Chương Chương 12 · ELEANORE.

. ELEANORE.

“Constant you are--

. . . And for secrecy

No lady closer.”

Henry IV.

“No, ’tis slander,

Whose edge is sharper than the sword whose tongue

Outvenoms all the worms of Nile.”

Cymbeline.

The door was opened by Molly. “You will find Miss Eleanore in the

drawing-room, sir,” she said, ushering me in.

Fearing I knew not what, I hurried to the room thus indicated,

feeling as never before the sumptuousness of the magnificent

hall with its antique flooring, carved woods, and bronze

ornamentations:--the mockery of _things_ for the first time

forcing itself upon me. Laying my hand on the drawing-room door,

I listened. All was silent. Slowly pulling it open, I lifted the

heavy satin curtains hanging before me to the floor, and looked

within. What a picture met my eyes!

Sitting in the light of a solitary gas jet, whose faint glimmering

just served to make visible the glancing satin and stainless marble

of the gorgeous apartment, I beheld Eleanore Leavenworth. Pale as

the sculptured image of the Psyche that towered above her from the

mellow dusk of the bow-window near which she sat, beautiful as

it, and almost as immobile, she crouched with rigid hands frozen

in forgotten entreaty before her, apparently insensible to sound,

movement, or touch; a silent figure of despair in presence of an

implacable fate.

Impressed by the scene, I stood with my hand upon the curtain,

hesitating if to advance or retreat, when suddenly a sharp tremble

shook her impassive frame, the rigid hands unlocked, the stony

eyes softened, and, springing to her feet, she uttered a cry of

satisfaction, and advanced towards me.

“Miss Leavenworth!” I exclaimed, starting at the sound of my own

voice.

She paused, and pressed her hands to her face, as if the world

and all she had forgotten had rushed back upon her at this simple

utterance of her name.

“What is it?” I asked.

Her hands fell heavily. “Do you not know? They--they are beginning

to say that I--” she paused, and clutched her throat. “Read!” she

gasped, pointing to a newspaper lying on the floor at her feet.

I stooped and lifted what showed itself at first glance to be the

_Evening Telegram_. It needed but a single look to inform me to

what she referred. There, in startling characters, I beheld:

THE LEAVENWORTH MURDER

LATEST DEVELOPMENTS IN THE MYSTERIOUS CASE

A MEMBER OF THE MURDERED MAN’S OWN FAMILY STRONGLY SUSPECTED

OF THE CRIME

THE MOST BEAUTIFUL WOMAN IN NEW YORK UNDER A CLOUD

PAST HISTORY OF MISS ELEANORE LEAVENWORTH

I was prepared for it; had schooled myself for this very thing, you

might say; and yet I could not help recoiling. Dropping the paper

from my hand, I stood before her, longing and yet dreading to look

into her face.

“What does it mean?” she panted; “what, what does it mean? Is the

world mad?” and her eyes, fixed and glassy, stared into mine as if

she found it impossible to grasp the sense of this outrage.

I shook my head. I could not reply.

“To accuse _me_,” she murmured; “me, me!” striking her breast with

her clenched hand, “who loved the very ground he trod upon; who

would have cast my own body between him and the deadly bullet if

I had only known his danger. Oh!” she cried, “it is not a slander

they utter, but a dagger which they thrust into my heart!”

Overcome by her misery, but determined not to show my compassion

until more thoroughly convinced of her complete innocence, I

replied, after a pause:

“This seems to strike you with great surprise, Miss Leavenworth;

were you not then able to foresee what must follow your determined

reticence upon certain points? Did you know so little of human

nature as to imagine that, situated as you are, you could keep

silence in regard to any matter connected with this crime, without

arousing the antagonism of the crowd, to say nothing of the

suspicions of the police?”

“But--but----”

I hurriedly waved my hand. “When you defied the coroner to find

any suspicious paper in your possession; when”--I forced myself to

speak--“you refused to tell Mr. Gryce how you came in possession of

the key--”

She drew hastily back, a heavy pall seeming to fall over her with

my words.

“Don’t,” she whispered, looking in terror about her. “Don’t!

Sometimes I think the walls have ears, and that the very shadows

listen.”

“Ah,” I returned; “then you hope to keep from the world what is

known to the detectives?”

She did not answer.

“Miss Leavenworth,” I went on, “I am afraid you do not comprehend

your position. Try to look at the case for a moment in the light of

an unprejudiced person; try to see for yourself the necessity of

explaining----”

“But I cannot explain,” she murmured huskily.

“Cannot!”

I do not know whether it was the tone of my voice or the word

itself, but that simple expression seemed to affect her like a blow.

“Oh!” she cried, shrinking back: “you do not, cannot doubt me, too?

I thought that you--” and stopped. “I did not dream that I--” and

stopped again. Suddenly her whole form quivered. “Oh, I see! You

have mistrusted me from the first; the appearances against me have

been too strong”; and she sank inert, lost in the depths of her

shame and humiliation. “Ah, but now I am forsaken!” she murmured.

The appeal went to my heart. Starting forward, I exclaimed: “Miss

Leavenworth, I am but a man; I cannot see you so distressed. Say

that you are innocent, and I will believe you, without regard to

appearances.”

Springing erect, she towered upon me. “Can any one look in my

face and accuse me of guilt?” Then, as I sadly shook my head, she

hurriedly gasped: “You want further proof!” and, quivering with an

extraordinary emotion, she sprang to the door.

“Come, then,” she cried, “come!” her eyes flashing full of resolve

upon me.

Aroused, appalled, moved in spite of myself, I crossed the room to

where she stood; but she was already in the hall. Hastening after

her, filled with a fear I dared not express, I stood at the foot

of the stairs; she was half-way to the top. Following her into the

hall above, I saw her form standing erect and noble at the door of

her uncle’s bedroom.

“Come!” she again cried, but this time in a calm and reverential

tone; and flinging the door open before her, she passed in.

Subduing the wonder which I felt, I slowly followed her. There was

no light in the room of death, but the flame of the gas-burner, at

the far end of the hall, shone weirdly in, and by its glimmering I

beheld her kneeling at the shrouded bed, her head bowed above that

of the murdered man, her hand upon his breast.

“You have said that if I declared my innocence you would believe

me,” she exclaimed, lifting her head as I entered. “See here,” and

laying her cheek against the pallid brow of her dead benefactor,

she kissed the clay-cold lips softly, wildly, agonizedly, then,

leaping to her feet, cried, in a subdued but thrilling tone: “Could

I do that if I were guilty? Would not the breath freeze on my lips,

the blood congeal in my veins, and my heart faint at this contact?

Son of a father loved and reverenced, can you believe me to be a

woman stained with crime when I can do this?” and kneeling again

she cast her arms over and about that inanimate form, looking in

my face at the same time with an expression no mortal touch could

paint, nor tongue describe.

“In olden times,” she went on, “they used to say that a dead body

would bleed if its murderer came in contact with it. What then

would happen here if I, his daughter, his cherished child, loaded

with benefits, enriched with his jewels, warm with his kisses,

should be the thing they accuse me of? Would not the body of the

outraged dead burst its very shroud and repel me?”

I could not answer; in the presence of some scenes the tongue

forgets its functions.

“Oh!” she went on, “if there is a God in heaven who loves justice

and hates a crime, let Him hear me now. If I, by thought or action,

with or without intention, have been the means of bringing this

dear head to this pass; if so much as the shadow of guilt, let

alone the substance, lies upon my heart and across these feeble

woman’s hands, may His wrath speak in righteous retribution to

the world, and here, upon the breast of the dead, let this guilty

forehead fall, never to rise again!”

An awed silence followed this invocation; then a long, long sigh of

utter relief rose tremulously from my breast, and all the feelings

hitherto suppressed in my heart burst their bonds, and leaning

towards her I took her hand in mine.

“You do not, cannot believe me tainted by crime now?” she

whispered, the smile which does not stir the lips, but rather

emanates from the countenance, like the flowering of an inner

peace, breaking softly out on cheek and brow.

“Crime!” The word broke uncontrollably from my lips; “crime!”

“No,” she said calmly, “the man does not live who could accuse me

of crime, _here_.”

For reply, I took her hand, which lay in mine, and placed it on the

breast of the dead.

Softly, slowly, gratefully, she bowed her head.

“Now let the struggle come!” she whispered. “There is one who will

believe in me, however dark appearances may be.”