absorbed all my attention. She had regained by this time her
self-possession, also, but not so entirely as her cousin. Her step
faltered as she endeavored to walk, and the hand which rested on his
arm trembled like a leaf. "Would to God I had never entered this
house," said I to myself. And yet, before the exclamation was half
uttered, I became conscious of a secret rebellion against the thought;
an emotion, shall I say, of thankfulness that it had been myself rather
than another who had been allowed to break in upon their privacy,
overhear that significant remark, and, shall I acknowledge it, follow
Mr. Gryce and the trembling, swaying figure of Eleanore Leavenworth
down-stairs. Not that I felt the least relenting in my soul towards
guilt. Crime had never looked so black; revenge, selfishness, hatred,
cupidity, never seemed more loathsome; and yet--but why enter into
the consideration of my feelings at that time. They cannot be of
interest; besides, who can fathom the depths of his own soul, or
untangle for others the secret cords of revulsion and attraction which
are, and ever have been, a mystery and wonder to himself? Enough that,
supporting upon my arm the half-fainting form of one woman, but with my
attention, and interest devoted to another, I descended the stairs of
the Leavenworth mansion, and re-entered the dreaded presence of those
inquisitors of the law who had been so impatiently awaiting us.

As I once more crossed that threshold, and faced the eager
countenances of those I had left so short a time before, I felt as if
ages had elapsed in the interval; so much can be experienced by the
human soul in the short space of a few over-weighted moments.



VII. MARY LEAVENWORTH