“You have said that if I declared my innocence you would believe me,” exclaimed she, lifting her head as I entered. “See here,” and laying her cheek against the pallid brow of her dead benefactor, she kissed the clay-cold lips softly, wildly, agonizedly, then leaping to her feet, cried in a subdued but thrilling tone:“Could I do that if I were guilty? Would not the breath freeze on my lips, the blood congeal in my veins, the life faint away at my heart? Son of a father loved and reverenced, can you believe me to be a woman stained with crime when I can do this?” And kneeling again she cast her arms over and about that inanimate form, looking in my face at the same time with an expression no mortal touch could paint, nor tongue describe.
“In olden times,” she went on, “they used to say that a dead body would bleed if its murderer came in contact with it. What, then, would happen here if I, his daughter, his cherished child, loaded with benefits, enriched with his jewels, warm with his kisses, should be the thing they accuse me of? Would not the body of the outraged dead burst its very shroud and repel me?”
I could not answer; in the presence of some scenes, the tongue forgets its functions.
“Oh!” she went on, “if there is a God in Heaven who loves justice and hates a crime, let Him hear me now. If I, by thought or action, with or without intention, have been the means of bringing this dear head to this pass; if so much as the shadow of guilt, let alone the substance, lies upon my heart and across these feeble woman’s hands, may His wrath speak in righteous retribution to the world, and here upon the breast of the dead let this guilty forehead fall, never to rise again!”
An awed silence followed this invocation. It seemed to me as if the world stood still to listen; then a long, long sigh of utter relief rose tremulously from my breast, and all the feelings hitherto suppressed in my heart, the exceeding great awe, the boundless interest, the unspeakable compassion, hope, longing tenderness, that had against my better judgment, reason, and prejudice, made their way into my heart, burst their bonds, and leaning toward her I took her hand in mine.
“You do not, cannot, believe me tainted by crime now?” she whispered, the smile which does not stir the lips, but rather emanates from the countenance like the flowering of an inner peace, breaking softly out on cheek and brow.
“Crime!” the word broke uncontrollably from my lips; “crime!”
“No,” she said calmly, “the man does not live who could accuse me of aught, here.”
For reply I took her hand which lay in mine, and placed it on the breast of the dead.
Softly, slowly, gratefully, she bowed her head.
“Now let the struggle come,” she whispered. “There is one who will believe in me, however dark appearances may be.”
CHAPTER 13
The Problem
But who would force the soul, tilts with a straw
Against a champion cased in adamant.
—WORDSWORTH.
When we re-entered the parlor below, the first sight that met our eyes was Mary, standing wrapped in her long cloak in the center of the room. She had arrived during our absence, and now awaited us with lifted head and countenance fixed in its proudest expression. Looking in her face, I realized what the embarrassments of this meeting must be to these women, and would have retreated, but something in the attitude of Mary Leavenworth seemed to forbid my doing so. At the same time determined that the opportunity should not pass without some sort of reconcilement between them, I stepped forward, and bowing to Mary, said:
“Your cousin has just succeeded in doing what you have expressed yourself so desirous of accomplishing, Miss Leavenworth; convinced me of her entire innocence in regard to this whole matter. I am now ready to join Mr. Gryce, heart and soul, in finding out the true culprit.”
“I should have thought that it would have been sufficient for anyone to have looked Eleanore Leavenworth in the face, to know her guiltless of crime.” And lifting her head with a proud gesture, she fixed her eyes steadfastly on mine.
I felt the blood flash to my brow, but before I could speak, her voice rose again still more coldly than before.
“It is hard for a delicate girl, reared in the lap of love and luxury, unused to aught but adulation and sincerest expressions of regard, to be obliged to assure the world of her innocence in respect to the committal of a great crime. Eleanore has my sympathy.” And sweeping her cloak from her shoulders with a quick gesture, she turned her gaze for the first time upon her cousin.
Instantly Eleanore advanced as if to meet it, and I could not but feel that for some reason this moment possessed an importance for them, which I was scarcely competent to measure. But if I found myself unable to realize its significance, I at least responded to its intensity. And indeed it was an occasion to remember. To have beheld two such women, either of whom must have been considered the model of her time, face to face and drawn up in evident antagonism, would have been a sight to move the dullest sensibilities. But there was something more in it than that. It was the shock of all the most passionate emotions of the human soul; the meeting of waters of whose depth and force I could only guess by the effect. Eleanore was the first to recover. Drawing back with the cold haughtiness which, alas, I had almost forgotten in the display of later and softer emotions, she exclaimed:
“There is something better than sympathy, and that is justice,” and turned as if to go. “I will confer with you in the reception-room, Mr. Raymond.”
But Mary, springing forward, caught her back with one powerful hand. “No,” she cried, “you shall confer with me. I have something to say to you, Eleanore Leavenworth.” And taking her stand in the center of the room she waited.
I glanced at Eleanore, saw this was no place for me, and hastily withdrew. For ten long minutes I paced the floor of the reception-room, a prey to a thousand doubts and conjectures. What was the secret of this home? What had given rise to the deadly mistrust continually manifested between these cousins fitted by Nature for the completest companionship and the most cordial friendship? It was not a thing of today or yesterday. No sudden flame could awake such concentrated heat of emotion as that of which I had just been the unwilling witness. One must go further back than this murder to find the root of a mistrust so great, that the struggle it caused made itself felt even where I stood, though nothing but the faintest murmur came to my ears through the closed doors.
Presently the drawing room curtain was raised, and Mary’s voice was heard in distinct articulation.
“The same roof can never shelter us both after this. Tomorrow, you or I find another home.” And blushing and panting, she stepped into the hall and advanced to where I stood. But at the first sight of my face, a change came over her; all her pride seemed to dissolve, and flinging out her hands as if to forbid me to look, she fled from my side, and rushed weeping upstairs.
I was yet laboring under the oppression caused by this painful termination of the strange scene, when the parlor curtain was again lifted, and Eleanore entered the room where I was. Pale but calm, showing no evidences of the struggle she had just been through, unless it was a little extra weariness about the eyes, she sat down by my side, presenting such a contrasted picture to herself as seen by me upon my first entrance, that I could only look and marvel. Whether it was that with the consciousness one soul thoroughly believed in her she had received a fresh influx of strength, or whether it was that in her interview with the dead she had found a new endurance and patience, I cannot say; I only know that a new creature confronted me now, a resigned, earnest and forbearing woman, who might be called upon to endure ignominy, but who felt, and was determined that others should feel, it was an ignominy brought about by circumstances; a concomitant of her fate, and not a thing that tainted her spirit or touched her soul—as a great queen, overcome by the force of a brutish conquerer, might submit her arms to the chains without feeling herself less a queen and great, because the iron of a base victor ground itself into her flesh.
Meeting my gaze with one unfatho
mable in its courage, she said after a pause: “Tell me where I stand; let me know the worst at once; I fear that I have not indeed comprehended my own position.”
Rejoiced to hear her say this, I hastened to comply. I began by placing before her the whole case as it appeared to an unprejudiced person; enlarged upon the causes of suspicion, and pointed out in what regard some things looked dark against her, which perhaps to her own mind were easily explainable and of small account; tried to make her see the importance of her decision and finally wound up with an appeal. Would she not confide in me?
“But I thought you were satisfied?” she inquired, trembling.
“And so I am; but I am but one, and I want the whole world to view you as I do.”
“I fear that can never be,” she said sadly. “The finger of suspicion never forgets the way it has once pointed. My name is tainted forever.”
“And you will submit to this when a word——”
“I am thinking that any word of mine now would make very little difference,” she murmured.
I looked away, the vision of Mr. Fobbs in hiding behind the curtains of the opposite house recurring painfully to my mind.
“If the affair looks as bad as you intimate,” pursued she, “it is scarcely probable that Mr. Gryce will care much for any interpretation of mine in regard to the matter.”
“Mr. Gryce would be glad to know where you procured that key, if only to assist him in turning his inquiries in the right direction.”
She did not reply, and a weight settled again upon my heart.
“It is worth your while to satisfy him,” I pursued, “and though it may compromise someone you desire to shield——”
She rose, a light flaming suddenly across her face. “I shall never divulge to anyone how I came in possession of that key.” And sitting again, she locked her hands in fixed resolve before her.
I rose in my turn and paced the floor, the fang of a deadly serpent striking deep down into my heart.
“Mr. Raymond, if the worst should come, and all who love me should plead on bended knees for me to tell, I should never do it.”
“Then,” said I, determined not to disclose my secret thought, but equally resolved to find out if possible her motive for this silence, “you desire to defeat the cause of justice.”
She neither spoke nor moved.
“Miss Leavenworth,” I now said, “this determined shielding of another at the expense of your own good name is no doubt generous of you, but your friends and the lovers of truth and justice cannot accept such a sacrifice.”
She started haughtily. “Sir!” she said.
“If you will not assist us,” I went on calmly, determinedly, “we must do without your aid. That you were the adopted child of Mr. Veeley’s friend, would have been sufficient to have nerved me to exert myself to the utmost to clear your name from the shadows enveloping it; but after the scene I have just witnessed above; after the triumphant assurance which you have forced upon me not only of your innocence, but your horror of the crime and its consequences, I should feel myself less than a man if I did not sacrifice even your own good opinion in urging your cause and clearing your character from this foul aspersion.”
Again that heavy silence.
“What do you propose to do?” she asked at last.
Crossing the room, I stood before her. “I propose,” said I, “to relieve you utterly and forever from suspicion, by finding out and revealing to the world the true culprit.”
I expected to see her recoil, so positive had I become by this time as to whom that culprit was. But instead of that, she merely folded her hands still more tightly and exclaimed:
“I doubt if you will be able to do that, Mr. Raymond.”
“Doubt if I will be able to put my finger upon the guilty man, or doubt if I will be able to bring him to justice?”
“I doubt,” she said with strong effort, “if anyone ever knows who is the guilty person in this case.”
“There is one who knows,” I said with a desire to test her.
“One?”
“The girl Hannah is acquainted with the mystery of that night’s evil doings, Miss Leavenworth. Find Hannah, and we find one who can point out to us the assassin of your uncle.”
“That is mere supposition,” she said, but I saw the blow had told.
“Your cousin has offered a large reward for the girl, and the whole country is on the look out. Within a week we shall see her in our midst.”
A change took place in her expression and bearing.
“The girl cannot help me,” she said.
Baffled by her manner, I drew back. “Is there anything or anybody that can?”
She slowly looked away.
“Miss Leavenworth,” I continued with renewed earnestness, “you have no brother to plead with you, you have no mother to guide you, let me then entreat in default of nearer and dearer friends, that you will rely sufficiently upon me to tell me one thing.”
“What is it?” she asked.
“Whether you took the paper imputed to you from the library table.”
She did not instantly respond, but sat looking earnestly before her with an intentness which seemed to argue that she was weighing the question as well as her reply. Finally, turning toward me, she said:
“In answering you, I speak in confidence. Mr. Raymond, I did.”
Crushing back the sigh of despair that arose to my lips, I went on.
“I will not inquire what the paper was”—she waved her hand deprecatingly—“but this much more you will tell me. Is that paper still in existence?”
She looked me steadily in the face.
“It is not.”
I could with difficulty forbear showing my disappointment. “Miss Leavenworth,” I now said, “it may seem cruel for me to press you at this time; nothing less than my strong realization of the peril in which you stand would induce me to run the risk of incurring your displeasure, by asking what under other circumstances would seem puerile and insulting questions. You have told me one thing which I strongly desired to know; will you also inform me what it was you heard that night while sitting in your room, between the time of Mr. Harwell’s going upstairs and the closing of the library door of which you made mention at the inquest?”
I had pushed my inquiries too far, and I saw it immediately.
“Mr. Raymond,” she returned, “influenced by my desire not to appear utterly ungrateful to you, I have been led to reply in confidence to one of your urgent appeals, but I can go no further. Do not ask me, then.”
Stricken to the heart by her look of reproach, I answered with some sadness that her wishes should be respected. “Not but what I intend to make every effort in my power to discover the true author of this crime,” said I, “that is a sacred duty which I feel myself called upon to perform; but I will ask you no more questions nor urge any further appeal upon you. What is done shall be accomplished without your assistance, and if I succeed in what I here undertake, I will ask for no further reward than this; that you will then acknowledge what you must now believe, my motives to have been pure and my action disinterested.”
“I am ready to acknowledge that today,” she began, but paused, and looked with almost agonized entreaty in my face. “Mr. Raymond, cannot you leave things as they are? Won’t you? I don’t ask for assistance, nor do I want it; I would rather——”
But I would not listen. “Guilt has no right to profit by the generosity of the guiltless. The hand that struck this blow shall not be accountable for the loss of a noble woman’s honor and happiness as well. I shall do what I can, Miss Leavenworth.”
As I walked down the Avenue that night, feeling like an adventurous traveler that in a moment of desperation has set his foot upon a plank stretching in narrow perspective over a chasm of immeasurable depth, this problem evolved itself from the shadows before me.
How, with no other clue than the persuasion that Eleanor Leavenworth was engaged in shielding another at the expense o
f her own good name, was I to combat the prejudices of Mr. Gryce, find out the real assassin of Mr. Leavenworth, and free an innocent woman from the suspicion that had, not without some show of reason, fallen upon her?
BOOK II
HENRY CLAVERING
CHAPTER 1
Mr. Gryce at Home
Nay, but hear me.
—MEASURE FOR MEASURE.
That the guilty person for whom Eleanore Leavenworth stood ready to sacrifice herself was one for whom she had formerly cherished affection, I could no longer doubt, nothing less than love or the strong sense of duty growing out of that passion, whether living or dead, seeming to offer incentive enough for her action. Obnoxious as it was to all my prejudices, one name alone, that of the commonplace secretary with his sudden heats and changeful manners, his odd ways and studied self-possession, would recur to my mind whenever I asked myself who this person could be.
Not that without some such light as had fallen upon the affair through Eleanore’s own behavior, I should have selected this man as one in any way open to suspicion; the peculiarity of his manner at the inquest not being marked enough to counteract the improbability of one in his relations to the deceased finding sufficient motive for a crime so manifestly without favorable results to himself. But if love had entered as a factor into the affair, what might not be expected? James Harwell, simple amanuensis to a retired tea-merchant, was one man; James Harwell, swayed by a passion for a woman beautiful as Eleanore Leavenworth, was another; and in placing him upon the list of those parties open to suspicion, I felt that I was only doing what was warranted by a proper consideration of probabilities.
But between casual suspicion and actual proof, what a gulf! To believe James Harwell capable of guilt, and to find evidence enough to accuse him of it, were two very different things. I felt myself instinctively shrink from the task before I had fully made up my mind to attempt it, some relenting thought of his unhappy position, if innocent, forcing itself upon me, and making my very distrust of him seem personally ungenerous, if not absolutely unjust. If I had liked the man better, I should not have been so ready to look upon him with doubt.
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