I kissed her fervently, thanking G.o.d for this great deliverance.
CHAPTER LX.
THE TWO LETTERS.
That very evening young Bosworth came to the house, looking almost well, and _so_ animated. It was not quite dark, and he saw me walking on the terrace; for I had need of air and solitude. He took my hand with the old cordiality, and would not let it go.
"Lawrence has been at our house," he said. "You know what has happened.
She rejected him--she does not love him. This he told me with his own lips. It was generous; but he is a n.o.ble fellow. Indeed, I pity him."
I pressed the hand which grasped mine, and, reading the question that spoke from his face, told him to go in, that Jessie was in the drawing-room--and alone.
He listened for a moment to the music which came stealing through the windows, holding his breath in sweet suspense; then he lifted my hand to his lips and went into the house. The roses were bright on Jessie"s cheek when I entered the drawing-room an hour after, and, for one night, we had something like a dream of happiness in that gloomy dwelling.
The next day Mrs. Dennison kept her word, and came out from her solitude. She must have suffered terribly; for I have never seen a face so altered. All her bloom was gone in one night; her eyes had grown larger with hidden anguish, which left dusky circles around them. Both Jessie and Mr. Lee were struck visibly by the change.
We were all in the library when she came in, grave, sad, and with that look of deep sorrow in her face. Mr. Lee was greatly disturbed and went forward to meet her, inquiring anxiously about her health.
The woman let her hand rest in his clasp a moment, and drew it away with a sorrowful glance from beneath her drooping lashes. Advancing up the room, she leaned one hand on a table for support, trembling visibly from agitation or weakness.
"Mr. Lee!"
The voice faltered with his name, and once more she lifted those mournful eyes to his.
"Are you ill, or has some trouble come upon you?" inquired Mr. Lee, greatly agitated.
"Yes, I am ill, and in deep trouble," she answered. "Oh! Mr. Lee, let me beseech you to protect my good name from the enemies that have a.s.sailed it!"
"Your good name, my dear madam? Who would dare say a word against any one sheltered under my roof?"
"I do not know--the whole thing bewilders me; but some great wrong has been done--some cruel slander said, or I should not be called upon to endure such insults as met me from that proud old lady--should not be outraged by letters like this!"
She took a letter from her pocket and gave it to Mr. Lee, watching him as he read it.
The letter was a brief one; but Mr. Lee was a long time in reading it.
His eyes went back upon every line, and the fire burned hotly in them when he came to an end. There was something very startling in the changes of his face as he glanced from the paper to Jessie and from her to me. Never have I seen a look so terribly stern.
"Where did you get this letter?" he inquired, crushing the paper in his hand.
"It came to me by the mail; you will see by the post-mark," was the reply.
He glanced at the post-mark, which was that of the nearest town; then, striding up to his daughter, held the open letter before her eyes.
Jessie read it bewildered; but at last her features settled into a look of astonishment.
"Is this your writing, Miss Lee?"
"No," she answered, but in a hesitating way. "No, no; I never wrote that!"
She had read a portion of the letter, when this emphatic denial broke from her lips.
"Yet a disinterested person would swear that it was your handwriting, Jessie Lee."
The color flashed into Jessie"s cheek; but she constrained herself, answering calmly,--
"I did not write it, father."
Mr. Lee searched her through and through with his stern glances; then, coldly taking the letter from her hand, he held it toward me.
"Say, madam, you should be acquainted with that young lady"s handwriting; is this hers?"
I took the letter and read it. The handwriting was certainly like Jessie"s, but with an attempt to disguise. The contents convinced me that she never wrote it. They ran thus:--
"MADAM: You have wrought mischief enough in the family of an honorable man to be content without bringing disgrace upon your own name. It should be enough that you have broken the life of as good a woman as ever lived; that you have alienated a father from his only child, and separated Mr. Lee from his best friends. If you have still any regard for your own reputation, or for the welfare of those who have never wronged you, leave this house.
"A FRIEND."
"No," I answered, "Jessie did not write this; the thing is impossible!"
"I make no charges--heaven forbid!" said Mrs. Dennison; "but it is enough that a letter like that could have been written to me while under your roof, sir. Self-respect forbids that I should remain here another day. I have sent to the town for a carriage."
"You cannot intend it!" exclaimed Mr. Lee. "Not till this thing has been thoroughly explained and atoned for, must you leave a house that has been honored by your presence. Jessie Lee, have you nothing to say?"
"Father, what can I say?"
"Nothing, my dear Miss Lee; I ask nothing, and accuse no one further than is necessary to my own exculpation," said Mrs. Dennison, in a grieved voice. "But I have been cruelly a.s.sailed. One word more, Mr.
Lee, and I am ready to go. Forgive me if I speak on a subject painful to us all; but the death of your wife has been alluded to in that infamous paper--alluded to in connection with myself. When Mrs. Lee was taken ill, she had in her hand a letter, which only left her hold in the last moment. It was open. You may remember I picked it up from the floor, folded it, and gave it into your own hands. Of course, I did not read the letter, and am, to this day, ignorant of its contents; but I did glance at the handwriting, and it was like this."
I felt myself growing cold; the faces before me swam in mist. Had not Lottie said that the envelope was directed in Jessie"s handwriting? Had I not myself recognized the fact?
Mrs. Dennison spoke again:--
"Another thing has haunted me since that mournful day. As I bent over the dying angel, she whispered three words in my ear; they were: "Read the letter." Sir, there is a connection between this and the letter which your wife held in her grasp when she died. I entreat, nay, I demand, that you tell me what the connection is."
"The letter!" said Mr. Lee, with a start. "She did hold a paper, and you gave it to me, I remember. It is here; I had no heart to read it."
Thrusting a hand beneath his vest, he drew forth a small pocket-book, and took from it the paper which I remembered so well. It was crushed and had been hastily folded; but even from the distance I could see that the handwriting was that of the note I had just read.
In Mr. Lee"s eyes alone you saw the agony of astonishment that possessed him. At last he turned his gaze from the letter and fixed it on Jessie.
She was greatly disturbed--the very sight of the paper in her father"s hand was enough for this; but she met his glance with a mournful look.
There was neither terror nor surprise in it; simply deep sorrow, such as springs from a renewal of painful memories.
He walked toward her with the paper in his hand, touched it with his finger, and tried to speak, but could not--the anguish that locked his features chained his voice also. Jessie was frightened and sprang up.
"Father, father! what is the matter? What have I done?"