if I should do a dreadful thing? Not if I should run away
with 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 to 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 was occupying
the position of lady's 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 tomorrow; and let the 
prince be as handsome as--as some one you have heard of, and the princess 
as foolish as your little yielding pet,
                                                                      "MARY."

     Which short note could only mean that she was engaged. But the next
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 returned, 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 R—, Mrs. Belden."
     "Left!"
     "Yes, my uncle commanded me to dismiss him, and I obeyed."

     The work dropped from my hands, in my heartfelt disappointment.
"Ah! then he knows of your engagement to Mr. Clavering?"
     "Yes; he had not been in the house five minutes before Eleanore
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.
     "That is because you are not Eleanore."
     Not having a reply for this, I said, "And so your uncle did not
regard your engagement with favor?"
     "Favor! 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 to look again at that picture which had
attracted her attention the time before, but at this word gave me one
little sidelong look that was inexpressibly suggestive.
     "I obeyed him when he commanded, if that is what you mean."
     "And dismissed Mr. Clavering after having given him your word of
honor to be his wife?"
     "Why not, when I found I could not keep my word."
     "Then you have decided not to marry him?"
     She did not reply at once, but lifted her face mechanically to 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.
     Greatly 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 into 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 essayed, convinced perhaps by the tone of sarcasm
in which this was uttered that she was not far from my way of thinking
after all, "if in 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 never can 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 too 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.
Clavering?"
     "I have sent him away," she whispered demurely.
     "But not without hope?"
     She burst into a ringing laugh.
     "Oh, you dear old Mamma Hubbard; what a matchmaker you are, to be
sure! You appear as much interested as if you were the lover yourself."
     "But tell me," I urged.
     In a moment her serious mood returned. "He will wait for me," said
she.

     The next day I submitted to her the plan I had formed for her
clandestine intercourse with Mr. Clavering. 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 all 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. Clavering, 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 you are mine will make parting
possible; without it, I cannot go; no, not if my mother should die
without the comfort of saying good-bye 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 accede 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 till such
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. Clavering
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. And 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 Eleanore; 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. Clavering.
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, living, which was best of all, not ten
rods from the depot. If they could meet there? Making inquiries, I
found that it could be done, and, all alive 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 Eleanore of the
correspondence between Mary and Mr. Clavering. 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. Clavering, 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 Eleanore 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," said she, 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. Clavering 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 Eleanore, yes. She is duly initiated, Mamma Hubbard. Knows
that I love Mr. Clavering and write to him. I couldn't keep it secret
after the mistake you made last evening; so I did the next best thing,
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
Eleanore's lofty indignation anger. She was grieved, Mamma 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 Mamma 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 Eleanore'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 programme to the point of leaving a
little note of excuse on Eleanore'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, intending, you may be sure, to
dismiss my visitor with short ceremony, when I heard a voice behind me
say, "Good heavens, it is Eleanore!" and, glancing back, saw Mary
looking through the window-blind upon the 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
Eleanore."
     I immediately did so, and Eleanore 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," said she, 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."
     "But I do not wish your company, Eleanore. 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."
     Eleanore's face grew yet more earnest in its expression. "Mary,"
said she, "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. Clavering."
     "Well?"
     "Twenty miles from home."
     "Well?"
     "Now is it discreet or honorable in you to do this?"
     Mary's haughty lip took an ominous curve. "The same hand that
raised you has raised me," she cried bitterly.
     "This is no time to speak of that," returned Eleanore.
     Mary's countenance flushed. All the antagonism of 

her nature was aroused. She looked absolutely Juno-like in her wrath and
reckless menace. "Eleanore," she cried, "I am going to F— to marry Mr.
Clavering! Now do you wish to accompany me?"
     "I do."
     Mary's whole manner changed. leaping forward, she grasped her
cousin'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,"
said she. "I thought you never gave countenance to what you considered
wrong."
     "Nor do I. Any one who knows me will understand that I do not give
my approval to this marriage just because I attend its 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 so doing you will be involved in a world of deception—
which you hate."
     "Any more so than now?"
     "Mr. Clavering does not return with me, Eleanore."
     "No, I supposed not."
     "I leave him immediately after the ceremony."
     Eleanore bowed her head.
     "He goes to Europe." A pause.
     "And I return home."

     "There to wait for what, Mary?"
     Mary's face crimsoned, and she turned slowly away.
     "What every other girl does under such circumstances, I suppose.
The development of more reasonable feelings in an obdurate parent's
heart."
     Eleanore sighed, and a short silence ensued, broken by Eleanore's
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 that. Love would have led you either to have dismissed
Mr. Clavering at once, or to have openly accepted the fate which a
union with him would bring. Only passion stoops to subterfuge like
this. And you," she continued, rising and turning toward me in a sort
of forlorn hope very touching to see, "can 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 broke in, chill and
strained, "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 ain gait, and
every one around must accommodate themselves to it."

     It was like a draught of icy air suddenly poured into a room heated
up to fever point. Eleanore stiffened immediately, and drawing back,
pale and composed, turned upon her cousin with the remark:
     "Then nothing can move you?"
     The curling of Mary's lips was her only reply.
     Mr. Raymond, I do not wish to weary you with my feelings, but the
first great distrust I ever felt of my wisdom in pushing this matter so
far came with that curl of Mary's lip. More plainly than Eleanore'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, Mamma Hubbard, don't you go and acknowledge that you
are frightened, for I won't hear it. I have promised to marry 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 save the fact that she was going to her
bridal, she handed me her veil to fasten. As I was doing this, with
very trembling fingers, she said, looking straight at Eleanore:
     "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 upon me such
dreadful consequences?"
     "If I go with you to F—," Eleanore returned, "it is as a
witness, no more. My sisterly duty is done."
     "Very well, then," Mary said, dimpling with sudden gayety; "I
suppose I shall have to accept the situation. Mamma 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 at the door. "Good-by," cried 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 its 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 waited and watched 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 aglow 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 Clavering, at your service. I'm a bride, Auntie."
     "Without a bridal," I murmured, taking her passionately into my
embrace.
     She was not insensible to my emotion. Nestling close to me, she 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 some one 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 that 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; Eleanore
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 some
one'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 Eleanore, 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. Eleanore can. Imperious as
she often is in her beautiful womanhood, haughty as she can be when the
delicate quick of her personality is 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, oh! they talk about repentance and a change of heart! If some one
or something would only change mine! But there is no hope of that! no
hope of my ever being anything else than what I am: a selfish, wilful,
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 Eleanore 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 have 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 defence, 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 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 Eleanore was without
malice, such fears were groundless. But she would not be comforted, and
seeing her so wrought up, I suggested that Eleanore should be asked to
trust it into my keeping till such time as she should feel the
necessity of using it. The idea struck Mary favorably. "O 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
Eleanore and made her request.

     It was acceded to with this proviso, that I was neither to destroy
nor give up all or any 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, viz.: the certificate, Mr.
Clavering's letters, and such leaves from Eleanore'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 lain undisturbed till last night.

     Here Mrs. Belden 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, led away by 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 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 redden, hastened
to add: "We have been playing 

strange and unaccustomed parts, you and I. Some time, 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 the locking up of the proofs of her marriage,
she was 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-by. 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 that day came I should wish to be advised of it; when she
suddenly interrupted me by saying:
     "Uncle will never be won 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 betoken, 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 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 from 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 do not let him be discouraged," she added in a postscript.
"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
despatched it to his address in London, awaited the development of
events.
     They were not slow in transpiring. In two weeks I heard of the
sudden death of Mr. Stebbins, the minister who had married them; and
while yet laboring under the agitation produced by this shock, 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 private, a failure which he was not backward
in ascribing to her indisposition to see 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
dowerless, 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 endurable."
     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 wilfulness 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 secrete
her from public inquiry, as I loved and desired to serve Mary
Leavenworth.