第 二十三 章 · THE STORY OF A CHARMING WOMAN

. THE STORY OF A CHARMING WOMAN

“Fe, fi, fo, fum,

I smell the blood of an Englishman.”

Old Song.

“I hold you as a thing enskied and sainted.”

Measure for Measure.

“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 down-stairs, 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.