The Anna Katharine Green Mystery Megapack

by Anna Katharine Green

  “And what has yours been, worming, as you have, into my sister’s confidence—”

  But here Frank hushed him. “We will drop this,” said he. “You know me, and I think I know you. I came to give you one last chance to play the man by helping me to find your relatives. I see you have no intention of doing so, so I will now proceed to find them without you.”

  “If they exist,” he put in.

  “Certainly, if they exist. If they do not—”

  “What then?”

  “I must have proofs to that effect. I must know that your sister left no heirs but yourself.”

  “That will take time,” he grumbled. “I shall be kept weeks out of my rights.”

  “The Surrogate will see that you do not suffer.”

  He shuddered and looked like a fox driven into his hole.

  “It is shameful, shameful!” he cried. “It is nothing but a conspiracy to rob me of my own. I suppose I shall not be allowed to live in my own house.” And his eyes wandered greedily over the rafters above him.

  “Are you sure that it is yours?”

  “Yes, yes, damn you!” But the word had been hasty, and he immediately caught Frank’s sleeve and cringed in contrition. “I beg your pardon,” he cried, “perhaps we had better not talk any longer, for I have been too tried for patience. They will not even leave me alone in my grief,” he whined, pointing towards the rooms full, as I have said, of jostling neighbors and gossips.

  “It will be quiet enough after the funeral,” Frank assured him.

  “Oh! oh! the funeral!” he groaned.

  “Is it going to be too extravagant?” Frank insinuated artfully.

  Huckins gave the lawyer a look, dropped his eyes and mournfully shook his head.

  “The poor woman would not have liked it,” he muttered; “but one must be decent towards one’s own blood.”

  VII

  THE WAY OPENS.

  Frank succeeded in having Mr. Dickey appointed as Custodian of the property, then he went back to Marston.

  “Good-evening, Doctor; what a nest of roses you have here for a bachelor,” was his jovial cry, as he entered the quaint little house, in which Sellick had now established himself. “I declare, when you told me I should always find a room here, I did not realize what a temptation you were offering me. And in sight—” He paused, changing color as he drew back from the window to which he had stepped—“of the hills,” he somewhat awkwardly added.

  Edgar, who had watched the movements of his friend from under half lowered lids, smiled dryly.

  “Of the hills,” he repeated. Then with a short laugh, added, “I knew that you liked that especial view.”

  Frank’s eye, which was still on a certain distant chimney, lighted up wonderfully as he turned genially towards his friend.

  “I did not know you were such a good fellow,” he laughed. “I hope you have found yourself made welcome here.”

  “Oh, yes, welcome enough.”

  “Any patients yet?”

  “All of Dudgeon’s, I fear. I have been doing little else but warning one man after another: ‘Now, no words against any former practitioner. If you want help from me, tell me your symptoms, but don’t talk about any other doctor’s mistakes, for I have not time to hear it.’”

  “Poor old Dudgeon!” cried Frank. Then, shortly: “I’m a poor one to hide my impatience. Have you seen either of them yet?”

  “Either—of—them?”

  “The girls, the two sweet whimsical girls. You know whom I mean, Edgar.”

  “You only spoke of one when you were here before, Frank.”

  “And I only think of one. But I saw the other on my way to the depot, and that made me speak of the two. Have you seen them?”

  “No,” answered the other, with unnecessary dryness; “I think you told me they did not go out.”

  “But you have feet, man, and you can go to them, and I trusted that you would, if only to prepare the way for me; for I mean to visit them, as you have every reason to believe, and I should have liked an introducer.”

  “Frank,” asked the other, quietly, but with a certain marked earnestness, “has it gone as deep as that? Are you really serious in your intention of making the acquaintance of Miss Cavanagh?”

  “Serious? Have you for a minute thought me otherwise?”

  “You are not serious in most things.”

  “In business I am, and in—”

  “Love?” the other smiled.

  “Yes, if you can call it love, yet.”

  “We will not call it anything,” said the other. “You want to see her, that is all. I wonder at your decision, but can say nothing against it. Happily, you have seen her defect.”

  “It is not a defect to me.”

  “Not if it is in her nature as well?”

  “Her nature?”

  “A woman who for any reason cuts herself off from her species, as she is said to do, cannot be without her faults. Such idiosyncrasies do not grow out of the charity we are bid to have for our fellow-creatures.”

  “But she may have suffered. I can readily believe she has suffered from that same want of charity in others. There is nothing like a personal defect to make one sensitive. Think of the averted looks she must have met from many thoughtless persons; and she almost a beauty!”

  “Yes, that almost is tragic.”

  “It can excuse much.”

  Edgar shook his head. “Think what you are doing, Frank, that’s all. I should hesitate in making the acquaintance of one who for any reason has shut herself away from the world.”

  “Is not her whim shared by her sister?”

  “They say so.”

  “Then there are two whose acquaintance you would hesitate to make?”

  “Certainly, if I had any ulterior purpose beyond that of mere acquaintanceship.”

  “Her sister has no scar?”

  Edgar, weary, perhaps, of the conversation, did not answer.

  “Why should she shut herself up?” mused Frank, too interested in the subject to note the other’s silence.

  “Women are mysteries,” quoth Edgar, shortly.

  “But this is more than a mystery,” cried Frank. “Whim will not account for it. There must be something in the history of these two girls which the world does not know.”

  “That is not the fault of the world,” retorted Edgar, in his usual vein of sarcasm.

  But Frank was reckless. “The world is right to be interested,” he avowed. “It would take a very cold heart not to be moved with curiosity by such a fact as two girls secluding themselves in their own house, without any manifest reason. Are you not moved by it, Edgar? Are you, indeed, as indifferent as you seem?”

  “I should like to know why they do this, of course, but I shall not busy myself to find out. I have much else to do.”

  “Well, I have not. It is the one thing in life for me; so look out for some great piece of audacity on my part, for speak to her I will, and that, too, before I leave the town.”

  “I do not see how you will manage that, Frank.”

  “You forget I am a lawyer.”

  Yet for all the assurance manifested by this speech, it was some time before Frank could see his way clearly to what he desired. A dozen plans were made and dismissed as futile before he finally determined to seek the assistance of a fellow-lawyer whose name he had seen in the window of the one brick building in the principal street. “Through him,” thought he, “I may light upon some business which will enable me to request with propriety an interview with Miss Cavanagh.” Yet his heart failed him as he went up the steps of Mr. Hamilton’s office, and if that gentleman, upon presenting himself, had been a young man, Frank would certainly have made some excuse for his intrusion, and retired. But he was old and white-haired and benignant, and so Frank was lured into introducing himself as a young lawyer from New York, engaged in finding the whereabouts of one Harriet Smith, a former resident of Marston.

  Mr. Hamilton, who could not fai
l to be impressed by Etheridge’s sterling appearance, met him with cordiality.

  “I have heard of you,” said he, “but I fear your errand here is bound to be fruitless. No Harriet Smith, so far as I know, ever came to reside in this town. And I was born and bred in this street. Have you actual knowledge that one by that name ever lived here, and can you give me the date?”

  The answers Frank made were profuse but hurried; he had not expected to gain news of Harriet Smith; he had only used the topic as a means of introducing conversation. But when he came to the point in which he was more nearly interested, he found his courage fail him. He could not speak the name of Miss Cavanagh, even in the most casual fashion, and so the interview ended without any further result than the making on his part of a pleasant acquaintance. Subdued by his failure, Frank quitted the office, and walked slowly down the street. If he had not boasted of his intentions to Edgar, he would have left the town without further effort; but now his pride was involved, and he made that an excuse to his love. Should he proceed boldly to her house, use the knocker, and ask to see Miss Cavanagh? Yes, he might do that, but afterwards? With what words should he greet her, or win that confidence which the situation so peculiarly demanded? He was not an acknowledged friend, or the friend of an acknowledged friend, unless Edgar— But no, Edgar was not their friend; it would be folly to speak his name to them. What then? Must he give up his hopes till time had paved the way to their realization? He feared it must be so, yet he recoiled from the delay. In this mood he re-entered Edgar’s office.

  A woman in hat and cloak met him.

  “Are you the stranger lawyer that has come to town?” she asked.

  He bowed, wondering if he was about to hear news of Harriet Smith.

  “Then this note is for you,” she declared, handing him a little three-cornered billet.

  His heart gave a great leap, and he turned towards the window as he opened the note. Who could be writing letters to him of such dainty appearance as this? Not she, of course, and yet— He tore open the sheet, and read these words:

  “If not asking too great a favor, may I request that you will call at my house, in your capacity of lawyer.

  “As I do not leave my own home, you will pardon this informal method of requesting your services. The lawyer here cannot do my work.

  “Yours respectfully,

  “Hermione Cavanagh.”

  He was too much struck with amazement and delight to answer the messenger at once. When he did so, his voice was very business-like.

  “Will Miss Cavanagh be at liberty this morning?” he asked. “I shall be obliged to return to the city after dinner.”

  “She told me to say that any time would be convenient to her,” was the answer.

  “Then say to her that I will be at her door in half an hour.”

  The woman nodded, and turned.

  “She lives on the road to the depot, where the two rows of poplars are,” she suddenly declared, as she paused at the door.

  “I know,” he began, and blushed, for the woman had given him a quick glance of surprise. “I noticed the poplars,” he explained.

  She smiled as she passed out, and that made him crimson still more.

  “Do I wear my heart on my sleeve?” he murmured to himself, in secret vexation. “If so, I must wrap it about with a decent cloak of reserve before I go into the presence of one who has such power to move it.” And he was glad Edgar was not at home to mark his excitement.

  The half hour wore away, and he stood on the rose-embowered porch. Would she come to the door herself, or would it be the sad-eyed sister he should see first? It mattered little. It was Hermione who had sent for him, and it was with Hermione he should talk. Was it his heart that was beating so loudly? He had scarcely answered the question, when the door opened, and the woman who had served as a messenger from Miss Cavanagh stood before him.

  “Ah!” said she, “come in.” And in another moment he was in the enchanted house.

  A door stood open at his left, and into the room thus disclosed he was ceremoniously ushered.

  “Miss Cavanagh will be down in a moment,” said the woman, as she slowly walked away, with more than one lingering backward look.

  He did not note this look, for his eyes were on the quaint old furniture and shadowy recesses of the staid best room, in which he stood an uneasy guest. For somehow he had imagined he would see the woman of his dreams in a place of cheer and sunshine; at a window, perhaps, where the roses looked in, or at least in a spot enlivened by some evidences of womanly handiwork and taste. But here all was stiff as at a funeral. The high black mantel-shelf was without clock or vase, and the only attempt at ornament to be seen within the four grim walls was an uncouth wreath, made of shells, on a background of dismal black, which hung between the windows. It was enough to rob any moment of its romance. And yet, if she should look fair here, what might he not expect of her beauty in more harmonious surroundings.

  As he was adjusting his ideas to this thought, there came the sound of a step on the stair, and the next moment Hermione Cavanagh entered his presence.

  VIII

  A SEARCH AND ITS RESULTS.

  Hermione Cavanagh, without the scar, would have been one of the handsomest of women. She was of the grand type, with height and a nobility of presence to which the extreme loveliness of her perfect features lent a harmonizing grace. Of a dazzling complexion, the hair which lay above her straight fine brows shone ebon-like in its lustre, while her eyes, strangely and softly blue, filled the gazer at first with surprise and then with delight as the varying emotions of her quick mind deepened them into a more perfect consonance with her hair, or softened them into something like the dewy freshness of heaven-born flowers. Her mouth was mobile, but the passions it expressed were not of the gentlest, whatever might be the language of her eyes, and so it was that her face was in a way a contradiction of itself, which made it a fascinating study to one who cared to watch it, or possessed sufficient understanding to read its subtle language. She was oddly dressed in a black, straight garment, eminently in keeping with the room; but there was taste displayed in the arrangement of her hair, and nothing could make her face anything but a revelation of beauty, unless it was the scar, and that Frank Etheridge did not see.

  “Are you—” she began and paused, looking at him with such surprise that he felt his cheeks flush—“the lawyer who was in town a few days ago on some pressing inquiry?”

  “I am,” returned Frank, making her the low bow her embarrassment seemed to demand.

  “Then you must excuse me,” said she; “I thought you were an elderly man, like our own Mr. Hamilton. I should not have sent for you if—”

  “If you had known I had no more experience,” he suggested, with a smile, seeing her pause in some embarrassment.

  She bowed; yet he knew that was not the way she would have ended the sentence if she had spoken her thought.

  “Then I am to understand,” said he, with a gentleness born of his great wish to be of service to her, “that you would prefer that I should send you an older adviser. I can do it, Miss Cavanagh.”

  “Thank you,” she said, and stood hesitating, the slight flush on her cheek showing that she was engaged in some secret struggle. “I will tell you my difficulty,” she pursued at last, raising her eyes with a frank look to his face. “Will you be seated?”

  Charmed with the graciousness of her manner when once relieved from embarrassment, he waited for her to sit and then took a chair himself.

  “It is a wearisome affair,” she declared, “but one which a New York lawyer can solve without much trouble.” And with the clearness of a highly cultivated mind, she gave him the facts of a case in which she and her sister had become involved through the negligence of her man of business.

  “Can you help me?” she asked.

  “Very easily,” he replied. “You have but to go to New York and swear to these facts before a magistrate, and the matter will be settled without difficulty.�
��

  “But I cannot go to New York.”

  “No? Not on a matter of this importance?”

  “On no matter. I do not travel, Mr. Etheridge.”

  The pride and finality with which this was uttered, gave him his first glimpse of the hard streak which there was undoubtedly in her character. Though he longed to press the question he judged that he had better not, so suggested carelessly:

  “Your sister, then?”

  But she met this suggestion, as he had expected her to, with equal calmness and pride.

  “My sister does not travel either.”

  He looked the astonishment he did not feel and remarked gravely:

  “I fear, then, that the matter cannot be so easily adjusted.” And he began to point out the difficulties in the way, to all of which she listened with a slightly absent air, as if the affair was in reality of no great importance to her.

  Suddenly she waved her hand with a quick gesture.

  “You can do as you please,” said she. “If you can save us from loss, do so; if not, let the matter go; I shall not allow it to worry me further.” Then she looked up at him with a total change of expression, and for the first time the hint of a smile softened the almost severe outline of her mouth. “You are searching, I hear, for a woman named Harriet Smith; have you found her, sir?”

  Delighted at this evidence on her part of a wish to indulge in general conversation, he answered with alacrity:

  “Not yet. She was not, as it seems, a well-known inhabitant of this town as I had been led to believe. I even begin to fear she never has lived here at all. The name is a new one to you, I presume.”

  “Smith. Can the name of Smith ever be said to be new?” she laughed with something like an appearance of gayety.

  “But Harriet,” he explained, “Harriet Smith, once Harriet Huckins.”

  “I never knew any Harriet Smith,” she averred. “Would it have obliged you very much if I had?”

  He smiled, somewhat baffled by her manner, but charmed by her voice, which was very rich and sweet in its tones.