The Golden Slipper

by Anna Katharine Green

  “Explain!” It was Violet speaking, and her tone was stern in its command. “Of what guilt do you speak? Not of guilt towards Helena; you pitied her too much—”

  “But I pitied my dear madam more. It was that which affected me and drew me into crime against my will. Besides, I did not know—not at first—what was in the little bowl of curds and cream I carried to the girl each day. She had eaten them in her step-mother’s room, and under her step-mother’s eye as long as she had strength to pass from room to room, and how was I to guess that it was not wholesome? Because she failed in health from day to day? Was not my dear madam failing in health also; and was there poison in her cup? Innocent at that time, why am I not innocent now? Because—Oh, I will tell it all; as though at the bar of God. I will tell all the secrets of that day.

  “She was sitting with her hand trembling on the tray from which I had just lifted the bowl she had bid me carry to Helena. I had seen her so a hundred times before, but not with just that look in her eyes, or just that air of desolation in her stony figure. Something made me speak; something made me ask if she were not quite so well as usual, and something made her reply with the dreadful truth that the doctor had given her just two months more to live. My fright and mad anguish stupefied me; for I was not prepared for this, no, not at all;—and unconsciously I stared down at the bowl I held, unable to breathe or move or even to meet her look.

  “As usual she misinterpreted my emotion.

  “‘Why do you stand like that?’ I heard her say in a tone of great irritation. ‘And why do you stare into that bowl? Do you think I mean to leave that child to walk these halls after I am carried out of them forever? Do you measure my hate by such a petty yard-stick as that? I tell you that I would rot above ground rather than enter it before she did?’

  “I had believed I knew this woman; but what soul ever knows another’s? What soul ever knows itself?

  “‘Bella!’ I cried; the first time I had ever presumed to address her so intimately. ‘Would you poison the girl?’ And from sheer weakness my fingers lost their clutch, and the bowl fell to the floor, breaking into a dozen pieces.

  “For a minute she stared down at these from over her tray, and then she remarked very low and very quietly:

  “‘Another bowl, Humphrey, and fresh curds from the kitchen. I will do the seasoning. The doses are too small to be skipped. You won’t?’—I had shaken my head—‘But you will! It will not be the first time you have gone down the hall with this mixture.’

  “‘But that was before I knew—’ I began.

  “‘And now that you do, you will go just the same.’ Then as I stood hesitating, a thousand memories overwhelming me in an instant, she added in a voice to tear the heart, ‘Do not make me hate the only being left in this world who understands and loves me.’

  “She was a helpless invalid, and I a broken man, but when that word ‘love’ fell from her lips, I felt the blood start burning in my veins, and all the crust of habit and years of self-control loosen about my heart, and make me young again. What if her thoughts were dark and her wishes murderous! She was born to rule and sway men to her will even to their own undoing.

  “‘I wish I might kiss your hand,’ was what I murmured, gazing at her white fingers groping over her tray.

  “‘You may,’ she answered, and hell became heaven to me for a brief instant. Then I lifted myself and went obediently about my task.

  “But puppet though I was, I was not utterly without sympathy. When I entered Helena’s room and saw how her startled eyes fell shrinkingly on the bowl I set down before her, my conscience leaped to life and I could not help saying:

  “‘Don’t you like the curds, Helena? Your brother used to love them very much.’

  “‘His were—’

  “‘What, Helena?’

  “‘What these are not,’ she murmured.

  “I stared at her, terror-stricken. So she knew, and yet did not seize the bowl and empty it out of the window! Instead, her hand moved slowly towards it and drew it into place before her.

  “‘Yet I must eat,’ she said, lifting her eyes to mine in a sort of patient despair, which yet was without accusation.

  “But my hand had instinctively gone to hers and grasped it.

  “‘Why must you eat it?’ I asked. ‘If—if you do not find it wholesome, why do you touch it?’

  “‘Because my step-mother expects me to,’ she cried, ‘and I have no other will than hers. When I was a little, little child, my father made me promise that if I ever came to live with her I would obey her simplest wish. And I always have. I will not disappoint the trust he put in me.’

  “‘Even if you die of it?’

  “I do not know whether I whispered these words or only thought them. She answered as though I had spoken.

  “‘I am not afraid to die. I am more afraid to live. She may ask me some day to do something I feel to be wrong.’

  “When I fled down the hall that night, I heard one of the small clocks speak to me. Tell! it cried, tell! tell! tell! tell! I rushed away from it with beaded forehead and rising hair.

  “Then another’s note piped up. No it droned. No! no! no! no! I stopped and took heart. Disgrace the woman I loved, on the brink of the grave? I—who asked no other boon from heaven than to see her happy, gracious, and good? Impossible. I would obey the great clock’s voice; the others were mere chatterboxes.

  “But it has at last changed its tune, for some reason, quite changed its tune. Now, it is Yes! Yes! instead of No! and in obeying it I save Helena. But what of Bella? and O God, what of myself?”

  A sigh, a groan, then a long and heavy silence, into which there finally broke the pealing of the various clocks striking the hour. When all were still again and Violet had drawn aside the portiere, it was to see the old man on his knees, and between her and the thin streak of light entering from the hall, the figure of the doctor hastening to Helena’s bedside.

  When with inducements needless to name, they finally persuaded the young girl to leave her unholy habitation, it was in the arms which had upheld her once before, and to a life which promised to compensate her for her twenty years of loneliness and unsatisfied longing.

  But a black shadow yet remained which she must cross before reaching the sunshine!

  It lay at her step-mother’s door.

  In the plans made for Helena’s release, Mrs. Postlethwaite’s consent had not been obtained nor was she supposed to be acquainted with the doctor’s intentions towards the child whose death she was hourly awaiting.

  It was therefore with an astonishment, bordering on awe, that on their way downstairs, they saw the door of her room open and herself standing alone and upright on the threshold—she who had not been seen to take a step in years. In the wonder of this miracle of suddenly restored power, the little procession stopped,—the doctor with his hand upon the rail, the lover with his burden clasped yet more protectingly to his breast. That a little speech awaited them could be seen from the force and fury of the gaze which the indomitable woman bent upon the lax and half-unconscious figure she beheld thus sheltered and conveyed. Having but one arrow left in her exhausted quiver, she launched it straight at the innocent breast which had never harboured against her a defiant thought.

  “Ingrate!” was the word she hurled in a voice from which all its seductive music had gone forever. “Where are you going? Are they carrying you alive to your grave?”

  A moan from Helena’s pale lips, then silence. She had fainted at that barbed attack. But there was one there who dared to answer for her and he spoke relentlessly. It was the man who loved her.

  “No, madam. We are carrying her to safety. You must know what I mean by that. Let her go quietly and you may die in peace. Otherwise—”

  She interrupted him with a loud call, startling into life the echoes of that haunted hall:

  “Humphrey! Come to me, Humphrey!”

  But no Humphrey appeared.
>
  Another call, louder and more peremptory than before:

  “Humphrey! I say, Humphrey!”

  But the answer was the same—silence, and only silence. As the horror of this grew, the doctor spoke:

  “Mr. Humphrey Dunbar’s ears are closed to all earthly summons. He died last night at the very hour he said he would—four minutes after two.”

  “Four minutes after two!” It came from her lips in a whisper, but with a revelation of her broken heart and life. “Four minutes after two!” And defiant to the last, her head rose, and for an instant, for a mere breath of time, they saw her as she had looked in her prime, regal in form, attitude, and expression; then the will which had sustained her through so much, faltered and succumbed, and with a final reiteration of the words “Four minutes after two!” she broke into a rattling laugh, and fell back into the arms of her old nurse.

  And below, one clock struck the hour and then another. But not the big one at the foot of the stairs. That still stood silent, with its hands pointing to the hour and minute of Frank Postlethwaite’s hastened death.

  PROBLEM VII. THE DOCTOR, HIS WIFE, AND THE CLOCK

  Violet had gone to her room. She had a task before her. That afternoon, a packet had been left at the door, which, from a certain letter scribbled in one corner, she knew to be from her employer. The contents of that packet must be read, and she had made herself comfortable with the intention of setting to work at once. But ten o’clock struck and then eleven before she could bring herself to give any attention to the manuscript awaiting her perusal. In her present mood, a quiet sitting by the fire, with her eyes upon the changeful flame, was preferable to the study of any affair her employer might send her. Yet, because she was conscious of the duty she thus openly neglected, she sat crouched over her desk with her hand on the mysterious packet, the string of which, however, she made no effort to loosen.

  What was she thinking of?

  We are not alone in our curiosity on this subject. Her brother Arthur, coming unperceived into the room, gives tokens of a similar interest. Never before had he seen her oblivious to an approaching step; and after a momentary contemplation of her absorbed figure, so girlishly sweet and yet so deeply intent, he advances to her side, and peering earnestly into her face, observes with a seriousness quite unusual to him:

  “Puss, you are looking worried,—not like yourself at all. I’ve noticed it for some time. What’s up. Getting tired of the business?”

  “No—not altogether—that is, it’s not that, if it’s anything. I’m not sure that it’s anything. I—”

  She had turned back to her desk and was pushing about the various articles with which it was plentifully bespread; but this did not hide the flush which had crept into her cheeks and even dyed the snowy whiteness of her neck. Arthur’s astonishment at this evidence of emotion was very great; but he said nothing, only watched her still more closely, as with a light laugh she regained her self-possession, and with the practical air of a philosopher uttered this trite remark:

  “Everyone has his sober moments. I was only thinking—”

  “Of some new case?”

  “Not exactly.” The words came softly but with a touch of mingled humour and gravity which made Arthur stare again.

  “See here, Puss!” he cried. His tone had changed. “I’ve just come up from the den. Father and I have had a row—a beastly row.”

  “A row? You and father? Oh, Arthur, I don’t like that. Don’t quarrel with father. Don’t, don’t. Some day he and I may have a serious difference about what I am doing. Don’t let him feel that he has lost us all.”

  “That’s all right, Puss; but I’ve got to think of you a bit. I can’t see you spoil all your good times with these police horrors and not do something to help. Tomorrow I begin life as a salesman in Clarke & Stebbin’s. The salary is not great, but every little helps and I don’t dislike the business. But father does. He had rather see me loafing about town setting the fashions for fellows as idle as myself than soil my hands with handling merchandise. That’s why we quarreled. But don’t worry. Your name didn’t come up, or—or—you know whose. He hasn’t an idea of why I want to work—There, Violet, there!”

  Two soft arms were around his neck and Violet was letting her heart out in a succession of sisterly kisses.

  “O, Arthur, you good, good boy! Together we’ll soon make up the amount, and then—”

  “Then what?”

  A sweet soft look robbed her face of its piquancy, but gave it an aspect of indescribable beauty quite new to Arthur’s eyes.

  Tapping his lips with a thoughtful forefinger, he asked:

  “Who was that sombre-looking chap I saw bowing to you as we came out of church last Sunday?”

  She awoke from her dreamy state with an astonishing quickness.

  “He? Surely you remember him. Have you forgotten that evening in Massachusetts—the grotto—and—”

  “Oh, it’s Upjohn, is it? Yes, I remember him. He’s fond of church, isn’t he? That is, when he’s in New York.”

  Her lips took a roguish curve then a very serious one; but she made no answer.

  “I have noticed that he’s always in his seat and always looking your way.”

  “That’s very odd of him,” she declared, her dimples coming and going in a most bewildering fashion. “I can’t imagine why he should do that.”

  “Nor I,—” retorted Arthur with a smile. “But he’s human, I suppose. Only do be careful, Violet. A man so melancholy will need a deal of cheering.”

  He was gone before he had fully finished this daring remark, and Violet, left again with her thoughts, lost her glowing colour but not her preoccupation. The hand which lay upon the packet already alluded to did not move for many minutes, and when she roused at last to the demands of her employer, it was with a start and a guilty look at the small gold clock ticking out its inexorable reminder.

  “He will want an answer the first thing in the morning,” she complained to herself. And opening the packet, she took out first a letter, and then a mass of typewritten manuscript.

  She began with the letter which was as characteristic of the writer as all the others she had had from his hand; as witness:

  You probably remember the Hasbrouck murder,—or, perhaps, you don’t; it being one of a time previous to your interest in such matters. But whether you remember it or not, I beg you to read the accompanying summary with due care and attention to business. When you have well mastered it with all its details, please communicate with me in any manner most convenient to yourself, for I shall have a word to say to you then, which you may be glad to hear, if as you have lately intimated you need to earn but one or two more substantial rewards in order to cry halt to the pursuit for which you have proved yourself so well qualified.

  The story, in deference to yourself as a young and much preoccupied woman, has been written in a way to interest. Though the work of an everyday police detective, you will find in it no lack of mystery or romance; and if at the end you perceive that it runs, as such cases frequently do, up against a perfectly blank wall, you must remember that openings can be made in walls, and that the loosening of one weak stone from its appointed place, sometimes leads to the downfall of all.

  So much for the letter.

  Laying it aside, with a shrug of her expressive shoulders, Violet took up the manuscript.

  Let us take it up too. It runs thus:

  On the 17th of July, 19—, a tragedy of no little interest occurred in one of the residences of the Colonnade in Lafayette Place.

  Mr. Hasbrouck, a well known and highly respected citizen, was attacked in his room by an unknown assailant, and shot dead before assistance could reach him. His murderer escaped, and the problem offered to the police was how to identify this person who, by some happy chance or by the exercise of the most remarkable forethought, had left no traces behind him, or any clue by which he could be followed.

  The details
of the investigation which ended so unsatisfactorily are here given by the man sent from headquarters at the first alarm.

  When, some time after midnight on the date above mentioned, I reached Lafayette Place, I found the block lighted from end to end. Groups of excited men and women peered from the open doorways, and mingled their shadows with those of the huge pillars which adorn the front of this picturesque block of dwellings.

  The house in which the crime had been committed was near the centre of the row, and, long before I reached it, I had learned from more than one source that the alarm was first given to the street by a woman’s shriek, and secondly by the shouts of an old man-servant who had appeared, in a half-dressed condition, at the window of Mr. Hasbrouck’s room, crying “Murder! murder!”

  But when I had crossed the threshold, I was astonished at the paucity of facts to be gleaned from the inmates themselves. The old servant, who was the first to talk, had only this account of the crime to give:

  The family, which consisted of Mr. Hasbrouck, his wife, and three servants, had retired for the night at the usual hour and under the usual auspices. At eleven o’clock the lights were all extinguished, and the whole household asleep, with the possible exception of Mr. Hasbrouck himself, who, being a man of large business responsibilities, was frequently troubled with insomnia.

  Suddenly Mrs. Hasbrouck woke with a start. Had she dreamed the words that were ringing in her ears, or had they been actually uttered in her hearing? They were short, sharp words, full of terror and menace, and she had nearly satisfied herself that she had imagined them, when there came, from somewhere near the door, a sound she neither understood nor could interpret, but which filled her with inexplicable terror, and made her afraid to breathe, or even to stretch forth her hand towards her husband, whom she supposed to be sleeping at her side. At length another strange sound, which she was sure was not due to her imagination, drove her to make an attempt to rouse him, when she was horrified to find that she was alone in bed, and her husband nowhere within reach.