I immediately set to work to convince her that she could. The midnight train did not leave the city for a half-hour yet, and the distance to the station could be easily walked by her in fifteen minutes. But she had no money: I easily supplied that. And she was afraid she couldn’t find her way: I entered into minutest directions. She still hesitated, but at length consented to go, and with some further understanding of the method I was to employ in communicating with her, we went downstairs. There was found a hat and shawl of the cook’s which I put on her and in another moment we were in the carriage-yard. “Remember, you are to say nothing of what has occurred, no matter what happens,” I whispered in parting injunction as she turned to leave me. “Remember you are to come and marry me some day,” she murmured in reply, throwing her arms about my neck. The movement was sudden, and it was probably at this time she dropped the candle she had held unconsciously clenched in her hand till now. I promised her and she glided out of the gate.
Of the dreadful agitation that followed the disappearance of this girl, I can give no better idea than by saying I not only committed the additional error of locking up the house on my re-entrance, but omitted to dispose of the key then in my pocket, by flinging it into the street or dropping it in the hall as I went up. The fact is, I was so absorbed by the thought of the danger I stood in from this girl, I forgot everything else. Hannah’s pale face, Hannah’s look of terror as she turned from my side and flitted down the street, were continually before me. I could not escape them; the form of the dead man lying below was less vivid. It was as though I were tied in fancy to this woman of the white face fluttering down the midnight streets. That she would fail in something—come back or be brought back—that I should find her standing white and horror-stricken on the front steps when I went down in the morning, was like a nightmare to me. I began to think it must be so, that she never would or could win her way unchallenged to that little cottage in a distant village; that I had but sent a trailing flag of danger out into the world with this wretched girl—danger that would come back to me with the first burst of morning light!
But even these thoughts faded after a while before the realization of the peril I was in as long as the key and papers remained in my possession. How to get rid of them! I dared not leave my room again, or open my window. Someone might see me and remember it. Indeed I was afraid to move about in my room. Mr. Leavenworth might hear me. Yes, my morbid terror had reached that point—I was fearful of one whose ears I myself had forever closed: imagined him in his bed beneath, and wakeful to the least sound.
But the necessity of doing something with these evidences of guilt finally overcame this morbid anxiety, and drawing the two letters from my pocket—I had not yet undressed—I chose out the most dangerous of the two, that written by Mr. Leavenworth himself, and chewing it till it was mere pulp, threw it into a corner; but the other had blood on it, and nothing, not even the hope of safety, could induce me to put it to my lips. I was forced to lie with it clenched in my hand, and the flitting image of Hannah before my eyes till the slow morning broke. I have heard it said that a year in heaven seems like a day; I can easily believe it; I know that an hour in hell seems an eternity!
But with daylight came hope. Whether it was the sunshine glancing on the wall made me think of Mary and all I was ready to do for her sake, or whether it was the mere return of my natural stoicism in the presence of actual necessity, I cannot say. I only know that I arose calm and master of myself. The problem of the letter and key had solved itself also. Hide them! I would try not to! Instead of that I would put them in plain sight, trusting to that very fact for their being overlooked. Making the letter up into lighters I carried them into the spare room and placed them in a vase. Then, taking the key in my hand, went downstairs, intending to insert it in the lock of the library door as I went by. But Miss Eleanore descending almost immediately behind me, made this impossible. I succeeded, however, in thrusting it, without her knowledge, among the filigree work of the gas fixture in the second hall, and thus relieved, went down into the breakfast-room as self-possessed a man as ever crossed its threshold. Mary was there, looking exceedingly pale and disheartened, and as I met her eye, which for a wonder turned upon me as I entered, I could almost have laughed, thinking of the deliverance that had come to her, and of the time when I should proclaim myself to be the man who had accomplished it.
Of the alarm that speedily followed, and my action at that time and afterward, I need not speak in detail. I behaved just as I would have done if I had had no hand in the murder. Indeed, I tried to forget I had I even forbore to touch the key or go to the spare room or make any movement which I was not willing all the world should see. For as things stood, there was not a shadow of evidence against me in the house, neither was I, a hard-working, uncomplaining secretary, whose passion for one of his employer’s nieces was not even mistrusted by the lady herself, a person to be suspected of the crime which threw him out of a fair situation. So I performed all the duties of my position, summoning the police, and going for Mr. Veeley, just as I would have done if those hours between my leaving Mr. Leavenworth for the first time and going down to breakfast in the morning had been blotted from my consciousness.
And this was the principle upon which I based my action at the inquest. Leaving that half-hour and its occurrences out of the question, I resolved to answer all queries put me as truthfully as I could; the great fault with men, situated as I was, usually being that they lied too much, committing themselves on unessential matters. But, alas, in thus planning for my own safety, I forgot one thing, and that was the dangerous position in which I should thus place Mary Leavenworth as the one benefited by the crime! Not till the inference was drawn by a juror, from the amount of wine found in Mr. Leavenworth’s glass in the morning, that he had come to his death shortly after my leaving him, did I realize what an opening I had made for suspicion in her direction by admitting that I had heard a rustle on the stair a few minutes after going up. That all present believed it to have been made by Eleanore, did not reassure me. She was so completely disconnected with the crime I could not imagine suspicion holding to her for an instant. But Mary—if a curtain had been let down before me, pictured with the future as it has since developed, I could not have seen more plainly what her position would be, if attention were once directed toward her. So in the vain endeavor to cover up my blunder, I began to lie. Forced to admit that a shadow of disagreement had been latterly visible between Mr. Leavenworth and one of his nieces, I threw the burden of it upon Eleanore, as the one best able to bear it, adding to this denial of the fact that any letter had been received by Mr. Leavenworth which could in any way tend to explain the crime. The consequences were more serious than I anticipated. Direction had been given to suspicion which every additional evidence that now came up seemed by some strange fatality to strengthen. Not only was it proved that Mr. Leavenworth’s own pistol had been used in the assassination, and that, too, by a person then in the house, but I myself was brought to acknowledge that Eleanore had learned from me only a little while before how to load, aim, and fire this very pistol—a coincidence mischievous enough to have been of the devil’s own making.
Seeing all this, my fear of what the ladies would admit when questioned became very great. Let them in their innocence acknowledge that upon my ascent, Mary had gone to her uncle’s room for the purpose of persuading him not to carry into effect the action he contemplated, and what consequences might not ensue! I was in a torment of apprehension. But events of which I had at that time no knowledge, had occurred to influence them. Eleanore, with some show of reason, as it seems, not only suspected her cousin of the crime, but had informed her of the fact, and Mary, overcome with terror at finding there was more or less circumstantial evidence supporting the suspicion, decided to deny whatever told against herself, trusting to Eleanore’s generosity not to be contradicted. Nor was her confidence misplaced. Though, by the course she thus took, Eleanore was forced to deepen the prejudic
e already rife against herself, she not only forbore to contradict her cousin, but when a true answer would have injured her, actually refused to return any, a lie being something she could not utter, even to save one especially endeared to her.
This conduct of hers had one effect upon me. It aroused my admiration and made me feel that here was a woman worth helping if assistance could be given without danger to myself. Yet I doubt if much would have come of my sympathy, if I had not perceived by the stress laid upon certain well-known matters, that actual danger hovered about us all, while the letter and key remained in the house. Even before the handkerchief was produced, I had made up my mind to attempt their destruction, but when that was brought out and shown, I became so alarmed I immediately rose and, making my way under some pretense or other to the floors above, snatched the key from the gas fixture, the lighters from the vase, and hastening with them down the hall to Mary Leavenworth’s room, went in under the expectation of there finding a fire in which to destroy them. But to my heavy disappointment there were only a few smoldering ashes in the grate, and, thwarted in my design, I stood hesitating what to do, when I heard someone coming upstairs. Alive to the consequences of being found in that room at that time, I cast the lighters into the grate and started for the door. But in the quick move I made, the key flew from my hand and slid under a chair. Aghast at the mischance, I paused, but the sound of approaching steps increasing, I lost all control over myself and fled from the room. And indeed I had no time to lose; I had barely reached my own door when Eleanore Leavenworth, followed by two servants, appeared at the top of the staircase and proceeded toward the room I had just left. The sight reassured me; she would see the key and take some means of disposing of it; and indeed I always supposed that she did, for no further word of key or letter ever came to my ears.
This may explain why the questionable position in which Eleanore soon found herself awakened in me no greater anxiety. I thought the suspicions of the police rested upon nothing more tangible than the peculiarity of her manner at the inquest, and the discovery of her handkerchief on the scene of the tragedy. I did not know they possessed what they might call absolute proof of her connection with the crime. But if I had, I doubt if I should have pursued a much different course. Mary’s peril was the one thing capable of turning me, and she did not appear to be in peril. On the contrary, everyone by common consent seemed to ignore all appearance of guilt on her part. If Mr. Gryce, whom I soon learned to fear, had given one sign of suspicion, or Mr. Raymond, whom I speedily recognized as my most persistent though unconscious foe, had betrayed the least distrust of her, I should have taken warning. But they did not, and lulled into a false security by their manner, I let the days go by without suffering any fears on her account. But not without many anxieties for myself. Hannah’s existence precluded all sense of personal security. Knowing the determination of the police to find her, I trod the verge of an awful suspense continually.
Meantime the wretched certainty was forcing itself upon me that I had lost, instead of gained, a hold on Mary Leavenworth. Not only did she evince the utmost horror of the deed which had made her the mistress of her uncle’s wealth, but, owing as I believed to the influence of Mr. Raymond, soon gave evidence that she was losing to a certain extent the characteristics of mind and heart which had made me hopeful of winning her regard by my action. This revelation drove me almost insane. Under the terrible restraint forced upon me, I walked my weary round in a state of mind bordering on frenzy. Many and many a time have I stopped in my work, wiped my pen and laid it down with the idea that I could not repress myself another moment, but I have always taken it up again and gone on with my task. Mr. Raymond has sometimes shown his wonder at my sitting in my dead employer’s chair. Great Heaven! it was my only safeguard. By keeping the murder constantly before my mind, I was enabled to restrain my disappointment at its failure to bring me the reward I anticipated.
At last there came a time when my agony could be no longer suppressed. Going down the stairs one evening with Mr. Raymond, I saw a strange gentleman standing in the reception-room, looking at Mary Leavenworth in a way that would have made my blood boil, even if I had not heard him whisper these words: “But you are my wife and know it, whatever you may say or do!”
It was the lightning-stroke of my life. After what I had done to make her mine, to hear another claim her as already his own was stunning, maddening. It forced a demonstration from me. I had either to yell in my fury or deal the man beneath some tremendous blow in my hatred. I did not dare to shriek, so I struck the blow. Demanding his name from Mr. Raymond, and hearing that it was, as I expected, Clavering, I flung caution, reason, common sense, all to the winds, and in a moment of fury denounced him as the murderer of Mr. Leavenworth.
The next instant I would have given worlds to recall my words. What had I done but drawn attention to myself in thus accusing a man against whom nothing could of course be proved! But recall now was impossible. So after a night of thought I did the next best thing, gave a superstitious reason for my action, and so restored myself to my former position without eradicating from the mind of Mr. Raymond that vague doubt of the man which my own safety demanded. But I had no intention of going any further, nor should I have done so if I had not observed that for some reason Mr. Raymond was willing to suspect Mr. Clavering. But that once seen, revenge took possession of me, and I asked myself if the burden of this crime could be thrown on this man. Still I do not believe that any results would have followed if I had not overheard a whispered conversation between two of the servants, in which I learned that Mr. Clavering had been seen to enter the house on the night of the murder, but was not seen to leave it. That determined me. With a fact like that for a starting-point, what might I not hope to accomplish? Hannah alone stood in my way. While she remained alive I saw nothing but ruin before me. I made up my mind to destroy her and satisfy my hatred of Mr. Clavering at one blow. But how? By what means could I reach her without deserting my post, or make away with her without exciting fresh suspicion? The problem seemed insoluble; but Trueman Harwell had not played the part of a machine so long without result. Before I had studied the question a day light broke upon it, and I saw that the only way to accomplish my plans was to inveigle her into destroying herself.
No sooner had the thought matured than I hastened to act upon it. Knowing the tremendous risk I ran, I took every precaution. Locking myself up in my room, I wrote her a letter in printed characters—she having distinctly told me she could not read writing—in which I played upon her ignorance, foolish fondness, and Irish superstition, by telling her I dreamed of her every night and wondered if she did of me, was afraid she didn’t, so enclosed her a little charm which if she would use according to directions (which were that she should first destroy my letter by burning it, next take in her hand the packet I was careful to enclose, swallow the powder accompanying it, and go to bed) would give her the most beautiful visions—the powder was a deadly dose of poison and the packet was as you know a forged confession falsely criminating Henry Clavering. Enclosing all these in an envelope in the corner of which I had marked a cross, I directed it according to agreement to Mrs. Belden, and sent it.
Then followed the greatest period of suspense I had yet endured. Though I had purposely refrained from putting my name to the letter, I felt that the chances of detection were very great. The least departure from the course I had marked out for her would prove fatal. If she opened the enclosed packet, or mistrusted the powder, took Mrs. Belden into her confidence, or even failed to burn my letter, all would be lost. I could not be sure of her or know the result of my scheme except through the newspapers. Do you think I kept watch of the countenances about me? devoured the telegraphic news, or started when the bell rang? And when a few days since I read that short paragraph in the paper which assured me that my efforts had at least produced the death of the woman I feared, do you think I experienced any sense of relief?
But of that why speak? In six hours had co
me the summons from Mr. Gryce, and—let these prison walls, this confession itself, tell the rest. I am no longer capable of speech or action.
CHAPTER 6
The Outcome of A Great Crime
Leave her to Heaven
And to those thorns that in her bosom lodge
To prick and sting her.
—HAMLET.
For she is wise, if I can judge of her;
And fair she is, if that mine eyes be true,
And true she is, as she has proved herself;
And therefore like herself, wise, fair, and true,
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