บทที่ บทที่ 15 · WAYS OPENING

. WAYS OPENING

“It is not and it cannot come to good.”

Hamlet.

I attended the funeral of Mr. Leavenworth, but did not see the

ladies before or after the ceremony. I, however, had a few moments’

conversation with Mr. Harwell; which, without eliciting anything

new, provided me with food for abundant conjecture. For he had

asked, almost at first greeting, if I had seen the _Telegram_ of

the night before; and when I responded in the affirmative, turned

such a look of mingled distress and appeal upon me, I was tempted

to ask how such a frightful insinuation against a young lady of

reputation and breeding could ever have got into the papers. It was

his reply that struck me.

“That the guilty party might be driven by remorse to own himself

the true culprit.”

A curious remark to come from a person who had no knowledge or

suspicion of the criminal and his character; and I would have

pushed the conversation further, but the secretary, who was a man

of few words, drew off at this, and could be induced to say no

more. Evidently it was my business to cultivate Mr. Clavering, or

any one else who could throw any light upon the secret history of

these girls.

That evening I received notice that Mr. Veeley had arrived home,

but was in no condition to consult with me upon so painful a

subject as the murder of Mr. Leavenworth. Also a line from

Eleanore, giving me her address, but requesting me at the same time

not to call unless I had something of importance to communicate, as

she was too ill to receive visitors. The little note affected me.

Ill, alone, and in a strange home,--’twas pitiful!

The next day, pursuant to the wishes of Mr. Gryce, in I stepped

into the Hoffman House, and took a seat in the reading room. I

had been there but a few moments when a gentleman entered whom I

immediately recognized as the same I had spoken to on the corner

of Thirty-seventh Street and Sixth Avenue. He must have remembered

me also, for he seemed to be slightly embarrassed at seeing me;

but, recovering himself, took up a paper and soon became to all

appearance lost in its contents, though I could feel his handsome

black eye upon me, studying my features, figure, apparel, and

movements with a degree of interest which equally astonished and

disconcerted me. I felt that it would be injudicious on my part to

return his scrutiny, anxious as I was to meet his eye and learn

what emotion had so fired his curiosity in regard to a perfect

stranger; so I rose, and, crossing to an old friend of mine who sat

at a table opposite, commenced a desultory conversation, in the

course of which I took occasion to ask if he knew who the handsome

stranger was. Dick Furbish was a society man, and knew everybody.

“His name is Clavering, and he comes from London. I don’t know

anything more about him, though he is to be seen everywhere except

in private houses. He has not been received into society yet;

waiting for letters of introduction, perhaps.”

“A gentleman?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“One you speak to?”

“Oh, yes; I talk to him, but the conversation is very one-sided.”

I could not help smiling at the grimace with which Dick accompanied

this remark. “Which same goes to prove,” he went on, “that he is

the real thing.”

Laughing outright this time, I left him, and in a few minutes

sauntered from the room.

As I mingled again with the crowd on Broadway, I found myself

wondering immensely over this slight experience. That this unknown

gentleman from London, who went everywhere except into private

houses, could be in any way connected with the affair I had so

at heart, seemed not only improbable but absurd; and for the

first time I felt tempted to doubt the sagacity of Mr. Gryce in

recommending him to my attention.

The next day I repeated the experiment, but with no greater success

than before. Mr. Clavering came into the room, but, seeing me,

did not remain. I began to realize it was no easy matter to make

his acquaintance. To atone for my disappointment, I called on

Mary Leavenworth in the evening. She received me with almost a

sister-like familiarity.

“Ah,” she cried, after introducing me to an elderly lady at her

side,--some connection of the family, I believe, who had come to

remain with her for a while,--“you are here to tell me Hannah is

found; is it not so?”

I shook my head, sorry to disappoint her. “No,” said I; “not yet.”

“But Mr. Gryce was here to-day, and he told me he hoped she would

be heard from within twenty-four hours.”

“Mr. Gryce here!”

“Yes; came to report how matters were progressing,--not that they

seemed to have advanced very far.”

“You could hardly have expected that yet. You must not be so easily

discouraged.”

“But I cannot help it; every day, every hour that passes in this

uncertainty, is like a mountain weight here”; and she laid one

trembling hand upon her bosom. “I would have the whole world at

work. I would leave no stone unturned; I----”

“What would you do?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she cried, her whole manner suddenly changing;

“nothing, perhaps.” Then, before I could reply to this: “Have you

seen Eleanore to-day?”

I answered in the negative.

She did not seem satisfied, but waited till her friend left the

room before saying more. Then, with an earnest look, inquired if I

knew whether Eleanore was well.

“I fear she is not,” I returned.

“It is a great trial to me, Eleanore being away. Not,” she resumed,

noting, perhaps, my incredulous look, “that I would have you think

I wish to disclaim my share in bringing about the present unhappy

state of things. I am willing to acknowledge I was the first to

propose a separation. But it is none the easier to bear on that

account.”

“It is not as hard for you as for her,” said I.

“Not as hard? Why? because she is left comparatively poor, while

I am rich--is that what you would say? Ah,” she went on, without

waiting for my answer, “would I could persuade Eleanore to share my

riches with me! Willingly would I bestow upon her the half I have

received; but I fear she could never be induced to accept so much

as a dollar from me.”

“Under the circumstances it would be better for her not to.”

“Just what I thought; yet it would ease me of a great weight if

she would. This fortune, suddenly thrown into my lap, sits like an

incubus upon me, Mr. Raymond. When the will was read to-day which

makes me possessor of so much wealth, I could not but feel that a

heavy, blinding pall had settled upon me, spotted with blood and

woven of horrors. Ah, how different from the feelings with which

I have been accustomed to anticipate this day! For, Mr. Raymond,”

she went on, with a hurried gasp, “dreadful as it seems now, I have

been reared to look forward to this hour with pride, if not with

actual longing. Money has been made so much of in my small world.

Not that I wish in this evil time of retribution to lay blame upon

any one; least of all upon my uncle; but from the day, twelve years

ago, when for the first time he took us in his arms, and looking

down upon our childish faces, exclaimed: ‘The light-haired one

pleases me best; she shall be my heiress,’ I have been petted,

cajoled, and spoiled; called little princess, and uncle’s darling,

till it is only strange I retain in this prejudiced breast any of

the impulses of generous womanhood; yes, though I was aware from

the first that whim alone had raised this distinction between

myself and cousin; a distinction which superior beauty, worth, or

accomplishments could never have drawn; Eleanore being more than

my equal in all these things.” Pausing, she choked back the sudden

sob that rose in her throat, with an effort at self-control which

was at once touching and admirable. Then, while my eyes stole to

her face, murmured in a low, appealing voice: “If I have faults,

you see there is some slight excuse for them; arrogance, vanity,

and selfishness being considered in the gay young heiress as no

more than so many assertions of a laudable dignity. Ah! ah,” she

bitterly exclaimed “money alone has been the ruin of us all!”

Then, with a falling of her voice: “And now it has come to me with

its heritage of evil, and I--I would give it all for--But this

is weakness! I have no right to afflict you with my griefs. Pray

forget all I have said, Mr. Raymond, or regard my complaints as

the utterances of an unhappy girl loaded down with sorrows and

oppressed by the weight of many perplexities and terrors.”

“But I do not wish to forget,” I replied. “You have spoken some

good words, manifested much noble emotion. Your possessions cannot

but prove a blessing to you if you enter upon them with such

feelings as these.”

But, with a quick gesture, she ejaculated: “Impossible! they cannot

prove a blessing.” Then, as if startled at her own words, bit her

lip and hastily added: “Very great wealth is never a blessing.

“And now,” said she, with a total change of manner, “I wish to

address you on a subject which may strike you as ill-timed, but

which, nevertheless, I must mention, if the purpose I have at heart

is ever to be accomplished. My uncle, as you know, was engaged at

the time of his death in writing a book on Chinese customs and

prejudices. It was a work which he was anxious to see published,

and naturally I desire to carry out his wishes; but, in order to do

so, I find it necessary not only to interest myself in the matter

now,--Mr. Harwell’s services being required, and it being my wish

to dismiss that gentleman as soon as possible--but to find some

one competent to supervise its completion. Now I have heard,--I

have been told,--that you were the one of all others to do this;

and though it is difficult if not improper for me to ask so great

a favor of one who but a week ago was a perfect stranger to me, it

would afford me the keenest pleasure if you would consent to look

over this manuscript and tell me what remains to be done.”

The timidity with which these words were uttered proved her to be

in earnest, and I could not but wonder at the strange coincidence

of this request with my secret wishes; it having been a question

with me for some time how I was to gain free access to this house

without in any way compromising either its inmates or myself. I did

not know then that Mr. Gryce had been the one to recommend me to

her favor in this respect. But, whatever satisfaction I may have

experienced, I felt myself in duty bound to plead my incompetence

for a task so entirely out of the line of my profession, and to

suggest the employment of some one better acquainted with such

matters than myself. But she would not listen to me.

“Mr. Harwell has notes and memoranda in plenty,” she exclaimed,

“and can give you all the information necessary. You will have no

difficulty; indeed, you will not.”

“But cannot Mr. Harwell himself do all that is requisite? He seems

to be a clever and diligent young man.”

But she shook her head. “He thinks he can; but I know uncle never

trusted him with the composition of a single sentence.”

“But perhaps he will not be pleased,--Mr. Harwell, I mean--with the

intrusion of a stranger into his work.”

She opened her eyes with astonishment. “That makes no difference,”

she cried. “Mr. Harwell is in my pay, and has nothing to say about

it. But he will not object. I have already consulted him, and he

expresses himself as satisfied with the arrangement.”

“Very well,” said I; “then I will promise to consider the subject.

I can at any rate look over the manuscript and give you my opinion

of its condition.”

“Oh, thank you,” said she, with the prettiest gesture of

satisfaction. “How kind you are, and what can I ever do to repay

you? But would you like to see Mr. Harwell himself?” and she moved

towards the door; but suddenly paused, whispering, with a short

shudder of remembrance: “He is in the library; do you mind?”

Crushing down the sick qualm that arose at the mention of that

spot, I replied in the negative.

“The papers are all there, and he says he can work better in his

old place than anywhere else; but if you wish, I can call him down.”

But I would not listen to this, and myself led the way to the foot

of the stairs.

“I have sometimes thought I would lock up that room,” she hurriedly

observed; “but something restrains me. I can no more do so than I

can leave this house; a power beyond myself forces me to confront

all its horrors. And yet I suffer continually from terror.

Sometimes, in the darkness of the night--But I will not distress

you. I have already said too much; come,” and with a sudden lift of

the head she mounted the stairs.

Mr. Harwell was seated, when we entered that fatal room, in the one

chair of all others I expected to see unoccupied; and as I beheld

his meagre figure bending where such a little while before his eyes

had encountered the outstretched form of his murdered employer, I

could not but marvel over the unimaginativeness of the man who, in

the face of such memories, could not only appropriate that very

spot for his own use, but pursue his avocations there with so much

calmness and evident precision. But in another moment I discovered

that the disposition of the light in the room made that one seat

the only desirable one for his purpose; and instantly my wonder

changed to admiration at this quiet surrender of personal feeling

to the requirements of the occasion.

He looked up mechanically as we came in, but did not rise, his

countenance wearing the absorbed expression which bespeaks the

preoccupied mind.

“He is utterly oblivious,” Mary whispered; “that is a way of his. I

doubt if he knows who or what it is that has disturbed him.” And,

advancing into the room, she passed across his line of vision,

as if to call attention to herself, and said: “I have brought

Mr. Raymond up-stairs to see you, Mr. Harwell. He has been so

kind as to accede to my wishes in regard to the completion of the

manuscript now before you.”

Slowly Mr. Harwell rose, wiped his pen, and put it away;

manifesting, however, a reluctance in doing so that proved this

interference to be in reality anything but agreeable to him.

Observing this, I did not wait for him to speak, but took up the

pile of manuscript, arranged in one mass on the table, saying:

“This seems to be very clearly written; if you will excuse me,

I will glance over it and thus learn something of its general

character.”

He bowed, uttered a word or so of acquiescence, then, as Mary left

the room, awkwardly reseated himself, and took up his pen.

Instantly the manuscript and all connected with it vanished from my

thoughts; and Eleanore, her situation, and the mystery surrounding

this family, returned upon me with renewed force. Looking the

secretary steadily in the face, I remarked:

“I am very glad of this opportunity of seeing you a moment alone,

Mr. Harwell, if only for the purpose of saying----”

“Anything in regard to the murder?”

“Yes,” I began.

“Then you must pardon me,” he respectfully but firmly replied. “It

is a disagreeable subject which I cannot bear to think of, much

less discuss.”

Disconcerted and, what was more, convinced of the impossibility of

obtaining any information from this man, I abandoned the attempt;

and, taking up the manuscript once more, endeavored to master in

some small degree the nature of its contents. Succeeding beyond

my hopes, I opened a short conversation with him in regard to it,

and finally, coming to the conclusion I could accomplish what Miss

Leavenworth desired, left him and descended again to the reception

room.

When, an hour or so later, I withdrew from the house, it was with

the feeling that one obstacle had been removed from my path. If

I failed in what I had undertaken, it would not be from lack of

opportunity of studying the inmates of this dwelling.