The next day Mr. Alford came to town and advised Mark to marry
forthwith.
"I've ben thinkin' it over," he said, "and I b'lieve it's the best
thing to be done. You've got a tough customer to deal with, and it may
be some trouble to git all the property out of his hands. But when the
heiress is married, her husband can act for her to better advantage. I
guess I'll speak to Mr. Rook and have the 'fair 'tended to right
away."
Mark submitted the matter to Mildred, who blushed properly, and
thought it rather hasty. But Mr. Alford's clear reasoning prevailed,
and the time was appointed at once. Mark and Mr. Alford then went to
call upon the lawyer. They entered his office without knocking, and by
chance found him busy with the accounts and papers; they were
scattered over the table, and he was making computations. As soon as
he was aware of the presence of visitors, he made an effort to slide
the documents under some loose sheets of paper; but Mark knew the bold
hand at once, and without a word seized the papers and handed them to
Mr. Alford.
"Not very p'lite, Square, I know," said Mr. Alford, "but possession is
nine p'ints of the law, as I've heerd you say; and as you won't deny
the handwritin', I s'pose you don't question my right to these 'ere."
The rage of Mr. Clamp may be imagined.
"Good mornin', Square," said the triumphant executor. "When we've
looked over these affairs, we'll trouble you and the widder that was,
to 'count for what the schedool calls for."
The simple preparations for the wedding were soon made, and the
honest, great-hearted farmer had the pleasure of giving away the
bride. It was a joyful, but not a merry wedding; both had passed
through too many trials, and had too many recollections. And the
evident decline of Mr. Hardwick made Mark sad and apprehensive. But he
devoutly thanked God, as he clasped his bride to his bosom, for the
providence that had brought to him the fulfilment of his dearest
hopes.
Here we might stop, according to ancient custom, leaving our hero and
heroine to their happiness. But though a wedding is always an event of
interest, there are other things to be narrated before we have done
with our story.
Not long after, Mark called at the Kinloch house, then occupied by Mr.
Clamp; as a measure of precaution, he took Mr. Alford with him.
Mildred had never regained her wardrobe; everything that was dear to
her was still in her stepmother's keeping,--her father's picture, her
own mother's miniature, the silver cup she had used from infancy, and
all the elegant and tasteful articles that had accumulated in a house
in which no wish was left ungratified. Ever since the session of the
Probate Court, the house had been shut to visitors, if any there had
been. Mrs. Clamp had not been seen once out of doors. But after
waiting a time, Mark and his friend were admitted. As they entered the
house, the bare aspect of the rooms confirmed the rumors which Mark
had heard. Mrs. Clamp received them with a kind of sullen civility,
and, upon hearing the errand, replied,--
"Certainly, Mrs. Davenport can have her clothes. She need not have
sent more than one man to get them. Is that all?"
"Not quite," said Mark. "Perhaps you are not aware of the change which
the discovery of the will may make in your circumstances. I do not
speak of the punishment which the fraud merits, but of the rights
which are now vested in me. First, I am desired to ask after the
plate, jewels, furs, and wardrobe of the first Mrs. Kinloch."
Mrs. Clamp was silent. A word let fall by Lucy suddenly flashed into
Mark's mind, and he intimated to the haughty woman his purpose to go
into the east front-chamber.
"Fine gentlemen," she said at length, "to pry into a lady's private
apartment! You will not dare enter it without my permission!"
And she stood defiantly in the doorway. But, without parley, Mark and
Mr. Alford pushed by her and walked up the staircase, not heeding the
shout of Mr. Clamp, who had followed them to the house.
"It might seem mean," said Mark to Mr. Alford; "but I think you'll
agree presently, that it wasn't a case for ceremony."
He stripped the clothes from the bed. The pillows were stuffed with
valuable furs; fine linen and embroideries filled the bolsters. The
feather-sack contained dresses of rich and costly fabrics,--the styles
showing them to be at least twenty years old. And in the mattress were
stowed away the dinner and tea services of silver, together with
porcelain, crystal, and Bohemian ware.
"What a deal o' comfort a body could take in sleepin' on a bed stuffed
like this 'ere!" said Mr. Alford; "I sh'd think he'd dream of the
'Rabian Nights."
"After this, Madam," said Mark, upon returning to the hall, "you can
hardly expect any special lenity from me. The will allowed you an
annuity of one thousand dollars while you remained single; since you
are married your interest ceases, but you shall receive two hundred a
year. The house, however, belongs to my wife. Your husband there has a
home to which you can go."
"Yes," said the lawyer, "he _has_ a home, and won't be beholden to any
man for a roof to shelter his family."
The pride of the woman was still unbent. Though her cheek was blanched
and her lips were bitten blue, still she stood erect and her head
turned queenly as ever. The glance she threw to the man who called her
wife was enough to have pierced him. Turning to Mark, she said,--
"If you will come to-morrow,--or Monday, rather,--you can have
possession of the house and property. My own things can be easily
removed, and it will be a simple matter to make ready for new comers."
"I could keep them out of it a year, if I chose," said Mr. Clamp.
"But I do not choose," said she, with superb haughtiness.
"Wal, good mornin'," said Mr. Alford.
As they left the house, Mrs. Clamp sat down in the silent room.
Without, the wind whistled through the naked trees and whirled up
spiral columns of leaves; the river below was cased in ice; the
passers-by looked pinched with cold, and cast hurried glances over
their shoulders at the ill-fated house and the adjacent
burying-ground. Within, the commotion, the chill, the hurry, the
fright, were even more intense. What now remained to be done? Her son,
vanquished in love by a blacksmith's _protégé_, had fled, and left her
to meet her fate alone. The will had been discovered, and, as if by a
special interposition of Providence, the victim of her son's passions
had been the instrument of vengeance. The lawyer who had worked upon
her fears had proved unable to protect her. The estate was out of her
hands; the property with which she had hoped to escape from the hated
town and join her son was seized; she was a ruined, disgraced woman.
She had faced the battery of curious eyes, as she walked with the
husband she despised to the Sunday services; but what screen had she
now that her pride was humbled? The fearful struggle in the mind of
the lonely woman in the chill and silent room, who shall describe it?
She denied admission to the servants and her husband, and through the
long evening still sat by the darkening window, far into the dim and
gusty night.
Squire Clamp went to bed moody, if not enraged; but when, on waking,
he found his wife still absent, he became alarmed. Early in the
morning he tracked her through a light snow, that had sifted down
during the night, to the river-bank, at the bend where the current
keeps the ice from closing over. An hour after, some neighbors,
hastily summoned, made a search at the dam. One of them, crossing the
flume by Mr. Hardwick's shop, broke the newly-formed ice and there
found the drifting body of Mrs. Clamp. Her right hand, stretched out
stiff, was thrust against the floats of the water-wheel, as if, even
in death, she remembered her hate against the family whose fortune had
risen upon her overthrow!