And her faithful study had ended in her assurance of one or two
facts--or one or two links, perhaps, we should say, in the chain of
evidence. The first was, that Marian's mysterious lover had been present
in the neighborhood, and perhaps, in the mansion at the time of the
house-warming at Luckenough--that he had met her once or more, and that
his name was not Thomas Truman--that the latter was an assumed name,
for, with all her observation and astute investigation, she had not been
able to find that any one of the name of Truman had ever been seen or
heard of in the county.
She was sure, also, that she had seen the man twice, both times in night
and storm, when she had wandered forth in search of Marian.
She remembered well the strange figure of that man--the tall form
shrouded in the black cloak--the hat drawn over the eyes--the faint
spectral gleam of the clear-cut profile--the peculiar fall of light and
shade, the decided individuality of air and gait--all was distinct as a
picture in her memory, and she felt sure that she would be able to
identify that man again.
Up to this time, the thought of her secret vow, and her life's mission,
had afforded only a romantic and heroic excitement; but the day was fast
approaching when these indexes she retained, should point to a clue that
should lead through a train of damning circumstantial evidence destined
to test her soul by an unexampled trial.
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