Dressed in my bridal white, and crowned with roses, I have greeted my friends as if they were wedding-guests, and made believe to myself that all the compliments bestowed upon me—and they are only too numerous—were just so many congratulations upon my marriage.
But it was no use; Eleanore knew it was no use.
She has gone to her room to pray, while I—I have come here for the first time, perhaps for the last, to fall at some one’s feet and cry,— ‘God have mercy upon me!’”
I looked at her in uncontrollable emotion.
“Oh, Mary, have I only succeeded, then, in making you miserable?”
She did not answer; she was engaged in picking up the crown of roses which had fallen from her hair to the floor.
“If I had not been taught to love money so!” she said at length. “If, like Eleanore, I could look upon the splendor which has been ours from childhood as a mere accessory of life, easy to be dropped at the call of duty or affection!
If prestige, adulation, and elegant belongings were not so much to me; or love, friendship, and domestic happiness more!
If only I could walk a step without dragging the chain of a thousand luxurious longings after me.
Eleanore can.
Imperious as she often is in her beautiful womanhood, haughty as she can be when the delicate quick of her personality is touched too rudely, I have known her to sit by the hour in a low, chilly, ill-lighted and ill-smelling garret, cradling a dirty child on her knee, and feeding with her own hand an impatient old woman whom no one else would consent to touch.
Oh, oh! they talk about repentance and a change of heart! If some one or something would only change mine!
But there is no hope of that! no hope of my ever being anything else than what I am: a selfish, wilful, mercenary girl.”
Nor was this mood a mere transitory one.
That same night she made a discovery which increased her apprehension almost to terror.
This was nothing less than the fact that Eleanore had been keeping a diary of the last few weeks.
“Oh,” she cried in relating this to me the next day, “what security shall I ever feel as long as this diary of hers remains to confront me every time I go into her room?
And she will not consent to destroy it, though I have done my best to show her that it is a betrayal of the trust I reposed in her.
She says it is all she has to show in the way of defence, if uncle should ever accuse her of treachery to him and his happiness.
She promises to keep it locked up; but what good will that do!
A thousand accidents might happen, any of them sufficient to throw it into uncle’s hands.
I shall never feel safe for a moment while it exists.”
I endeavored to calm her by saying that if Eleanore was without malice, such fears were groundless. But she would not be comforted, and seeing her so wrought up, I suggested that Eleanore should be asked to trust it into my keeping till such time as she should feel the necessity of using it.
The idea struck Mary favorably.
“O yes,” she cried; “and I will put my certificate with it, and so get rid of all my care at once.”
And before the afternoon was over, she had seen Eleanore and made her request.
It was acceded to with this proviso, that I was neither to destroy nor give up all or any of the papers except upon their united demand.
A small tin box was accordingly procured, into which were put all the proofs of Mary’s marriage then existing, viz.: the certificate, Mr. Clavering’s letters, and such leaves from Eleanore’s diary as referred to this matter.
It was then handed over to me with the stipulation I have already mentioned, and I stowed it away in a certain closet up-stairs, where it has lain undisturbed till last night.
Here Mrs. Belden paused, and, blushing painfully, raised her eyes to mine with a look in which anxiety and entreaty were curiously blended.
“I don’t know what you will say,” she began, “but, led away by my fears, I took that box out of its hiding-place last evening and, notwithstanding your advice, carried it from the house, and it is now—”
“In my possession,” I quietly finished.
I don’t think I ever saw her look more astounded, not even when I told her of Hannah’s death.
“Impossible!” she exclaimed. “I left it last night in the old barn that was burned down.
I merely meant to hide it for the present, and could think of no better place in my hurry; for the barn is said to be haunted—a man hung himself there once—and no one ever goes there.
I—I—you cannot have it!” she cried, “unless—”
“Unless I found and brought it away before the barn was destroyed,” I suggested.
Her face flushed deeper.
“Then you followed me?”
“Yes,” said I. Then, as I felt my own countenance redden, hastened to add: “We have been playing strange and unaccustomed parts, you and I.
Some time, when all these dreadful events shall be a mere dream of the past, we will ask each other’s pardon.
But never mind all this now.
The box is safe, and I am anxious to hear the rest of your story.”
This seemed to compose her, and after a minute she continued:
Mary seemed more like herself after this.
And though, on account of Mr. Leavenworth’s return and their subsequent preparations for departure, I saw but little more of her, what I did see was enough to make me fear that, with the locking up of the proofs of her marriage, she was indulging the idea that the marriage itself had become void.
But I may have wronged her in this.
The story of those few weeks is almost finished.
On the eve of the day before she left, Mary came to my house to bid me good-by.
She had a present in her hand the value of which I will not state, as I did not take it, though she coaxed me with all her prettiest wiles.