Leave Her to Heaven

by Ben Ames Williams

  ‘But the thing we’ve got to be careful about is to separate what we know is true from what someone says is true. Just to show you what I mean, take that letter Brother Quinton read to us. The judge told you not to pay any attention to anything that letter said. Some of it was true, and some of it was just notions that the poor woman had got into her head. I want to go through it, just to show you the difference between things you can believe and things you can’t pay any attention to.

  ‘For instance, Mrs. Harland — Ellen — says in that letter that she and Mr. Harland were coming to Bar Harbor to visit Ruth Berent. Well, there she’s stating a fact, and it happens to be true, and if it mattered, it could be proved. Mr. Harland and Mrs. Ruth Harland and probably other people could come in here and tell you it was true.

  ‘But right after that she says they’re in love with each other. Well, there she’s not stating a fact, but an opinion. Maybe it wasn’t even that. Maybe she didn’t write it because she believed it, but because she wanted someone else to believe it. Maybe she was mad, and hitting out, the way a woman will. One way or another, it can’t be proved; and so you and I, being sensible, take it with a grain of salt, as they say.

  ‘She goes on to say that she wants her letter destroyed unless Mr. Harland and Miss Ruth got married. If they did get married, she wanted to get even with them. That’s what she says in the letter. There again she’s saying something that can’t be proved; but it sounds reasonable. She knew why she wrote the letter — as well as a woman ever knows why she does anything — and the letter sounds enough like a piece of spite work so you can believe that was her reason.

  ‘She goes on mixing facts and opinions. She says they loved each other, but she doesn’t ever claim to prove it. She says there was arsenic in Bar Harbor and in Boston before her father died. Well, that’s a fact, and that can be proved. She’d used it, and knew about it, and could get at it if she was a mind to. But then she goes on to claim that Ruth poisoned her dinner, but she doesn’t even claim she knows that. She just says she “thinks” there was arsenic on her piece of apple pie. There’s a sample of the sort of thing you can’t pay any attention to in trying to figure out this case. Even if she was here in court, His Honor wouldn’t let her tell you what she thought. All she could tell you was things she knew.

  ‘Same way with that curry, where she says she saw white powder on it — and she says she “thought nothing of it.” Well now, I put it to you, if you believed someone had tried to poison you once, and then saw what might be poison on something else they’d cooked for you, I sh’d judge you’d think something of it. I know I would.’

  A whisper of amused agreement ran across the room, and he went on. Same way with everything in that letter. His Honor told you the letter isn’t evidence, and I’m just using it to show the way you have to be careful to stick to the facts. The proved and certain facts.

  ‘Now I’ll just run through the proved and certain facts — facts we don’t question — in this case.’ He proceeded methodically to do so, beginning with Ellen’s marriage to Harland, coming to the day of the picnic and to Ellen’s death. Ruth, listening, felt a sick emptiness within her. This recital of uncontested facts made a damning catalogue. Quinton himself could have painted the picture no more blackly. Mr. Pettingill’s measured words were like blows, and she began to believe he would never be done.

  ‘Well, those are the things you can be sure are true,’ he said at last. ‘They’re in the testimony, and we don’t deny them. But when the State says those facts prove that Ruth put arsenic in that sugar and gave it to Ellen, there’s where Brother Quinton and I part company.

  ‘Because I know she didn’t; and when we’ve given you the rest of the facts, you’ll know it as well as I do.

  ‘What happened was simple and plain enough. Ellen Harland killed herself. Before we get through we’ll tell you why she did it, and we’ll tell you how she did it, and you’ll see the whole thing straight and plain.’

  He glanced at the clock, turned to the bench. ‘Your Honor,’ he said. ‘Mrs. Ruth Harland will be our first witness, but maybe we’d all better get a bite to eat first. It’s only five-six minutes till time to recess anyway.’

  Judge Andrus nodded, and a moment later the jury filed out of the courtroom.

  14

  FOR HARLAND, the waiting before the trial had been long. He stayed in Perry’s Harbor; seeing Ruth regularly, maintaining for her a confident and cheerful air; but his hours alone were desolate and haunted. Mr. Pettingill came more than once to consult with him; and Leick, except for an occasional day’s absence to attend to necessary tasks on the farm at home, lodged at the hotel and was always ready to be silent with Harland or to talk with him as Harland chose, offering a steady comradeship. Roger Pryde came twice; and little Miss Batten somehow managed to see Harland almost every day, cheerful and friendly. But despite these contacts, Harland was desperately alone; and when on the day before the trial the witnesses from a distance began to arrive — old Mrs. Huston, locally indignant at this whole proceeding; Mr. Carlson, coming with Roger Pryde, grunting angrily; Doctor McGraw, grave and frightening; prim Mr. Catterson; and finally Sime Verity and Tom — Harland saw them in the hotel dining room with an uncontrollable tremor, just as a patient waiting for an operation watches the cheerful preparations of the nurses, tries to read the mind of the surgeon.

  The hours in court while Quinton made his case were hard to endure; and when Ellen’s letter was read aloud Harland felt stripped naked before the world. He suffered for himself; but just as a pleasure shared is doubly sweet, so is pain, by sharing it with one beloved, intensified, and he suffered even more for Ruth. At lunch on this day when Quinton finished, Harland could neither eat nor speak; but Mr. Pettingill and Roger Pryde agreed that Quinton had made a good presentation of the State’s case.

  ‘He’s got the makings of a lawyer,’ Mr. Pettingill conceded, and he reviewed the evidence. ‘First he proved she might have died of arsenic, and that she said “poison” and it was the last word she spoke. He’ll say she realized that she’d been poisoned and tried to say so. He traced the sugar she used back into the hamper, and to the chemist, and proved it had arsenic in it. He proved Ruth packed the sugar and gave it to Ellen. He put in evidence that you and Ellen, Mr. Harland, were at outs, and that you and Ruth were friendly, and that you neglected Ellen for Ruth during Ellen’s pregnancy. He’ll remind the jury over and over that you and Ruth slept together, that night on the river; and they’ll remember the ordinary connotation of that phrase “slept together,” and forget it was innocent if he can make them. He proved you had her cremated, and he proved she said she’d told you she wanted to be buried in Mount Auburn.

  ‘And our defense has got to be that she planned her own death, planned Ruth should be blamed, hid the lump sugar, planted evidence against Ruth, contrived an elaborate, fantastic scheme She couldn’t plan for Quinton to steal the hamper, couldn’t know he would do that. There were plenty of holes in the plan we’ve got to argue she made. It’s going to be hard to make the jury believe our theory of her death.’

  Roger said hopefully: ‘We’ve one thing on our side. All the witnesses who knew her, even the State witnesses, obviously disliked Ellen and liked Ruth. The jury saw that.’

  ‘And the jury’ll like Ruth too,’ Mr. Pettingill agreed. ‘I’ll see that they do. That’s our real defense — to make them like her, and dislike and distrust Ellen.’ He laid aside his napkin. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘time to go.’

  When a few minutes later, at Mr. Pettingill’s summons, Ruth walked from her chair across to the witness stand in that fluent, indescribably lovely fashion which was so much a part of her, Harland’s throat filled and his eyes burned with sorrow because he could not protect her from this ordeal she must now endure. But he was presently able to forget himself in listening. Mr. Pettingill’s questions were so simple and reassuring and he spoke so slowly and quietly, no haste in him or in Ruth. He began by asking her name.

/>   ‘Mrs. Richard Harland,’ she said. Her tone at first was low, but as the questions continued she pitched her voice so that it carried easily to every ear.

  ‘What was your name before your marriage?’

  ‘Ruth Berent.’

  ‘What was your father’s name?’

  ‘Stephen Berent.’

  ‘Is he alive?’

  ‘He died when I was two years old.’

  ‘Is your mother alive?’

  ‘She died when I was a baby.’

  ‘Was Stephen Berent, your father, related to Professor Berent, the father of the first Mrs. Harland?’

  ‘Yes, they were brothers.’

  ‘When your mother died, what happened?’

  ‘My father sent me to live with Professor and Mrs. Berent.’

  ‘When your father died, did they do anything?’

  ‘They adopted me.’

  ‘Was Ellen Berent older or younger than you?’

  ‘Two years older.’

  ‘You grew up as sisters?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When did you first know that you were not actually sisters?’

  ‘I’ve known for as long as I can remember. I remembered my father — or seemed to.’

  ‘Professor Berent lived where?’

  ‘In Boston. In the summer at Bar Harbor.’

  ‘Were you fond of him?’

  ‘Yes. I loved him dearly.’

  ‘Fond of Mrs. Berent?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Of Ellen?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Mr. Pettingill went quietly on, leading her to tell of her girlhood and adolescence. By skillful questions, as an artist with a stroke here and a stroke there produces his effects, he made the jury understand what Ruth’s life had been; and somehow, without leading her into any word of criticism of Ellen, he showed the jury Ellen too, in all her youthful ways, till they knew how she had devoured her father, flouted her mother, subordinated everyone’s wishes to her own. Yet he did this so deftly that Ruth seemed always to be defending Ellen, defending her against the jury’s crystallizing ill opinion. Once Quinton, seeing what was happening, objected; but Mr. Pettingill argued that the jury in reaching a verdict would have to estimate Ruth’s character, insisted that it was relevant to let the jury hear everything about her from her own lips, and won his point. Harland, seeing Ruth through the lawyer’s questions more clearly than ever before, loved her more and more.

  Mr. Pettingill came eventually to Professor Berent’s last years, and so to his death.

  ‘Where was he buried?’ he inquired.

  ‘His ashes were scattered across a mountain meadow in New Mexico.’

  ‘Why was that done?’

  ‘He had asked Ellen that it be done.’

  ‘Did you and Mrs. Berent know this?’

  ‘No. He told only Ellen.’

  ‘Did Mrs. Berent wish his ashes taken there?’

  ‘No. Ellen said that was what he wanted, but Mother didn’t believe her. But Mr. Quinton had heard Father say the same thing, and when Mother told Ellen she didn’t believe her, Ellen sent for him and he came to Boston.’

  ‘Did anything happen between Mr. Quinton and Ellen at that time?’

  ‘They became engaged.’

  ‘What was done about taking the ashes to New Mexico?’

  ‘We all — Mother and Ellen and I — went out to Mr. Robie’s ranch.’

  ‘Did you meet anyone there?’

  ‘Mr. Harland was a guest there at the same time.’

  ‘Did anything happen between Ellen and Mr. Harland?’

  ‘They were married before we left there.’

  ‘What was your mother’s attitude about that?’

  ‘She asked Ellen to wait, to treat Mr. Quinton with more consideration.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Ellen refused. Mr. Harland’s younger brother was ill in Georgia. He was going directly there. Ellen told Mother she wished to be married at once, to go with him.’

  ‘Tell us only what you know, Mrs. Harland. Did you hear the conversation between Ellen and Mrs. Berent?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you have any part in that discussion?’

  ‘Ellen asked my opinion. I encouraged them to be married at once. I said they were the ones to decide.’

  ‘After their marriage, when did you next see Mr. Quinton?’

  ‘He came to the ranch. Ellen had telegraphed him, breaking their engagement and saying she was to be married.’

  ‘Did he say anything you remember?’

  ‘He said he would have prevented their marriage if he had arrived in time.’

  ‘Did he say how he would have done that?’

  ‘No.’

  Harland, looking from Quinton to the jury, saw that they watched Quinton for a moment with blank eyes. Then Mr. Pettingill made Ruth describe her trip back to Boston, and the winter there; and in every word the story of her loyal attendance upon Mrs. Berent was manifest. He came to the weeks at Sea Island, to the day when Harland and Ellen joined them.

  ‘What was then your mother’s feeling about the marriage?’ he asked.

  ‘She liked Mr. Harland, and she saw that Ellen was happier and nicer and gave him credit. She told him so.’

  ‘In your presence?’ Mr. Pettingill suggested. ‘You can only tell us what you know.’

  ‘I heard her tell Mr. Harland she liked him, and that he had been good for Ellen. She also said the same thing to me.’

  Pettingill went quietly on, coming at last to Danny’s death, and to Ellen’s sickness afterward, and to Ellen’s pregnancy. Ruth said Harland, during those months, came almost daily to be a while with her and with her mother.

  ‘With both of you?’

  ‘Mother was ill, spent much time in bed. If she were asleep or tired — this was frequently the case — he did not see her, saw only me. If she were feeling better, we sat with her. Sometimes if I had an errand to do he stayed with her while I was gone.’

  She told of the loss of Ellen’s baby, and of Harland’s grief. She told how she sought to comfort him, keeping nothing back, answering readily and frankly every question; and for Harland the past came alive through her words, and he suffered again those remembered torments. Then she spoke of the river trip, and described the forest fire, and her own exhaustion, and how for hours only Harland’s arm around her held her erect.

  ‘Did you welcome his support, his arm around you?’

  ‘Yes. I was so tired it would have been easy to give up.’

  ‘The night before Ellen and Leick rejoined you, where did you sleep?’

  ‘Beside Mr. Harland, on the sand bar. I was cold in the night and pressed closer to him. I don’t know whether he woke — we didn’t speak — but he put his arms around me.’

  ‘When did you wake?’

  ‘When Ellen and Leick got there. When I woke, Ellen was looking down at us.’

  ‘You were in Mr. Harland’s arms?‘

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you know Ellen’s feeling at that time?’

  ‘She was angry.’

  ‘How do you know? Did she show her feeling in any way?’

  ‘In her eyes and her tone.’

  ‘Did she say anything?’

  ‘She said I had better wake Mr. Harland too.’

  ‘Did you and she have anything like a quarrel?’

  ‘No. Almost at once, she was herself again.’

  She described their return to Boston, and her own subsequent departure for Bar Harbor; and he asked:

  ‘Now, at some time later that summer, did Ellen and Mr. Harland come to Bar Harbor to visit you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you have some conversation with Ellen during that visit?’

  ‘Yes, often. She was so sweet, nicer to me than she had ever been. We’d never been so close before.’

  ‘Where did those conversations occur?’

  ‘Why, wherever we happened to be, whenever we were together.’


  ‘Did she ever, during these conversations, refer to the possibility of her death?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘The afternoon before the picnic.’

  ‘Under what circumstances?’

  ‘I was in my room, relaxing. I looked out of the window and saw her coming up the lawn and called to her; and she put on a dressing gown and came to my room and we had a long, lazy afternoon together.’

  ‘Where was Mr. Harland?’

  ‘He’d gone to climb Cadillac Mountain.’

  ‘Did she say where she had been before you saw her on the lawn?’

  ‘Yes, she said she’d been in Father’s workshop. She had thought she might want to use it, to take up his collecting where he’d left off; but she said that afternoon that she didn’t want to do it, that being in his workshop made her miss him too much. She said I could clear his things out and make the shop into a cottage for myself.’

  ‘Did you do so?’

  ‘Yes, the following summer.’

  ‘Now during this lazy, long afternoon in your room, you say ... By the way, where was your bathroom?’

  ‘Off my bedroom.’

  ‘Did she go into the bathroom that afternoon?’

  ‘I don’t remember her doing so. Oh yes, I do. She asked for an orangewood stick . . .’

  ‘What is that?’

  Ruth smiled. ‘It’s used in manicuring, to push back the cuticle. I started to get one for her, but she said she’d get it, and I said there were some in my bathroom cabinet. She went and got one and came back and lay down again.’

  Mr. Pettingill turned to the table where the exhibits were. ‘I show you a bottle here in evidence. Do you recognize it?’

  ‘Yes, it was mine. It held bath salts.’

  ‘Where did you last see it?’

  ‘In my bathroom cabinet.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘I really don’t know.‘

  ’Was it there that day?‘

  ‘I don’t know. I hadn’t used it for some time.’