Bab Bab 7 · MARY LEAVENWORTH

,” whispered that ever present voice over my

shoulder.

Ah! Mary Leavenworth! What a relief came with this name. This

beautiful creature, then, was not the Eleanore who could load,

aim, and fire a pistol. Turning my head, I followed the guiding of

that uplifted hand, now frozen into its place by a new emotion:

the emotion of being interrupted in the midst of a direful and

pregnant revelation, and saw--but, no, here description fails me!

Eleanore Leavenworth must be painted by other hands than mine. I

could sit half the day and dilate upon the subtle grace, the pale

magnificence, the perfection of form and feature which make Mary

Leavenworth the wonder of all who behold her; but Eleanore--I could

as soon paint the beatings of my own heart. Beguiling, terrible,

grand, pathetic, that face of faces flashed upon my gaze, and

instantly the moonlight loveliness of her cousin faded from my

memory, and I saw only Eleanore--only Eleanore from that moment on

forever.

When my glance first fell upon her, she was standing by the side

of a small table, with her face turned toward her cousin, and her

two hands resting, the one upon her breast, the other on the table,

in an attitude of antagonism. But before the sudden pang which

shot through me at the sight of her beauty had subsided, her head

had turned, her gaze had encountered mine; all the horror of the

situation had burst upon her, and, instead of a haughty woman,

drawn up to receive and trample upon the insinuations of another, I

beheld, alas! a trembling, panting human creature, conscious that a

sword hung above her head, and without a word to say why it should

not fall and slay her.

It was a pitiable change; a heart-rending revelation! I turned

from it as from a confession. But just then, her cousin, who had

apparently regained her self-possession at the first betrayal of

emotion on the part of the other, stepped forward and, holding out

her hand, inquired:

“Is not this Mr. Raymond? How kind of you, sir. And you?” turning

to Mr. Gryce; “you have come to tell us we are wanted below, is it

not so?”

It was the voice I had heard through the door, but modulated to a

sweet, winning, almost caressing tone.

Glancing hastily at Mr. Gryce, I looked to see how he was affected

by it. Evidently much, for the bow with which he greeted her words

was lower than ordinary, and the smile with which he met her

earnest look both deprecatory and reassuring. His glance did not

embrace her cousin, though her eyes were fixed upon his face with

an inquiry in their depths more agonizing than the utterance of

any cry would have been. Knowing Mr. Gryce as I did, I felt that

nothing could promise worse, or be more significant, than this

transparent disregard of one who seemed to fill the room with her

terror. And, struck with pity, I forgot that Mary Leavenworth had

spoken, forgot her very presence in fact, and, turning hastily

away, took one step toward her cousin, when Mr. Gryce’s hand

falling on my arm stopped me.

“Miss Leavenworth speaks,” said he.

Recalled to myself, I turned my back upon what had so interested

me even while it repelled, and forcing myself to make some sort of

reply to the fair creature before me, offered my arm and led her

toward the door.

Immediately the pale, proud countenance of Mary Leavenworth

softened almost to the point of smiling;--and here let me say,

there never was a woman who could smile and not smile like Mary

Leavenworth. Looking in my face, with a frank and sweet appeal in

her eyes, she murmured:

“You are very good. I do feel the need of support; the occasion is

so horrible, and my cousin there,”--here a little gleam of alarm

nickered into her eyes--“is so very strange to-day.”

“Humph!” thought I to myself; “where is the grand indignant

pythoness, with the unspeakable wrath and menace in her

countenance, whom I saw when I first entered the room?” Could it

be that she was trying to beguile us from our conjectures, by

making light of her former expressions? Or was it possible she

deceived herself so far as to believe us unimpressed by the weighty

accusation overheard by us at a moment so critical?

But Eleanore Leavenworth, leaning on the arm of the detective,

soon absorbed all my attention. She had regained by this time her

self-possession, also, but not so entirely as her cousin. Her step

faltered as she endeavored to walk, and the hand which rested on

his arm trembled like a leaf. “Would to God I had never entered

this house,” said I to myself. And yet, before the exclamation was

half uttered, I became conscious of a secret rebellion against

the thought; an emotion, shall I say, of thankfulness that it had

been myself rather than another who had been allowed to break in

upon their privacy, overhear that significant remark, and, shall

I acknowledge it, follow Mr. Gryce and the trembling, swaying

figure of Eleanore Leavenworth down-stairs. Not that I felt the

least relenting in my soul towards guilt. Crime had never looked

so black; revenge, selfishness, hatred, cupidity, never seemed

more loathsome; and yet--but why enter into the consideration of

my feelings at that time. They cannot be of interest; besides, who

can fathom the depths of his own soul, or untangle for others the

secret cords of revulsion and attraction which are, and ever have

been, a mystery and wonder to himself? Enough that, supporting upon

my arm the half-fainting form of one woman, but with my attention,

and interest devoted to another, I descended the stairs of the

Leavenworth mansion, and re-entered the dreaded presence of those

inquisitors of the law who had been so impatiently awaiting us.

As I once more crossed that threshold, and faced the eager

countenances of those I had left so short a time before, I felt as

if ages had elapsed in the interval; so much can be experienced by

the human soul in the short space of a few over-weighted moments.

Chapter 7. MARY LEAVENWORTH

“For this relief much thanks.”

Hamlet.

Have you ever observed the effect of the sunlight bursting suddenly

upon the earth from behind a mass of heavily surcharged clouds?

If so, you can have some idea of the sensation produced in that

room by the entrance of these two beautiful ladies. Possessed of

a loveliness which would have been conspicuous in all places and

under all circumstances, Mary, at least, if not her less striking,

though by no means less interesting cousin, could never have

entered any assemblage without drawing to herself the wondering

attention of all present. But, heralded as here, by the most

fearful of tragedies, what could you expect from a collection of

men such as I have already described, but overmastering wonder and

incredulous admiration? Nothing, perhaps, and yet at the first

murmuring sound of amazement and satisfaction, I felt my soul

recoil in disgust.

Making haste to seat my now trembling companion in the most

retired spot I could find, I looked around for her cousin. But

Eleanore Leavenworth, weak as she had appeared in the interview

above, showed at this moment neither hesitation nor embarrassment.

Advancing upon the arm of the detective, whose suddenly assumed

air of persuasion in the presence of the jury was anything but

reassuring, she stood for an instant gazing calmly upon the

scene before her. Then bowing to the coroner with a grace and

condescension which seemed at once to place him on the footing of

a politely endured intruder in this home of elegance, she took

the seat which her own servants hastened to procure for her,

with an ease and dignity that rather recalled the triumphs of

the drawing-room than the self-consciousness of a scene such as

that in which we found ourselves. Palpable acting, though this

was, it was not without its effect. Instantly the murmurs ceased,

the obtrusive glances fell, and something like a forced respect

made itself visible upon the countenances of all present. Even

I, impressed as I had been by her very different demeanor in the

room above, experienced a sensation of relief; and was more than

startled when, upon turning to the lady at my side, I beheld her

eyes riveted upon her cousin with an inquiry in their depths that

was anything but encouraging. Fearful of the effect this look

might have upon those about us, I hastily seized her hand which,

clenched and unconscious, hung over the edge of her chair, and was

about to beseech her to have care, when her name, called in a slow,

impressive way by the coroner, roused her from her abstraction.

Hurriedly withdrawing her gaze from her cousin, she lifted her face

to the jury, and I saw a gleam pass over it which brought back my

early fancy of the pythoness. But it passed, and it was with an

expression of great modesty she settled herself to respond to the

demand of the coroner and answer the first few opening inquiries.

But what can express the anxiety of that moment to me? Gentle as

she now appeared, she was capable of great wrath, as I knew. Was

she going to reiterate her suspicions here? Did she hate as well as

mistrust her cousin? Would she dare assert in this presence, and

before the world, what she found it so easy to utter in the privacy

of her own room and the hearing of the one person concerned? Did

she wish to? Her own countenance gave me no clue to her intentions,

and, in my anxiety, I turned once more to look at Eleanore. But

she, in a dread and apprehension I could easily understand, had

recoiled at the first intimation that her cousin was to speak, and

now sat with her face covered from sight, by hands blanched to an

almost deathly whiteness.

The testimony of Mary Leavenworth was short. After some few

questions, mostly referring to her position in the house and her

connection with its deceased master, she was asked to relate what

she knew of the murder itself, and of its discovery by her cousin

and the servants.

Lifting up a brow that seemed never to have known till now the

shadow of care or trouble, and a voice that, whilst low and

womanly, rang like a bell through the room, she replied:

“You ask me, gentlemen, a question which I cannot answer of my

own personal knowledge. I know nothing of this murder, nor of its

discovery, save what has come to me through the lips of others.”

My heart gave a bound of relief, and I saw Eleanore Leavenworth’s

hands drop from her brow like stone, while a flickering gleam as of

hope fled over her face, and then died away like sunlight leaving

marble.

“For, strange as it may seem to you,” Mary earnestly continued,

the shadow of a past horror revisiting her countenance, “I did

not enter the room where my uncle lay. I did not even think of

doing so; my only impulse was to fly from what was so horrible and

heartrending. But Eleanore went in, and she can tell you----”

“We will question Miss Eleanore Leavenworth later,” interrupted the

coroner, but very gently for him. Evidently the grace and elegance

of this beautiful woman were making their impression. “What we want

to know is what _you_ saw. You say you cannot tell us of anything

that passed in the room at the time of the discovery?”

“No, sir.”

“Only what occurred in the hall?”

“Nothing occurred in the hall,” she innocently remarked.

“Did not the servants pass in from the hall, and your cousin come

out there after her revival from her fainting fit?”

Mary Leavenworth’s violet eyes opened wonderingly.

“Yes, sir; but that was nothing.”

“You remember, however, her coming into the hall?”

“Yes, sir.”

“With a paper in her hand?”

“Paper?” and she wheeled suddenly and looked at her cousin. “Did

you have a paper, Eleanore?”

The moment was intense. Eleanore Leavenworth, who at the first

mention of the word paper had started perceptibly, rose to her feet

at this naive appeal, and opening her lips, seemed about to speak,

when the coroner, with a strict sense of what was regular, lifted

his hand with decision, and said:

“You need not ask your cousin, Miss; but let us hear what you have

to say yourself.”

Immediately, Eleanore Leavenworth sank back, a pink spot breaking

out on either cheek; while a slight murmur testified to the

disappointment of those in the room, who were more anxious to have

their curiosity gratified than the forms of law adhered to.

Satisfied with having done his duty, and disposed to be easy with

so charming a witness, the coroner repeated his question. “Tell us,

if you please, if you saw any such thing in her hand?”

“I? Oh, no, no; I saw nothing.”

Being now questioned in relation to the events of the previous

night, she had no new light to throw upon the subject. She

acknowledged her uncle to have been a little reserved at dinner,

but no more so than at previous times when annoyed by some business

anxiety.

Asked if she had seen her uncle again that evening, she said no,

that she had been detained in her room. That the sight of him,

sitting in his seat at the head of the table, was the very last

remembrance she had of him.

There was something so touching, so forlorn, and yet so

unobtrusive, in this simple recollection of hers, that a look of

sympathy passed slowly around the room.

I even detected Mr. Gryce softening towards the inkstand. But

Eleanore Leavenworth sat unmoved.

“Was your uncle on ill terms with any one?” was now asked. “Had he

valuable papers or secret sums of money in his possession?”

To all these inquiries she returned an equal negative.

“Has your uncle met any stranger lately, or received any important

letter during the last few weeks, which might seem in any way to

throw light upon this mystery?”

There was the slightest perceptible hesitation in her voice, as

she replied: “No, not to my knowledge; I don’t know of any such.”

But here, stealing a side glance at Eleanore, she evidently saw

something that reassured her, for she hastened to add:

“I believe I may go further than that, and meet your question with

a positive no. My uncle was in the habit of confiding in me, and I

should have known if anything of importance to him had occurred.”

Questioned in regard to Hannah, she gave that person the best of

characters; knew of nothing which could have led either to her

strange disappearance, or to her connection with crime. Could not

say whether she kept any company, or had any visitors; only knew

that no one with any such pretensions came to the house. Finally,

when asked when she had last seen the pistol which Mr. Leavenworth

always kept in his stand drawer, she returned, not since the day

he bought it; Eleanore, and not herself, having the charge of her

uncle’s apartments.

It was the only thing she had said which, even to a mind freighted

like mine, would seem to point to any private doubt or secret

suspicion; and this, uttered in the careless manner in which it

was, would have passed without comment if Eleanore herself had not

directed at that moment a very much aroused and inquiring look upon

the speaker.

But it was time for the inquisitive juror to make himself heard

again. Edging to the brink of the chair, he drew in his breath,

with a vague awe of Mary’s beauty, almost ludicrous to see, and

asked if she had properly considered what she had just said.

“I hope, sir, I consider all I am called upon to say at such a time

as this,” was her earnest reply.

The little juror drew back, and I looked to see her examination

terminate, when suddenly his ponderous colleague of the

watch-chain, catching the young lady’s eye, inquired:

“Miss Leavenworth, did your uncle ever make a will?”

Instantly every man in the room was in arms, and even she could

not prevent the slow blush of injured pride from springing to her

cheek. But her answer was given firmly, and without any show of

resentment.

“Yes, sir,” she returned simply.

“More than one?”

“I never heard of but one.”

“Are you acquainted with the contents of that will?”

“I am. He made no secret of his intentions to any one.”

The juryman lifted his eye-glass and looked at her. Her grace was

little to him, or her beauty or her elegance. “Perhaps, then, you

can tell me who is the one most likely to be benefited by his

death?”

The brutality of this question was too marked to pass unchallenged.

Not a man in that room, myself included, but frowned with sudden

disapprobation. But Mary Leavenworth, drawing herself up, looked

her interlocutor calmly in the face, and restrained herself to say:

“I know who would be the greatest losers by it. The children he

took to his bosom in their helplessness and sorrow; the young

girls he enshrined with the halo of his love and protection, when

love and protection were what their immaturity most demanded; the

women who looked to him for guidance when childhood and youth were

passed--these, sir, these are the ones to whom his death is a loss,

in comparison to which all others which may hereafter befall them

must ever seem trivial and unimportant.”

It was a noble reply to the basest of insinuations, and the juryman

drew back rebuked; but here another of them, one who had not spoken

before, but whose appearance was not only superior to the rest, but

also almost imposing in its gravity, leaned from his seat and in a

solemn voice said:

“Miss Leavenworth, the human mind cannot help forming impressions.

Now have you, with or without reason, felt at any time conscious of

a suspicion pointing towards any one person as the murderer of your

uncle?”

It was a frightful moment. To me and to one other, I am sure it was

not only frightful, but agonizing. Would her courage fail? would

her determination to shield her cousin remain firm in the face of

duty and at the call of probity? I dared not hope it.

But Mary Leavenworth, rising to her feet, looked judge and jury

calmly in the face, and, without raising her voice, giving it an

indescribably clear and sharp intonation, replied:

“No; I have neither suspicion nor reason for any. The assassin

of my uncle is not only entirely unknown to, but completely

unsuspected by, me.”

It was like the removal of a stifling pressure. Amid a universal

outgoing of the breath, Mary Leavenworth stood aside and Eleanore

was called in her place.