A LAST WORD.
Did Marah Leighton will the coming of her old lover to my inn on that
fatal night? That is the question I asked, when, with the first breaking
of the morning light, I discovered lying on the table under an empty
phial, a letter addressed, not to her husband, nor to her child, but to
him, Mark Felt. It is a question that will never be answered, but I know
that he comforts himself with the supposition, and allows the trembling
hope to pass, at times, across his troubled spirit, that in the
bitterness of those last hours some touch of the divine mercy may have
moved her soul and made her fitter for his memory to dwell upon.
The letter I afterward read. It was as follows:
TO THE MAN WHO GAVE ALL, BORE ALL, AND REAPED NOTHING BUT SUFFERING:
I am not worthy to write you, even with the
prospect of death before me. But an influence I
do not care to combat drives me to make you, of
all men, the confidant of my remorse.
I did not perish sixteen years ago in the
Hudson River. I lived to share in and profit
by a crime that has left an indelible stain
upon my life and an ineffaceable darkness
within my soul. You know, or soon will know,
what that crime was and how we prospered in it.
Daring as it was dreadful, I heard its fearful
details planned by his lips, without a shudder,
because I was mad in those days, mad for
wealth, mad for power, mad for adventure. The
only madness I did not feel was love. This I
say to comfort a pride that must have been
sorely wounded in those days, as sorely wounded
as your heart.
Edwin Urquhart could make my eyes shine and my
blood run swiftly, but not so swiftly as to
make me break my troth with you, had he not
sworn to me that through him I should gain what
moved me more than any man's love. How he was
to accomplish this I could not see in the
beginning, and was so little credulous of his
being able to keep his oaths that I let myself
be drawn by you almost to the church door.
But I got no further. There in the crowd he
stood with a command in his eyes which forbade
any further advance. Though I comprehended
nothing then, I obeyed his look and went back,
for my heart was not in any marriage, and it
was in the hopes to which his looks seemed to
point. Later he told me what those hopes were.
He had been down to Long Island, and, while
there, had chanced to hear in some tavern of
the Happy-Go-Lucky Inn and its secret chamber,
and he saw, or thought he saw, how he could
make me his without losing the benefit of an
alliance with Miss Dudleigh. And I thought I
saw also, and entered into his plans, though
they comprised crime and entailed horrors upon
me from which woman naturally shrinks. I was
hard as the nether millstone of which the Bible
speaks, and went determinedly on in the path of
dissimulation and crime which had been marked
out for me, till we came to this inn. Then,
owing, perhaps, to my long imprisonment in the
dreadful box, I began to feel qualms of
physical fear and such harrowing mental
forebodings that more than once during that
terrible evening I came near shouting for
release.
But I was held back by apprehensions as great
as any from which a premature release from my
place of hiding could have freed me. I dared
not face Honora, and I dared not subject Edwin
Urquhart to the consequences of a public
recognition of our perfidy, and so I let my
opportunity go by, and became the sharer, as I
was already the instigator, of the unheard-of
crime by which I became, in the eyes of the
world, his wife.
What I suffered during its perpetration no word
of mine can convey. I cringed to her moans; I
shook under the blow that stifled them. And
when all was over, and the bolts which confined
me were shot back, and I found myself once more
on my feet and in the free air of this most
horrible of rooms, I looked about, not for him,
but her, and when I did not see her or any
token of her death, I was seized by such an
agony of revulsion that I uttered a great and
irrepressible cry which filled the house, and
brought more than one startled inquirer to our
door.
For retribution and remorse were already busy
within me, and in the lurking shadows about the
fireplace I thought I saw the long and narrow
slit made by the half-closed panel standing
open between me and the secret place of her
entombment. And though it was but an optical
delusion, the panel being really closed, it
might as well have been the truth, for I have
never been able to rid myself of the sight of
that chimerical strip of darkness, with its
suggestions of guilt and death. It haunted my
vision; it ruined my life; it destroyed my
peace. If I shut my eyes at night, it opened
before me. If I arrayed myself in jewels and
rich raiment, and paused to take but a passing
look at myself in the glass, this horror
immediately came between me and my own image,
blotting the vision of wealth from my eyes; so
that I went into the homes of the noble or the
courts of the king a clouded, miserable thing,
seeing nothing but that black and narrow slit
closing upon youth and beauty and innocence
forever and forever and forever.
My child came. Ah! that I should have to
mention her here! I do it in penance; I do it
in despair; since with her my heart woke, and
for her that heart is now broken, never to be
healed again. Oh, if the knowledge of my misery
wakens in you one thought that is not of
revenge, cast a pitying eye upon this darling
one, left in a hateful country without friends,
without lover, without means. For friends and
lover and means will all leave her with the
revelations which the morning will bring, and
unless Heaven is merciful to her innocence as
it has been just to my guilt, she will have no
other goal before her than that which has
opened its refuge to me.
As for her father, let Heaven deal with him. He
gave me this darling child; so I may not curse
him, even if I cannot bless.
MARAH.
* * * * *
OCTOBER 23, 1791.
I have seen one bright thing to-day, and that was the faint and almost
unearthly gleam which shot for a moment from beneath Honora's falling
lids as I told her what love was and how the marquis only awaited her
permission to speak to assure her of his boundless affection and his
undying purpose to be true to her even to the point of assuming her
griefs and taking upon himself the protection of her innocence.
If it had not been for this, I should have felt that the world was too
dark to remain in, and life too horrible to be endured.
* * * * *
NOVEMBER 30, 1791.
I thought that when Honora Urquhart left my house to be married to M. De
Fontaine, in the church below the hill, peace would return to us once
more.
But there is no peace. This morning another horrible tragedy defiled my
doorstep.
I was sitting in the open porch waiting for the mail coach, for it
seemed to me that it was about time I received some word from Mr.
Tamworth. It was yet some minutes before the time when the rumble of
the coach is usually heard, and I was brooding, as was natural, over the
more than terrible occurrences of the last few weeks, when I heard the
clatter of horses' hoofs, and looking up and down the road, saw a small
party of men approaching from the south. As they came nearer, I noticed
that one of the riders was white-haired and presumably aged, and was
interesting myself in him, when he came near enough for me to
distinguish his features, and I perceived it was no other than Mr.
Tamworth.
Rising in perturbation, I glanced at the men behind and abreast of him,
and saw that one of these rode with lowered head and oppressed mien, and
was just about to give that person a name in my mind when the horse he
bestrode suddenly reared, bolted, and dashed forward to where I sat,
flinging his rider at the very threshold of my house, where he lay
senseless as the stone upon which his head had fallen.
For an instant both his companions and myself paused aghast at a sight
so terrible and bewildering; then, amid cries from the road and one wild
shriek from within, I rushed forward, and turning over the head, looked
upon the face of the fallen man. It was not a new one to me. Though
changed and seamed and white now in death, I recognized it at once. It
was that of Edwin Urquhart.
. . . . .
This noon I took down the sign which has swung for twenty years over my
front door. "Happy-Go-Lucky" is scarcely the name for an inn accursed by
so many horrors.
* * * * *
FEBRUARY 3, 1792.
This week I have fulfilled the threat of years ago. I have had the oak
parlor and its hideous adjunct torn from my house.
Now, perhaps, I can sleep.
* * * * *
MARCH 16.
News from Honora. The distant relative who succeeded to the estates and
the title of the Marquis de la Roche-Guyon has fallen a victim to the
guillotine. Would this have been the fate of Honora's husband had he
forsaken her and returned home? There is reason to believe it. At all
events, she finds herself greatly comforted by this news for the
sacrifice which her husband made to his love, and no longer regrets the
exile to which he has been forced to submit for her sake. Wonderful,
wonderful Providence! I view its workings with renewed awe every day.
* * * * *
SEPTEMBER 5, 1795.
I have been from home. I have been on a visit to New York. I have tasted
of change, of brightness, of free and cheerful living, and I can settle
down now in this old and fast-decaying inn with something else to think
about than ruin and fearful retribution.
I have been visiting Madame De Fontaine. She wished me to come, I think,
that I might see how amply her married life had fulfilled the promise of
her courtship days. Though she and her noble husband live in peaceful
retirement, and without many of the appurtenances of wealth, they find
such resources of delight in each other's companionship that it would be
hard for the most exacting witness of their mutual felicity to wish them
any different fate, or to desire for them any wider field of social
influence.
The marquis--I shall always call him thus--has found a friend in General
Washington, and though he is never seen at the President's receptions,
or mingles his voice in the councils of his adopted country, there are
evidences constantly appearing of the confidence reposed in him by this
great man, which cannot but add to the exile's contentment and
satisfaction.
Honora has developed into a grand beauty. The melancholy which her
unhappy memories have necessarily infused into her countenance have
given depth to her expression, which was always sweet, and frequently
touching. She looks like a queen, but like a queen who has known not
only grief, but love. There is nothing of despair in her glance, rather
a lofty hope, and when her affections are touched, or her enthusiasm
roused, she smiles with such a heavenly brightness in her countenance,
that I think there is no fairer woman in the world, as I am assured
there is none worthier.
Her husband agrees with me in this opinion, and is so happy that she
said to me one day:
"I sometimes wonder how my heart succeeds in holding the joy which
Heaven has seen fit to grant me. In it I read the forgiveness of God for
the unutterable sins of my parents; and though the shadows will come,
and do come, whenever I think upon the past, or see a face which, like
yours, recalls memories as bitter as ever overwhelmed an innocent girl
in her first youth, I find that with every year of love and peaceful
living the darkness grows less, as if, somewhere in the boundless
heavens, the mercy of God was making itself felt in the heart of her who
once called herself my mother."
And hearing her speak thus, I felt my own breast lose something of the
oppression which had hitherto weighed it down. And as the days passed,
and I experienced more and more of the true peace that comes with
perfect love and perfect trust, I found my tears turned to rejoicing and
the story of my regrets into songs of hope.
And so I have come back comforted and at rest. If there are yet ghosts
haunting the old inn, I do not see them, and though its walls are
dismantled, its custom gone, and its renown a thing of the past, I can
still sit on its grass-grown doorstep and roam through its fast-decaying
corridors without discovering any blacker shadow following in my wake
than that of my own figure, bent now with age, and only held upright by
the firmness of the little cane with which I strive to give aid to my
tottering and uncertain steps.
The grace of God has fallen at last upon the Happy-Go-Lucky Inn.
[Illustration]
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Transcriber's Notes:
Obvious punctuation errors repaired.
Page 336, "shrink" changed to "shrinks" (woman naturally shrinks)
Page 345, "personalties" changed to "personalities" (of dominant
personalities)
Page 347, "or" changed to "of" (story of a)
Page 348, "breath" changed to "breadth" (hair-breadth escapes)
There were some typesetting errors in the original text resulting in
misplaced lines on pages 139 and 177.
Original text page 139:
deceit where I had looked for honesty and gratitude.'
the result of a compact entered into with the despicable Urquhart, who,
if he could not have her grasp at this wisp of hope and cling to it,
though I knew it would never hold, and that her only chance for
happiness was passing from her.
Original page 177 text:
almost overwhelmed it.
"For to me her death--if she were dead--was
"I was a coward, perhaps, but I did not try to dissuade her. Though she
was fatherless and motherless, and loverless and friendless, I let her
for himself, was willing she should go where no
This was changed to:
Page 139:
deceit where I had looked for honesty and gratitude.'
"I was a coward, perhaps, but I did not try to dissuade her. Though she
was fatherless and motherless, and loverless and friendless, I let her
grasp at this wisp of hope and cling to it, though I knew it would never
hold, and that her only chance for happiness was passing from her.
and Page 177:
almost overwhelmed it.
"For to me her death--if she were dead--was the result of a compact
entered into with the despicable Urquhart, who, if he could not have her
for himself, was willing she should go where no
End of Project Gutenberg's The Forsaken Inn, by Anna Katharine Green