第 三十九 章 · THE OUTCOME OF A GREAT CRIME

. THE OUTCOME OF A GREAT CRIME

“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.

“Oh, Eleanore!” I cried, as I made my way into her presence, “are

you prepared for very good news? News that will brighten these pale

cheeks and give the light back to these eyes, and make life hopeful

and sweet to you once more? Tell me,” I urged, stooping over her

where she sat, for she looked ready to faint.

“I don’t know,” she faltered; “I fear your idea of good news and

mine may differ. No news can be good but----”

“What?” I asked, taking her hands in mine with a smile that ought

to have reassured her, it was one of such profound happiness. “Tell

me; do not be afraid.”

But she was. Her dreadful burden had lain upon her so long it had

become a part of her being. How could she realize it was founded

on a 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.

THE END