XI.
LOVE.
Frank's next business was to read the packet of letters which had beenfound in old Mrs. Wakeham's bed. The box abstracted by Huckins had beenexamined during his absence and found to contain securities, which,together with the ready money and papers taken from the clock, amountedto so many thousands that it had become quite a serious matter to findthe heir. Huckins still clung to the house, but he gave no trouble. Hewas satisfied, he said, to abide by the second will, being convincedthat if he were patient he would yet inherit through it. His sisterHarriet was without doubt dead, and he professed great willingness togive any aid possible in verifying the fact. But as he could adduce noproofs nor suggest any clue to the discovery of this sister'swhereabouts if living, or of her grave if dead, his offers weredisregarded, and he was allowed to hermitize in the old houseundisturbed.
Meantime, false clues came in and false claims were raised by variousneedy adventurers. To follow up these clues and sift these claims tookmuch of Frank Etheridge's time, and when he was not engaged upon thisactive work he employed himself in reading those letters to which I havealready alluded.
They were of old date and were from various sources. But they conveyedlittle that was likely to be of assistance to him. Of the twenty hefinally read, only one was signed Harriet, and while that was veryinteresting to him, as giving some glimpses into the early history ofthis woman, it did not give him any facts upon which either he or thepolice could work. I will transcribe the letter here:
"MY DEAR CYNTHIA:
"You are the only one of the family to whom I dare write. I have displeased father too much to ever hope for his forgiveness, while mother will never go against his wishes, even if the grief of it should make me die. I am very unhappy, I can tell you that, more unhappy than even they could wish, but they must never know it, never. I have still enough pride to wish to keep my misery to myself, and it would be just the one thing that would make my burden unbearable, to have them know I regretted the marriage on account of which I have been turned away from their hearts and home forever. But I do regret it, Cynthia, from the bottom of my heart. He is not kind, and he is not a gentleman, and I made a terrible mistake, as you can see. But I do not think I was to blame. He seemed so devoted, and used to make me such beautiful speeches that I never thought to ask if he were a good man; and when father and mother opposed him so bitterly that we had to meet by stealth, he was always so considerate, and yet so determined, that he seemed to me like an angel till we were married, and then it was too late to do anything but accept my fate. I think he expected father to forgive us and take us home, and when he found these expectations false he became both ugly and sullen, and so my life is nothing but a burden to me, and I almost wish I was dead. But I am very strong, and so is he, and so we are likely to live on, pulling away at the chain that binds us, till both are old and gray.
"Pretty talk for a young girl's reading, is it not? But it relieves me to pour out my heart to some one that loves me, and I know that you do. But I shall never talk like this to you again or ever write you another letter. You are my father's darling, and I want you to remain so, and if you think too much of me, or spend your time in writing to me, he will find it out, and that will help neither of us. So good-by, little Cynthia, and do not be angry that I put a false address at the top of the page, or refuse to tell you where I live, or where I am going. From this hour Harriet is dead to you, and nothing shall ever induce me to break the silence which should remain between us but my meeting you in another world, where all the follies of this will be forgotten in the love that has survived both life and death.
"Your sorrowing but true sister, "HARRIET."
The date was forty years back, and the address was New York City--anaddress which she acknowledged to be false. The letter was withoutenvelope.
The only other allusion to this sister found in the letters was in ashort note written by a person called Mary, and it ran thus:
"Do you know whom I have seen? Your sister Harriet. It was in the depot at New Haven. She was getting off the train and I was getting on, but I knew her at once for all the change which ten years make in the most of us, and catching her by the arm, I cried, 'Harriet, Harriet, where are you living?' How she blushed and what a start she gave! but as soon as she saw who it was she answered readily enough, 'In Marston,' and disappeared in the crowd before I could say another word. Wasn't it a happy chance, and isn't it a relief to know she is alive and well. As for her looks, they were quite lively, and she wore nice clothing like one in very good circumstances. So you see her marriage did not turn out as badly as some thought."
This was of old date also, and gave no clue to the sender, save such aswas conveyed by the signature Mary. Mary what? Mr. Huckins was the onlyperson who was likely to know.
Frank, who had but little confidence in this man and none in his desireto be of use in finding the legal heir, still thought it best to ask himif there was any old friend of the family whose first name was Mary. Sohe went to Flatbush one afternoon, and finding the old miser in hishouse, put to him this question and waited for his reply.
It came just as he expected, with a great show of willingness that yetwas without any positive result.
"Mary? Mary?" he repeated, "we have known a dozen Marys. Do you mean anyone belonging to this town?"
"I mean some one with whom your sister was intimate thirty years ago.Some one who knew your other sister, the one who married Smith; some onewho would simply sign her first name in writing to Mrs. Wakeham, and whoin speaking of Mrs. Smith would call her Harriet."
"Ah!" ejaculated the cautious Huckins, dropping his eyes for fear theywould convey more than his tongue might deem fit. "I'm afraid I was tooyoung in those days to know much about my sister's friends. Can you tellme where she lived, or give me any information beyond her first name bywhich I could identify her?"
"No," was the lawyer's quick retort; "if I could I should not need toconsult you; I could find the woman myself."
"Ah, I see, I see, and I wish I could help you, but I really don't knowwhom you mean, I don't indeed, sir. May I ask where you got the name,and why you want to find the woman?"
"Yes, for it involves your prospects. This Mary, whoever she may havebeen, was the one to tell Mrs. Wakeham that Harriet Smith lived inMarston. Doesn't that jog your memory, Huckins? You know you cannotinherit the property till it is proved that Harriet is dead and left noheirs."
"I know," he whined, and looked quite disconsolate, but he gave thelawyer no information, and Frank left at last with the feeling that hehad reached the end of his rope.
As a natural result, his thoughts turned to Marston--were they ever faraway from there? "I will go and ease my heart of some of its burden,"thought he; "perhaps my head may be clearer then, and my mind freer forwork." Accordingly he took the train that day, and just as the dew ofevening began to fall, he rode into Marston and stopped at MissCavanagh's door.
He found Hermione sitting at an old harp. She did not seem to have beenplaying but musing, and her hands hung somewhat listlessly upon thestrings. As she rose the instrument gave out a thrilling wail that wokean echo in his sensibilities for which he was not prepared. He hadconsidered himself in a hopeful frame of mind, and behold, he waslaboring instead under a morbid fear that his errand would be in vain.Emma was not present, but another lady was, whose aspect of gentle oldage was so sweet and winning that he involuntarily bent his head inreverence to her, before Hermione could utter the introduction which wastrembling on her tongue.
"My father's sister," said she, "and our very dear aunt. She is quitedeaf, so she would not hear you speak if you attempted it, but she readsfaces wonderfully, and you see she is smiling at you as she does notsmile at every one. You may consider yourself introduced."
Frank, who had a tender heart for all mis
fortune, surveyed the old ladywistfully. How placid she looked, how at home with her thoughts! It waspeacefulness to the spirit to meet her eye. Bowing again, he turnedtowards Hermione and remarked:
"What a very lovely face! She looks as if she had never known anythingbut the pleasures of life."
"On the contrary," returned Hermione, "she has never known much but itsdisappointments. But they have left no trace on her face, or in hernature, I think. She is an embodiment of trust, and in the great silencethere is about her, she hears sounds and sees visions which are deniedto others. But when did you come to Marston?"
He told her he had just arrived, and, satisfied with the slight look ofconfusion which mantled her face at this acknowledgment, launched intotalk all tending to one end, his love for her. But he did not reach thatend immediately; for if the old lady could not hear, she could see, andFrank, for all his impetuosity, possessed sufficient restraint uponhimself not to subject himself or Hermione to the criticism of even thismost benignant relative. Not till Mrs. Lovell left the room, as she didafter a while,--being a very wise old lady as well as mild,--did heallow himself to say:
"There can be but one reason now for my coming to Marston--to see you,Miss Cavanagh; I have no other business here."
"I thought," she began, with some confusion,--evidently she had beentaken by surprise,--"that you were looking for some one, a HarrietSmith, I think, whom you had reason to believe once lived here."
"I did come to Marston originally on that errand, but I have so farfailed in finding any trace of her in this place that I begin to thinkwe were mistaken in our inferences that she had ever lived here."
"Yet you had reason for thinking that she did," Hermione went on, withthe anxiety of one desirous to put off the declaration she probably sawcoming.
"Yes; we had reasons, but they prove to have been unfounded."
"Was--was your motive for finding her an important one?" she asked, withsome hesitation, and a look of curiosity in her fine eyes.
"Quite; a fortune of some thousands is involved in her discovery. She isheiress to at least a hundred thousand dollars from a sister she has notseen since they were girls together."
"Indeed!" and Hermione's eyes opened in some surprise, then fell beforethe burning light in his.
"But do not let us talk of a matter that for me is now of secondaryinterest," cried he, letting the full stream of his ardor find its way."You are all I can think of now; you, you, whom I have loved since Icaught the first glimpse of your face one night through the windowyonder. Though I have known you but a little while, and though I cannothope to have awakened a kindred feeling in you, you have so filled mymind and heart during the few short weeks since I learned your name,that I find it impossible to keep back the words which the sight of yourface calls forth. I love you, and I want to guard you from lonelinessforever. Will you give me that sweet right?"
"But," she cried, starting to her feet in an excitement that made herface radiantly beautiful, "you do not seem to think of my misfortune,my----"
"Do you mean this scar?" he whispered softly, gliding swiftly to herside. "It is no misfortune in my eyes; on the contrary, I think itendears you to me all the more. I love it, Hermione, because it is apart of you. See how I feel towards it!" and he bent his head with aquick movement, and imprinted a kiss upon the mark she had probablynever touched herself but with shrinking.
"Oh!" went up from her lips in a low cry, and she covered her face withher hands in a rush of feeling that was not entirely connected with thatmoment.
"Did you think I would let that stand in my way?" he asked, with aproud tenderness with which no sensitive woman could fail to beimpressed. "It is one reason more for a man to love your beautiful face,your noble manners, your soft white hand. I think half the pleasurewould be gone from the prospect of loving you if I did not hope to makeyou forget what you have perhaps too often remembered."
She dropped her hands, and he saw her eyes fixed upon him with a strangelook.
"O how wicked I have been!" she murmured. "And what good men there arein the world!"
He shook his head.
"It is not goodness," he began, but she stopped him with a wave of herhand.
A strange elation seemed to have taken hold of her, and she walked thefloor with lifted head and sparkling eye.
"It restores my belief in love," she exclaimed, "and in mankind." Andshe seemed content just to brood upon that thought.
But he was not; naturally he wished for some assurance from her; so hestepped in her path as she was crossing the room, and, taking her by thehands, said, smilingly:
"Do you know how you can testify your appreciation in a way to make meperfectly happy?"
She shook her head, and tried to draw her hands away.
"By taking a walk, the least walk in the world, beyond that woodengate."
She shuddered and her hands fell from his.
"You do not know what you ask," said she; then after a moment, "it wasthat I meant and not the scar, when I spoke of my misfortune. I cannotgo outside the garden wall, and I was wrong to listen to your words fora moment, knowing what a barrier this fact raises up between us."
"Hermione,--" he was very serious now, and she gathered up all herstrength to meet the questions she knew were coming,--"why cannot you gobeyond the garden gate? Cannot you tell me? Or do you hesitate becauseyou are afraid I shall smile at your reasons for this determinedseclusion?"
"I am not afraid of your smiling, but I cannot give my reasons. That Iconsider them good must answer for us both."
"Very well, then, we will let them answer. You need not take the walk Iask, but give me instead another pleasure--your promise to be my wife."
"Your wife?"
"Yes, Hermione."
"With such a secret between us?"
"It will not be a secret long."
"Mr. Etheridge," she cried with emotion, "you do not know the woman youthus honor. If it had been Emma----"
"It is you I love."
"It would have been safe," she went on as if she had not heard him. "Sheis lovely, and amiable, and constant, and in her memory there is no darkscar as there is in mine, a scar deeper than this," she said, laying herfinger on her cheek, "and fully as ineffaceable."
"Some day you will take me into your confidence," he averred, "and thenthat scar will gradually disappear."
"What confidence you have in me?" she cried. "What have you seen, whatcan you see in me to make you trust me so in face of my own words?"
"I think it is the look in your eyes. There is purity there, Hermione,and a deep sadness which is too near like sorrow to be the result of anevil action."
"What do you call evil?" she cried. Then suddenly, "I once did a greatwrong--in a fit of temper--and I can never undo it, never, yet itsconsequences are lasting. Would you give your heart to a woman who couldso forget herself, and who is capable of forgetting herself again if herpassions are roused as they were then?"
"Perhaps not," he acknowledged, "but my heart is already given and I donot know how to take it back."
"Yet you must," said she. "No man with a career before him should marrya recluse, and I am that, whatever else I may or may not be. I would bedoing a second ineffaceable wrong if I took advantage of your generousimpulse and bound you to a fate that in less than two months would beintolerably irksome to one of your temperament."
"Now you do not know me," he protested.
But she heeded neither his words nor his pleading look.
"I know human nature," she avowed, "and if I do not mingle much withthe world I know the passions that sway it. I can never be the wife ofany man, Mr. Etheridge, much less of one so generous and soself-forgetting as yourself."
"Do you--are you certain?" he asked.
"Certain."
"Then I have not succeeded in raising one throb of interest in yourbreast?"
She opened her lips and his heart stood still for her answer, but sheclosed them again and remained standing so long with her
hands lockedtogether and her face downcast, that his hopes revived again, and he wasabout to put in another plea for her hand when she looked up and saidfirmly:
"I think you ought to know that my heart does not respond to your suit.It may make any disappointment which you feel less lasting."
He uttered a low exclamation and stepped back.
"I beg your pardon," said he, "I ought not to have annoyed you. You willforget my folly, I hope."
"Do you forget it!" cried she; but her lips trembled and he saw it.
"Hermione! Hermione!" he murmured, and was down at her feet before shecould prevent it. "Oh, how I love you!" he breathed, and kissed her handwildly, passionately.