In a cooler moment Mabel would have hesitated to obey the advice of an ignorant, prejudiced person, her inferior in station and intelligence. But in the whirl of astonishment, incredulity, and speculation created by the tale she had heard, she untied the string which formed the primitive fastening of the worn wallet, and unclosed it.
The main compartment contained four tickets, issued by as many different pawnbrokers, testifying that such and such articles had been deposited with them for and in consideration of moneys advanced by them to Thomas Lindsay; a liquor-seller's score against William Jones—unpaid; and a tavern bill, in which brandy and water, whiskey and mint-juleps, were the principal items charged against Edmund Jackson. This last was the only paper which bore the indorsement “Rec'd payment,” and this circumstance had, probably, led to its preservation. The adjoining division of the wallet was sewed up with stout black thread and Mabel had to resort to her scissors before she could get at its contents. These were a couple of worn envelopes, crumpled and dog-eared, and stained with liquor or salt water, but still bearing the address, in a feminine hand, of “Lieutenant Julius Lennox, U. S. N.” In addition to this, one was directed to Havana, Cuba; the other to Calcutta, in care, of a mercantile or banking-house at each place. A third cover bore the superscription, “CERTIFICATE,” in bold characters.
The negress' watchful eyes dilated with greedy expectancy at Mrs. Dorrance's ghastly face when this last had been examined, but she was foiled if she hoped for any valuable addition to her store of information, or anything resembling elucidation of her pet mystery.
“It will take me some time to read all these,” remarked Mabel, still scanning the half-sheet she held. “You had better not wait, Mammy. They are safe with me. No one else shall see them, and no harm can come to you through them.”
She promised mechanically what she supposed would soonest buy for her privacy and needed quiet, and gave no heed to the manifest disappointment of her visitor.
When she was at last alone, Mrs. Dorrance relocked the door, and bent close to the lamp, as if more light upon the surface of the document would tend to clear up the terrible secret thus strangely committed to her discretion and mercy. The paper was a certificate, drawn up in regular form, and signed by a clergyman, whose address was appended below, in a different hand writing—of a marriage between Julius Lennox and Clara Louise Dorrance.
“Her very name!” repeated the whitening lips. “I remember asking her once what the 'L' in her signature stood for.”
But while she said it, there was a look in the reader's eye that bespoke inability or reluctance to grapple with the revelation threatened by the discovery.
“The letters may tell me more!” she added, in the same frightened whisper, refolding the certificate.
They did—for they were in the long, sloping chirography of her sister-in-law, and signed “Your ever-fond, but lonely wife.” Each contained, moreover, allusions to “Ellis,” to “Clermont,” to “Julia,” and to “Herbert”—all family names in the Dorrance connection; spoke gratefully of her parents' kindness to his “poor Louise” in the absence of “her beloved Julius;” and was liberally spiced with passionate protestations of her inconsolableness and yearnings for his return. Both were dated ten years back, and the paper was yellow with time, besides being creased and thumbed as by many readings.