Bab Bab 31 · 第31章

uiet face before me,

smiling in its peaceful rest as if death were pleasanter than we

think, and marvel over the providence which had brought us renewed

fear instead of relief, complication instead of enlightenment,

disappointment instead of realization. For eloquent as is death,

even on the faces of those unknown and unloved by us, the causes

and consequences of this one were much too important to allow the

mind to dwell upon the pathos of the scene itself. Hannah, the

girl, was lost in Hannah the witness.

But gradually, as I gazed, the look of expectation which I

perceived hovering about the wistful mouth and half-open lids

attracted me, and I bent above her with a more personal interest,

asking myself if she were quite dead, and whether or not immediate

medical assistance would be of any avail. But the more closely

I looked, the more certain I became that she had been dead for

some hours; and the dismay occasioned by this thought, taken with

the regrets which I must ever feel, that I had not adopted the

bold course the evening before, and, by forcing my way to the

hiding-place of this poor creature, interrupted, if not prevented

the consummation of her fate, startled me into a realization of

my present situation; and, leaving her side, I went into the next

room, threw up the window, and fastened to the blind the red

handkerchief which I had taken the precaution to bring with me.

Instantly a young man, whom I was fain to believe Q, though he bore

not the least resemblance, either in dress or facial expression to

any renderings of that youth which I had yet seen, emerged from the

tinsmith’s house, and approached the one I was in.

Observing him cast a hurried glance in my direction, I crossed the

floor, and stood awaiting him at the head of the stairs.

“Well?” he whispered, upon entering the house and meeting my glance

from below; “have you seen her?”

“Yes,” I returned bitterly, “I have seen her!”

He hurriedly mounted to my side. “And she has confessed?”

“No; I have had no talk with her.” Then, as I perceived him growing

alarmed at my voice and manner, I drew him into Mrs. Belden’s room

and hastily inquired: “What did you mean this morning when you

informed me you had seen this girl? that she was in a certain room

where I might find her?”

“What I said.”

“You have, then, been to her room?”

[Illustration: “I crawled up on to the ledge of the slanting roof

last night . . . and . . . saw her moving round the room”]

“No; I have only been on the outside of it. Seeing a light, I

crawled up on to the ledge of the slanting roof last night while

both you and Mrs. Belden were out, and, looking through the

window, saw her moving round the room.” He must have observed my

countenance change, for he stopped. “What is to pay?” he cried.

I could restrain myself no longer. “Come,” I said, “and see for

yourself!” And, leading him to the little room I had just left,

I pointed to the silent form lying within. “You told me I should

find Hannah here; but you did not tell me I should find her in this

condition.”

“Great heaven!” he cried with a start: “not dead?”

“Yes,” I said, “dead.”

It seemed as if he could not realize it. “But it is impossible!” he

returned. “She is in a heavy sleep, has taken a narcotic----”

“It is not sleep,” I said, “or if it is, she will never wake.

Look!” And, taking the hand once more in mine, I let it fall in its

stone weight upon the bed.

The sight seemed to convince him. Calming down, he stood gazing at

her with a very strange expression upon his face. Suddenly he moved

and began quietly turning over the clothes that were lying on the

floor.

“What are you doing?” I asked. “What are you looking for?”

“I am looking for the bit of paper from which I saw her take what I

supposed to be a dose of medicine last night. Oh, here it is!” he

cried, lifting a morsel of paper that, lying on the floor under the

edge of the bed, had hitherto escaped his notice.

“Let me see!” I anxiously exclaimed.

He handed me the paper, on the inner surface of which I could dimly

discern the traces of an impalpable white powder.

“This is important,” I declared, carefully folding the paper

together. “If there is enough of this powder remaining to show that

the contents of this paper were poisonous, the manner and means

of the girl’s death are accounted for, and a case of deliberate

suicide made evident.”

“I am not so sure of that,” he retorted. “If I am any judge of

countenances, and I rather flatter myself I am, this girl had no

more idea she was taking poison than I had. She looked not only

bright but gay; and when she tipped up the paper, a smile of almost

silly triumph crossed her face. If Mrs. Belden gave her that dose

to take, telling her it was medicine----”

“That is something which yet remains to be learned; also whether

the dose, as you call it, was poisonous or not. It may be she died

of heart disease.”

He simply shrugged his shoulders, and pointed first at the plate of

breakfast left on the chair, and secondly at the broken-down door.

“Yes,” I said, answering his look, “Mrs. Belden has been in here

this morning, and Mrs. Belden locked the door when she went out;

but that proves nothing beyond her belief in the girl’s hearty

condition.”

“A belief which that white face on its tumbled pillow did not seem

to shake?”

“Perhaps in her haste she may not have looked at the girl, but

have set the dishes down without more than a casual glance in her

direction?”

“I don’t want to suspect anything wrong, but it is such a

coincidence!”

This was touching me on a sore point, and I stepped back. “Well,”

said I, “there is no use in our standing here busying ourselves

with conjectures. There is too much to be done. Come!” and I moved

hurriedly towards the door.

“What are you going to do?” he asked. “Have you forgotten this

is but an episode in the one great mystery we are sent here to

unravel? If this girl has come to her death by some foul play, it

is our business to find it out.”

“That must be left for the coroner. It has now passed out of our

hands.”

“I know; but we can at least take full note of the room and

everything in it before throwing the affair into the hands of

strangers. Mr. Gryce will expect that much of us, I am sure.”

“I have looked at the room. The whole is photographed on my mind. I

am only afraid I can never forget it.”

“And the body? Have you noticed its position? the lay of the

bed-clothes around it? the lack there is of all signs of struggle

or fear? the repose of the countenance? the easy fall of the hands?”

“Yes, yes; don’t make me look at it any more.”

“Then the clothes hanging on the wall?”--rapidly pointing out each

object as he spoke. “Do you see? a calico dress, a shawl,--not the

one in which she was believed to have run away, but an old black

one, probably belonging to Mrs. Belden. Then this chest,”--opening

it,--“containing a few underclothes marked,--let us see, ah, with

the name of the lady of the house, but smaller than any she ever

wore; made for Hannah, you observe, and marked with her own name to

prevent suspicion. And then these other clothes lying on the floor,

all new, all marked in the same way. Then this--Halloo! look here!”

he suddenly cried.

Going over to where he stood I stooped down, when a wash-bowl half

full of burned paper met my eye.

“I saw her bending over something in this corner, and could not

think what it was. Can it be she is a suicide after all? She has

evidently destroyed something here which she didn’t wish any one to

see.”

“I do not know,” I said. “I could almost hope so.”

“Not a scrap, not a morsel left to show what it was; how

unfortunate!”

“Mrs. Belden must solve this riddle,” I cried.

“Mrs. Belden must solve the whole riddle,” he replied; “the secret

of the Leavenworth murder hangs upon it.” Then, with a lingering

look towards the mass of burned paper, “Who knows but what that was

a confession?”

The conjecture seemed only too probable.

“Whatever it was,” said I, “it is now ashes, and we have got to

accept the fact and make the best of it.”

“Yes,” said he with a deep sigh; “that’s so; but Mr. Gryce will

never forgive me for it, never. He will say I ought to have known

it was a suspicious circumstance for her to take a dose of medicine

at the very moment detection stood at her back.”

“But she did not know that; she did not see you.”

“We don’t know what she saw, nor what Mrs. Belden saw. Women are a

mystery; and though I flatter myself that ordinarily I am a match

for the keenest bit of female flesh that ever walked, I must say

that in this case I feel myself thoroughly and shamefully worsted.”

“Well, well,” I said, “the end has not come yet; who knows what a

talk with Mrs. Belden will bring out? And, by the way, she will

be coming back soon, and I must be ready to meet her. Everything

depends upon finding out, if I can, whether she is aware of this

tragedy or not. It is just possible she knows nothing about it.”

And, hurrying him from the room, I pulled the door to behind me,

and led the way down-stairs.

“Now,” said I, “there is one thing you must attend to at once.

A telegram must be sent Mr. Gryce acquainting him with this

unlooked-for occurrence.”

“All right, sir,” and Q started for the door.

“Wait one moment,” said I. “I may not have another opportunity to

mention it. Mrs. Belden received two letters from the postmaster

yesterday; one in a large and one in a small envelope; if you could

find out where they were postmarked----”

Q put his hand in his pocket. “I think I will not have to go far to

find out where one of them came from. Good George, I have lost it!”

And before I knew it, he had returned up-stairs.

That moment I heard the gate click.

Chapter 31. Q

“Thereby hangs a tale.”

Taming of the Shrew.

“It was all a hoax; nobody was ill; I have been imposed upon,

meanly imposed upon!” And Mrs. Belden, flushed and panting, entered

the room where I was, and proceeded to take off her bonnet; but

whilst doing so paused, and suddenly exclaimed: “What is the

matter? How you look at me! Has anything happened?”

“Something very serious has occurred,” I replied; “you have been

gone but a little while, but in that time a discovery has been

made--” I purposely paused here that the suspense might elicit from

her some betrayal; but, though she turned pale, she manifested less

emotion than I expected, and I went on--“which is likely to produce

very important consequences.”

To my surprise she burst violently into tears. “I knew it, I knew

it!” she murmured. “I always said it would be impossible to keep

it secret if I let anybody into the house; she is so restless. But

I forget,” she suddenly said, with a frightened look; “you haven’t

told me what the discovery was. Perhaps it isn’t what I thought;

perhaps----”

I did not hesitate to interrupt her. “Mrs. Belden,” I said, “I

shall not try to mitigate the blow. A woman who, in the face of

the most urgent call from law and justice, can receive into her

house and harbor there a witness of such importance as Hannah,

cannot stand in need of any great preparation for hearing that her

efforts, have been too successful, that she has accomplished her

design of suppressing valuable testimony, that law and justice are

outraged, and that the innocent woman whom this girl’s evidence

might have saved stands for ever compromised in the eyes of the

world, if not in those of the officers of the law.”

Her eyes, which had never left me during this address, flashed wide

with dismay.

“What do you mean?” she cried. “I have intended no wrong; I have

only tried to save people. I--I--But who are you? What have you

got to do with all this? What is it to you what I do or don’t

do? You said you were a lawyer. Can it be you are come from Mary

Leavenworth to see how I am fulfilling her commands, and----”

“Mrs. Belden,” I said, “it is of small importance now as to who I

am, or for what purpose I am here. But that my words may have the

more effect, I will say, that whereas I have not deceived you,

either as to my name or position, it is true that I am the friend

of the Misses Leavenworth, and that anything which is likely to

affect them, is of interest to me. When, therefore, I say that

Eleanore Leavenworth is irretrievably injured by this girl’s

death----”

“Death? What do you mean? Death!”

The burst was too natural, the tone too horror-stricken for me to

doubt for another moment as to this woman’s ignorance of the true

state of affairs.

“Yes,” I repeated, “the girl you have been hiding so long and so

well is now beyond your control. Only her dead body remains, Mrs.

Belden.”

I shall never lose from my ears the shriek which she uttered, nor

the wild, “I don’t believe it! I don’t believe it!” with which she

dashed from the room and rushed up-stairs.

Nor that after-scene when, in the presence of the dead, she stood

wringing her hands and protesting, amid sobs of the sincerest

grief and terror, that she knew nothing of it; that she had left

the girl in the best of spirits the night before; that it was true

she had locked her in, but this she always did when any one was

in the house; and that if she died of any sudden attack, it must

have been quietly, for she had heard no stir all night, though she

had listened more than once, being naturally anxious lest the girl

should make some disturbance that would arouse me.

“But you were in here this morning?” said I.

“Yes; but I didn’t notice. I was in a hurry, and thought she was

asleep; so I set the things down where she could get them and came

right away, locking the door as usual.”

“It is strange she should have died this night of all others. Was

she ill yesterday?”

“No, sir; she was even brighter than common; more lively. I never

thought of her being sick then or ever. If I had----”

“You never thought of her being sick?” a voice here interrupted.

“Why, then, did you take such pains to give her a dose of medicine

last night?” And Q entered from the room beyond.

“I didn’t!” she protested, evidently under the supposition it was

I who had spoken. “Did I, Hannah, did I, poor girl?” stroking the

hand that lay in hers with what appeared to be genuine sorrow and

regret.

“How came she by it, then? Where she did she get it if you didn’t

give it to her?”

This time she seemed to be aware that some one besides myself was

talking to her, for, hurriedly rising, she looked at the man with a

wondering stare, before replying.

“I don’t know who you are, sir; but I can tell you this, the girl

had no medicine,--took no dose; she wasn’t sick last night that I

know of.”

“Yet I saw her swallow a powder.”

“Saw her!--the world is crazy, or I am--saw her swallow a powder!

How could you see her do that or anything else? Hasn’t she been

shut up in this room for twenty-four hours?”

“Yes; but with a window like that in the roof, it isn’t so very

difficult to see into the room, madam.”

“Oh,” she cried, shrinking, “I have a spy in the house, have I? But

I deserve it; I kept her imprisoned in four close walls, and never

came to look at her once all night. I don’t complain; but what was

it you say you saw her take? medicine? poison?”

“I didn’t say poison.”

“But you meant it. You think she has poisoned herself, and that I

had a hand in it!”

“No,” I hastened to remark, “he does not think you had a hand in

it. He says he saw the girl herself swallow something which he

believes to have been the occasion of her death, and only asks you

now where she obtained it.”

“How can I tell? I never gave her anything; didn’t know she had

anything.”

Somehow, I believed her, and so felt unwilling to prolong the

present interview, especially as each moment delayed the action

which I felt it incumbent upon us to take. So, motioning Q to

depart upon his errand, I took Mrs. Belden by the hand and

endeavored to lead her from the room. But she resisted, sitting

down by the side of the bed with the expression, “I will not leave

her again; do not ask it; here is my place, and here I will stay,”

while Q, obdurate for the first time, stood staring severely upon

us both, and would not move, though I urged him again to make

haste, saying that the morning was slipping away, and that the

telegram to Mr. Gryce ought to be sent.

“Till that woman leaves the room, I don’t; and unless you promise

to take my place in watching her, I don’t quit the house.”

Astonished, I left her side and crossed to him.

“You carry your suspicions too far,” I whispered, “and I think you

are too rude. We have seen nothing, I am sure, to warrant us in

any such action; besides, she can do no harm here; though, as for

watching her, I promise to do that much if it will relieve your

mind.”

“I don’t want her watched here; take her below. I cannot leave

while she remains.”

“Are you not assuming a trifle the master?”

“Perhaps; I don’t know. If I am, it is because I have something in

my possession which excuses my conduct.”

“What is that? the letter?”

“Yes.”

Agitated now in my turn, I held out my hand. “Let me see,” I said.

“Not while that woman remains in the room.”

Seeing him implacable, I returned to Mrs. Belden.

“I must entreat you to come with me,” said I. “This is not a common

death; we shall be obliged to have the coroner here and others. You

had better leave the room and go below.”

“I don’t mind the coroner; he is a neighbor of mine; his coming

won’t prevent my watching over the poor girl until he arrives.”

“Mrs. Belden,” I said, “your position as the only one conscious of

the presence of this girl in your house makes it wiser for you not

to invite suspicion by lingering any longer than is necessary in

the room where her dead body lies.”

“As if my neglect of her now were the best surety of my good

intentions towards her in time past!”

“It will not be neglect for you to go below with me at my earnest

request. You can do no good here by staying; will, in fact, be

doing harm. So listen to me or I shall be obliged to leave you in

charge of this man and go myself to inform the authorities.”

This last argument seemed to affect her, for with one look of

shuddering abhorrence at Q she rose, saying, “You have me in your

power,” and then, without another word, threw her handkerchief over

the girl’s face and left the room. In two minutes more I had the

letter of which Q had spoken in my hands.

“It is the only one I could find, sir. It was in the pocket of the

dress Mrs. Belden had on last night. The other must be lying around

somewhere, but I haven’t had time to find it. This will do, though,

I think. You will not ask for the other.”

Scarcely noticing at the time with what deep significance he spoke,

I opened the letter. It was the smaller of the two I had seen her

draw under her shawl the day before at the post-office, and read as

follows:

“DEAR, DEAR FRIEND:

“I am in awful trouble. You who love me must know it. I cannot

explain, I can only make one prayer. Destroy what you have,

to-day, instantly, without question or hesitation. The consent

of any one else has nothing to do with it. You must obey. I am

lost if you refuse. Do then what I ask, and save

“ONE WHO LOVES YOU.”

It was addressed to Mrs. Belden; there was no signature or date,

only the postmark New York; but I knew the handwriting. It was Mary

Leavenworth’s.

“A damning letter!” came in the dry tones which Q seemed to think

fit to adopt on this occasion. “And a damning bit of evidence

against the one who wrote it, and the woman who received it!”

“A terrible piece of evidence, indeed,” said I, “if I did not

happen to know that this letter refers to the destruction of

something radically different from what you suspect. It alludes to

some papers in Mrs. Belden’s charge; nothing else.”

“Are you sure, sir?”

“Quite; but we will talk of this hereafter. It is time you sent

your telegram, and went for the coroner.”

“Very well, sir.” And with this we parted; he to perform his role

and I mine.

I found Mrs. Belden walking the floor below, bewailing her

situation, and uttering wild sentences as to what the neighbors

would say of her; what the minister would think; what Clara,

whoever that was, would do, and how she wished she had died before

ever she had meddled with the affair.

Succeeding in calming her after a while, I induced her to sit down

and listen to what I had to say. “You will only injure yourself by

this display of feeling,” I remarked, “besides unfitting yourself

for what you will presently be called upon to go through.” And,

laying myself out to comfort the unhappy woman, I first explained

the necessities of the case, and next inquired if she had no friend

upon whom she could call in this emergency.

To my great surprise she replied no; that while she had kind

neighbors and good friends, there was no one upon whom she could

call in a case like this, either for assistance or sympathy, and

that, unless I would take pity on her, she would have to meet it

alone--“As I have met everything,” she said, “from Mr. Belden’s

death to the loss of most of my little savings in a town fire last

year.”

I was touched by this,--that she who, in spite of her weakness

and inconsistencies of character, possessed at least the one

virtue of sympathy with her kind, should feel any lack of friends.

Unhesitatingly, I offered to do what I could for her, providing she

would treat me with the perfect frankness which the case demanded.

To my great relief, she expressed not only her willingness, but her

strong desire, to tell all she knew. “I have had enough secrecy

for my whole life,” she said. And indeed I do believe she was so

thoroughly frightened, that if a police-officer had come into the

house and asked her to reveal secrets compromising the good name

of her own son, she would have done so without cavil or question.

“I feel as if I wanted to take my stand out on the common, and,

in the face of the whole world, declare what I have done for Mary

Leavenworth. But first,” she whispered, “tell me, for God’s sake,

how those girls are situated. I have not dared to ask or write. The

papers say a good deal about Eleanore, but nothing about Mary; and

yet Mary writes of her own peril only, and of the danger she would

be in if certain facts were known. What is the truth? I don’t want

to injure them, only to take care of myself.”

“Mrs. Belden,” I said, “Eleanore Leavenworth has got into her

present difficulty by not telling all that was required of her.

Mary Leavenworth--but I cannot speak of her till I know what you

have to divulge. Her position, as well as that of her cousin, is

too anomalous for either you or me to discuss. What we want to

learn from you is, how you became connected with this affair, and

what it was that Hannah knew which caused her to leave New York and

take refuge here.”

But Mrs. Belden, clasping and unclasping her hands, met my gaze

with one full of the most apprehensive doubt. “You will never

believe me,” she cried; “but I don’t know what Hannah knew. I am

in utter ignorance of what she saw or heard on that fatal night;

she never told, and I never asked. She merely said that Miss

Leavenworth wished me to secrete her for a short time; and I,

because I loved Mary Leavenworth and admired her beyond any one I

ever saw, weakly consented, and----”

“Do you mean to say,” I interrupted, “that after you knew of the

murder, you, at the mere expression of Miss Leavenworth’s wishes,

continued to keep this girl concealed without asking her any

questions or demanding any explanations?”

“Yes, sir; you will never believe me, but it is so. I thought

that, since Mary had sent her here, she must have her reasons;

and--and--I cannot explain it now; it all looks so differently; but

I did do as I have said.”

“But that was very strange conduct. You must have had strong reason

for obeying Mary Leavenworth so blindly.”

“Oh, sir,” she gasped, “I thought I understood it all; that

Mary, the bright young creature, who had stooped from her lofty

position to make use of me and to love me, was in some way linked

to the criminal, and that it would be better for me to remain in

ignorance, do as I was bid, and trust all would come right. I did

not reason about it; I only followed my impulse. I couldn’t do

otherwise; it isn’t my nature. When I am requested to do anything

for a person I love, I cannot refuse.”

“And you love Mary Leavenworth; a woman whom you yourself seem to

consider capable of a great crime?”

“Oh, I didn’t say that; I don’t know as I thought that. She

might be in some way connected with it, without being the actual

perpetrator. She could never be that; she is too dainty.”

“Mrs. Belden,” I said, “what do you know of Mary Leavenworth which

makes even that supposition possible?”

The white face of the woman before me flushed. “I scarcely know

what to reply,” she cried. “It is a long story, and----”

“Never mind the long story,” I interrupted. “Let me hear the one

vital reason.”

“Well,” said she, “it is this; that Mary was in an emergency from

which nothing but her uncle’s death could release her.”

“Ah, how’s that?”

But here we were interrupted by the sound of steps on the porch,

and, looking out, I saw Q entering the house alone. Leaving Mrs.

Belden where she was, I stepped into the hall.

“Well,” said I, “what is the matter? Haven’t you found the coroner?

Isn’t he at home?”

“No, gone away; off in a buggy to look after a man that was found

some ten miles from here, lying in a ditch beside a yoke of oxen.”

Then, as he saw my look of relief, for I was glad of this temporary

delay, said, with an expressive wink: “It would take a fellow a

long time to go to him--if he wasn’t in a hurry--hours, I think.”

“Indeed!” I returned, amused at his manner. “Rough road?”

“Very; no horse I could get could travel it faster than a walk.”

“Well,” said I, “so much the better for us. Mrs. Belden has a long

story to tell, and----”

“Doesn’t wish to be interrupted. I understand.”

I nodded and he turned towards the door.

“Have you telegraphed Mr. Gryce?” I asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you think he will come?”

“Yes, sir; if he has to hobble on two sticks.”

“At what time do you look for him?”

“_You_ will look for him as early as three o’clock. I shall be

among the mountains, ruefully eying my broken-down team.” And

leisurely donning his hat he strolled away down the street like one

who has the whole day on his hands and does not know what to do

with it.

An opportunity being thus given for Mrs. Belden’s story, she at

once composed herself to the task, with the following result.