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Updated: June 17, 2025
I drew my chair nearer to his. "Tell me your dream," said I. "It was the night before Mr. Leavenworth's murder.
Leavenworth's return and their subsequent preparations for departure, I saw but little more of her, what I did see was enough to make me fear that, with the locking up of the proofs of her marriage, she was indulging the idea that the marriage itself had become void. But I may have wronged her in this. The story of those few weeks is almost finished.
That a letter had arrived at the house, which if found would be likely to throw some light upon this subject. That Eleanore Leavenworth's name came with difficulty from his lips; this evidently unimpressible man, manifesting more or less emotion whenever he was called upon to utter it. "Something is rotten in the State of Denmark." Hamlet.
I was about to leave the house, when I saw Thomas descending the stairs with a letter in his hand. "Miss Leavenworth's compliments, sir, and she is too fatigued to remain below this evening." I moved aside to read the note he handed me, feeling a little conscience-stricken as I traced the hurried, trembling handwriting through the following words: "You ask more than I can give.
The worst fear I anticipated was that matters would reach a crisis before I could acquire the right, or obtain the opportunity, to interfere. However, the fact of Mr. Leavenworth's funeral being announced for that day gave me some comfort in that direction; my knowledge of Mr.
Not only was it proved that Mr. Leavenworth's own pistol had been used in the assassination, and that too by a person then in the house, but I myself was brought to acknowledge that Eleanore had learned from me, only a little while before, how to load, aim, and fire this very pistol a coincidence mischievous enough to have been of the devil's own making.
"And this face?" said I, in a voice I failed to recognize as my own. "Was that of him whom we saw leave Mary Leavenworth's presence last night and go down the hall to the front door." "True, I talk of dreams, 'Which are the children of an idle brain Begot of nothing but vain phantasy." Romeo and Juliet.
"I should have thought one look into Eleanore Leavenworth's face would have been enough to satisfy you that she is incapable of crime," was her unexpected answer; and, lifting her head with a proud gesture, Mary Leavenworth fixed her eyes steadfastly on mine. I felt the blood flash to my brow, but before I could speak, her voice rose again still more coldly than before.
I felt the reason insufficient, and turned away with something of the same sense of suffocation with which I had heard that the missing key had been found in Eleanore Leavenworth's possession. "You must excuse me," I said; "I want to be a moment by myself, in order to ponder over the facts which I have just heard; I will soon return "; and without further ceremony, hurried from the room.
I did not answer; I was revolving in my mind the old question: was it possible, in face of all these later developments, still to believe Mary Leavenworth's own hand guiltless of her uncle's blood? "It is dreadful to come to such conclusions," proceeded Mrs. Belden, "and nothing but her own words written in her own hand would ever have driven me to them, but "
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