OPENING THE PAST
"Are you sure of what you tell me?" asked Durgan.
Bertha answered: "Yes; I do not know what she wrote, but I am sure it
was her confession."
"You don't know what she wrote," sharply. "How do you know she
confessed?"
"She told me so."
"Then, even in the face of that, I say she is innocent."
"Innocent--ah, yes, indeed--of any motive, any intent, of any knowledge
at the moment of what she was doing. As innocent as any angel of God. Do
you think I do not know the heart, the life, of my sister? It was
madness, or the possession of a demon. It was madness that came
suddenly, like a fit or stroke. That is why I want to know what I ought
to do. It may come back; any excitement, any association with the former
attack, might bring it back. Oh, consider her case, and tell me what I
ought to do. When you first came I was terrified. You did not see how
much roused she was--she is so shy and quiet--but I saw a new light in
her eyes. Your name is mixed up with the thought of our father in a very
sad way. I was frightened then, but mercifully nothing happened. Then
about the letters--ah, she was vexed about that, and I was so frightened
lest she should be ill again. Then, when the colored boy came, I dared
not let her be alone with him. He brought all the details of that
dreadful time back to us and--ah, I thought, living as we do and keeping
him from her, I had taken every precaution, but--on the morning after
that poor woman was killed, I found, oh, Mr. Durgan, I found her
handkerchief in the wood where she never goes. I found it because the
dogs were scenting something and I followed, and the place was in a
direct line from where poor Eve----" she stopped, shuddering.
"You did not tell Alden this?"
"Oh, no. How could I? And _now_ I hardly believe--at least, I don't
think she could have been out that night. She has been so calm since. I
am sure she cannot have gone out; but I don't know--I don't know what I
ought to believe or do."
The miserable recital of her fears and perplexities came to an end only
when her voice failed her. Durgan had been obliged to listen attentively
to gather her full purport. He knew certainly that Miss Claxton had
been out alone that night, that the tree which she had climbed was, in
fact, in a line between Eve's beautiful deathbed and her own back door.
Nor did anyone know at what hour Eve died. His own assumption that Miss
Claxton had gone out only as far as the tree to leave money for 'Dolphus
had only the slightest foundation, and the mulatto's movements certainly
did not confirm it.
While he reviewed all this with some reasonable horror, he found that
his inward belief of the propriety of all Miss Claxton's actions was not
shaken. His faith was obstinate, and facts had to be made to fit into
it.
"Let us take this terrible secret of yours, and spread it out to the
light quite calmly. You believe your sister did this first dreadful
thing in a fit of sudden madness, from which she seems to have recovered
immediately, as no one else thought her mad. Did you believe this at the
time of the trial?"
"I did not know what to think then."
"After that, while you were abroad together, were you always in terror
like this?"
"Oh, no. It was when we were coming home that my sister had an illness.
It was then that she told me of her confession and where to find it if
it was ever needed. Then, knowing what must have been the matter, and
that it might come again, I was determined to find a lonely house where
I thought I should be the only one in danger. I thought I could take
that risk, as I only risked myself. When we found this house I felt sure
we were safe from intrusion and excitement."
"After you heard of this confession you decided that she was subject to
homicidal mania. When I intruded on your privacy you feared for my life
in your house. You have feared for your own life whenever any cause of
excitement came up, and thought everyone near her was in danger. You
think now that such an attack may have been the cause of Eve's death."
Bertha rose up in the twilight, looking like a trembling, guilty thing,
and slunk away from his cool voice and overbearing manner.
"Do you think I have been so terribly wicked to keep this secret?" she
moaned.
"I think you have been very foolish; but as your folly arose from
tenderness to your sister, I suppose you must be forgiven. You ought to
have told your sister or Alden, or consulted a good doctor. You would
have found then that you were mistaken."
"How could I speak to anyone without causing suspicion? How could I
speak to her when I thought her only chance of continued health lay in
forgetting? Indeed, our own family doctor, who never guessed this, told
us after the trial was over that our only chance of health and leading
useful lives was never to talk or let ourselves think of our trouble.
Before we went abroad he warned us again and again."
"He was wise. And you--have you been obeying him?"
"How can you speak to me like this?"
"It is the medicine you need. Your sister is not mad--has never been
mad. It is now years since your misfortune, and had there been want of
balance or brain disease, it would have shown itself by now. Your sister
is not obstinate or foolish. She is not subject to attacks of emotion,
nor does she lack self-control. There is no sign of any such mania as
could make such a crime possible to a well-principled woman."
"But--oh, but--I read constantly in the papers of people who kill
themselves, or kill others and themselves afterwards. The verdict is
always 'temporary insanity.' I supposed there was such a thing."
"That verdict is usually a cloak for ignorance; but it assumes that had
such people lived they would have shown symptoms of mental disease."
Bertha raised her hands and clasped them above her head. She drew a long
breath, dilating her frame, and looked off where an empty yellow sky
circled a fading landscape. "If I could only believe you--ah--if I could
only believe you, I should ask no greater happiness in heaven."
"Believe me, I am telling you the truth."
"But--but----"
"Sit down again, child," he said.
The term "child," used constantly by the negroes to express
half-humorous or gentle chiding, comes very naturally to Southern lips.
It carried with it little suggestion of the difference of age between
them, but gave a sense of comradeship and good-will which comforted her.
He pulled down a bundle of hay to cushion her seat on the steps.
"Now tell me all the 'buts,'" he said.
"Alas, Mr. Durgan, you cannot scold away our great trouble and my fears.
You cannot smile them into insignificance; but now I am willing to tell
you our story, and when it is told I hope you will see that you, too,
must bury it forever in silence, as I have tried to do."
She began again. "There is another reason, which you don't know yet, why
I must tell you now. It is this 'Dolphus. I will try to be quick. Do
you know all that was put in the newspapers about us--about the trial?"
Durgan made a sign of assent.
"Day after day the court discussed every detail of our family life and
of that awful day--held it up to the whole world with an awful
minuteness and intensity. And Hermie was in prison when she was not in
court--oh, I wonder we lived--and it was all such a farce. They got hold
of everything but the things that mattered. They never came near them.
"They tried to make out that we hated poor mamma because she was not our
own mother, and were jealous lest papa should make a will in her favor.
What rubbish! She was only a pretty doll, and had money of her own. No
one could hate her, and papa never thought of leaving her our money. We
never thought about his will."
"I quite believe that," said Durgan heartily.
"The facts they did not get hold of were about the boy they made such a
mystery of."
"What did they know about the boy?"
"One of the servants let him in, and one of the neighbors saw him come
in. They both took him for a beggar: one thought he was an Italian.
Hermie and I knew more. I gave evidence that he had come in, and that
we had not seen him leave the hall, where he waited, or seen him again
that morning, which was true. But he did not come as a beggar, he did
not go away before the trouble, or vanish after it. He was hidden in the
house all that day, and we arranged his escape at night. In court they
never asked questions that I could not answer about him, for they never
once guessed."
"Guessed what?"
"That we wanted to save him. Their one idea was that we wanted him to be
found. Mr. Alden moved the earth to find him, and he was conducting our
case."
"Who was the boy?"
"May I tell you all I know? The boy was 'Dolphus. He was only a
messenger--a servant of that man who was raising spirits in dark rooms
and making them give messages and----"
"You mean Beardsley?"
"Yes. You said the other night that he was supposed not to be a common
medium. My sister has told me that Mrs. Durgan----"
"Yes, yes, I know."
"I only mean that just a few people went to him, and my father had gone.
Oh, I believe he went often, and he used to tell us things that vexed
Hermie so."
"What things?"
"Oh, about knocks and tables moving. And then dear father began to
receive knocks and messages from our mother. That made Hermie almost
frantic. She remembered mother well, and was offended. She called it
'profanity.' But I am sure my father did not know how it vexed her; he
was always so considerate."
"The boy came from Beardsley?"
"Oh, yes. We knew, and know, nothing about the boy. He asked for my
father, and was told to wait in the kitchen. I saw him there, and so did
the maids. But only Hermie knew about the note--he gave it to her. She
took it upstairs. I saw that she looked very white and angry. She told
me that it was a message from that 'shameful impostor.' Then Hermie
asked me to gather fruit in the garden, and she sent out the maids up
the street. Then, some time after that, she--ah, you know it all!--gave
the alarm. She called in people, and they went and rang for the police.
She was very calm. Everyone knows the whole story after that."
"Yes; but tell me what you did."
"She never allowed me to go into that room where---- She told me my
father was too much disfigured for me to recognize him. Oh, I thought
of nothing but the loss of my father all that day. I went into his
dressing-room and cried there. I took out his dear clothes and laid my
head on them. Hermie sat with me part of the day. The police were in
charge of the house; but no one had thought then of accusing her.
"When it was dark night Hermie came to me and said that there was
something we could do for father's sake, and I must help her. She told
me the boy was in the house and he was innocent, but that if he was
found he might be arrested unjustly. She told me that some great
disgrace might fall on father's name if we did not get him safely away.
Oh, I did not at all understand at the time that she meant that if he
were charged she must confess and be convicted. She chose some clothes
of father's, and then I found that the boy was locked in a very narrow
press in that very room. He put on the clothes, and he and Hermie
knotted some dark thing together and we let him down from the window in
the dark to the garden. He got in the neighbor's garden. She told him
how to get from garden to garden. The police were about, but he got
away. Her mind seemed quite clear. She said that because the boy was
innocent it was our duty to tell nothing that could lead to his capture.
She never told Mr. Alden that she knew who the boy was or who sent him,
that he had brought a letter, or how he escaped."
"But how was she so certain that he was innocent?"
"Ah, that is what I have asked myself night and day for years. What
could make her certain but one thing? She _knew_, and if she knew that
anyone else had committed the deed, why not tell and exonerate the boy?"
"It is most extraordinary," said Durgan. The words were wrung from him
almost without his will.
Bertha took no notice. "Then that night she did not know what she was
saying. She thought she saw all sorts of strange things in the room, and
she talked continually, as if seeing people who were not there. Her
words were quite fantastic and related to nothing I could understand.
But occasionally, when she seemed more coherent, she told me that the
police would come for her, that she would be proved to be guilty, and
begged me in the most touching terms to love her in spite of all. In the
daytime she would get up and go about the house, and she appeared
composed; but I knew her well enough to see that she was still strange.
But she never said a word, except when we were alone, to lead anyone to
suppose that she knew more than she first told. On the third day Mr.
Alden told us that she would be taken to prison. It was an awful shock
to me, but it seemed to rouse her and bring back her faculties. We were
alone together for about an hour. After she had tried to soothe and
comfort me by speaking of duty, of God, and of heaven, she spoke to me
very solemnly, and told me not to grieve for any hardship that befell
her, for she had broken the law and must suffer if she was condemned;
but that, short of doing or saying anything to inculpate anyone else,
she would do all that could be done to convince the world of her
innocence. She said: 'It would be worse for you, and for father's sake,
if I were convicted. I will fight for my liberty unless someone else is
accused; but remember, if anyone else is accused, I shall have to do
what will bring disgrace. Remember that, Bertha. Remember that if any
circumstance should come to your knowledge to tempt you to accuse anyone
else, _that_ will put an end to my hopes.' She said this very solemnly
several times. Then she told me the lines on which Mr. Alden would
probably have the case conducted; and that I must tell nothing but the
truth, but refuse to tell about the boy, or what she had told me. I
never heard anyone speak more clearly and collectedly. She foresaw
almost everything. Our other lawyers and Mr. Alden said the same thing,
that her intellect was almost like that of a trained lawyer in its
prevision of the effect of evidence."
"And did you believe her guilty?"
"I did not know what to think. I was stunned. I dared not think, for it
took all my mind to act the part she assigned to me. But afterwards,
during the long time she was in prison and during the trial, I believed
her innocent. When I thought of her goodness and the perfectly
unforeseen and inexplicable manner of the way poor papa and mamma died,
I could not think Hermione guilty, and I did not. As to the wild things
she said in those nights, I supposed she had been in a fever, and put
down all I could not understand to that.
"Then we formed the plan of going abroad and returning to some place
like this, only not so lonely. We packed all our valuables to be put in
a safe by Mr. Alden. When my sister had packed the family papers and her
own jewelry and locked and sealed the box, she called me to look at it
and gave me the key. When she was ill in Paris she told me of her
confession, and that it lay at the bottom of this box. But she asked me
most solemnly never to open it unless someone else was falsely accused.
She told me that she had no further motive in life than to make up to
me as far as possible for all that I had innocently suffered; but she
begged me not to make life too hard for her by ever speaking of this
matter again. I have never spoken to her again about it."
Bertha's voice had become very melancholy; now she ceased.
"This mulatto calling himself 'Dolphus is certainly the boy?"
"Yes--oh, yes; we both knew him the moment he turned up again."
"Have you never seen him between then and now?"
"No."
"Where has he been?"
"I don't know."
"How did he find you?"
"By bribing the porter in Mr. Alden's office to show him the letters he
carried. He has a right to protection and support from us, for there is
still a great reward offered for him. Mr. Alden offered it."
"And Alden does not guess that this is he?"
"How should he? He has no idea that we would hide him. But now we cannot
conceive what will happen, for altho we are sure that he won't tell
about us as long as he has a chance of escape, Hermie herself says that
if he is condemned he may, in despair and revenge, tell all that he
knows."
"Alden must be told this."
She sprang up with great energy. "He must not know. It is the one thing
Hermie will not let him know if it is possible to help it. Oh, of course
the worst catastrophe may come and overwhelm us; but while we have hope
of escape, Hermie will not let Mr. Alden know that."
It had become dark. Hermione Claxton was looking for her sister, walking
across the meadow and calling in motherly tones.
"Answer me just one thing. Did your sister tell you in plain words that
she committed this deed?"
"No; she did not. But I have tried to make what she said mean anything
else. In any case she would not have said a word she could help; such
words are too terrible. Can you think I have not sought to believe
otherwise?"
She said this in a tense, hurried voice, and standing at the barn door,
called back: "I'm coming, I'm coming, dear."
"She never did it," said Durgan strongly. "She knows who did. She is
shielding someone."
"That is very easy to say," said the girl scornfully. "Of one thing I
am certain; there is no one on earth she would shield at my expense.
Think what we have suffered while she fought through that terrible
trial. She knows no one, loves no one on earth, but me and Mr. Alden."
"I'm coming, I'm coming, darling."
She took up her empty pail and ran.