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Updated: June 14, 2025
The conclusion I drew from this was, that she, and not Eleanore, had carried the handkerchief into her uncle's room, a conclusion emphasized by the fact privately communicated to me by one of the servants, that Mary was in Eleanore's room when the basket of clean clothes was brought up with this handkerchief lying on top.
The old-fashioned mystery of the sea was replaced by the inscrutability of what some muckrakers called "The Pool." "Don't hurry," Eleanore's father had said. All very well, but I needed money.
That all this meant something, I was sure; and so I kept my patience alive with the hope that some day she would make a revelation. Those quivering lips would not always remain closed; the secret involving Eleanore's honor and happiness would be divulged by this restless being, if by no one else.
Quietly and as a matter of course, she took their troubles on her hands, sent one to a hospital and got the other work, looked into their wretched home affairs and had them come often to see her. And this kind of thing was happening often, Sue taking up and dropping what Eleanore then took up and put through. I compared them with a glow of pride. Eleanore's way was so sane and sure.
And taking out the dozen or so loose sheets which had been torn from Eleanore's Diary, he began turning them over. While he was doing this, I took occasion to examine the contents of the box. I found them to be precisely what Mrs. Belden had led me to expect, a certificate of marriage between Mary and Mr. Clavering and a half-dozen or more letters.
You saw every fact as it developed through the medium of Mary's belief in Eleanore's guilt, and I through the opposite. And what has been the result?
Under the influence of Eleanore's low voice she frequently went to sleep, only to wake and demand ungratefully why the reading had stopped. Miss Cuyler was very tired. It was close and hot, and her head ached a little, and the prospect across the roofs of the other tenements was not cheerful.
Raymond, I do not wish to weary you with my feelings, but the first great distrust I ever felt of my wisdom in pushing this matter so far came with that curl of Mary's lip. More plainly than Eleanore's words it showed me the temper with which she was entering upon this undertaking; and, struck with momentary dismay, I advanced to speak when Mary stopped me.
The Wonder Boot, Nathaniel Hawthorne. The Blithedale Romance, Nathaniel Hawthorne. Tanglewood Tales, Nathaniel Hawthorne. Lady Eleanore's Mantle, Nathaniel Hawthorne. The Great Stone Face, Nathaniel Hawthorne. The Prophetic Pictures, Nathaniel Hawthorne. The Necklace, Guy de Maupassant. A Solitary, Mary Wilkins Freeman. The Lady or the Tiger, Frank R. Stockton. The Strange Ride, Rudyard Kipling.
And that, moreover, this same gentle man, under an assumed name, called on the night of the murder at the house of Mr. Leavenworth and asked for Miss Eleanore's.
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