Mrs. Armstrong was not the woman for an emergency. With streaming hair and tightly-clutched kimono, she was gesticulating wildly and bemoaning the break in the festivities which this event must necessarily cause. As Sinclair approached, she turned her tirade on him, and as all stood still to listen and add such words of sympathy or disappointment as suggested themselves in the excitement of the moment, I had an opportunity to note that neither of the two girls most interested was within sight. This troubled me. Drawing up to the outside of the circle, I asked Beaton, who was nearest to me, if he knew how Miss Camerden was.
“Better, I hear. Poor girl, it was a great shock to her.”
I ventured nothing more. The conventionality of his tone was not to be mistaken. Our conversation on the veranda was to be ignored. I did not know whether to feel relief at this or an added distress. I was in a whirl of emotion which robbed me of all discrimination. As I realized my own condition, I concluded that my wisest move would be to withdraw myself for a time from every eye. Accordingly, and at the risk of offending more than one pretty girl who still had something to say concerning this terrible mischance, I slid away to my room, happy to escape the murmurs and snatches of talk rising on every side. One bitter speech, uttered by I do not know whom, rang in my ears and made all thinking unendurable. It was this:
“Poor woman! she was angry once too often. I heard her scolding Dorothy again after she went to her room. That is why Dorothy is so overcome. She says it was the violence of her aunt’s rage which killed her—a rage of which she unfortunately was the cause.”
So there were words again between these two after the door closed upon them for the night! Was this what we heard just before that scream went up? It would seem so. Thereupon, quite against my will, I found myself thinking of Dorothy’s changed position before the world. Only yesterday a dependent slave; today, the owner of millions. Gilbertine would have her share, a large one, but there was enough to make them both wealthy. Intolerable thought! Would that no money had been involved! I hated to think of those diamonds and—
Oh, anything was better than this! Dashing from my room I joined one of the groups into which the single large circle had now broken up. The house had been lighted from end to end, and some effort had been made at a more respectable appearance by such persons as I now saw; some even were fully dressed. All were engaged in discussing the one great topic. Listening and not listening, I waited for the front door bell to ring. It sounded while one woman was saying to another:
“The Sinclairs will now be able to take their honeymoon on their own yacht.”
I made my way to where I could watch Sinclair while the physicians were in the room. I thought his face looked very noble. The narrowness of his own escape, the sympathy for me which the event, so much worse than either of us anticipated, had awakened in his generous breast, had called out all that was best in his naturally reserved and not-always-to-be-understood nature. A tower of strength he was to me that hour. I knew that mercy and mercy only would influence his conduct. He would be guilty of no rash or inconsiderate act. He would give this young girl a chance.
Therefore when the physicians had pronounced the case one of apoplexy (a conclusion most natural under the circumstances), and the excitement which had held together the various groups of uneasy guests had begun to subside, it was with perfect confidence I saw him approach and address Gilbertine. She was standing fully dressed at the stairhead, where she had stopped to hold some conversation with the retiring physicians; and the look she gave him in return and the way she moved off in obedience to his command or suggestion assured me that he was laying plans for an interview with Dorothy. Consequently I was quite ready to obey him when he finally stepped up to me and said:
“Go below, and if you find the library empty, as I have no doubt you will, light one gas-jet and see that the door to the conservatory is unlocked. I require a place in which to make Gilbertine comfortable while I have some words with her cousin.”
“But how will you be able to influence Miss Camerden to come down?” Somehow, the familiar name of Dorothy would not pass my lips. “Do you think she will recognize your right to summon her to an interview?”
“Yes.”
I had never seen his lip take that firm line before, yet I had always known him to be a man of great resolution.
“But how can you reach her? She is shut up in her own room, under the care, I am told, of Mrs. Armstrong’s maid.”
“I know, but she will escape that dreadful place as soon as her feet will carry her. I shall wait in the hall till she is seen to enter it, then I will say ‘Come!’ and she will come, attended by Gilbertine.”
“And I? Do you mean me to be present at an interview so painful, nay, so serious and so threatening? It would cut short every word you hope to hear. I—can not—”
“I have not asked you to. It is imperative that I should see Miss Camerden alone.” (He could not call her Dorothy, either.) “I shall ask Gilbertine to accompany us, so that appearances may be preserved. I want you to be able to inform any one who approaches the door that you saw me go in there with Miss Murray.”
“Then I am to stay in the hall?”
“If you will be so kind.”
The clock struck three.
“It is very late,” I exclaimed. “Why not wait till morning?”
“And have the whole house about our ears? No. Besides, some things will not keep an hour, a moment. I must hear what this young girl has to say in response to my questions. Remember, I am the owner of the flask whose contents killed the old woman!”
“You believe she died from swallowing that drop?”
“Absolutely.”
I said no more, but hastened down stairs to do his bidding.
I found the lower hall partly lighted, but none of the rooms.
Entering the library, I lit the gas as Sinclair had requested. Then I tried the conservatory door. It was unlocked. Casting a sharp glance around, I made sure that the lounges were all unoccupied and that I could safely leave Sinclair to hold his contemplated interview without fear of interruption. Then, dreading a premature arrival on his part, I slid quickly out and moved down the hall to where the light of the one burning jet failed to penetrate. “I will watch from here,” thought I, and entered upon the quick pacing of the floor which my impatience and the overwrought condition of my nerves demanded.
But before I had turned on my steps more than half a dozen times, the single but brilliant ray coming from some half-open door in the rear caught my eye, and I had the curiosity to step back and see if any one was sharing my watch. In doing so I came upon the little spiral staircase which, earlier in the evening, Sinclair had heard creak under some unknown footstep. Had this footstep been Dorothy’s, and if so, what had brought her into this remote portion of the house? Fear? Anguish? Remorse? A flying from herself or from it? I wished I knew just where she had been found by the two young persons who had brought her back into her aunt’s room. No one had volunteered the information, and I had not seen the moment when I felt myself in a position to demand it.
Proceeding further, I stood amazed at my own forgetfulness. The light which had attracted my attention came from the room devoted to the display of Miss Murray’s wedding-gifts. This I should have known instantly, having had a hand in their arrangement. But all my faculties were dulled that night, save such as responded to dread and horror. Before going back I paused to look at the detective whose business it was to guard the room. He was sitting very quietly at his post, and if he saw me he did not look up. Strange that I had forgotten this man when keeping my own vigil above. I doubted if Sinclair had remembered him either. Yet he must have been unconsciously sharing our watch from start to finish; must even have heard the cry as only a waking man could hear it. Should I ask him if this was so? No. Perhaps I had not the courage to hear his answer.
Shortly after my return into the main hall I heard steps on the grand staircase. Looking up, I saw the two girls descendin
g, followed by Sinclair. He had been successful, then, in inducing Dorothy to come down. What would be the result? Could I stand the suspense of the impending interview?
As they stepped within the rays of the solitary gas-jet already mentioned, I cast one quick look into Gilbertine’s face, then a long one into Dorothy’s. I could read neither. If it was horror and horror only which rendered both so pale and fixed of feature, then their emotion was similar in character and intensity. But if in either breast the one dominant sentiment was fear—horrible, blood-curdling fear—then was that fear confined to Dorothy; for while Gilbertine advanced bravely, Dorothy’s steps lagged, and at the point where she should have turned into the library, she whirled sharply about and made as if she would fly back up stairs.
But one stare from Gilbertine, one word from Sinclair, recalled her to herself and she passed in and the door closed upon the three. I was left to prevent possible intrusion and to eat out my heart in intolerable suspense.
CHAPTER VI
DOROTHY SPEAKS
I shall not subject you to the ordeal from which I suffered. You shall follow my three friends into the room. According to Sinclair’s description, the interview proceeded thus:
As soon as the door had closed upon them, and before either of the girls had a chance to speak, he remarked to Gilbertine:
“I have brought you here because I wish to express to you, in the presence of your cousin, my sympathy for the bereavement which in an instant has robbed you both of a lifelong guardian. I also wish to say in the light of this sad event, that I am ready, if propriety so exacts, to postpone the ceremony which I hoped would unite our lives today. Your wish shall be my wish, Gilbertine; though I would suggest that possibly you never more needed the sympathy and protection which only a husband can give than you do today.”
He told me afterward that he was so taken up with the effect of this suggestion on Gilbertine that he forgot to look at Dorothy, though the hint he strove to convey of impending trouble was meant as much for her as for his affianced bride. In another moment he regretted this, especially when he saw that Dorothy had changed her attitude and was now looking away from them both.
“What do you say, Gilbertine?” he asked earnestly, as she sat flushing and paling before him.
“Nothing. I have not thought—it is a question for others to decide—others who know what is right better than I. I appreciate your consideration,” she suddenly burst out—“and should be glad to tell you at this moment what to expect; but—give me a little time—let me see you later—in the morning, Mr. Sinclair, after we are all somewhat rested and when I can see you quite alone.”
Dorothy rose.
“Shall I go?” she asked.
Sinclair advanced and with quiet protest, touched her on the shoulder. Quietly she sank back into her seat.
“I want to say a half-dozen words to you, Miss Camerden. Gilbertine will pardon us; it is about matters which must be settled tonight. There are decisions to arrive at and arrangements to be made. Mrs. Armstrong has instructed me to question you in regard to these, as the one best acquainted with Mrs. Lansing’s affairs and general tastes. We will not trouble Gilbertine. She has her own decisions to reach. Dear, will you let me make you comfortable in the conservatory while I talk for five minutes with Dorothy?”
He said she met this question with a look so blank and uncomprehending that he just lifted her and carried her in among the palms.
“I must speak to Dorothy,” he pleaded, placing her in the chair where he had often seen her sit of her own accord. “Be a good girl; I will not keep you here long.”
“But why can not I go to my room? I do not understand—I am frightened—what have you to say to Dorothy you can not say to me?”
She seemed so excited that for a minute, just a minute, he faltered in his purpose. Then he took her gravely by the hand.
“I have told you,” said he. Then he kissed her softly on the forehead. “Be quiet, dear, and rest. See! here are roses.”
He plucked and flung a handful into her lap. Then he crossed back to the library and shut the conservatory door behind him. I am not surprised that Gilbertine wondered at her peremptory bridegroom.
When Sinclair reëntered the library, he found Dorothy standing with her hand on the knob of the door leading into the hall. Her head was bent and thoughtful, as though she were inwardly debating whether to stand her ground or fly. Sinclair gave her no further opportunity for hesitation. Advancing rapidly, he laid his hand quietly on hers, and with a gravity which must have impressed her, quietly remarked:
“I must ask you to stay and hear what I have to say. I wished to spare Gilbertine; would that I could spare you. But circumstances forbid. You know and I know that your aunt did not die of apoplexy.”
She gave a violent start and her lips parted. If the hand under his clasp had been cold, it was now icy. He let his own slip from the contact.
“You know!” she echoed, trembling and pallid, her released hand flying instinctively to her hair.
“Yes; you need not feel about for the little box. I took it from its hiding-place when I laid you fainting on the bed. Here it is.”
He drew it from his pocket and showed it to her. She hardly glanced at it; her eyes were fixed in terror on his face and her lips seemed to be trying in vain to formulate some inquiry.
He tried to be merciful.
“I missed it many hours ago, from the shelf yonder where you all saw me place it. Had I known that you had taken it, I would have repeated to you how deadly were the contents, and how dangerous it was to handle the vial or to let others handle it, much less to put it to the lips.”
She started and instinctively her form rose to its full height.
“Have you looked in that little box since you took it from my hair?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Then you know it to be empty.”
For answer he pressed the spring, and the little lid flew open.
“It is not empty now, you see.” Then more slowly and with infinite meaning, “But the little flask is.”
She brought her hands together and faced him with a noble dignity which at once put the interview on a different footing.
“Where was this vial found?” she demanded.
He found it difficult to answer. They seemed to have exchanged positions. When he did speak it was in a low tone and with less confidence than he had shown before.
“In the bed with the old lady. I saw it there myself. Mr. Worthington was with me. Nobody else knows anything about it. I wished to give you an opportunity to explain. I begin to think you can—but how, God only knows. The box was hidden in your hair from early evening. I saw your hand continually fluttering toward it all the time we were dancing in the parlor.”
She did not lose an iota of her dignity or pride.
“You are right,” she said. “I put it there as soon as I took it from the cabinet. I could think of no safer hiding-place. Yes, I took it,” she acknowledged as she saw the flush rise to his cheek. “I took it; but with no worse motive than the dishonest one of having for my own an object which bewitched me; I was hardly myself when I snatched it from the shelf and thrust it into my hair.”
He stared at her in amazement, her confession and her attitude so completely contradicted each other.
“But I had nothing to do with the vial,” she went on. And with this declaration her whole manner, even her voice changed, as if with the utterance of these few words she had satisfied some inner demand of self-respect and could now enter into the sufferings of those about her. “This I think it right to make plain to you. I supposed the vial to be in the box when I took it, but when I got to my room and had an opportunity to examine the deadly trinket, I found it empty, just as you found it when you took it from my hair. Some one had taken the vial out before my hand had ever touched the box.”
Like a man who feels himself suddenly seized by the throat, yet who struggles for the life slowly but inexorably leavi
ng him, Sinclair cast one heartrending look toward the conservatory, then heavily demanded:
“Why were you out of your room? Why did they have to look for you? And who was the person who uttered that scream?”
She confronted him sadly, but with an earnestness he could not but respect.
“I was not in the room because I was troubled by my discovery. I think I had some idea of returning the box to the shelf from which I had taken it. At all events, I found myself on the little staircase in the rear when that cry rang through the house. I do not know who uttered it; I only know that it did not spring from my lips.”
In a rush of renewed hope he seized her by the hand.
“It was your aunt!” he whispered. “It was she who took the vial out of the box; who put it to her own lips; who shrieked when she felt her vitals gripped. Had you stayed you would have known this. Can’t you say so? Don’t you think so? Why do you look at me with those incredulous eyes?”
“Because you must not believe a lie. Because you are too good a man to be sacrificed. It was a younger throat than my aunt’s which gave utterance to that shriek. Mr. Sinclair, be advised; do not be married tomorrow!”
Meanwhile I was pacing the hall without in a delirium of suspense. I tried hard to keep within the bounds of silence. I had turned for the fiftieth time to face that library door, when suddenly I heard a hoarse cry break from within and saw the door fly open and Dorothy come hurrying out. She shrank when she saw me, but seemed grateful that I did not attempt to stop her, and soon was up the stairs and out of sight. I rushed at once into the library.
I found Sinclair sitting before a table with his head buried in his hands. In an instant I knew that our positions were again reversed and, without stopping to give heed to my own sensations, I approached him as near as I dared and laid my hand on his shoulder.
He shuddered but did not look up, and it was minutes before he spoke. Then it all came in a rush.
“Fool! fool that I was! And I saw that she was consumed by fright the moment it became plain that I was intent upon having some conversation with Dorothy. Her fingers where they gripped my arm must have left marks behind them. But I saw only womanly nervousness where a man less blind would have detected guilt. Walter, I wish that the mere scent of this empty flask would kill. Then I should not have to reënter that conservatory door—or look again in her face, or—”
The Anna Katharine Green Mystery Megapack Page 95