The Anna Katharine Green Mystery Megapack

by Anna Katharine Green

  Mr. Veeley paused, and I rose to go. “Do you remember how Mrs. Leavenworth looked?” I asked. “Could you describe her to me?”

  He seemed a little astonished at my request, but immediately replied: “She was a very pale woman; not strictly beautiful, but of a contour and expression of great charm. Her hair was brown, her eyes gray—”

  “And very wide apart?”

  He nodded, looking still more astonished. “How came you to know? Have you seen her picture?”

  I did not answer that question.

  On my way downstairs, I bethought me of a letter which I had in my pocket for Mr. Veeley’s son Fred, and, knowing of no surer way of getting it to him that night than by leaving it on the library table, I stepped to the door of that room, which in this house was at the rear of the parlors, and receiving no reply to my knock, opened it and looked in.

  The room was unlighted, but a cheerful fire was burning in the grate, and by its glow I espied a lady crouching on the hearth, whom at first glance I took for Mrs. Veeley. But, upon advancing and addressing her by that name, I saw my mistake; for the person before me not only refrained from replying, but, rising at the sound of my voice, revealed a form of such noble proportions that all possibility of its being that of the dainty little wife of my partner fled.

  “I see I have made a mistake,” said I. “I beg your pardon”; and would have left the room, but something in the general attitude of the lady before me restrained me, and, believing it to be Mary Leavenworth, I inquired:

  “Can it be this is Miss Leavenworth?”

  The noble figure appeared to droop, the gently lifted head to fall, and for a moment I doubted if I had been correct in my supposition. Then form and head slowly erected themselves, a soft voice spoke, and I heard a low “yes,” and hurriedly advancing, confronted—not Mary, with her glancing, feverish gaze, and scarlet, trembling lips—but Eleanore, the woman whose faintest look had moved me from the first, the woman whose husband I believed myself to be even then pursuing to his doom!

  The surprise was too great; I could neither sustain nor conceal it. Stumbling slowly back, I murmured something about having believed it to be her cousin; and then, conscious only of the one wish to fly a presence I dared not encounter in my present mood, turned, when her rich, heart-full voice rose once more and I heard:

  “You will not leave me without a word, Mr. Raymond, now that chance has thrown us together?” Then, as I came slowly forward: “Were you so very much astonished to find me here?”

  “I do not know—I did not expect—” was my incoherent reply. “I had heard you were ill; that you went nowhere; that you had no wish to see your friends.”

  “I have been ill,” she said; “but I am better now, and have come to spend the night with Mrs. Veeley, because I could not endure the stare of the four walls of my room any longer.”

  This was said without any effort at plaintiveness, but rather as if she thought it necessary to excuse herself for being where she was.

  “I am glad you did so,” said I. “You ought to be here all the while. That dreary, lonesome boarding-house is no place for you, Miss Leavenworth. It distresses us all to feel that you are exiling yourself at this time.”

  “I do not wish anybody to be distressed,” she returned. “It is best for me to be where I am. Nor am I altogether alone. There is a child there whose innocent eyes see nothing but innocence in mine. She will keep me from despair. Do not let my friends be anxious; I can bear it.” Then, in a lower tone: “There is but one thing which really unnerves me; and that is my ignorance of what is going on at home. Sorrow I can bear, but suspense is killing me. Will you not tell me something of Mary and home? I cannot ask Mrs. Veeley; she is kind, but has no real knowledge of Mary or me, nor does she know anything of our estrangement. She thinks me obstinate, and blames me for leaving my cousin in her trouble. But you know I could not help it. You know—” her voice wavered off into a tremble, and she did not conclude.

  “I cannot tell you much,” I hastened to reply; “but whatever knowledge is at my command is certainly yours. Is there anything in particular you wish to know?”

  “Yes, how Mary is; whether she is well, and—and composed.”

  “Your cousin’s health is good,” I returned; “but I fear I cannot say she is composed. She is greatly troubled about you.”

  “You see her often, then?”

  “I am assisting Mr. Harwell in preparing your uncle’s book for the press, and necessarily am there much of the time.”

  “My uncle’s book!” The words came in a tone of low horror.

  “Yes, Miss Leavenworth. It has been thought best to bring it before the world, and—”

  “And Mary has set you at the task?”

  “Yes.”

  It seemed as if she could not escape from the horror which this caused. “How could she? Oh, how could she!”

  “She considers herself as fulfilling her uncle’s wishes. He was very anxious, as you know, to have the book out by July.”

  “Do not speak of it!” she broke in, “I cannot bear it.” Then, as if she feared she had hurt my feelings by her abruptness, lowered her voice and said: “I do not, however, know of any one I should be better pleased to have charged with the task than yourself. With you it will be a work of respect and reverence; but a stranger—Oh, I could not have endured a stranger touching it.”

  She was fast falling into her old horror; but rousing herself, murmured: “I wanted to ask you something; ah, I know”—and she moved so as to face me. “I wish to inquire if everything is as before in the house; the servants the same and—and other things?”

  “There is a Mrs. Darrell there; I do not know of any other change.”

  “Mary does not talk of going away?”

  “I think not.”

  “But she has visitors? Someone besides Mrs. Darrell to help her bear her loneliness?”

  I knew what was coming, and strove to preserve my composure.

  “Yes,” I replied; “a few.”

  “Would you mind naming them?” How low her tones were, but how distinct!

  “Certainly not. Mrs. Veeley, Mrs. Gilbert, Miss Martin, and a—a—”

  “Go on,” she whispered.

  “A gentleman by the name of Clavering.”

  “You speak that name with evident embarrassment,” she said, after a moment of intense anxiety on my part. “May I inquire why?”

  Astounded, I raised my eyes to her face. It was very pale, and wore the old look of self-repressed calm I remembered so well. I immediately dropped my gaze.

  “Why? because there are some circumstances surrounding him which have struck me as peculiar.”

  “How so?” she asked.

  “He appears under two names. Today it is Clavering; a short time ago it was—”

  “Go on.”

  “Robbins.”

  Her dress rustled on the hearth; there was a sound of desolation in it; but her voice when she spoke was expressionless as that of an automaton.

  “How many times has this person, of whose name you do not appear to be certain, been to see Mary?”

  “Once.”

  “When was it?”

  “Last night.”

  “Did he stay long?”

  “About twenty minutes, I should say.”

  “And do you think he will come again?”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “He has left the country.”

  A short silence followed this, I felt her eyes searching my face, but doubt whether, if I had known she held a loaded pistol, I could have looked up at that moment.

  “Mr. Raymond,” she at length observed, in a changed tone, “the last time I saw you, you told me you were going to make some endeavor to restore me to my former position before the world. I did not wish you to do so then; nor do I wish you to do so now. Can you not make me comparatively happy, then, by assuring me you have abandoned or will abandon a project so hopeless?”

 
“It is impossible,” I replied with emphasis. “I cannot abandon it. Much as I grieve to be a source of sorrow to you, it is best you should know that I can never give up the hope of righting you while I live.”

  She put out her hand in a sort of hopeless appeal inexpressibly touching to behold in the fast waning firelight. But I was relentless.

  “I should never be able to face the world or my own conscience if, through any weakness of my own, I should miss the blessed privilege of setting the wrong right, and saving a noble woman from unmerited disgrace.” And then, seeing she was not likely to reply to this, drew a step nearer and said: “Is there not some little kindness I can show you, Miss Leavenworth? Is there no message you would like taken, or act it would give you pleasure to see performed?”

  She stopped to think. “No,” said she; “I have only one request to make, and that you refuse to grant.”

  “For the most unselfish of reasons,” I urged.

  She slowly shook her head. “You think so”; then, before I could reply, “I could desire one little favor shown me, however.”

  “What is that?”

  “That if anything should transpire; if Hannah should be found, or—or my presence required in any way—you will not keep me in ignorance. That you will let me know the worst when it comes, without fail.”

  “I will.”

  “And now, good-night. Mrs. Veeley is coming back, and you would scarcely wish to be found here by her.”

  “No,” said I.

  And yet I did not go, but stood watching the firelight flicker on her black dress till the thought of Clavering and the duty I had for the morrow struck coldly to my heart, and I turned away towards the door. But at the threshold I paused again, and looked back. Oh, the flickering, dying fire flame! Oh, the crowding, clustering shadows! Oh, that drooping figure in their midst, with its clasped hands and its hidden face! I see it all again; I see it as in a dream; then darkness falls, and in the glare of gas-lighted streets, I am hastening along, solitary and sad, to my lonely home.

  CHAPTER XXIV

  A REPORT FOLLOWED BY SMOKE

  “Oft expectation fails, and most oft there

  Where most it promises; and oft it hits

  Where Hope is coldest, and Despair most sits.”

  —All’s Well that Ends Well.

  When I told Mr. Gryce I only waited for the determination of one fact, to feel justified in throwing the case unreservedly into his hands, I alluded to the proving or disproving of the supposition that Henry Clavering had been a guest at the same watering-place with Eleanore Leavenworth the summer before.

  When, therefore, I found myself the next morning with the Visitor Book of the Hotel Union at R—— in my hands, it was only by the strongest effort of will I could restrain my impatience. The suspense, however, was short. Almost immediately I encountered his name, written not half a page below those of Mr. Leavenworth and his nieces, and, whatever may have been my emotion at finding my suspicions thus confirmed, I recognized the fact that I was in the possession of a clue which would yet lead to the solving of the fearful problem which had been imposed upon me.

  Hastening to the telegraph office, I sent a message for the man promised me by Mr. Gryce, and receiving for an answer that he could not be with me before three o’clock, started for the house of Mr. Monell, a client of ours, living in R——. I found him at home and, during our interview of two hours, suffered the ordeal of appearing at ease and interested in what he had to say, while my heart was heavy with its first disappointment and my brain on fire with the excitement of the work then on my hands.

  I arrived at the depot just as the train came in.

  There was but one passenger for R——, a brisk young man, whose whole appearance differed so from the description which had been given me of Q that I at once made up my mind he could not be the man I was looking for, and was turning away disappointed, when he approached, and handed me a card on which was inscribed the single character “?” Even then I could not bring myself to believe that the slyest and most successful agent in Mr. Gryce’s employ was before me, till, catching his eye, I saw such a keen, enjoyable twinkle sparkling in its depths that all doubt fled, and, returning his bow with a show of satisfaction, I remarked:

  “You are very punctual. I like that.”

  He gave another short, quick nod. “Glad, sir, to please you. Punctuality is too cheap a virtue not to be practised by a man on the lookout for a rise. But what orders, sir? Down train due in ten minutes; no time to spare.”

  “Down train? What have we to do with that?”

  “I thought you might wish to take it, sir. Mr. Brown”—winking expressively at the name, “always checks his carpet-bag for home when he sees me coming. But that is your affair; I am not particular.”

  “I wish to do what is wisest under the circumstances.”

  “Go home, then, as speedily as possible.” And he gave a third sharp nod exceedingly business-like and determined.

  “If I leave you, it is with the understanding that you bring your information first to me; that you are in my employ, and in that of no one else for the time being; and that mum is the word till I give you liberty to speak.”

  “Yes, sir. When I work for Brown & Co. I do not work for Smith & Jones. That you can count on.”

  “Very well then, here are your instructions.”

  He looked at the paper I handed him with a certain degree of care, then stepped into the waiting-room and threw it into the stove, saying in a low tone: “So much in case I should meet with some accident: have an apoplectic fit, or anything of that sort.”

  “But—”

  “Oh, don’t worry; I sha’n’t forget. I’ve a memory, sir. No need of anybody using pen and paper with me.”

  And laughing in the short, quick way one would expect from a person of his appearance and conversation, he added: “You will probably hear from me in a day or so,” and bowing, took his brisk, free way down the street just as the train came rushing in from the West.

  My instructions to Q were as follows:

  1. To find out on what day, and in whose company, the Misses Leavenworth arrived at R—— the year before. What their movements had been while there, and in whose society they were oftenest to be seen. Also the date of their departure, and such facts as could be gathered in regard to their habits, etc.

  2. Ditto in respect to a Mr. Henry Clavering, fellow-guest and probable friend of said ladies.

  3. Name of individual fulfilling the following requirements: Clergyman, Methodist, deceased since last December or thereabouts, who in July of Seventy-five was located in some town not over twenty miles from R——.

  4. Also name and present whereabouts of a man at that time in service of the above.

  To say that the interval of time necessary to a proper inquiry into these matters was passed by me in any reasonable frame of mind, would be to give myself credit for an equanimity of temper which I unfortunately do not possess. Never have days seemed so long as the two which interposed between my return from R—— and the receipt of the following letter:

  “Sir:

  “Individuals mentioned arrived in R—— July 3, 1875. Party consisted of four; the two ladies, their uncle, and the girl named Hannah. Uncle remained three days, and then left for a short tour through Massachusetts. Gone two weeks, during which ladies were seen more or less with the gentleman named between us, but not to an extent sufficient to excite gossip or occasion remark, when said gentleman left R—— abruptly, two days after uncle’s return. Date July 19. As to habits of ladies, more or less social. They were always to be seen at picnics, rides, etc., and in the ballroom. M—— liked best. E—— considered grave, and, towards the last of her stay, moody. It is remembered now that her manner was always peculiar, and that she was more or less shunned by her cousin.