Tarlton Law Library
Jamail Center for Legal Research

         "Leave her to Heaven
    And to those thorns that
    In her bosom lodge
    To prick and sting her."
                                      --Hamlet.
         "For she is wise, if I can judge of her;
    And fair she is, if that mine eyes be true;
    And true she is, as she has proved herself;
    And therefore like herself, wise, fair, and true,
    Shall she be placed in my constant soul."
                                                       --Merchant of Venice.

mistake; that she had no cause to fear the past, present, or future?
     But when the truth was made known to her; when, with all the fervor
and gentle tact of which I was capable, I showed her that her
suspicions had been groundless, and that Trueman Harwell, and not Mary,
was accountable for the evidences of crime which had led her into
attributing to her cousin the guilt of her uncle's death, her first
words were a prayer to be taken to the one she had so wronged. "Take
me to her! Oh, take me to her! I cannot breathe or think till I have
begged pardon of her on my knees. Oh, my unjust accusation! My unjust
accusation!"
     Seeing the state she was in, I deemed it wise to humor her. So,
procuring a carriage, I drove with her to her cousin's home.
     "Mary will spurn me; she will not even look at me; and she will be
right!" she cried, as we rolled away up the avenue. "An outrage
like this can never be forgiven. But God knows I thought myself
justified in my suspicions. If you knew—"
     "I do know," I interposed. "Mary acknowledges that the
circumstantial evidence against her was so overwhelming, she was almost
staggered herself, asking if she could be guiltless with such proofs
against her. But—"
     "Wait, oh, wait; did Mary say that?"
     "Yes."
     "To-day?"
     "Yes."
     "Mary must be changed."
     I did not answer; I wanted her to see for herself the extent of
that change. But when, in a few minutes later, the carriage stopped and

I hurried with her into the house which had been the scene of so much
misery, I was hardly prepared for the difference in her own countenance
which the hall light revealed. Her eyes were bright, her cheeks were
brilliant, her brow lifted and free from shadow; so quickly does the
ice of despair melt in the sunshine of hope.
     Thomas, who had opened the door, was sombrely glad to see his
mistress again. "Miss Leavenworth is in the drawing-room," said he.
     I nodded, then seeing that Eleanore could scarcely move for
agitation, asked her whether she would go in at once, or wait till she
was more composed.
     "I will go in at once; I cannot wait." And slipping from my
grasp, she crossed the hall and laid her hand upon the drawing-room
curtain, when it was suddenly lifted from within and Mary stepped out.
     "Mary!"
     "Eleanore!"
     The ring of those voices told everything. I did not need to glance
their way to know that Eleanore had fallen at her cousin's feet, and
that her cousin had affrightedly lifted her. I did not need to hear:
"My sin against you is too great; you cannot forgive me!" followed by
the low: "My shame is great enough to lead me to forgive anything!"
to know that the lifelong shadow between these two had dissolved like a
cloud, and that, for the future, bright days of mutual confidence and
sympathy were in store.
     Yet when, a half-hour or so later, I heard the door of the reception
room, into which I had retired, softly open, and looking up, saw Mary
standing on the threshold, with the light of true humility on her face,
I own that I was surprised at the softening which had taken place in
her haughty beauty. "Blessed is the 

shame that purifies," I inwardly murmured, and advancing, held out my hand 
with a respect and sympathy I never thought to feel for her again.
     The action seemed to touch her. Blushing deeply, she came and stood
by my side. "I thank you," said she. "I have much to be grateful for;
how much I never realized till to-night; but I cannot speak of it
now. What I wish is for you to come in and help me persuade Eleanore to
accept this fortune from my hands. It is hers, you know; was willed to
her, or would have been if—"
     "Wait," said I, in the trepidation which this appeal to me on such
a subject somehow awakened. "Have you weighed this matter well? Is it
your determined purpose to transfer your fortune into your cousin's
hands?"
     Her look was enough without the low, "Ah, how can you ask me?"
that followed it.
     Mr. Clavering was sitting by the side of Eleanore when we entered
the drawing-room. He immediately rose, and drawing me to one side,
earnestly said:
     "Before the courtesies of the hour pass between us, Mr. Raymond,
allow me to tender you my apology. You have in your possession a
document which ought never to have been forced upon you. Founded 
upon a mistake, the act was an insult which I bitterly regret. If, in
consideration of my mental misery at that time, you can pardon it, I
shall feel forever indebted to you; if not—"
     "Mr. Clavering, say no more. The occurrences of that day belong to
a past which I, for one, have made up my mind to forget as soon as
possible. The future promises too richly for us to dwell on bygone
miseries."

     And with a look of mutual understanding and friendship we hastened
to rejoin the ladies.
     Of the conversation that followed, it is only necessary to state the
result. Eleanore, remaining firm in her refusal to accept property so
stained by guilt, it was finally agreed upon that it should be devoted
to the erection and sustainment of some charitable institution of
magnitude sufficient to be a recognized benefit to the city and its
unfortunate poor. This settled, our thoughts returned to our friends,
especially to Mr. Veeley.
     "He ought to know," said Mary. "He has grieved like a father over us."
And, in her spirit of penitence, she would have undertaken the
unhappy task of telling him the truth.
     But Eleanore, with her accustomed generosity, would not hear of
this. "No, Mary," said she; "you have suffered enough. Mr. Raymond
and I will go."
     And leaving them there, with the light of growing hope and
confidence on their faces, we went out again into the night, and so
into a dream from which I have never waked, though the shine of her
dear eyes have been now the load-star of my life for many happy, happy
months.