VI. SIDE-LIGHTS
“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.
THIRD floor, rear room, first door at the head of the stairs! What was Iabout to encounter there?
Mounting the lower flight, and shuddering by the library wall, which tomy troubled fancy seemed written all over with horrible suggestions, Itook my way slowly up-stairs, revolving in my mind many things, amongwhich an admonition uttered long ago by my mother occupied a prominentplace.
“My son, remember that a woman with a secret may be a fascinating study,but she can never be a safe, nor even satisfactory, companion.”
A wise saw, no doubt, but totally inapplicable to the present situation;yet it continued to haunt me till the sight of the door to which I hadbeen directed put every other thought to flight save that I was about tomeet the stricken nieces of a brutally murdered man.
Pausing only long enough on the threshold to compose myself for theinterview, I lifted my hand to knock, when a rich, clear voice rose fromwithin, and I heard distinctly uttered these astounding words: “I do notaccuse your hand, though I know of none other which would or could havedone this deed; but your heart, your head, your will, these I do andmust accuse, in my secret mind at least; and it is well that you shouldknow it!”
Struck with horror, I staggered back, my hands to my ears, when a touchfell 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 flyingemotion fading from his steady, almost compassionate countenance.
“Come, come,” he exclaimed; “I see you don’t begin to know what kindof a world you are living in. Rouse yourself; remember they are waitingdown 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 itwide open.
Instantly a flush of lovely color burst upon us. Blue curtains, bluecarpets, blue walls. It was like a glimpse of heavenly azure in a spotwhere only darkness and gloom were to be expected. Fascinated by thesight, 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 herhalf-recumbent position, like one who was in the act of launching apowerful invective, I beheld a glorious woman. Fair, frail, proud,delicate; looking like a lily in the thick creamy-tinted wrapper thatalternately clung to and swayed from her finely moulded figure; with herforehead, crowned with the palest of pale tresses, lifted and flashingwith power; one quivering hand clasping the arm of her chair, the otheroutstretched and pointing toward some distant object in the room,--herwhole appearance was so startling, so extraordinary, that I held mybreath in surprise, actually for the moment doubting if it were a livingwoman I beheld, or some famous pythoness conjured up from ancient story,to express in one tremendous gesture the supreme indignation of outragedwomanhood.
“Miss Mary Leavenworth,” whispered that ever present voice over myshoulder.
Ah! Mary Leavenworth! What a relief came with this name. This beautifulcreature, then, was not the Eleanore who could load, aim, and fire apistol. Turning my head, I followed the guiding of that upliftedhand, now frozen into its place by a new emotion: the emotion of beinginterrupted in the midst of a direful and pregnant revelation, andsaw--but, no, here description fails me! Eleanore Leavenworth must bepainted by other hands than mine. I could sit half the day and dilateupon the subtle grace, the pale magnificence, the perfection of form andfeature 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 mygaze, and instantly the moonlight loveliness of her cousin faded frommy memory, and I saw only Eleanore--only Eleanore from that moment onforever.
When my glance first fell upon her, she was standing by the side of asmall table, with her face turned toward her cousin, and her two handsresting, the one upon her breast, the other on the table, in an attitudeof antagonism. But before the sudden pang which shot through me at thesight of her beauty had subsided, her head had turned, her gaze hadencountered mine; all the horror of the situation had burst upon her,and, instead of a haughty woman, drawn up to receive and trample uponthe insinuations of another, I beheld, alas! a trembling, panting humancreature, conscious that a sword hung above her head, and without a wordto say why it should not fall and slay her.
It was a pitiable change; a heart-rending revelation! I turned fromit as from a confession. But just then, her cousin, who had apparentlyregained her self-possession at the first betrayal of emotion on thepart 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 byit. Evidently much, for the bow with which he greeted her words waslower than ordinary, and the smile with which he met her earnest lookboth deprecatory and reassuring. His glance did not embrace her cousin,though her eyes were fixed upon his face with an inquiry in their depthsmore agonizing than the utterance of any cry would have been. KnowingMr. Gryce as I did, I felt that nothing could promise worse, or be moresignificant, than this transparent disregard of one who seemed to fillthe room with her terror. And, struck with pity, I forgot that MaryLeavenworth had spoken, forgot her very presence in fact, and, turninghastily away, took one step toward her cousin, when Mr. Gryce’s handfalling on my arm stopped me.
“Miss Leavenworth speaks,” said he.
Recalled to myself, I turned my back upon what had so interested me evenwhile it repelled, and forcing myself to make some sort of reply to thefair creature before me, offered my arm and led her toward the door.
Immediately the pale, proud countenance of Mary Leavenworth softenedalmost to the point of smiling;--and here let me say, there never was awoman who could smile and not smile like Mary Leavenworth. Looking in myface, 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 sohorrible, and my cousin there,”--here a little gleam of alarm nickeredinto 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 sawwhen I first entered the room?” Could it be that she was tryingto beguile us from our conjectures, by making light of her formerexpressions? Or was it possible she deceived herself so far as tobelieve us unimpressed by the weighty accusation overheard by us at amoment so critical?
But Eleanore Leavenworth, leaning on the arm of the detective,soon absorbed all my attention. She had regained by this time herself-possession, also, but not so entirely as her cousin. Her stepfaltered as she endeavored to walk, and the hand which rested on hisarm 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, Ibecame conscious of a secret rebellion against the thought; an emotion,shall I say, of thankfulness that it had been myself rather than anotherwho had been allowed to break in upon their privacy, overhear thatsignificant remark, and, shall I acknowledge it, follow Mr. Gryce andthe trembling, swaying figure of Eleanore Leavenworth down-stairs. Notthat I felt the least relenting in my soul towards guilt. Crime hadnever looked so black; revenge, selfishness, hatred, cupidity, neverseemed more loathsome; and yet--but why enter into the consideration ofmy feelings at that time. They cannot be of interest; besides, who canfathom the depths of his own soul, or untangle for others the secretcords of revulsion and attraction which are,
and ever have been, amystery and wonder to himself? Enough that, supporting upon my arm thehalf-fainting form of one woman, but with my attention, and interestdevoted to another, I descended the stairs of the Leavenworth mansion,and re-entered the dreaded presence of those inquisitors of the law whohad been so impatiently awaiting us.
As I once more crossed that threshold, and faced the eager countenancesof those I had left so short a time before, I felt as if ages hadelapsed in the interval; so much can be experienced by the human soul inthe short space of a few over-weighted moments.