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 noble 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 assailed
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 assailed. 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?"
He laid his hand heavily on the paper, and bent his white face toward
her.
"Jessie Lee, you have slandered the father that loved you better than
his own life. You have killed your mother!"