Nothing but Money! CHAPTER 24.
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Mrs. Harte was a woman of superior mind, and some cultivation. Her husband, a lawyer of considerable promise, died just as he was rising to an eminent position at the bar, and she was left without an income. In order to sustain herself, she taught school for a few years; but not finding, in this occupation, anything congenial, she gave up her scholars, and accepted the place of housekeeper in Mr. Guyton's family. Her position there proved very far from being agreeable, and she was simply waiting for an opportunity to change jobs, when the grave incidents attendant on the death of Mrs. Guyton altered her purpose, and she determined to remain. A rich man was in her power, and that was an advantage not to be lightly thrown aside — an advantage which she was just the woman to accept.
Mrs. Harte was as thoroughly selfish in her main quality of mind, as Mr. Guyton was in his — and more subtle and cruel! He bore down opposition, when it presented itself, with the strong hand of conscious power; but she wrought stealthily, gaining her ends by almost unapparent intrusions, and revealing them only when accomplished. Both loved money; but his love of money had its foundation in avarice — while hers rested on ambition. He desired money for its own sake; she for the sake of power, position, and influence. Pride ruled with her — avarice with him.
While it was not her intention to leave the house of Mr. Guyton, she managed to give him the impression that she only waited for an opportunity to make a change of job. Most cunningly did she bend, at times, the brief passages of conversation which passed between them, so as to touch that memorable death scene, and always with a hint of overshadowing peril which sent a chill of fear to the heart of Adam Guyton, and made him more distinctly conscious that he was fatally in her power. She was a kind of terrorin his house; yet, on no account could he have that terror removed. A secret lay hidden in her bosom, the revelation of which might, at any time, put even his life in jeopardy. She must, therefore, be conciliated, and kept in friendly contact. There was safety in her friendship — but disaster in her enmity!
And so, as Mrs. Harte gradually assumed a controlling position in Mr. Guyton's family, Mr. Guyton receded and left the way clear, taking her side in all contests with the older children, and compelling their acquiescence to her rule.
Only a few months were needed, under the new order of things, to make Mr. Guyton aware of the fact, that so far as his home-comforts were concerned, he had gained sensibly by the death of his wife. For a year or two, Lydia had been so indifferent towards him, that she neglected many of his personal attentions; and left him to care for himself. But now, a woman's thought and a woman's hand were becoming more and more apparent in all things of his wardrobe, and in all the home arrangements that touched him personally. The younger children were kept more quiet when he was in the house, and the injunction was constantly falling on his ears, given half aside and in a hushed voice — "Don't do so — it will annoy your father," — or words of similar import.
It was in vain that Mrs. Harte strove to conciliate or bend Henry, the oldest boy, to her will — and she was equally unsuccessful with the sharp-tempered, clear-seeing Lydia. Her usurpation of Henry's prerogative in the family, was an offence neither to be forgotten nor forgiven. The boy had tasted of power, and could not relinquish it and accept submission. He was, therefore, a rebel in heart, and, on all suitable opportunities, a rebel in act. But, he put himself in antagonism to one against whom he strove in blindness, losing power in every struggle.
Lydia, who, with all her ill-nature and waywardness, had loved her mother, could not bear to have a stranger take her place in the household. She was a girl of quick perception, and saw deeper than anyone into the character of Mrs. Harte; or to speak more accurately, had a truer impression of her character and designs. John had a weaker side — he was a sensualist and a spendthrift — and Mrs. Harte, by occasional indulgences, won him over to her will.
Henry and Lydia, who felt, daily, that Mrs. Harte was gaining strength, united their forces in a league against her, and inaugurated an undying warfare. They watched her every movement, interpreting to each other her words and actions to suit themselves, and putting all manner of obstructions in her way. But in every move, she thwarted them without a seeming effort, turning, often, their evil machinations to their own discomfiture; and leading them, by a few well-directed questions, to an exposure of themselves to their father. So things went on, the antagonism between Mrs. Harte and Henry and Lydia, gaining strength all the while — but taking on no appearance of anger, dislike, or stern resistance on the part of the former. She was always cold, calm, dignified — and to the eyes of Mr. Guyton, in the right.
After the lapse of a year, Mrs. Harte's position was so well assured in her own mind, that she began to act with less caution. Up to this period, she received only the wages of a housekeeper, according to the original contract — twelve dollars a month. It was time to have some new and better arrangement — to get nearer the full coffers on which her eyes had dwelt with covetous longings. Mr. Guyton seemed well-satisfied to let things move on as they were going. She was administering all his affairs with order and economy, and home was more comfortable than it had been for years. Why should he desire a change? For twelve dollars a month, he received a liberal service, and was satisfied. Not so Mrs. Harte. Her patient waiting was at an end.
It was now that an incident occurred that aroused her to immediate action. One day, while walking in the street, she saw ahead of her, the familiar form of Mr. Guyton, in company with a lady. Even her calm pulse leaped.
What did this mean? Who was this lady? Her dress was elegant, and she walked with a self-conscious air. Mrs. Harte checked her pace, and lingered a little way behind them, They appeared to be in familiar conversation, as if well acquainted. For the distance of nearly two squares, Mrs. Harte kept them in close observation; then they stopped at the corner of a street, and after talking a few moments, separated. At parting, Mr. Guyton bowed with considerable formality, and with the air of one who evidently sought to make a good impression.
The lady turned off from the main street, and shortly Mr. Guyton was out of sight.
"Who is that?" came audibly from the lips of Mrs. Harte, as she stood still, like one who felt a sudden shock. Then pressing forward quickly, she followed the lady, and after passing her, turned at the next corner and stood, as if in doubt. The fair, attractive face of a woman scarcely beyond thirty years, looked almost smilingly, yet a little curiously, into hers. Mrs. Harte did not know the lady. But she must know her! Remaining in apparent hesitation until the stranger moved onward a short distance, she then followed slowly at first — but quickening her pace so as not to be thrown too far behind. All at once she lost sight of her. The lady had turned into another street. Mrs. Harte hastened forward with accelerated steps — but when she reached the corner, the object of her pursuit was nowhere visible. She had entered one of the fine dwellings that stood in the block.
Baffled, and excited with strange alarm, Mrs. Harte retraced her steps, and took her way homeward. The countenance of that lady was full of winning grace. Who was she? What was she? Wife, widow or maiden? Hurriedly these questions chased each other through her mind. Was she rich, as well as attractive? — a widow, as well as beautiful? Ah! what had a poor housekeeper, with few personal charms, to hope for in a rivalry here?
"I must know who she is!" Mrs. Harte said this in a resolute way, forcing back the tremors that were agitating her. And then she grew calm, and self-possessed, and clear-seeing. If this were an obstruction in her way — it must be removed. But, first, to be assured that it was an obstruction. On the next day, on the next, and on the next, Mrs. Harte visited the neighborhood where the lady had disappeared, in order to ascertain, if possible, by seeing her at a window, or going in or coming out, in which house she resided, and thence her name and position. Three times her visit failed of any satisfactory result; but on the fourth day, in passing down the block, she saw the lady descend from one of the houses, enter a carriage, and drive off. The name on the door was noted. It was Leslie.
"Mrs. Leslie!" Her heart bounded. She had often heard of this lady, a widow, holding in her own right, a large fortune. Ah, here was a formidable rival indeed, if rival at all! Rich, elegant, attractive — what had she to offer in opposition to these?
Of late, Mr. Guyton, after dressing himself with scrupulous care, went out, occasionally, in the evening. The fact had already awakened a feeling of uneasiness with Mrs. Harte; now, the circumstance presented an alarming aspect, for it was connected in her mind with visits to the rich young widow. On this very evening — the one following the day on which Mrs. Harte discovered the lady's identity — Mr. Guyton dressed himself and went away. As he left the house, Mrs. Harte passed to her own room, where she moved about restlessly for some time. Then she sat down, with deep lines on her ordinarily smooth brow, and a tight pressure on her lips, that were firmly drawn against her teeth. Her hands lay clenched upon her lap.
"Never! Never! Never!" The words came in a deep whisper, while a gleam of passion quivered over her face. "I will not be pushed aside by anyone!"
"Rising, she went to a drawer, and unlocking it, took out a vial — the same from which Mr. Guyton had administered the morphine to his wife — and held it to the light. It was nearly full. The reader will remember, that to hide the fatal secret of an overdose, she had added alcohol, and so deceived the physician. But, now she poured from the vial a portion equal to that added.
"This is my argument!" she said, as she re-corked the vial, and held it again to the light. "He must take care. I am no trifler!"
It was after eleven o'clock when Mr. Guyton returned. Mrs. Harte knew the time to a second.
On the next morning, one of the children happened to be sick, and the doctor was called. In the evening, Mrs. Harte managed it so, that, towards nine o'clock she was alone with Mr. Guyton.
"The doctor thinks Frances quite a sick child," she remarked.
"Does he?" Mr. Guyton aroused himself from an abstracted state of mind.
"Yes."
"Nothing serious, I hope."
"There is a great deal of scarlet fever about; and she complains of sore throat."
Mr. Guyton looked into Mrs. Harte's face steadily — but did not answer. A brief silence followed; then Mrs. Harte said —
"I don't like Dr. Blake." The eyes of Mr. Guyton had fallen to the floor — but something unusual in the woman's voice caused him to look at her again.
"Has he offended you in anything?"
"No; but he has a prying, inquisitive way about him that I don't like."
"Ah? I haven't noticed it. In what direction does his inquisitiveness run?"
Mrs. Harte did not answer immediately. The question disconcerted her, apparently. But, it was only in appearance. Mrs. Harte was never more really self-possessed in her life.
"In what direction does his inquisitiveness run." Guyton repeated the question.
"In a direction by no means agreeable. At his last three visits he has referred to the death of your wife in a way which leads me to infer that something is on his mind."
There was an instant change in Mr. Guyton's face, and Mrs. Harte noted it well, and took courage.
"What did he say?" The voice betrayed alarm.
"He asked about the quantity of morphia that was given."
"He knew that as well as you or I."
"Perhaps not." Never since the fatal night when he stood, with Mrs. Harte, at the bed-side of his departing wife, had he felt so much in her power as at this moment; never before had Mrs. Harte so meant to make him feel conscious of her power. She came nearer to him, now — nearer, and with an intrusive familiarity that he dared not repel; a familiarity that made him shudder as it approached.
"Perhaps not." Ah, in the tone and manner of Mrs. Harte were something more than in these simple words. It was as if she had suddenly thrown her arms around him, and said, "You are in my power! We are sharers of a fatal secret, and safety lies only in concessions to my will."
"He saw the vial," said Mr. Guyton, in a voice which had suddenly grown husky.
"But, it did not give the true indication. I know that three times the quantity indicated by the vial was administered." There was marked emphasis on the pronoun I.
"The fact is," she added, after a pause, "I've never felt comfortable in my mind about this thing. My error was in having any part or lot with you in the matter at the beginning. I should have washed my hands clear of it the moment I understood the truth. But — " she hesitated, and remained silent for a brief space.
When she resumed, her voice was softer, and she leaned a little towards Mr. Guyton.
"But," she continued, "I saw the fearful peril in which you were involved, and believing that no wrong was meant, obeyed my natural impulses, and went over without reflection to your side. The act was imprudent — and I have always so regarded it."
"As God is my witness — no wrong was meant," said Mr. Guyton, showing considerable disturbance.
"I am sure of that." How skillfully did Mrs. Harte throw just a shadow of sympathy in her voice. "I am sure of that, Mr. Guyton." She repeated the sentence, with just a little warmth of expression. "But courts of justice take account only of facts."
"Courts of justice! Madam! What are you driving at?" Guyton aroused himself, and drew away from the woman, not able to keep the signs of fear from his countenance.
"Nothing, sir." How calmly spoken were the words. How soft their utterance. There was no stern purpose on her lips, no threat in her eyes. "I merely suggested a fact that no one in your peril, should fail to keep in remembrance. An unhappy circumstance — accident, we will say — has placed you in a most unfortunate position, and your safety demands that you be always guarded."
"Guarded? — guarded?" Guyton's manner showed some bewilderment of thought. "No one is in the secret but you, Mrs. Harte."
"Those who know me best, sir, will tell you that I am a warm friend — "
There was no occasion to add — "But a bitter enemy!" for Mr. Guyton understood Mrs. Harte to mean that, as clearly as if she had finished the sentence orally — and she meant him to understand it. A shudder crept along his nerves as the conviction grew into assurance, that he was wholly in her power, and that, in the velvet hand which was now laid upon his in a soft, intrusive touch — sharp talons were hidden!
"I can be as silent as death, sir," she said, in her low, unimpassioned voice. "Let Doctor Blake thrust in his probe. He shall find no tender spot answering to his touch. Your secretlies safe with me."
Safe! Mr. Guyton felt that it would be safer, if she were as stark and cold as his wife lay, when he saw her coffined; and in his heart, he wished she were dead, and out of his path!
"It was only an accident, at worst," he said, endeavoring to rally himself, "and nothing more could be made out of it."
Mrs. Harte looked grave, and shook her head.
"What more could be made of it?" demanded Guyton.
"Suppose I were put upon the witness stand, and required to give testimony under oath; what then? The druggist's evidence would be conclusive as to the quantity of morphia sold, and mine would show by what remained in the vial, the quantity given. Any chemist would tell the court that death, in ordinary cases, would follow such an administration. Then look at your position! I tell you, sir, the matter is one to create alarm. I don't like the way in which Debtor Blake asks questions, and shall have to be guarded to the utmost in my answers."
Blank fear was visible in Guyton's countenance. Mrs. Harte had narrowed the question of his danger down to a very clearly apprehended point, and he saw his peril more distinctly than it had ever been seen before.
"And you would testify as to the quantity given?" said Guyton, looking sharply into the woman's face.
"I would be under oath," was her quiet response.
"And yet, you know as well as I do, that no harm was meant. That, in my anxiety to relieve a maddening pain, I repeated the doses too frequently. And, God is my witness, that I was ignorant as to the effects such small administrations would produce! I never dreamed of anything beyond a long sleep."
"Don't understand me, sir, as questioning this for a single instant," said Mrs. Harte, again laying her soft, cat-like hand upon his arm, with even more of familiar confidence than she had yet assumed. "I fully comprehend the case, and you have nothing to fear — unless I should be dragged into court. That is the ultimate result, from which I shrink in fear. Anoath, sir, is the most solemn of all obligations."
"And one that you would not violate under the extreme of circumstances?"
Mrs. Harte felt that more was meant than appeared in the words of this question, and, therefore, she did not answer promptly.
"I cannot say what I might do in the extreme of circumstances," she answered, after a pause. "Human nature is weak. For those who are dearest to us — those in whom life, and all that makes life desirable, is bound up, we often dare a great deal — suffer a great deal — risk a great deal. But, an oath is a solemn thing, and its violation brings consequences that reach beyond this life."
She dropped her eyes meekly, on closing this sentence. Guyton studied her face intently. But he was not a skilled physiognomist, and failed to read its signs. After a silence of some minutes on both sides, Mrs. Harte arose and withdrew from the room, satisfied that nothing further was needed to impress Mr. Guyton with a sense of the peril in which he stood, and the extent of her power over him. If he had shown indifference to his position — if he had scoffed at her intimations of danger — if he had thrust her back, as she advanced upon him — she would have been in doubt of ultimately gaining her ends; but, he betrayed his weakness and fears so fully, that she felt strong and confident.
The image of Mrs. Leslie, as it arose in her thought, when she sat down alone in her chamber, did not now greatly disturb Mrs. Harte. Should that lady really come in her way, she felt that in her own hands was the power of setting her aside — a power in the exercise of which there would be no scruple
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