第 十七 章 · THE BEGINNING OF GREAT SURPRISES

. THE BEGINNING OF GREAT SURPRISES

“Vous regardez une etoile pour deux motifs, parce qu’elle est

lumineuse et parce qu’elle est impenetrable. Vous avez aupres

de vous un plus doux rayonnement et un pas grand mystere, la femme.”

Les Miserables.

And now followed days in which I seemed to make little or no

progress. Mr. Clavering, disturbed perhaps by my presence, forsook

his usual haunts, thus depriving me of all opportunity of making

his acquaintance in any natural manner, while the evenings spent

at Miss Leavenworth’s were productive of little else than constant

suspense and uneasiness.

The manuscript required less revision than I supposed. But, in the

course of making such few changes as were necessary, I had ample

opportunity of studying the character of Mr. Harwell. I found him

to be neither more nor less than an excellent amanuensis. Stiff,

unbending, and sombre, but true to his duty and reliable in its

performance, I learned to respect him, and even to like him; and

this, too, though I saw the liking was not reciprocated, whatever

the respect may have been. He never spoke of Eleanore Leavenworth

or, indeed, mentioned the family or its trouble in any way; till I

began to feel that all this reticence had a cause deeper than the

nature of the man, and that if he did speak, it would be to some

purpose. This suspicion, of course, kept me restlessly eager in his

presence. I could not forbear giving him sly glances now and then,

to see how he acted when he believed himself unobserved; but he was

ever the same, a passive, diligent, unexcitable worker.

This continual beating against a stone wall, for thus I regarded

it, became at last almost unendurable. Clavering shy, and the

secretary unapproachable--how was I to gain anything? The short

interviews I had with Mary did not help matters. Haughty,

constrained, feverish, pettish, grateful, appealing, everything

at once, and never twice the same, I learned to dread, even while

I coveted, an interview. She appeared to be passing through some

crisis which occasioned her the keenest suffering. I have seen

her, when she thought herself alone, throw up her hands with the

gesture which we use to ward off a coming evil or shut out some

hideous vision. I have likewise beheld her standing with her proud

head abased, her nervous hands drooping, her whole form sinking and

inert, as if the pressure of a weight she could neither upbear nor

cast aside had robbed her even of the show of resistance. But this

was only once. Ordinarily she was at least stately in her trouble.

Even when the softest appeal came into her eyes she stood erect,

and retained her expression of conscious power. Even the night she

met me in the hall, with feverish cheeks and lips trembling with

eagerness, only to turn and fly again without giving utterance to

what she had to say, she comported herself with a fiery dignity

that was well nigh imposing.

That all this meant something, I was sure; and so I kept my

patience alive with the hope that some day she would make a

revelation. Those quivering lips would not always remain closed;

the secret involving Eleanore’s honor and happiness would be

divulged by this restless being, if by no one else. Nor was the

memory of that extraordinary, if not cruel, accusation I had heard

her make enough to destroy this hope--for hope it had grown to

be--so that I found myself insensibly shortening my time with Mr.

Harwell in the library, and extending my _tete-a-tete_ visits with

Mary in the reception room, till the imperturbable secretary was

forced to complain that he was often left for hours without work.

But, as I say, days passed, and a second Monday evening came round

without seeing me any further advanced upon the problem I had set

myself to solve than when I first started upon it two weeks before.

The subject of the murder had not even been broached; nor was

Hannah spoken of, though I observed the papers were not allowed to

languish an instant upon the stoop; mistress and servants betraying

equal interest in their contents. All this was strange to me. It

was as if you saw a group of human beings eating, drinking, and

sleeping upon the sides of a volcano hot with a late eruption and

trembling with the birth of a new one. I longed to break this

silence as we shiver glass: by shouting the name of Eleanore

through those gilded rooms and satin-draped vestibules. But this

Monday evening I was in a calmer mood. I was determined to expect

nothing from my visits to Mary Leavenworth’s house; and entered

it upon the eve in question with an equanimity such as I had not

experienced since the first day I passed under its unhappy portals.

But when, upon nearing the reception room, I saw Mary pacing the

floor with the air of one who is restlessly awaiting something or

somebody, I took a sudden resolution, and, advancing towards her,

said: “Do I see you alone, Miss Leavenworth?”

She paused in her hurried action, blushed and bowed, but, contrary

to her usual custom, did not bid me enter.

“Will it be too great an intrusion on my part, if I venture to come

in?” I asked.

Her glance flashed uneasily to the clock, and she seemed about

to excuse herself, but suddenly yielded, and, drawing up a chair

before the fire, motioned me towards it. Though she endeavored to

appear calm, I vaguely felt I had chanced upon her in one of her

most agitated moods, and that I had only to broach the subject I

had in mind to behold her haughtiness disappear before me like

melting snow. I also felt that I had but few moments in which to do

it. I accordingly plunged immediately into the subject.

“Miss Leavenworth,” said I, “in obtruding upon you to-night, I have

a purpose other than that of giving myself a pleasure. I have come

to make an appeal.”

Instantly I saw that in some way I had started wrong. “An appeal to

make to me?” she asked, breathing coldness from every feature of

her face.

“Yes,” I went on, with passionate recklessness. “Balked in every

other endeavor to learn the truth, I have come to you, whom I

believe to be noble at the core, for that help which seems likely

to fail us in every other direction: for the word which, if it does

not absolutely save your cousin, will at least put us upon the

track of what will.”

“I do not understand what you mean,” she protested, slightly

shrinking.

“Miss Leavenworth,” I pursued, “it is needless for me to tell

you in what position your cousin stands. You, who remember both

the form and drift of the questions put to her at the inquest,

comprehend it all without any explanation from me. But what you may

not know is this, that unless she is speedily relieved from the

suspicion which, justly or not, has attached itself to her name,

the consequences which such suspicion entails must fall upon her,

and----”

“Good God!” she cried; “you do not mean she will be----”

“Subject to arrest? Yes.”

It was a blow. Shame, horror, and anguish were in every line of her

white face. “And all because of that key!” she murmured.

“Key? How did you know anything about a key?”

“Why,” she cried, flushing painfully; “I cannot say; didn’t you

tell me?”

“No,” I returned.

“The papers, then?”

“The papers have never mentioned it.”

She grew more and more agitated. “I thought every one knew. No,

I did not, either,” she avowed, in a sudden burst of shame and

penitence. “I knew it was a secret; but--oh, Mr. Raymond, it was

Eleanore herself who told me.”

“Eleanore?”

“Yes, that last evening she was here; we were together in the

drawing-room.”

“What did she tell?”

“That the key to the library had been seen in her possession.”

I could scarcely conceal my incredulity. Eleanore, conscious of the

suspicion with which her cousin regarded her, inform that cousin

of a fact calculated to add weight to that suspicion? I could not

believe this.

“But you knew it?” Mary went on. “I have revealed nothing I ought

to have kept secret?”

“No,” said I; “and, Miss Leavenworth, it is this thing which makes

your cousin’s position absolutely dangerous. It is a fact that,

left unexplained, must ever link her name with infamy; a bit of

circumstantial evidence no sophistry can smother, and no denial

obliterate. Only her hitherto spotless reputation, and the efforts

of one who, notwithstanding appearances, believes in her innocence,

keeps her so long from the clutch of the officers of justice. That

key, and the silence preserved by her in regard to it, is sinking

her slowly into a pit from which the utmost endeavors of her best

friends will soon be inadequate to extricate her.”

“And you tell me this----”

“That you may have pity on the poor girl, who will not have pity

on herself, and by the explanation of a few circumstances, which

cannot be mysteries to you, assist in bringing her from under the

dreadful shadow that threatens to overwhelm her.”

“And would you insinuate, sir,” she cried, turning upon me with

a look of great anger, “that I know any more than you do of this

matter? that I possess any knowledge which I have not already

made public concerning the dreadful tragedy which has transformed

our home into a desert, our existence into a lasting horror? Has

the blight of suspicion fallen upon me, too; and have you come to

accuse me in my own house----”

“Miss Leavenworth,” I entreated; “calm yourself. I accuse you of

nothing. I only desire you to enlighten me as to your cousin’s

probable motive for this criminating silence. You cannot be

ignorant of it. You are her cousin, almost her sister, have been

at all events her daily companion for years, and must know for

whom or for what she seals her lips, and conceals facts which, if

known, would direct suspicion to the real criminal--that is, if you

really believe what you have hitherto stated, that your cousin is

an innocent woman.”

She not making any answer to this, I rose and confronted her. “Miss

Leavenworth, do you believe your cousin guiltless of this crime, or

not?”

“Guiltless? Eleanore? Oh! my God; if all the world were only as

innocent as she!”

“Then,” said I, “you must likewise believe that if she refrains

from speaking in regard to matters which to ordinary observers

ought to be explained, she does it only from motives of kindness

towards one less guiltless than herself.”

“What? No, no; I do not say that. What made you think of any such

explanation?”

“The action itself. With one of Eleanore’s character, such conduct

as hers admits of no other construction. Either she is mad, or she

is shielding another at the expense of herself.”

Mary’s lip, which had trembled, slowly steadied itself. “And

whom have you settled upon, as the person for whom Eleanore thus

sacrifices herself?”

“Ah,” said I, “there is where I seek assistance from you. With your

knowledge of her history----”

But Mary Leavenworth, sinking haughtily back into her chair,

stopped me with a quiet gesture. “I beg your pardon,” said she;

“but you make a mistake. I know little or nothing of Eleanore’s

personal feelings. The mystery must be solved by some one besides

me.”

I changed my tactics.

“When Eleanore confessed to you that the missing key had been seen

in her possession, did she likewise inform you where she obtained

it, and for what reason she was hiding it?”

“No.”

“Merely told you the fact, without any explanation?”

“Yes.”

“Was not that a strange piece of gratuitous information for her to

give one who, but a few hours before, had accused her to the face

of committing a deadly crime?”

“What do you mean?” she asked, her voice suddenly sinking.

“You will not deny that you were once, not only ready to believe

her guilty, but that you actually charged her with having

perpetrated this crime.”

“Explain yourself!” she cried.

“Miss Leavenworth, do you not remember what you said in that room

up-stairs, when you were alone with your cousin on the morning

of the inquest, just before Mr. Gryce and myself entered your

presence?”

Her eyes did not fall, but they filled with sudden terror.

“You heard?” she whispered.

“I could not help it. I was just outside the door, and----”

“What did you hear?”

I told her.

“And Mr. Gryce?”

“He was at my side.”

It seemed as if her eyes would devour my face. “Yet nothing was

said when you came in?”

“No.”

“You, however, have never forgotten it?”

“How could we, Miss Leavenworth?”

Her head fell forward in her hands, and for one wild moment she

seemed lost in despair. Then she roused, and desperately exclaimed:

“And that is why you come here to-night. With that sentence

written upon your heart, you invade my presence, torture me with

questions----”

“Pardon me,” I broke in; “are my questions such as you, with

reasonable regard for the honor of one with whom you are accustomed

to associate, should hesitate to answer? Do I derogate from my

manhood in asking you how and why you came to make an accusation of

so grave a nature, at a time when all the circumstances of the case

were freshly before you, only to insist fully as strongly upon your

cousin’s innocence when you found there was even more cause for

your imputation than you had supposed?”

She did not seem to hear me. “Oh, my cruel fate!” she murmured.

“Oh, my cruel fate!”

“Miss Leavenworth,” said I, rising, and taking my stand before her;

“although there is a temporary estrangement between you and your

cousin, you cannot wish to seem her enemy. Speak, then; let me at

least know the name of him for whom she thus immolates herself. A

hint from you----”

But rising, with a strange look, to her feet, she interrupted me

with a stern remark: “If you do not know, I cannot inform you; do

not ask me, Mr. Raymond.” And she glanced at the clock for the

second time.

I took another turn.

“Miss Leavenworth, you once asked me if a person who had committed

a wrong ought necessarily to confess it; and I replied no, unless

by the confession reparation could be made. Do you remember?”

Her lips moved, but no words issued from them.

“I begin to think,” I solemnly proceeded, following the lead of her

emotion, “that confession is the only way out of this difficulty:

that only by the words you can utter Eleanore can be saved from the

doom that awaits her. Will you not then show yourself a true woman

by responding to my earnest entreaties?”

I seemed to have touched the right chord; for she trembled, and a

look of wistfulness filled her eyes. “Oh, if I could!” she murmured.

“And why can you not? You will never be happy till you do. Eleanore

persists in silence; but that is no reason why you should emulate

her example. You only make her position more doubtful by it.”

“I know it; but I cannot help myself. Fate has too strong a hold

upon me; I cannot break away.”

“That is not true. Any one can escape from bonds imaginary as

yours.”

“No, no,” she protested; “you do not understand.”

“I understand this: that the path of rectitude is a straight one,

and that he who steps into devious byways is going astray.”

A flicker of light, pathetic beyond description, flashed for a

moment across her face; her throat rose as with one wild sob; her

lips opened; she seemed yielding, when--A sharp ring at the front

door-bell!

“Oh,” she cried, sharply turning, “tell him I cannot see him; tell

him----”

“Miss Leavenworth,” said I, taking her by both hands, “never mind

the door; never mind anything but this. I have asked you a question

which involves the mystery of this whole affair; answer me, then,

for your soul’s sake; tell me, what the unhappy circumstances were

which could induce you--”

But she tore her hands from mine. “The door!” she cried; “it will

open, and--”

Stepping into the hall, I met Thomas coming up the basement stairs.

“Go back,” said I; “I will call you when you are wanted.”

With a bow he disappeared.

“You expect me to answer,” she exclaimed, when I re-entered, “now,

in a moment? I cannot.”

“But----”

“Impossible!” fastening her gaze upon the front door.

“Miss Leavenworth!”

She shuddered.

“I fear the time will never come, if you do not speak now.”

“Impossible,” she reiterated.

Another twang at the bell.

“You hear!” said she.

I went into the hall and called Thomas. “You may open the door

now,” said I, and moved to return to her side.

But, with a gesture of command, she pointed up-stairs. “Leave me!”

and her glance passed on to Thomas, who stopped where he was.

“I will see you again before I go,” said I, and hastened up-stairs.

Thomas opened the door. “Is Miss Leavenworth in?” I heard a rich,

tremulous voice inquire.

“Yes, sir,” came in the butler’s most respectful and measured

accents, and, leaning over the banisters I beheld, to my amazement,

the form of Mr. Clavering enter the front hall and move towards the

reception room.