Kabanata Kabanata 38 · A FULL CONFESSION

. A FULL CONFESSION

“Between the acting of a dreadful thing,

And the first motion, all the interim is

Like a phantasma or a hideous dream;

The genius and the mortal instruments

Are then in council; and the state of a man,

Like to a little Kingdom, suffers then

The nature of an insurrection.”

Julius Cæsar.

I am not a bad man; I am only an intense one. Ambition, love,

jealousy, hatred, revenge--transitory emotions with some, are

terrific passions with me. To be sure, they are quiet and concealed

ones, coiled serpents that make no stir till aroused; but then,

deadly in their spring and relentless in their action. Those who

have known me best have not known this. My own mother was ignorant

of it. Often and often have I heard her say: “If Trueman only had

more sensibility! If Trueman were not so indifferent to everything!

In short, if Trueman had more power in him!”

It was the same at school. No one understood me. They thought me

meek; called me Dough-face. For three years they called me this,

then I turned upon them. Choosing out their ringleader, I felled

him to the ground, laid him on his back, and stamped upon him. He

was handsome before my foot came down; afterwards--Well, it is

enough he never called me Dough-face again. In the store I entered

soon after, I met with even less appreciation. Regular at my work

and exact in my performance of it, they thought me a good machine

and nothing more. What heart, soul, and feeling could a man have

who never sported, never smoked, and never laughed? I could reckon

up figures correctly, but one scarcely needed heart or soul for

that. I could even write day by day and month by month without

showing a flaw in my copy; but that only argued I was no more than

they intimated, a regular automaton. I let them think so, with the

certainty before me that they would one day change their minds as

others had done. The fact was, I loved nobody well enough, not even

myself, to care for any man’s opinion. Life was well-nigh a blank

to me; a dead level plain that had to be traversed whether I would

or not. And such it might have continued to this day if I had never

met Mary Leavenworth. But when, some nine months since, I left my

desk in the counting-house for a seat in Mr. Leavenworth’s library,

a blazing torch fell into my soul whose flame has never gone out,

and never will, till the doom before me is accomplished.

She was so beautiful! When, on that first evening, I followed my

new employer into the parlor, and saw this woman standing up before

me in her half-alluring, half-appalling charm, I knew, as by a

lightning flash, what my future would be if I remained in that

house. She was in one of her haughty moods, and bestowed upon me

little more than a passing glance. But her indifference made slight

impression upon me then. It was enough that I was allowed to stand

in her presence and look unrebuked upon her loveliness. To be sure,

it was like gazing into the flower-wreathed crater of an awakening

volcano. Fear and fascination were in each moment I lingered there;

but fear and fascination made the moment what it was, and I could

not have withdrawn if I would.

And so it was always. Unspeakable pain as well as pleasure was in

the emotion with which I regarded her. Yet for all that I did not

cease to study her hour by hour and day by day; her smiles, her

movement, her way of turning her head or lifting her eyelids. I had

a purpose in this. I wished to knit her beauty so firmly into the

warp and woof of my being that nothing could ever serve to tear it

away. For I saw then as plainly as now that, coquette though she

was, she would never stoop to me. No; I might lie down at her feet

and let her trample over me; she would not even turn to see what

it was she had stepped upon. I might spend days, months, years,

learning the alphabet of her wishes; she would not thank me for

my pains or even raise the lashes from her cheek to look at me as

I passed. I was nothing to her, could not be anything unless--and

this thought came slowly--I could in some way become her master.

Meantime I wrote at Mr. Leavenworth’s dictation and pleased him.

My methodical ways were just to his taste. As for the other member

of the family, Miss Eleanore Leavenworth--she treated me just as

one of her proud but sympathetic nature might be expected to do.

Not familiarly, but kindly; not as a friend, but as a member of the

household whom she met every day at table, and who, as she or any

one else could see, was none too happy or hopeful.

Six months went by. I had learned two things; first, that Mary

Leavenworth loved her position as prospective heiress to a large

fortune above every other earthly consideration; and secondly,

that she was in the possession of a secret which endangered that

position. What this was, I had for some time no means of knowing.

But when later I became convinced it was one of love, I grew

hopeful, strange as it may seem. For by this time I had learned Mr.

Leavenworth’s disposition almost as perfectly as that of his niece,

and knew that in a matter of this kind he would be uncompromising;

and that in the clashing of these two wills something might occur

which would give me a hold upon her. The only thing that troubled

me was the fact that I did not know the name of the man in whom she

was interested. But chance soon favored me here. One day--a month

ago now--I sat down to open Mr. Leavenworth’s mail as usual. One

letter--shall I ever forget it? ran thus:

“HOFFMAN HOUSE,

“March 1, 1876.”

MR. HORATIO LEAVENWORTH:

“DEAR SIR,--You have a niece whom you love and trust, one,

too, who seems worthy of all the love and trust that you or

any other man can give her; so beautiful, so charming, so

tender is she in face, form, manner, and conversation. But,

dear sir, every rose has its thorn, and your rose is no

exception to this rule. Lovely as she is, charming as she

is, tender as she is, she is not only capable of trampling

on the rights of one who trusted her, but of bruising the

heart and breaking the spirit of him to whom she owes all

duty, honor, and observance.

“If you don’t believe this, ask her to her cruel,

bewitching face, who and what is her humble servant, and

yours.

“Henry Ritchie Clavering.”

If a bombshell had exploded at my feet, or the evil one himself

appeared at my call, I would not have been more astounded. Not

only was the name signed to these remarkable words unknown to me,

but the epistle itself was that of one who felt himself to be her

master: a position which, as you know, I was myself aspiring to

occupy. For a few minutes, then, I stood a prey to feelings of the

bitterest wrath and despair; then I grew calm, realizing that with

this letter in my possession I was virtually the arbitrator of her

destiny. Some men would have sought her there and then and, by

threatening to place it in her uncle’s hand, won from her a look of

entreaty, if no more; but I--well, my plans went deeper than that.

I knew she would have to be in extremity before I could hope to win

her. She must feel herself slipping over the edge of the precipice

before she would clutch at the first thing offering succor. I

decided to allow the letter to pass into my employer’s hands. But

it had been opened! How could I manage to give it to him in this

condition without exciting his suspicion? I knew of but one way; to

let him see me open it for what he would consider the first time.

So, waiting till he came into the room, I approached him with the

letter, tearing off the end of the envelope as I came. Opening it,

I gave a cursory glance at its contents and tossed it down on the

table before him.

“That appears to be of a private character,” said I, “though there

is no sign to that effect on the envelope.”

He took it up while I stood there. At the first word he started,

looked at me, seemed satisfied from my expression that I had not

read far enough to realize its nature, and, whirling slowly around

in his chair, devoured the remainder in silence. I waited a moment,

then withdrew to my own desk. One minute, two minutes passed in

silence; he was evidently rereading the letter; then he hurriedly

rose and left the room. As he passed me I caught a glimpse of his

face in the mirror. The expression I saw there did not tend to

lessen the hope that was rising in my breast.

By following him almost immediately up-stairs I ascertained that

he went directly to Mary’s room, and when in a few hours later

the family collected around the dinner table, I perceived, almost

without looking up, that a great and insurmountable barrier had

been raised between him and his favorite niece.

Two days passed; days that were for me one long and unrelieved

suspense. Had Mr. Leavenworth answered that letter? Would it all

end as it had begun, without the appearance of the mysterious

Clavering on the scene? I could not tell.

Meanwhile my monotonous work went on, grinding my heart beneath its

relentless wheel. I wrote and wrote and wrote, till it seemed as if

my life blood went from me with every drop of ink I used. Always

alert and listening, I dared not lift my head or turn my eyes at

any unusual sound, lest I should seem to be watching. The third

night I had a dream; I have already told Mr. Raymond what it was,

and hence will not repeat it here. One correction, however, I wish

to make in regard to it. In my statement to him I declared that the

face of the man whom I saw lift his hand against my employer was

that of Mr. Clavering. I lied when I said this. The face seen by me

in my dream was my own. It was that fact which made it so horrible

to me. In the crouching figure stealing warily down-stairs, I saw

as in a glass the vision of my own form. Otherwise my account of

the matter was true.

This vision had a tremendous effect upon me. Was it a premonition?

a forewarning of the way in which I was to win this coveted

creature for my own? Was the death of her uncle the bridge by

which the impassable gulf between us might be spanned? I began to

think it might be; to consider the possibilities which could make

this the only path to my elysium; even went so far as to picture

her lovely face bending gratefully towards me through the glare

of a sudden release from some emergency in which she stood. One

thing was sure; if that was the way I must go, I had at least been

taught how to tread it; and all through the dizzy, blurred day that

followed, I saw, as I sat at my work, repeated visions of that

stealthy, purposeful figure stealing down the stairs and entering

with uplifted pistol into the unconscious presence of my employer.

I even found myself a dozen times that day turning my eyes upon

the door through which it was to come, wondering how long it would

be before my actual form would pause there. That the moment was

at hand I did not imagine. Even when I left him that night after

drinking with him the glass of sherry mentioned at the inquest, I

had no idea the hour of action was so near. But when, not three

minutes after going up-stairs, I caught the sound of a lady’s dress

rustling through the hall, and listening, heard Mary Leavenworth

pass my door on her way to the library, I realized that the fatal

hour was come; that something was going to be said or done in that

room which would make this deed necessary. What? I determined to

ascertain. Casting about in my mind for the means of doing so, I

remembered that the ventilator running up through the house opened

first into the passageway connecting Mr. Leavenworth’s bedroom and

library, and, secondly, into the closet of the large spare room

adjoining mine. Hastily unlocking the door of the communication

between the rooms, I took my position in the closet. Instantly

the sound of voices reached my ears; all was open below, and

standing there, I was as much an auditor of what went on between

Mary and her uncle as if I were in the library itself. And what

did I hear? Enough to assure me my suspicions were correct; that

it was a moment of vital interest to her; that Mr. Leavenworth,

in pursuance of a threat evidently made some time since, was in

the act of taking steps to change his will, and that she had come

to make an appeal to be forgiven her fault and restored to his

favor. What that fault was, I did not learn. No mention was made

of Mr. Clavering as her husband. I only heard her declare that her

action had been the result of impulse, rather than love; that she

regretted it, and desired nothing more than to be free from all

obligations to one she would fain forget, and be again to her uncle

what she was before she ever saw this man. I thought, fool that I

was, it was a mere engagement she was alluding to, and took the

insanest hope from these words; and when, in a moment later I heard

her uncle reply, in his sternest tone, that she had irreparably

forfeited her claims to his regard and favor, I did not need her

short and bitter cry of shame and disappointment, or that low moan

for some one to help her, for me to sound his death-knell in my

heart. Creeping back to my own room, I waited till I heard her

reascend, then I stole forth. Calm as I had ever been in my life, I

went down the stairs just as I had seen myself do in my dream, and

knocking lightly at the library door, went in. Mr. Leavenworth was

sitting in his usual place writing.

“Excuse me,” said I as he looked up, “I have lost my

memorandum-book, and think it possible I may have dropped it in the

passageway when I went for the wine.” He bowed, and I hurried past

him into the closet. Once there, I proceeded rapidly into the room

beyond, procured the pistol, returned, and almost before I realized

what I was doing, had taken up my position behind him, aimed, and

fired. The result was what you know. Without a groan his head

fell forward on his hands, and Mary Leavenworth was the virtual

possessor of the thousands she coveted.

My first thought was to procure the letter he was writing.

Approaching the table, I tore it out from under his hands, looked

at it, saw that it was, as I expected, a summons to his lawyer,

and thrust it into my pocket, together with the letter from Mr.

Clavering, which I perceived lying spattered with blood on the

table before me. Not till this was done did I think of myself, or

remember the echo which that low, sharp report must have made in

the house. Dropping the pistol at the side of the murdered man, I

stood ready to shriek to any one who entered that Mr. Leavenworth

had killed himself. But I was saved from committing such a folly.

The report had not been heard, or if so, had evidently failed to

create an alarm. No one came, and I was left to contemplate my work

undisturbed and decide upon the best course to be taken to avoid

detection. A moment’s study of the wound made in his head by the

bullet convinced me of the impossibility of passing the affair off

as a suicide, or even the work of a burglar. To any one versed in

such matters it was manifestly a murder, and a most deliberate

one. My one hope, then, lay in making it as mysterious as it was

deliberate, by destroying all clue to the motive and manner of

the deed. Picking up the pistol, I carried it into the other room

with the intention of cleaning it, but finding nothing there to

do it with, came back for the handkerchief I had seen lying on

the floor at Mr. Leavenworth’s feet. It was Miss Eleanore’s, but

I did not know it till I had used it to clean the barrel; then

the sight of her initials in one corner so shocked me I forgot

to clean the cylinder, and only thought of how I could do away

with this evidence of her handkerchief having been employed for

a purpose so suspicious. Not daring to carry it from the room, I

sought for means to destroy it; but finding none, compromised the

matter by thrusting it deep down behind the cushion of one of the

chairs, in the hope of being able to recover and burn it the next

day. This done, I reloaded the pistol, locked it up, and prepared

to leave the room. But here the horror which usually follows such

deeds struck me like a thunderbolt and made me for the first time

uncertain in my action. I locked the door on going out, something

I should never have done. Not till I reached the top of the stairs

did I realize my folly; and then it was too late, for there before

me, candle in hand, and surprise written on every feature of her

face, stood Hannah, one of the servants, looking at me.

“Lor, sir, where have you been?” she cried, but strange to say, in

a low tone. “You look as if you had seen a ghost.” And her eyes

turned suspiciously to the key which I held in my hand.

I felt as if some one had clutched me round the throat. Thrusting

the key into my pocket, I took a step towards her. “I will tell you

what I have seen if you will come down-stairs,” I whispered; “the

ladies will be disturbed if we talk here,” and smoothing my brow as

best I could, I put out my hand and drew her towards me. What my

motive was I hardly knew; the action was probably instinctive; but

when I saw the look which came into her face as I touched her, and

the alacrity with which she prepared to follow me, I took courage,

remembering the one or two previous tokens I had had of this girl’s

unreasonable susceptibility to my influence; a susceptibility which

I now felt could be utilized and made to serve my purpose.

Taking her down to the parlor floor, I drew her into the depths of

the great drawing-room, and there told her in the least alarming

way possible what had happened to Mr. Leavenworth. She was of

course intensely agitated, but she did not scream;--the novelty of

her position evidently bewildering her--and, greatly relieved, I

went on to say that I did not know who committed the deed, but that

folks would declare it was I if they knew I had been seen by her

on the stairs with the library key in my hand. “But I won’t tell,”

she whispered, trembling violently in her fright and eagerness.

“I will keep it to myself. I will say I didn’t see anybody.” But

I soon convinced her that she could never keep her secret if the

police once began to question her, and, following up my argument

with a little cajolery, succeeded after a long while in winning her

consent to leave the house till the storm should be blown over.

But that given, it was some little time before I could make her

comprehend that she must depart at once and without going back

after her things. Not till I brightened up her wits by a promise to

marry her some day if she only obeyed me now, did she begin to look

the thing in the face and show any evidence of the real mother wit

she evidently possessed. “Mrs. Belden would take me in,” said she,

“if I could only get to R----. She takes everybody in who asks,

her; and she would keep me, too, if I told her Miss Mary sent me.

But I can’t get there to-night.”

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 depot 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 down-stairs. There we 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 unconsciously held 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 no other result

possible; 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 those 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. Some one 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 that 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 not try

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 down-stairs,

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 filagree 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

afterwards, I need not speak in detail. I behaved just as I would

have done if I had had no hand in the murder. 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 me 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 such questions as might be put me as

truthfully as I could; the great fault with men situated as I was

usually being that they lied too much, thus 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 towards 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 lately 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. 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 took, Eleanore was forced to deepen the prejudice

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

my sympathy would have led me into doing anything, 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 up and shown, I became so alarmed I immediately rose

and, making my way under some pretence 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 finding a fire there 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 some one

coming up-stairs. 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 towards 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 her to have done so, 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 might

be called absolute proof of her connection with the crime. But if

I had, I doubt if my course would have been any different. Mary’s

peril was the one thing capable of influencing me, and she did

not appear to be in peril. On the contrary, every one, 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 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 by this deed of

blood. 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 myself from any inconsiderate

action.

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

active results would have followed this self-questioning 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 such a fact 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 insolvable; 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 this 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, would give her the most beautiful visions. These

directions were for her first to destroy my letter by burning it,

next to take in her hand the packet I was careful to enclose,

swallow the powder accompanying it, and go to bed. 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. Let

her depart in the least particular from the course I had marked

out for her, and fatal results must ensue. If she opened the

enclosed packet, 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 come 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.