The Anna Katharine Green Mystery Megapack

by Anna Katharine Green

  Not understanding her or myself or the strange thrill awakened by this contact, I tore open the front door and looked out, expecting, of course, to see her on the steps or on the sidewalk in front. But there was no one of her appearance visible, and I came back questioning whether I was the victim of a hallucination or just an everyday fool. To satisfy myself on this important question I looked about for the hall-boy, with the intention of asking him if he had seen any such person go out, but that young and inconsequent scamp was missing from his post as usual, and there was no one within sight to appeal to.

  There was nothing to do but to re-enter my rooms, where my attention was immediately arrested by the sight of my wife sitting up in bed and surveying me with a look of unmistakable astonishment.

  “Who was that woman?” she asked. “And how came she in here?”

  So she had seen her too.

  “What woman, Lydia? I have not let in any woman. Did you think there was a woman in this room?”

  “Not in that room,” she answered hoarsely, “but in this one. I saw her just now passing through the folding doors. Wilbur, I am frightened. See how my hands shake. Do you think I am sick enough to imagine things?”

  I knew she was not, but I did not say so. I thought it would be better for her to think herself under some such delusion.

  “You were dozing,” said I. “If you had seen a woman here, you could tell me how she looked.”

  “And I can,” my wife broke in excitedly. “She was like the ghosts we read of, only that her dress and the veil or drapery she wore were all gray. Didn’t you see her? You must have seen her. She went right by you—a gray woman, all gray; a lady, Wilbur, and slightly lame. Could I have dreamed all that?”

  “You must have!” I cried, shaking the one door communicating with the hall, so she might see it was locked, and even showing her the key of it, lying in its accustomed place behind the bureau cushion. Yet I was in no satisfied condition myself, for she had described with the greatest accuracy the very person I had myself seen. Had we been alike the victims of a spiritual manifestation?

  This was Tuesday. On Friday my question seemed to receive an answer. I had been down town, as usual, and on returning found a crowd assembled in front of my lodging-house. A woman had been run over and was being carried into our rooms. In the glimpse I caught of her I saw that she was middle-aged and was wrapped in a long black cloak. Later, this cloak fell off, as her hat had done long before, and I perceived that her dress was black and decent.

  She was laid on our bed and every attention paid her. But she had been grievously injured about the head and gradually but surely sank before our eyes. Suddenly she roused and gave a look about her. It was a remarkable one—a look of recognition and almost of delight. Then she raised one hand and, pointing with a significant gesture into the empty space before her, sank back and died.

  It was a sudden ending, and, anxious to see its effect upon my wife, who was standing on the other side of the bed, I glanced her way with some misgiving. She showed more feeling than I had anticipated. Indeed her countenance was a study, and when, under, the influence of my scrutiny she glanced my way, I saw that something of deeper import than this unexpected death in our rooms lay at the bottom of her uneasy look.

  What that was, I was soon to know, for catching up from amid the folds of the woman’s gray-lined cloak a long gray veil which had fallen at the bedside, she disposed it softly about the woman’s face, darting me a look full of significance.

  “You remember the vision I had the morning when I was sick?” she whispered softly in my ear.

  I nodded, secretly thrilled to my very heart’s core.

  “Well, it was a vision of this woman. If she were living and on her feet and wrapped, as I have shown you, in this veil, you would behold a living picture of the person I saw passing out of this room that morning.”

  “I shall not dispute you,” I answered. Alas, I had myself perceived the likeness the minute the veil had fallen about the pinched but handsome features!

  “A forewarning,” whispered my wife, “a forewarning of what has this day happened under our roof. It was a wraith we saw. Wilbur, I shall not spend another night in these rooms.”

  And we did not. I was as anxious to leave as she was. Yet I am not a superstitious man. As proof of it, after the first effect of these events had left me, I began to question my first impressions and feel tolerably ashamed of my past credulity. Though the phenomenon we had observed could not to all appearance be explained by any natural hypothesis; though I had seen, and my wife had seen, a strange woman suddenly become visible in a room which a moment before had held no one but ourselves, and into which no live woman could have entered without our knowledge, something—was it my natural good sense?—recoiled before a supernatural explanation of this, and I found myself forced to believe that our first visitor had been as real as the last; in other words, the same woman.

  But could I prove it? Could the seemingly impossible be made possible and the unexplainable receive a solution satisfying to a rational mind? I determined to make an effort to accomplish this, if only to relieve the mind of my wife, who had not recovered her equanimity as readily as myself.

  Starting with the assumption above mentioned—that the woman who had died in our presence was the same who had previously found an unexplainable entrance into these same rooms—I first inquired if the black cloak lined with gray did not offer a solution to some of my previous difficulties. It was a long cloak, enveloping her completely. When worn with the black side out, she would present an inconspicuous appearance, but with the gray side out and the effect of this heightened by a long gray veil flung over her hat, she would look like the gray lady I had first seen. Now, a cloak can be turned in an instant, and if she had chosen to do this in flitting through my door I would naturally find only a sedate, black-clothed woman passing up the street, when, rousing from the apathy into which her appearance had thrown me, I rushed to the front door and looked out. Had I seen such a woman? I seemed to remember that I had. Thus much, then, was satisfactory, but to account for her entrance into our rooms was not so easy. Had she slipped by me in coming in as she had on going out? The parlor door was open, for I had been out to get the paper. Could she have glided in by me unperceived and thus have found her way into the bedroom from which I afterward saw her issue? No, for I had stood facing the front hall door all the time. Through the bedroom door then? But that was, as I have said, locked. Here was a mystery, then; but it was one worth solving.

  My first step was to recall all that I had heard of the actual woman who had been buried from our rooms. Her name, as ascertained in the cheap boarding-house to which she was traced, was Helmuth, and she was, so far as any one knew, without friends or relatives in the city. To those who saw her daily she was a harmless, slightly demented woman with money enough to live above want, but not enough to warrant her boasting talk about the rich things she was going to buy some day and the beautiful presents she would soon be in a position to give away. The money found on her person was sufficient to bury her, but no papers were in her possession, nor any letters calculated to throw light upon her past life.

  Her lameness had been caused by paralysis, but the date of her attack was not known.

  Finding no clue in this to what I wished to learn, I went back to our old rooms, which had not been let since our departure, and sought for one there, and, strangely enough, I found it. I thought I knew everything there was to be known about the apartment we had lived in two months, but one little fact had escaped me which, under the scrutiny that I now gave it, became apparent. This was simply that the key which opened the hall door of the bedroom and which we had seldom if ever used was not as old a key as that of the corresponding door in the parlor, and this fact, small as it was, led me to make inquiries.

  The result was that I learned something about the couple who had preceded us in the use of these rooms. They were of middle age and of great personal elegance, but uncerta
in pay, the husband being nothing more nor less than a professional gambler. Their name was L’Hommedieu.

  When I first heard of them, I thought that Mrs. L’Hommedieu might be the Mrs. Helmuth in whose history I was so interested, but from all I could learn she was a very different sort of person. Mrs. L’Hommedieu was gay, dashing and capable of making a show out of a flimsy silk a shop-girl would hesitate to wear. Yet she looked distinguished and wore her cheap jewelry with more grace than many a woman her diamonds. I would, consequently, have dropped this inquiry if someone had not remarked upon her having had a paralytic stroke after leaving the house. This, together with the fact that the key to the rear door, which I had found replaced by a new one, had been taken away by her and never returned, connected her so indubitably with my mysterious visitor that I resolved to pursue my investigations into Mrs. L’Hommedieu’s past.

  For this purpose I sought out a quaint little maiden-lady living on the top floor, who, I was told, knew more about the L’Hommedieus than any one in the building. Miss Winterburn, whose acquaintance I had failed to make while residing in the house, was a fluttering, eager, affable person, whose one delight was, as I soon found, to talk about the L’Homme-dieus. Of the story she related I give as much as I can of it in her own words.

  “I was never their equal,” said she, “but Mrs. L’Hommedieu was lonely, and, having no friends in town, was good enough to admit me to her parlor now and then and even to allow me to accompany her to the theater when her husband was away on one of his mysterious visits. I never liked Mr. L’Homme-dieu, but I did like her. She was so different from me, and, when I first knew her, so gay and so full of conversation. But after awhile she changed and was either feverishly cheerful or morbidly sad, so that my visits caused me more pain than pleasure. The reason for these changes in her was patent to everybody. Though her husband was a handsome man, he was as unprincipled as he was unfortunate. He gambled. This she once admitted to me, and while at long intervals he met with some luck he more often returned dispirited and with that hungry, ravening look you expect to see in a wolf cheated of its prey.

  “I used to be afraid he would strike her after one of these disappointments, but I do not think he ever did. She had a determined character of her own, and there have been times when I have thought he was as much afraid of her as she was of him. I became sure of this after one night. Mrs. L’Hommedieu and myself were having a little supper together in the front parlor you have so lately occupied. It was a very ordinary supper, for the L’Hommedieus’ purse had run low, and Mrs. L’Hommedieu was not the woman to spend much at any time on her eating. It was palatable, however, and had been cooked by us both together, and I was enjoying it and would have enjoyed it more if Mrs. L’Hommedieu had had more appetite. But she ate scarcely anything and seemed very anxious and unhappy, though she laughed now and then with sudden gusts of mirth too hysterical to be real. It was not late, and yet we were both very much surprised when there came a knock at the door, followed by the entrance of a visitor.

  “Mrs. L’Hommedieu, who is always la grande dame, rose without apparent embarrassment to meet the gentleman who entered, though I knew she could not help but feel keenly the niggardly appearance of the board she left with such grace. The stranger—he was certainly a stranger; this I could see by the formality of her manner—was a gentleman of urbane bearing and a general air of prosperity.

  “I remember every word that passed.

  “‘My name is Lafarge,’ said he. ‘I am, or rather have been, under great obligations to your husband, and I have come to discharge my debt. Is he at home?’

  “Mrs. L’Hommedieu’s eye, which had sparkled at his name, dropped suddenly as he put the final question.

  “‘I am sorry,’ she returned after a moment of embarrassment, ‘but my husband is very seldom home evenings. If you could come about noon some day’—

  “‘Thank you,’ said he, with a bright smile, ‘but I will finish my business now and with you, seeing that Mr. L’Hommedieu is not at home. Years ago—I am sure you have heard your husband mention my name—I borrowed quite a sum of money from him, which I have never paid. You recall the amount, no doubt?’

  “‘I have heard Mr. L’Hommedieu say it was a thousand dollars,’ she replied, with a sudden fluttering of her hands indicative of great excitement.

  “‘That is the sum,’ he allowed, either not noticing me or thinking me too insignificant to be considered. ‘I regret to have kept him so long out of it, but I have not forgotten to add the interest in making out this statement of my indebtedness, and if you will look over this paper and acknowledge its correctness I will leave the equivalent of my debt here and now, for I sail for Europe tomorrow morning and wish to have all my affairs in order before leaving.’

  “Mrs. L’Hommedieu, who looked ready to faint from excess of feeling, summoned up her whole strength, looking so beautiful as she did so, that one forgot the ribbons on her sleeves were no longer fresh and that the silk dress she wore hung in the very limpest of folds.

  “‘I am obliged to you,’ she said in a tone from which she strove in vain to suppress all eagerness. ‘And if I may speak for Mr. L’Hommedieu he will be as grateful for your remembrance of us as for the money you so kindly offer to return to him.’

  “The stranger bowed low and took out a folded paper, which he handed her. He was not deceived, I am sure, by her grand airs, and knew as well as I did that no woman ever stood in greater need of money. But nothing in his manner betrayed this knowledge.

  “‘It is a bond I give you,’ he now explained. ‘As you will see, it has coupons attached to it, which you can cash at any time. It will prove as valuable to you as so much ready money and possibly more convenient.’

  “And with just this hint, which I took as significant of his complete understanding of her position, he took her receipt and politely left the house.

  “Once alone with me who am nobody, her joy had full vent. I have never seen any one so lost in delight as she was for a few minutes. To have this money thrust upon her just at a moment when actual want seemed staring her in the face was too much of a relief for her to conceal either the misery she had been under or the satisfaction she now enjoyed. Under the gush of her emotions her whole history came out, but as you have often heard the like I will not repeat it, especially as it was all contained in the cry with which a little later she thrust the bond toward me.

  “‘He must not see it! He must not! It would go like all the rest, and I would again be left without a cent. Take it and keep it, for I have no means of concealing it here. He is too suspicious.’

  “But this was asking more than I was willing to grant. Seeing how I felt, she thrust the paper into her bosom with a look before which I secretly recoiled. ‘You will not charge yourself with such a responsibility?’ said she. ‘But I can trust you not to tell him?’

  “‘Yes,’ I nodded, feeling sick of the whole business.

  “‘Then’—But here the door was violently flung open and without any warning Mr. L’Hommedieu burst into the room in a state of as much excitement as his wife, only his was the excitement of desperation.

  “‘Gone! Gone!’ he cried, ignoring me as completely as had Mr. Lafarge. ‘Not a dollar left; not even my studs! See!’ And he pointed to his shirt front hanging apart in a way I would never have looked for in this reckless but fastidious gentleman. ‘Yet if I had had a dollar more or even a ring worth a dollar or so I might have— Theresa, have you any money at all? A coin now might save us.’

  “Mrs. L’Hommedieu, who had turned alarmingly pale, drew up her fine figure and resolutely confronted him. ‘No!’ said she, and shifting her gaze she turned it meaningly upon me.

  “He misunderstood this movement. Thinking it simply a reminder of my presence, he turned and, with his false but impressive show of courtesy, made me a low bow. Then he forgot me utterly again, and facing his wife, growled out:

  “‘Where are you going to get breakfast then? You don’t loo
k like a woman who expects to starve!’

  “It was a fatal remark, for, do what she would, she could not prevent a slight smile of disdain, and, seeing it, he kept his eyes riveted on her face till her uneasiness became manifest. Instantly his suspicion took form, and, surveying her still more fixedly, he espied a corner of the precious paper protruding slightly above her corsage. To snatch it out, open it and realize its value was the work of a moment. Her cry of dismay and his shout of mad triumph rang out simultaneously, and never have I seen such an ebullition of opposing passions as I was made witness to as his hand closed over this small fortune and their staring eyes met in the mortal struggle they had now entered upon for its ultimate possession.

  “She was the first to speak. ‘It was given to me; it was meant for me. If I keep it, both of us will profit by it, but if you—’

  “He did not wait for her to finish. ‘Where did you get it?’ he cried. ‘I can break the bank with what I can raise on this bond at the club. Darraugh’s in town. You know what that means. Luck’s in the air, and with an hundred dollars—But I’ve no time to talk. I came for a dollar, a fifty-cent piece, a dime even, and I go back with a bond worth—’

  “But she was already between him and the door. ‘You will never carry that bond out of this house,’ she whispered in the tone which goes further than any cry. ‘I have not held it in my hand to see it follow every other good thing I have had in life. I will not, Henry. Take that bond and sink it as you have all the rest and I fall at your feet a dead woman. I will never survive the destruction of my last hope.’

  “He was cowed—for a moment, that is; she looked so superb and so determined. Then all that was mean and despicable in his thinly veneered nature came to the surface, and, springing forward with an oath, he was about to push her aside, when, without the moving of a finger on her part, he reeled back, recovered himself, caught at a chair, missed it and fell heavily to the floor.