Tarlton Law Library
Jamail Center for Legal Research

   "Oh! she has beauty might ensnare 
    A conqueror's soul, and make him leave his crown 
    At random, to be scuffled for by slaves." 
                                               OTWAY. 

heart, your head, your will, these I do and must accuse, in my secret 
mind at least; and it is well that you should know it!" 
     Struck with horror, I staggered back, my hands to my ears, when a 
touch fell on my arm, and turning, I saw Mr. Gryce standing close 
beside me, with his finger on his lip, and the last flickering shadow 
of a flying emotion fading from his steady, almost compassionate 
countenance.
     "Come, come," he exclaimed; "I see you don't begin to know what 
kind of a world you are living in. Rouse yourself; remember they are 
waiting down below." 
     "But who is it? Who was it that spoke?" 
     "That we shall soon see." And without waiting to meet, much less 
answer, my appealing look, he struck his hand against the door, and 
flung it wide open. 
     Instantly a flush of lovely color burst upon us. Blue curtains, blue 
carpets, blue walls. It was like a glimpse of heavenly azure in a spot 
where only darkness and gloom were to be expected. Fascinated by the 
sight, I stepped impetuously forward, but instantly paused again, 
overcome and impressed by the exquisite picture I saw before me. 
     Seated in an easy chair of embroidered satin, but rousing from her 
half-recumbent position, like one who was in the act of launching a 
powerful invective, I beheld a glorious woman. Fair, frail, proud, 
delicate; looking like a lily in the thick creamy-tinted wrapper that 
alternately clung to and swayed from her finely moulded figure; with 
her forehead, crowned with the palest of pale tresses, lifted and 
flashing with power; one quivering hand clasping the arm of her chair, 
the other outstretched and pointing toward some distant object in the 

room,— her whole appearance was so startling, so extraordinary, that I 
held my breath in surprise, actually for the moment doubting if it were 
a living woman I beheld, or some famous pythoness conjured up from 
ancient story, to express in one tremendous gesture the supreme 
indignation of outraged womanhood. 
     "Miss Mary Leavenworth," whispered that ever present voice over my 
shoulder. 
     Ah! Mary Leavenworth! What a relief came with this name. This 
beautiful creature, then, was not the Eleanore who could load, aim, and 
fire a pistol. Turning my head, I followed the guiding of that uplifted 
hand, now frozen into its place by a new emotion: the emotion of being 
interrupted in the midst of a direful and pregnant revelation, and saw 
—but, no, here description fails me! Eleanore Leavenworth must be 
painted by other hands than mine. I could sit half the day and dilate 
upon the subtle grace, the pale magnificence, the perfection of form 
and feature which make Mary Leavenworth the wonder of all who behold 
her; but Eleanore—I could as soon paint the beatings of my own heart. 
Beguiling, terrible, grand, pathetic, that face of faces flashed upon 
my gaze, and instantly the moonlight loveliness of her cousin faded 
from my memory, and I saw only Eleanore — only Eleanore from that 
moment on forever. 
     When my glance first fell upon her, she was standing by the side of 
a small table, with her face turned toward her cousin, and her two 
hands resting, the one upon her breast, the other on the table, in an 
attitude of antagonism. But before the sudden pang which shot through 
me at the sight of her beauty had subsided, her head had turned, her 
gaze had encountered mine; 

all the horror of the situation had burst upon her, and, instead of a haughty 
woman, drawn up to receive and trample upon the insinuations of another, 
I beheld, alas! a trembling, panting human creature, conscious that a sword 
hung above her head, and without a word to say why it should not fall and 
slay her. 
     It was a pitiable change; a heart-rending revelation! I turned from 
it as from a confession. But just then, her cousin, who had apparently 
regained her self-possession at the first betrayal of emotion on the 
part of the other, stepped forward and, holding out her hand, inquired: 
     "Is not this Mr. Raymond? How kind of you, sir. And you?" 
turning to Mr. Gryce; "you have come to tell us we are wanted below, 
is it not so?" 
     It was the voice I had heard through the door, but modulated to a 
sweet, winning, almost caressing tone. 
     Glancing hastily at Mr. Gryce, I looked to see how he was affected 
by it. Evidently much, for the bow with which he greeted her words was 
lower than ordinary, and the smile with which he met her earnest look 
both deprecatory and reassuring. His glance did not embrace her cousin, 
though her eyes were fixed upon his face with an inquiry in their 
depths more agonizing than the utterance of any cry would have been. 
Knowing Mr. Gryce as I did, I felt that nothing could promise worse, or 
be more significant, than this transparent disregard of one who seemed 
to fill the room with her terror. And, struck with pity, I forgot that 
Mary Leavenworth had spoken, forgot her very presence in fact, and, 
turning hastily away, took one step toward her cousin, when Mr. Gryce's 
hand falling on my arm stopped me. 
     "Miss Leavenworth speaks," said he. 

     Recalled to myself, I turned my back upon what had so interested me 
even while it repelled, and forcing myself to make some sort of reply 
to the fair creature before me, offered my arm and led her toward the 
door. 
     Immediately the pale, proud countenance of Mary Leavenworth softened 
almost to the point of smiling;—and here let me say, there never was 
a woman who could smile and not smile like Mary Leavenworth. Looking in 
my face, with a frank and sweet appeal in her eyes, she murmured: 
     "You are very good. I do feel the need of support; the occasion is 
so horrible, and my cousin there,"—here a little gleam of alarm 
nickered into her eyes—"is so very strange to-day." 
     "Humph!" thought I to myself; "where is the grand indignant 
pythoness, with the unspeakable wrath and menace in her countenance, 
whom I saw when I first entered the room?" Could it be that she was 
trying to beguile us from our conjectures, by making light of her 
former expressions? Or was it possible she deceived herself so far as 
to believe us unimpressed by the weighty accusation overheard by us at 
a moment so critical? 
     But Eleanore Leavenworth, leaning on the arm of the detective, soon 
absorbed all my attention. She had regained by this time her 
self-possession, also, but not so entirely as her cousin. Her step 
faltered as she endeavored to walk, and the hand which rested on his 
arm trembled like a leaf. "Would to God I had never entered this 
house," said I to myself. And yet, before the exclamation was half 
uttered, I became conscious of a secret rebellion against the thought; 
an emotion, shall I say, of thankfulness that it had been myself rather 
than another who had been allowed to break in upon their privacy, 

overhear that significant remark, and, shall I acknowledge it, follow 
Mr. Gryce and the trembling, swaying figure of Eleanore Leavenworth 
down-stairs. Not that I felt the least relenting in my soul towards 
guilt. Crime had never looked so black; revenge, selfishness, hatred, 
cupidity, never seemed more loathsome; and yet — but why enter into 
the consideration of my feelings at that time. They cannot be of 
interest; besides, who can fathom the depths of his own soul, or 
untangle for others the secret cords of revulsion and attraction which 
are, and ever have been, a mystery and wonder to himself? Enough that, 
supporting upon my arm the half-fainting form of one woman, but with my 
attention, and interest devoted to another, I descended the stairs of 
the Leavenworth mansion, and re-entered the dreaded presence of those 
inquisitors of the law who had been so impatiently awaiting us. 
     As I once more crossed that threshold, and faced the eager 
countenances of those I had left so short a time before, I felt as if 
ages had elapsed in the interval; so much can be experienced by the 
human soul in the short space of a few over-weighted moments.