One Of Them

“Well, then, you don’t like this marriage. Come, speak out honestly your mind.”

“Why, when I think of the immense disproportion in age; when I see on one side – ”

“Fiddle faddle! if I were seventy, it wouldn’t make it better. I tell you I don’t want fine speeches nor delicate evasions; therefore be the blunt, straightforward fellow you used to be, and say, ‘I don’t like it at all.’”

“Well, here goes, I do not like it at all.”

“Neither do I,” said she, lying back listlessly in her chair, and looking calmly at him. “I see what is passing in your mind, Charles. I read your thoughts in their ebb and flow, and they come to this: ‘Why have you taken such consummate pains about an object you would regret to see accomplished? To what end all your little coquetries and graces, and so forth?’ Well, the question is reasonable enough, and I ‘ll give you only one answer. It amused me, and it worried others. It kept poor May and yourself in a small fever, and I have never through life had self-command enough to deny myself the pleasure of terrifying people at small cost, making them fancy they were drowning in two feet of water.”

“I hope May is grateful; I am sure I am,” said Charles, stiffly.

“Well, if you have not been in the past, I intend you to be so for the future. I mean to relinquish the great prize I had so nearly won; to give up the distinguished honor of being your stepmother, with all the rights and privileges I could have grouped around that station. I mean to abdicate all my power; to leave the dear Heathcotes to the enjoyment of such happiness as their virtues and merits cannot fail to secure them, under the simple condition that they will forget me, or, if that be more than they can promise, that they will never make me the subject of their discussions, nor bring up my name, either in praise or blame. Now understand me aright, Charles,” said she, earnestly; “this is no request prompted by any pique of injured pride or wounded self-love. It is not uttered in the irritation of one who feels rejected by you. It is a grave demand, made as the price of an important concession. I exact that my name be not spoken, or, if uttered by others in your presence, that it be unacknowledged and unnoticed. It is no idle wish, believe me; for who are the victims of the world’s calumnies so often as the friendless, whose names call forth no sponsor? They are the outlaws that any may wound, or even kill, and their sole sanctuary is oblivion.”

“I think you judge us harshly,” began Charles.

But she stopped him.

“No, far from it. I know you all by this time. You are far more generously minded than your neighbors, but there is one trait attaches to human nature everywhere. Every one exaggerates any peril he has passed through, and every man and woman is prone to blacken the character of those who have frightened them. Come, I ‘ll not discuss the matter further. I have all those things to pack up, and some notes to write before I go.”

“Go! Are you going away so soon?”

“To-morrow, at daybreak. I have got tidings of a sick relative, an old aunt, who was very fond of me long ago, and who wishes to have me near her. I should like to see May, and, indeed, Sir William, but I believe it will be better not: I mean that partings are gratuitous sorrows. You will say all that I wish. You will tell them how it happened that I left so hurriedly. I ‘m not sure,” added she, smiling, “that your explanation will be very lucid or very coherent, but the chances are, none will care to question you too closely. Of course you will repeat all my gratitude for the kindness I have met here. I have had some of my happiest days with you,” added she, as if thinking aloud, – “days in which I half forgot the life of trouble that was to be resumed on the morrow. And, above all, say,” said she, with earnestness, “that; when they have received my debt of thanks they are to wipe out my name from the ledger, and remember me no more.”

Charles Heathcote was much moved by her words. The very calm she spoke in had all its effect, and he felt he knew not what of self-accusation as he thought of her lonely and friendless lot. He could not disabuse his mind of the thought that it was through offended pride she was relinquishing the station she had so long striven to attain, and now held within her very grasp. “She is not the selfish creature I had deemed her; she is far, far better than I believed. I have mistaken her, misjudged her. That she has gone through much sorrow is plain; that there may be in her story incidents which she would grieve to see a town talk, is also likely; but are not all these reasons the more for our sympathy and support, and how shall we answer to ourselves, hereafter, for any show of neglect or harshness towards her?”

While he thus reflected, she had turned to the table and was busy writing.

“I have just thought of sending a few farewell lines to May,” said she, talking away as her pen ran along the paper. “We all of us mistake each other in this world; we are valued for what we are not, and deemed deficient in what we have.” She stopped, and then crumpling up the half-written paper in her hand, said: “No, I’ll not write, – at least, not now. You ‘ll tell her everything, – ay, Charles, everything!”

Here she fixed her eyes steadfastly on him, as though to look into his very thoughts. “You and May Leslie will be married, and one of your subjects of mysterious talk when you ‘re all alone will be that strange woman who called herself Mrs. Penthony Morris. What wise guesses and shrewd conjectures do I fancy you making; how cunningly you ‘ll put together fifty things that seem to illustrate her story, and yet have no bearing upon it; and how cleverly you ‘ll construct a narrative for her without one solitary atom of truth. Well, she ‘ll think of you, too, but in a different spirit, and she will be happier than I suspect if she do not often wish to live over again the long summer days and starry nights at Marlia.”

“May is certain to ask me about Clara, where she is, and if we are likely to see her again.”

“And you ‘ll tell her that as I did not speak of her, your own delicacy imposed such a reserve that you could not ask these questions. Good-bye. But that I want to be forgotten, I ‘d give you a keepsake. Good-bye, – and forget me.”

She turned away at the last word, and passed into an inner room. Charles stood for an instant or two irresolute, and then walked slowly away.

CHAPTER IV. FOUND OUT

Quackinboss and the Laytons came back in due time to England, and at once hastened to London. They had traced Winthrop and Trover at Liverpool, and heard of their having left for town, and thither they followed them in all eagerness. The pursuit had now become a chase, with all its varying incidents of good or bad fortune. Each took his allotted part, going out of a morning on his especial beat, and returning late of an evening to report his success or failure.

Quackinboss frequented all the well-known haunts of his countrymen, hoping to chance upon some one who had seen Winthrop, or could give tidings of him. Old Layton – the doctor, as we shall for the remainder of our brief space call him – was more practical. He made searches for Hawke’s will at Doctors’ Commons, and found the transcript of a brief document irregularly drawn, and disposing of a few thousand pounds, but not making mention of any American property. He next addressed himself to that world-known force, so celebrated in all the detection of crime; he described the men he sought for, and offered rewards for their discovery, carefully protesting the while that nothing but a vague suspicion attached to them.

As for Alfred, he tried to take his share in what had such interest for the others. He made careful notes of the points assigned to him for investigation; he learned names and addresses, and references to no end; he labored hard to imbue himself with the zeal of the others, but it would not do. All his thoughts, hopes, and wishes had another direction, and he longed impatiently for an opportunity to make his escape from them, and set out for Italy and discover Clara. His only clew to her was through Stocmar; but that gentleman was abroad, and not expected for some days in London. Little did the doctor or Quackinboss suspect that Alfred’s first call on every morning was at the private entrance of the Regent’s Theatre, and his daily question as invariably the same demand, “When do you expect Mr. Stocmar in town?”

Poor fellow! he was only bored by that tiresome search, and hated every man, woman, and child concerned in the dismal history; and yet no other subject was ever discussed, no other theme brought up amongst them. In vain Alfred tried to turn the conversation upon questions of public interest; by some curious sympathy they would not be drawn away into that all-absorbing vortex, and, start from what point they might, they were certain to arrive at last at the High Court of Jersey.

It was on one evening, as they sat together around the fire, that, by dint of great perseverance and consummate skill, Alfred had drawn them away to talk of India and the war there. Anecdotes of personal heroism succeeded, and for every achievement of our gallant fellows at Lucknow, Quackinboss steadily quoted some not less daring exploit of the Mexican war. Thus discussing courage, they came at last to the nice question, – of its characteristics in different nations, and even in individuals.

“In cool daring, in confronting peril with perfect collectedness, and such a degree of self-possession as confers every possible chance of escape on its possessor, a woman is superior to us all,” said the doctor, who for some time had been silently reflecting. “One case particularly presents itself to my mind,” resumed he. “It was connected with that memorable trial at Jersey.”

Alfred groaned heavily, and pushed back his chair from the group.

“The case was this,” continued the old man: “while the police were eagerly intent on tracing out all who were implicated in the murder, suspicion being rife on every hand, every letter that passed between the supposed confederates was opened and read, and a strict watch set over any who were believed likely to convey messages from one to the other.

“On the evening of the inquest – it was about an hour after dark – the window of an upper room was gently opened, and a woman’s voice called out to a countryman below, ‘Will you earn half a crown, my good man, and take this note to Dr. Layton’s, in the town?’ He agreed at once, and the letter and the bribe were speedily thrown into his hat. Little did the writer suspect it was a policeman in disguise she had charged with her commission! The fellow hastened off with his prize to the magistrate, who, having read the note, resealed it, and forwarded it to me. Here it is. I have shown it to so many that its condition is become very frail, but it is still readable. It was very brief, and ran thus: —

“Dear Friend, – My misery will plead for me if I thus address you. I have a favor to ask, and my broken heart tells me you will not refuse me. I want you to cut me off a lock of my darling’s hair. Take it from the left temple, where it is longest, and bring it to-morrow to his forlorn widow,

“‘Louisa Hawke.’

“From the moment they read that note, the magistrates felt it an outrage to suspect her. I do not myself mean to implicate her in the great guilt, – far from it; but here was a bid for sympathy, and put forward in all the coolness of a deliberate plan; for the policeman himself told me, years after, that she saw him at Dover, and gave him a sovereign, saying jocularly, ‘I think you look better when dressed as a countryman.’ Now, I call this consummate calculation.”

As he was speaking, Quackinboss had drawn near the candles, and was examining the writing.

“I wonder,” said be, “what the fellows who affect to decipher character in handwriting would say to this? It’s all regular and well formed.”

“Is it very small? Are the letters minute? – for that, they allege, is one of the indications of a cruel nature,” said Alfred. “They show a specimen of Lucrezia Borgia’s, that almost requires a microscope to read it.”

“No,” said Quackinboss; “that’s what they call a bold, free hand; the writing, one would say, of a slapdash gal that was n’t a-goin’ to count consequences.”

“Let me interpret her,” said Alfred, drawing the candles towards him, and preparing for a very solemn and deliberate judgment. “What’s this?” cried he, almost wildly. “I know this hand well; I could swear to it. You shall see if I cannot.”’ And, without another word, he arose, and rushed from the room. Before the doctor or Quackinboss could recover from their astonishment, Alfred was back again, holding two notes in his hand. “Come here, both of you, now,” cried he, “and tell me, are not these in the same writing?” They were several short notes, – invitations or messages from Marlia about riding-parties, signed Louisa Morris. “What do you say to that? Is that word ‘Louisa’ written by the same hand or not?” cried Alfred, trembling from head to foot as he spoke.

“‘Tarnal snakes if it ain’t!” broke out Quackinboss; “and our widow woman was the wife of that murdered fellow Hawke.”

“And Clara his daughter!” muttered Alfred, as he covered his face with his hands to hide his emotion.

“These were written by the same person, that’s clear enough,” said the doctor, closely scrutinizing every word and every letter; “there are marks of identity that cannot be disputed. But who is this widow you speak of?”

Alfred could only stammer out, “He ‘ll tell you all,” as he pointed to Quackinboss, for a faintish sick sensation crept over his frame, and he shook like one in the cold stage of an ague. The American, however, gave a very calm and connected narrative of their first meeting with Mrs. Penthony Morris and her supposed daughter at Lucca; how that lady, from a chance acquaintance with the Heathcotes, had established an intimacy, and then a friendship there.

“Describe her to me, – tell me something of her appearance,” burst in the old man with impatience; for as his mind followed the long-sought-for “trail,” his eagerness became beyond his power of control. “Blue eyes, that might be mistaken for black, or dark hazel, had she not? and the longest of eyelashes, the mouth full and pouting, but the chin sharply turned, and firm-looking? Am I right?”

“That are you, and teeth as reg’lar as a row of soldiers.”

“Her foot, too, was perfect. It had been modelled scores of times by sculptors, and there were casts of it with a Roman sandal, or naked on a plantain-leaf, in her drawing-room. You’ve seen her foot?”

“It was a grand foot! I have seen it,” said the American; “and if I was one as liked monarchy, I ‘d say it might have done for a queen to stand on in front of a throne.”

“What was her voice like?” asked the old man, eagerly.

“Low and soft, with almost a tremor in it when she asked some trifling favor,” said Alfred, now speaking for the first time.

“Herself, – her very self. I know her well, by that!” cried the old man, triumphantly. “I carried those trembling accents in my memory for many and many a day. Go on, and tell me more of her. Who was this same Morris, – when, how, and where were they married?”

“We never knew; none of us ever saw him. Some said he was living, and in China or India. Some called her a widow. The girl Clara was called hers – ”

“No. Clara was Hawke’s. She must have been Hawke’s daughter by his first wife, the niece of this Winthrop.”