No; I might lie down at her feet and let her trample over me; she would not even turn to see what it was she had stepped upon.
I might spend days, months, years, learning the alphabet of her wishes; she would not thank me for my pains or even raise the lashes from her cheek to look at me as I passed.
I was nothing to her, could not be anything unless—and this thought came slowly—I could in some way become her master.
Meantime I wrote at Mr. Leavenworth’s dictation and pleased him.
My methodical ways were just to his taste.
As for the other member of the family, Miss Eleanore Leavenworth—she treated me just as one of her proud but sympathetic nature might be expected to do.
Not familiarly, but kindly; not as a friend, but as a member of the household whom she met every day at table, and who, as she or any one else could see, was none too happy or hopeful.
Six months went by.
I had learned two things; first, that Mary Leavenworth loved her position as prospective heiress to a large fortune above every other earthly consideration; and secondly, that she was in the possession of a secret which endangered that position.
What this was, I had for some time no means of knowing.
But when later I became convinced it was one of love, I grew hopeful, strange as it may seem.
For by this time I had learned Mr. Leavenworth’s disposition almost as perfectly as that of his niece, and knew that in a matter of this kind he would be uncompromising; and that in the clashing of these two wills something might occur which would give me a hold upon her.
The only thing that troubled me was the fact that I did not know the name of the man in whom she was interested.
But chance soon favored me here.
One day—a month ago now—I sat down to open Mr. Leavenworth’s mail as usual.
One letter—shall I ever forget it? ran thus:
“HOFFMAN HOUSE,
“March 1, 1876.”
MR. HORATIO LEAVENWORTH:
“DEAR SIR,—You have a niece whom you love and trust, one, too, who seems worthy of all the love and trust that you or any other man can give her; so beautiful, so charming, so tender is she in face, form, manner, and conversation.
But, dear sir, every rose has its thorn, and your rose is no exception to this rule.
Lovely as she is, charming as she is, tender as she is, she is not only capable of trampling on the rights of one who trusted her, but of bruising the heart and breaking the spirit of him to whom she owes all duty, honor, and observance.
“If you don’t believe this, ask her to her cruel, bewitching face, who and what is her humble servant, and yours.
“Henry Ritchie Clavering.”
If a bombshell had exploded at my feet, or the evil one himself appeared at my call, I would not have been more astounded.
Not only was the name signed to these remarkable words unknown to me, but the epistle itself was that of one who felt himself to be her master: a position which, as you know, I was myself aspiring to occupy.
For a few minutes, then, I stood a prey to feelings of the bitterest wrath and despair; then I grew calm, realizing that with this letter in my possession I was virtually the arbitrator of her destiny.
Some men would have sought her there and then and, by threatening to place it in her uncle’s hand, won from her a look of entreaty, if no more; but I—well, my plans went deeper than that.
I knew she would have to be in extremity before I could hope to win her.
She must feel herself slipping over the edge of the precipice before she would clutch at the first thing offering succor.
I decided to allow the letter to pass into my employer’s hands.
But it had been opened!
How could I manage to give it to him in this condition without exciting his suspicion?
I knew of but one way; to let him see me open it for what he would consider the first time.
So, waiting till he came into the room, I approached him with the letter, tearing off the end of the envelope as I came.
Opening it, I gave a cursory glance at its contents and tossed it down on the table before him.
“That appears to be of a private character,” said I, “though there is no sign to that effect on the envelope.”
He took it up while I stood there.
At the first word he started, looked at me, seemed satisfied from my expression that I had not read far enough to realize its nature, and, whirling slowly around in his chair, devoured the remainder in silence.
I waited a moment, then withdrew to my own desk.
One minute, two minutes passed in silence; he was evidently rereading the letter; then he hurriedly rose and left the room.
As he passed me I caught a glimpse of his face in the mirror.
The expression I saw there did not tend to lessen the hope that was rising in my breast.
By following him almost immediately up-stairs I ascertained that he went directly to Mary’s room, and when in a few hours later the family collected around the dinner table, I perceived, almost without looking up, that a great and insurmountable barrier had been raised between him and his favorite niece.
Two days passed; days that were for me one long and unrelieved suspense.
Had Mr. Leavenworth answered that letter?
Would it all end as it had begun, without the appearance of the mysterious Clavering on the scene?
I could not tell.
Meanwhile my monotonous work went on, grinding my heart beneath its relentless wheel.
I wrote and wrote and wrote, till it seemed as if my life blood went from me with every drop of ink I used.