XIV. MR. GRYCE AT HOME
“Nay, but hear me.”
Measure for Measure.
That the guilty person for whom Eleanore Leavenworth stood ready
to sacrifice herself was one for whom she had formerly cherished
affection, I could no longer doubt; love, or the strong sense of
duty growing out of love, being alone sufficient to account for
such determined action. Obnoxious as it was to all my prejudices,
one name alone, that of the commonplace secretary, with his
sudden heats and changeful manners, his odd ways and studied
self-possession, would recur to my mind whenever I asked myself who
this person could be.
Not that, without the light which had been thrown upon the affair
by Eleanore’s strange behavior, I should have selected this man as
one in any way open to suspicion; the peculiarity of his manner at
the inquest not being marked enough to counteract the improbability
of one in his relations to the deceased finding sufficient motive
for a crime so manifestly without favorable results to himself.
But if love had entered as a factor into the affair, what might
not be expected? James Harwell, simple amanuensis to a retired
tea-merchant, was one man; James Harwell, swayed by passion for
a woman beautiful as Eleanore Leavenworth, was another; and in
placing him upon the list of those parties open to suspicion I felt
I was only doing what was warranted by a proper consideration of
probabilities.
But, between casual suspicion and actual proof, what a gulf! To
believe James Harwell capable of guilt, and to find evidence enough
to accuse him of it, were two very different things. I felt myself
instinctively shrink from the task, before I had fully made up my
mind to attempt it; some relenting thought of his unhappy position,
if innocent, forcing itself upon me, and making my very distrust of
him seem personally ungenerous if not absolutely unjust. If I had
liked the man better, I should not have been so ready to look upon
him with doubt.
But Eleanore must be saved at all hazards. Once delivered up to the
blight of suspicion, who could tell what the result might be; the
arrest of her person perhaps,--a thing which, once accomplished,
would cast a shadow over her young life that it would take more
than time to dispel. The accusation of an impecunious secretary
would be less horrible than this. I determined to make an early
call upon Mr. Gryce.
Meanwhile the contrasted pictures of Eleanore standing with her
hand upon the breast of the dead, her face upraised and mirroring
a glory, I could not recall without emotion; and Mary, fleeing a
short half-hour later indignantly from her presence, haunted me
and kept me awake long after midnight. It was like a double vision
of light and darkness that, while contrasting, neither assimilated
nor harmonized. I could not flee from it. Do what I would, the
two pictures followed me, filling my soul with alternate hope and
distrust, till I knew not whether to place my hand with Eleanore
on the breast of the dead, and swear implicit faith in her truth
and purity, or to turn my face like Mary, and fly from what I could
neither comprehend nor reconcile.
Expectant of difficulty, I started next morning upon my search
for Mr. Gryce, with strong determination not to allow myself to
become flurried by disappointment nor discouraged by premature
failure. My business was to save Eleanore Leavenworth; and to do
that, it was necessary for me to preserve, not only my equanimity,
but my self-possession. The worst fear I anticipated was that
matters would reach a crisis before I could acquire the right,
or obtain the opportunity, to interfere. However, the fact of
Mr. Leavenworth’s funeral being announced for that day gave me
some comfort in that direction; my knowledge of Mr. Gryce being
sufficient, as I thought, to warrant me in believing he would wait
till after that ceremony before proceeding to extreme measures.
I do not know that I had any very definite ideas of what a
detective’s home should be; but when I stood before the neat
three-story brick house to which I had been directed, I could not
but acknowledge there was something in the aspect of its half-open
shutters, over closely drawn curtains of spotless purity, highly
suggestive of the character of its inmate.
A pale-looking youth, with vivid locks of red hair hanging straight
down over either ear, answered my rather nervous ring. To my
inquiry as to whether Mr. Gryce was in, he gave a kind of snort
which might have meant no, but which I took to mean yes.
“My name is Raymond, and I wish to see him.”
He gave me one glance that took in every detail of my person and
apparel, and pointed to a door at the head of the stairs. Not
waiting for further directions, I hastened up, knocked at the
door he had designated, and went in. The broad back of Mr. Gryce,
stooping above a desk that might have come over in the _Mayflower_,
confronted me.
“Well!” he exclaimed; “this is an honor.” And rising, he opened
with a squeak and shut with a bang the door of an enormous stove
that occupied the centre of the room. “Rather chilly day, eh?”
“Yes,” I returned, eyeing him closely to see if he was in a
communicative mood. “But I have had but little time to consider the
state of the weather. My anxiety in regard to this murder----”
“To be sure,” he interrupted, fixing his eyes upon the poker,
though not with any hostile intention, I am sure. “A puzzling piece
of business enough. But perhaps it is an open book to you. I see
you have something to communicate.”
“I have, though I doubt if it is of the nature you expect. Mr.
Gryce, since I saw you last, my convictions upon a certain point
have been strengthened into an absolute belief. The object of your
suspicions is an innocent woman.”
If I had expected him to betray any surprise at this, I was
destined to be disappointed. “That is a very pleasing belief,” he
observed. “I honor you for entertaining it, Mr. Raymond.”
I suppressed a movement of anger. “So thoroughly is it mine,” I
went on, in the determination to arouse him in some way, “that I
have come here to-day to ask you in the name of justice and common
humanity to suspend action in that direction till we can convince
ourselves there is no truer scent to go upon.”
But there was no more show of curiosity than before. “Indeed!” he
cried; “that is a singular request to come from a man like you.”
I was not to be discomposed, “Mr. Gryce,” I went on, “a woman’s
name, once tarnished, remains so forever. Eleanore Leavenworth
has too many noble traits to be thoughtlessly dealt with in so
momentous a crisis. If you will give me your attention, I promise
you shall not regret it.”
He smiled, and allowed his eyes to roam from the poker to the arm
of my chair. “Very well,” he remarked; “I hear you; say on.”
I drew my notes from my pocketbook, and laid them on the table.
“What! memoranda?” he exclaimed. “Unsafe, very; never put your
plans on paper.”
Taking no heed of the interruption, I went on.
“Mr. Gryce, I have had fuller opportunities than yourself for
studying this woman. I have seen her in a position which no guilty
person could occupy, and I am assured, beyond all doubt, that not
only her hands, but her heart, are pure from this crime. She may
have some knowledge of its secrets; that I do not presume to deny.
The key seen in her possession would refute me if I did. But what
if she has? You can never wish to see so lovely a being brought to
shame for withholding information which she evidently considers
it her duty to keep back, when by a little patient finesse we may
succeed in our purposes without it.”
“But,” interposed the detective, “say this is so; how are we to
arrive at the knowledge we want without following out the only clue
which has yet been given us?”
“You will never reach it by following out any clue given you by
Eleanore Leavenworth.”
His eyebrows lifted expressively, but he said nothing.
“Miss Eleanore Leavenworth has been used by some one acquainted
with her firmness, generosity, and perhaps love. Let us discover
who possesses sufficient power over her to control her to this
extent, and we find the man we seek.”
“Humph!” came from Mr. Gryce’s compressed lips, and no more.
Determined that he should speak, I waited.
“You have, then, some one in your mind”; he remarked at last,
almost flippantly.
“I mention no names,” I returned. “All I want is further time.”
“You are, then, intending to make a personal business of this
matter?”
“I am.”
He gave a long, low whistle. “May I ask,” he inquired at length,
“whether you expect to work entirely by yourself; or whether, if a
suitable coadjutor were provided, you would disdain his assistance
and slight his advice?”
“I desire nothing more than to have you for my colleague.”
The smile upon his face deepened ironically. “You must feel very
sure of yourself!” said he.
“I am very sure of Miss Leavenworth.”
The reply seemed to please him. “Let us hear what you propose
doing.”
I did not immediately answer. The truth was, I had formed no plans.
“It seems to me,” he continued, “that you have undertaken a rather
difficult task for an amateur. Better leave it to me, Mr. Raymond;
better leave it to me.”
“I am sure,” I returned, “that nothing would please me better----”
“Not,” he interrupted, “but that a word from you now and then would
be welcome. I am not an egotist. I am open to suggestions: as, for
instance, now, if you could conveniently inform me of all you have
yourself seen and heard in regard to this matter, I should be most
happy to listen.”
Relieved to find him so amenable, I asked myself what I really had
to tell; not so much that he would consider vital. However, it
would not do to hesitate now.
“Mr. Gryce,” said I, “I have but few facts to add to those already
known to you. Indeed, I am more moved by convictions than facts.
That Eleanore Leavenworth never committed this crime, I am assured.
That, on the other hand, the real perpetrator is known to her, I
am equally certain; and that for some reason she considers it a
sacred duty to shield the assassin, even at the risk of her own
safety, follows as a matter of course from the facts. Now, with
such data, it cannot be a very difficult task for you or me to work
out satisfactorily, to our own minds at least, who this person can
be. A little more knowledge of the family--”
“You know nothing of its secret history, then?”
“Nothing.”
“Do not even know whether either of these girls is engaged to be
married?”
“I do not,” I returned, wincing at this direct expression of my own
thoughts.
He remained a moment silent. “Mr. Raymond,” he cried at last, “have
you any idea of the disadvantages under which a detective labors?
For instance, now, you imagine I can insinuate myself into all
sorts of society, perhaps; but you are mistaken. Strange as it may
appear, I have never by any possibility of means succeeded with one
class of persons at all. I cannot pass myself off for a gentleman.
Tailors and barbers are no good; I am always found out.”
He looked so dejected I could scarcely forbear smiling,
notwithstanding my secret care and anxiety.
“I have even employed a French valet, who understood dancing
and whiskers; but it was all of no avail. The first gentleman I
approached stared at me,--real gentleman, I mean, none of your
American dandies,--and I had no stare to return; I had forgotten
that emergency in my confabs with Pierre Catnille Marie Make-face.”
Amused, but a little discomposed by this sudden turn in the
conversation, I looked at Mr. Gryce inquiringly.
“Now you, I dare say, have no trouble? Was born one, perhaps. Can
even ask a lady to dance without blushing, eh?”
“Well,--” I commenced.
“Just so,” he replied; “now, I can’t. I can enter a house, bow to
the mistress of it, let her be as elegant as she will, so long as I
have a writ of arrest in my hand, or some such professional matter
upon my mind; but when it comes to visiting in kid gloves, raising
a glass of champagne in response to a toast--and such like, I am
absolutely good for nothing.” And he plunged his two hands into his
hair, and looked dolefully at the head of the cane I carried in my
hand. “But it is much the same with the whole of us. When we are in
want of a gentleman to work for us, we have to go outside of our
profession.”
I began to see what he was driving at; but held my peace, vaguely
conscious I was likely to prove a necessity to him, after all.
“Mr. Raymond,” he now said, almost abruptly; “do you know a
gentleman by the name of Clavering residing at present at the
Hoffman House?”
“Not that I am aware of.”
“He is very polished in his manners; would you mind making his
acquaintance?”
I followed Mr. Gryce’s example, and stared at the chimney-piece.
“I cannot answer till I understand matters a little better,” I
returned at length.
“There is not much to understand. Mr. Henry Clavering, a gentleman
and a man of the world, resides at the Hoffman House. He is a
stranger in town, without being strange; drives, walks, smokes, but
never visits; looks at the ladies, but is never seen to bow to one.
In short, a person whom it is desirable to know; but whom, being a
proud man, with something of the old-world prejudice against Yankee
freedom and forwardness, I could no more approach in the way of
acquaintance than I could the Emperor of Austria.”
“And you wish----”
“He would make a very agreeable companion for a rising young lawyer
of good family and undoubted respectability. I have no doubt, if
you undertook to cultivate him, you would find him well worth the
trouble.”
“But----”
“Might even desire to take him into familiar relations; to confide
in him, and----”
“Mr. Gryce,” I hastily interrupted; “I can never consent to plot
for any man’s friendship for the sake of betraying him to the
police.”
“It is essential to your plans to make the acquaintance of Mr.
Clavering,” he dryly replied.
“Oh!” I returned, a light breaking in upon me; “he has some
connection with this case, then?”
Mr. Gryce smoothed his coat-sleeve thoughtfully. “I don’t know as
it will be necessary for you to betray him. You wouldn’t object to
being introduced to him?”
“No.”
“Nor, if you found him pleasant, to converse with him?”
“No.”
“Not even if, in the course of conversation, you should come across
something that might serve as a clue in your efforts to save
Eleanore Leavenworth?”
The no I uttered this time was less assured; the part of a spy was
the very last one I desired to play in the coming drama.
“Well, then,” he went on, ignoring the doubtful tone in which my
assent had been given, “I advise you to immediately take up your
quarters at the Hoffman House.”
“I doubt if that would do,” I said. “If I am not mistaken, I have
already seen this gentleman, and spoken to him.”
“Where?”
“Describe him first.”
“Well, he is tall, finely formed, of very upright carriage, with a
handsome dark face, brown hair streaked with gray, a piercing eye,
and a smooth address. A very imposing personage, I assure you.”
“I have reason to think I have seen him,” I returned; and in a few
words told him when and where.
“Humph!” said he at the conclusion; “he is evidently as much
interested in you as we are in him.
“How’s that? I think I see,” he added, after a moment’s thought.
“Pity you spoke to him; may have created an unfavorable impression;
and everything depends upon your meeting without any distrust.”
He rose and paced the floor.
“Well, we must move slowly, that is all. Give him a chance to
see you in other and better lights. Drop into the Hoffman House
reading-room. Talk with the best men you meet while there; but not
too much, or too indiscriminately. Mr. Clavering is fastidious,
and will not feel honored by the attentions of one who is
hail-fellow-well-met with everybody. Show yourself for what you
are, and leave all advances to him; he’ll make them.”
“Supposing we are under a mistake, and the man I met on the corner
of Thirty-seventh Street was not Mr. Clavering?”
“I should be greatly surprised, that’s all.”
Not knowing what further objection to make, I remained silent.
“And this head of mine would have to put on its thinking-cap,” he
pursued jovially.
“Mr. Gryce,” I now said, anxious to show that all this talk about
an unknown party had not served to put my own plans from my mind,
“there is one person of whom we have not spoken.”
“No?” he exclaimed softly, wheeling around until his broad back
confronted me. “And who may that be?”
“Why, who but Mr.--” I could get no further. What right had I to
mention any man’s name in this connection, without possessing
sufficient evidence against him to make such mention justifiable?
“I beg your pardon,” said I; “but I think I will hold to my first
impulse, and speak no names.”
“Harwell?” he ejaculated easily.
The quick blush rising to my face gave an involuntary assent.
“I see no reason why we shouldn’t speak of him,” he went on; “that
is, if there is anything to be gained by it.”
“His testimony at the inquest was honest, you think?”
“It has not been disproved.”
“He is a peculiar man.”
“And so am I.”
I felt myself slightly nonplussed; and, conscious of appearing at a
disadvantage, lifted my hat from the table and prepared to take my
leave; but, suddenly thinking of Hannah, turned and asked if there
was any news of her.
He seemed to debate with himself, hesitating so long that I began
to doubt if this man intended to confide in me, after all, when
suddenly he brought his two hands down before him and exclaimed
vehemently:
“The evil one himself is in this business! If the earth had opened
and swallowed up this girl, she couldn’t have more effectually
disappeared.”
I experienced a sinking of the heart. Eleanore had said: “Hannah
can do nothing for me.” Could it be that the girl was indeed gone,
and forever?
“I have innumerable agents at work, to say nothing of the general
public; and yet not so much as a whisper has come to me in regard
to her whereabouts or situation. I am only afraid we shall find her
floating in the river some fine morning, without a confession in
her pocket.”
“Everything hangs upon that girl’s testimony,” I remarked.
He gave a short grunt. “What does Miss Leavenworth say about it?”
“That the girl cannot help her.”
I thought he looked a trifle surprised at this, but he covered it
with a nod and an exclamation. “She must be found for all that,”
said he, “and shall, if I have to send out Q.”
“Q?”
“An agent of mine who is a living interrogation point; so we call
him _Q_, which is short for query.” Then, as I turned again to go:
“When the contents of the will are made known, come to me.”
The will! I had forgotten the will.
XV. 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.
XVI. THE WILL OF A MILLIONAIRE
“Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie,
Which we ascribe to Heaven.”
All’s Well that Ends Well.
The next morning’s _Tribune_ contained a synopsis of Mr.
Leavenworth’s will. Its provisions were a surprise to me; for,
while the bulk of his immense estate was, according to the general
understanding, bequeathed to his niece, Mary, it appeared by a
codicil, attached to his will some five years before, that Eleanore
was not entirely forgotten, she having been made the recipient of
a legacy which, if not large, was at least sufficient to support
her in comfort. After listening to the various comments of my
associates on the subject, I proceeded to the house of Mr. Gryce,
in obedience to his request to call upon him as soon as possible
after the publication of the will.
“Good-morning,” he remarked as I entered, but whether addressing
me or the frowning top of the desk before which he was sitting it
would be difficult to say. “Won’t you sit?” nodding with a curious
back movement of his head towards a chair in his rear.
I drew up the chair to his side. “I am curious to know,” I
remarked, “what you have to say about this will, and its probable
effect upon the matters we have in hand.”
“What is your own idea in regard to it?”
“Well, I think upon the whole it will make but little difference
in public opinion. Those who thought Eleanore guilty before will
feel that they possess now greater cause than ever to doubt her
innocence; while those who have hitherto hesitated to suspect her
will not consider that the comparatively small amount bequeathed
her would constitute an adequate motive for so great a crime.”
“You have heard men talk; what seems to be the general opinion
among those you converse with?”
“That the motive of the tragedy will be found in the partiality
shown in so singular a will, though how, they do not profess to
know.”
Mr. Gryce suddenly became interested in one of the small drawers
before him.
“And all this has not set you thinking?” said he.
“Thinking,” returned I. “I don’t know what you mean. I am sure I
have done nothing but think for the last three days. I----”
“Of course--of course,” he cried. “I didn’t mean to say anything
disagreeable. And so you have seen Mr. Clavering?”
“Just seen him; no more.”
“And are you going to assist Mr. Harwell in finishing Mr.
Leavenworth’s book?”
“How did you learn that?”
He only smiled.
“Yes,” said I; “Miss Leavenworth has requested me to do her that
little favor.”
“She is a queenly creature!” he exclaimed in a burst of enthusiasm.
Then, with an instant return to his business-like tone: “You are
going to have opportunities, Mr. Raymond. Now there are two things
I want you to find out; first, what is the connection between these
ladies and Mr. Clavering----”
“There is a connection, then?”
“Undoubtedly. And secondly, what is the cause of the unfriendly
feeling which evidently exists between the cousins.”
I drew back and pondered the position offered me. A spy in a fair
woman’s house! How could I reconcile it with my natural instincts
as a gentleman?
“Cannot you find some one better adapted to learn these secrets
for you?” I asked at length. “The part of a spy is anything but
agreeable to my feelings, I assure you.”
Mr. Gryce’s brows fell.
“I will assist Mr. Harwell in his efforts to arrange Mr.
Leavenworth’s manuscript for the press,” I said; “I will give
Mr. Clavering an opportunity to form my acquaintance; and I will
listen, if Miss Leavenworth chooses to make me her confidant in
any way. But any hearkening at doors, surprises, unworthy feints
or ungentlemanly subterfuges, I herewith disclaim as outside of
my province; my task being to find out what I can in an open way,
and yours to search into the nooks and corners of this wretched
business.”
“In other words, you are to play the hound, and I the mole; just
so, I know what belongs to a gentleman.”
“And now,” said I, “what news of Hannah?”
He shook both hands high in the air. “None.”
I cannot say I was greatly surprised, that evening, when, upon
descending from an hour’s labor with Mr. Harwell, I encountered
Miss Leavenworth standing at the foot of the stairs. There had been
something in her bearing, the night before, which prepared me for
another interview this evening, though her manner of commencing
it was a surprise. “Mr. Raymond,” said she, with an air of marked
embarrassment, “I want to ask you a question. I believe you to
be a good man, and I know you will answer me conscientiously. As
a brother would,” she added, lifting her eyes for a moment to
my face. “I know it will sound strange; but remember, I have no
adviser but you, and I must ask some one. Mr. Raymond, do you think
a person could do something that was very wrong, and yet grow to be
thoroughly good afterwards?”
“Certainly,” I replied; “if he were truly sorry for his fault.”
“But say it was more than a fault; say it was an actual harm; would
not the memory of that one evil hour cast a lasting shadow over
one’s life?”
“That depends upon the nature of the harm and its effect upon
others. If one had irreparably injured a fellow-being, it would
be hard for a person of sensitive nature to live a happy life
afterwards; though the fact of not living a happy life ought to be
no reason why one should not live a good life.”
“But to live a good life would it be necessary to reveal the evil
you had done? Cannot one go on and do right without confessing to
the world a past wrong?”
“Yes, unless by its confession he can in some way make reparation.”
My answer seemed to trouble her. Drawing back, she stood for one
moment in a thoughtful attitude before me, her beauty shining with
almost a statuesque splendor in the glow of the porcelain-shaded
lamp at her side. Nor, though she presently roused herself, leading
the way into the drawing-room with a gesture that was allurement
itself, did she recur to this topic again; but rather seemed to
strive, in the conversation that followed, to make me forget what
had already passed between us. That she did not succeed, was owing
to my intense and unfailing interest in her cousin.
As I descended the stoop, I saw Thomas, the butler, leaning
over the area gate. Immediately I was seized with an impulse to
interrogate him in regard to a matter which had more or less
interested me ever since the inquest; and that was, who was the Mr.
Robbins who had called upon Eleanore the night of the murder? But
Thomas was decidedly uncommunicative. He remembered such a person
called, but could not describe his looks any further than to say
that he was not a small man.
I did not press the matter.
XVII. 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.
XVIII. ON THE STAIRS
“You cannot _say_ I did it.”
Macbeth.
Excited, tremulous, filled with wonder at this unlooked-for
event, I paused for a moment to collect my scattered senses,
when the sound of a low, monotonous voice breaking upon my ear
from the direction of the library, I approached and found Mr.
Harwell reading aloud from his late employer’s manuscript. It
would be difficult for me to describe the effect which this
simple discovery made upon me at this time. There, in that room
of late death, withdrawn from the turmoil of the world, a hermit
in his skeleton-lined cell, this man employed himself in reading
and rereading, with passive interest, the words of the dead,
while above and below, human beings agonized in doubt and shame.
Listening, I heard these words:
“By these means their native rulers will not only lose their
jealous terror of our institutions, but acquire an actual curiosity
in regard to them.”
Opening the door I went in.
“Ah! you are late, sir,” was the greeting with which he rose and
brought forward a chair.
My reply was probably inaudible, for he added, as he passed to his
own seat:
“I am afraid you are not well.”
I roused myself.
“I am not ill.” And, pulling the papers towards me, I began looking
them over. But the words danced before my eyes, and I was obliged
to give up all attempt at work for that night.
“I fear I am unable to assist you this evening, Mr. Harwell. The
fact is, I find it difficult to give proper attention to this
business while the man who by a dastardly assassination has made it
necessary goes unpunished.”
The secretary in his turn pushed the papers aside, as if moved by a
sudden distaste of them, but gave me no answer.
“You told me, when you first came to me with news of this fearful
tragedy, that it was a mystery; but it is one which must be solved,
Mr. Harwell; it is wearing out the lives of too many whom we love
and respect.”
The secretary gave me a look. “Miss Eleanore?” he murmured.
“And Miss Mary,” I went on; “myself, you, and many others.”
“You have manifested much interest in the matter from the
beginning,”--he said, methodically dipping his pen into the ink.
I stared at him in amazement.
“And you,” said I; “do you take no interest in that which involves
not only the safety, but the happiness and honor, of the family in
which you have dwelt so long?”
He looked at me with increased coldness. “I have no wish to discuss
this subject. I believe I have before prayed you to spare me its
introduction.” And he arose.
“But I cannot consider your wishes in this regard,” I persisted.
“If you know any facts, connected with this affair, which have not
yet been made public, it is manifestly your duty to state them. The
position which Miss Eleanore occupies at this time is one which
should arouse the sense of justice in every true breast; and if
you----”
“If I knew anything which would serve to release her from her
unhappy position, Mr. Raymond, I should have spoken long ago.”
I bit my lip, weary of these continual bafflings, and rose also.
“If you have nothing more to say,” he went on, “and feel utterly
disinclined to work, why, I should be glad to excuse myself, as I
have an engagement out.”
“Do not let me keep you,” I said, bitterly. “I can take care of
myself.”
He turned upon me with a short stare, as if this display of feeling
was well nigh incomprehensible to him; and then, with a quiet,
almost compassionate bow left the room. I heard him go up-stairs,
felt the jar when his room door closed, and sat down to enjoy my
solitude. But solitude in that room was unbearable. By the time
Mr. Harwell again descended, I felt I could remain no longer, and,
stepping into the hall, told him that if he had no objection I
would accompany him for a short stroll.
He bowed a stiff assent, and hastened before me down the stairs.
By the time I had closed the library door, he was half-way to the
foot, and I was just remarking to myself upon the unpliability
of his figure and the awkwardness of his carriage, as seen from
my present standpoint, when suddenly I saw him stop, clutch the
banister at his side, and hang there with a startled, deathly
expression upon his half-turned countenance, which fixed me for an
instant where I was in breathless astonishment, and then caused me
to rush down to his side, catch him by the arm, and cry:
“What is it? what is the matter?”
[Illustration: “He pushed me upwards. ‘Go back!’ he
whispered, . . . ‘Go back!’”]
But, thrusting out his hand, he pushed me upwards. “Go back!” he
whispered, in a voice shaking with intensest emotion, “go back.”
And catching me by the arm, he literally pulled me up the stairs.
Arrived at the top, he loosened his grasp, and leaning, quivering
from head to foot, over the banisters, glared below.
“Who is that?” he cried. “Who is that man? What is his name?”
Startled in my turn, I bent beside him, and saw Henry Clavering
come out of the reception room and cross the hall.
“That is Mr. Clavering,” I whispered, with all the self-possession
I could muster; “do you know him?”
Mr. Harwell fell back against the opposite wall. “Clavering,
Clavering,” he murmured with quaking lips; then, suddenly bounding
forward, clutched the railing before him, and fixing me with his
eyes, from which all the stoic calmness had gone down forever in
flame and frenzy, gurgled into my ear: “You want to know who the
assassin of Mr. Leavenworth is, do you? Look there, then: that is
the man, Clavering!” And with a leap, he bounded from my side, and,
swaying like a drunken man, disappeared from my gaze in the hall
above.
My first impulse was to follow him. Rushing up-stairs, I knocked at
the door of his room, but no response came to my summons. I then
called his name in the hall, but without avail; he was determined
not to show himself. Resolved that he should not thus escape me,
I returned to the library, and wrote him a short note, in which I
asked for an explanation of his tremendous accusation, saying I
would be in my rooms the next evening at six, when I should expect
to see him. This done I descended to rejoin Mary.
But the evening was destined to be full of disappointments. She
had retired to her room while I was in the library, and I lost the
interview from which I expected so much. “The woman is slippery
as an eel,” I inwardly commented, pacing the hall in my chagrin.
“Wrapped in mystery, she expects me to feel for her the respect due
to one of frank and open nature.”
I was about to leave the house, when I saw Thomas descending the
stairs with a letter in his hand.
“Miss Leavenworth’s compliments, sir, and she is too fatigued to
remain below this evening.”
I moved aside to read the note he handed me, feeling a little
conscience-stricken as I traced the hurried, trembling handwriting
through the following words:
“You ask more than I can give. Matters must be received as
they are without explanation from me. It is the grief of my
life to deny you; but I have no choice. God forgive us all
and keep us from despair.
“M.”
And below:
“As we cannot meet now without embarrassment, it is better we
should bear our burdens in silence and apart. Mr. Harwell will
visit you. Farewell!”
As I was crossing Thirty-second Street, I heard a quick footstep
behind me, and turning, saw Thomas at my side. “Excuse me, sir,”
said he, “but I have something a little particular to say to
you. When you asked me the other night what sort of a person
the gentleman was who called on Miss Eleanore the evening of
the murder, I didn’t answer you as I should. The fact is, the
detectives had been talking to me about that very thing, and I felt
shy; but, sir, I know you are a friend of the family, and I want
to tell you now that that same gentleman, whoever he was,--Mr.
Robbins, he called himself then,--was at the house again to-night,
sir, and the name he gave me this time to carry to Miss Leavenworth
was Clavering. Yes, sir,” he went on, seeing me start; “and, as I
told Molly, he acts queer for a stranger. When he came the other
night, he hesitated a long time before asking for Miss Eleanore,
and when I wanted his name, took out a card and wrote on it the one
I told you of, sir, with a look on his face a little peculiar for a
caller; besides----”
“Well?”
“Mr. Raymond,” the butler went on, in a low, excited voice, edging
up very closely to me in the darkness. “There is something I have
never told any living being but Molly, sir, which may be of use to
those as wishes to find out who committed this murder.”
“A fact or a suspicion?” I inquired.
“A fact, sir; which I beg your pardon for troubling you with at
this time; but Molly will give me no rest unless I speak of it
to you or Mr. Gryce; her feelings being so worked up on Hannah’s
account, whom we all know is innocent, though folks do dare to say
as how she must be guilty just because she is not to be found the
minute they want her.”
“But this fact?” I urged.
“Well, the fact is this. You see--I would tell Mr. Gryce,” he
resumed, unconscious of my anxiety, “but I have my fears of
detectives, sir; they catch you up so quick at times, and seem to
think you know so much more than you really do.”
“But this fact,” I again broke in.
“O yes, sir; the fact is, that that night, the one of the murder
you know, I saw Mr. Clavering, Robbins, or whatever his name is,
enter the house, but neither I nor any one else saw him go out of
it; nor do I know that he _did_.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, sir, what I mean is this. When I came down from Miss
Eleanore and told Mr. Robbins, as he called himself at that time,
that my mistress was ill and unable to see him (the word she gave
me, sir, to deliver) Mr. Robbins, instead of bowing and leaving the
house like a gentleman, stepped into the reception room and sat
down. He may have felt sick, he looked pale enough; at any rate,
he asked me for a glass of water. Not knowing any reason then for
suspicionating any one’s actions, I immediately went down to the
kitchen for it, leaving him there in the reception room alone.
But before I could get it, I heard the front door close. ‘What’s
that?’ said Molly, who was helping me, sir. ‘I don’t know,’ said
I, ‘unless it’s the gentleman has got tired of waiting and gone.’
‘If he’s gone, he won’t want the water,’ she said. So down I set
the pitcher, and up-stairs I come; and sure enough he was gone, or
so I thought then. But who knows, sir, if he was not in that room
or the drawing-room, which was dark that night, all the time I was
a-shutting up of the house?”
I made no reply to this; I was more startled than I cared to reveal.
“You see, sir, I wouldn’t speak of such a thing about any person
that comes to see the young ladies; but we all know some one who
was in the house that night murdered my master, and as it was not
Hannah----”
“You say that Miss Eleanore refused to see him,” I interrupted, in
the hope that the simple suggestion would be enough to elicitate
further details of his interview with Eleanore.
“Yes, sir. When she first looked at the card, she showed a little
hesitation; but in a moment she grew very flushed in the face, and
bade me say what I told you. I should never have thought of it
again if I had not seen him come blazoning and bold into the house
this evening, with a new name on his tongue. Indeed, and I do not
like to think any evil of him now; but Molly would have it I should
speak to you, sir, and ease my mind,--and that is all, sir.”
When I arrived home that night, I entered into my memorandum-book a
new list of suspicious circumstances, but this time they were under
the caption “C” instead of “E.”
XIX. IN MY OFFICE
“Something between an hindrance and a help.”
Wordsworth.
The next day as, with nerves unstrung and an exhausted brain, I
entered my office, I was greeted by the announcement:
“A gentleman, sir, in your private room--been waiting some time,
very impatient.”
Weary, in no mood to hold consultation with clients new or old, I
advanced with anything but an eager step towards my room, when,
upon opening the door, I saw--Mr. Clavering.
Too much astounded for the moment to speak, I bowed to him
silently, whereupon he approached me with the air and dignity
of a highly bred gentleman, and presented his card, on which I
saw written, in free and handsome characters, his whole name,
Henry Ritchie Clavering. After this introduction of himself, he
apologized for making so unceremonious a call, saying, in excuse,
that he was a stranger in town; that his business was one of great
urgency; that he had casually heard honorable mention of me as a
lawyer and a gentleman, and so had ventured to seek this interview
on behalf of a friend who was so unfortunately situated as to
require the opinion and advice of a lawyer upon a question which
not only involved an extraordinary state of facts, but was of a
nature peculiarly embarrassing to him, owing to his ignorance of
American laws, and the legal bearing of these facts upon the same.
Having thus secured my attention, and awakened my curiosity, he
asked me if I would permit him to relate his story. Recovering in a
measure from my astonishment, and subduing the extreme repulsion,
almost horror, I felt for the man, I signified my assent; at which
he drew from his pocket a memorandum-book from which he read in
substance as follows:
“An Englishman travelling in this country meets, at a fashionable
watering-place, an American girl, with whom he falls deeply in
love, and whom, after a few days, he desires to marry. Knowing his
position to be good, his fortune ample, and his intentions highly
honorable, he offers her his hand, and is accepted. But a decided
opposition arising in the family to the match, he is compelled to
disguise his sentiments, though the engagement remained unbroken.
While matters were in this uncertain condition, he received advices
from England demanding his instant return, and, alarmed at the
prospect of a protracted absence from the object of his affections,
he writes to the lady, informing her of the circumstances, and
proposing a secret marriage. She consents with stipulations; the
first of which is, that he should leave her instantly upon the
conclusion of the ceremony, and the second, that he should intrust
the public declaration of the marriage to her. It was not precisely
what he wished, but anything which served to make her his own was
acceptable at such a crisis. He readily enters into the plans
proposed. Meeting the lady at a parsonage, some twenty miles from
the watering-place at which she was staying, he stands up with
her before a Methodist preacher, and the ceremony of marriage is
performed. There were two witnesses, a hired man of the minister,
called in for the purpose, and a lady friend who came with the
bride; but there was no license, and the bride had not completed
her twenty-first year. Now, was that marriage legal? If the lady,
wedded in good faith upon that day by my friend, chooses to deny
that she is his lawful wife, can he hold her to a compact entered
into in so informal a manner? In short, Mr. Raymond, is my friend
the lawful husband of that girl or not?”
While listening to this story, I found myself yielding to feelings
greatly in contrast to those with which I greeted the relator but a
moment before. I became so interested in his “friend’s” case as to
quite forget, for the time being, that I had ever seen or heard of
Henry Clavering; and after learning that the marriage ceremony took
place in the State of New York, I replied to him, as near as I can
remember, in the following words:
“In this State, and I believe it to be American law, marriage is a
civil contract, requiring neither license, priest, ceremony, nor
certificate--and in some cases witnesses are not even necessary to
give it validity. Of old, the modes of getting a wife were the same
as those of acquiring any other species of property, and they are
not materially changed at the present time. It is enough that the
man and woman say to each other, ‘From this time we are married,’
or, ‘You are now my wife,’ or, ‘my husband,’ as the case may be.
The mutual consent is all that is necessary. In fact, you may
contract marriage as you contract to lend a sum of money, or to buy
the merest trifle.”
“Then your opinion is----”
“That upon your statement, your friend is the lawful husband of the
lady in question; presuming, of course, that no legal disabilities
of either party existed to prevent such a union. As to the young
lady’s age, I will merely say that any fourteen-year-old girl can
be a party to a marriage contract.”
Mr. Clavering bowed, his countenance assuming a look of great
satisfaction. “I am very glad to hear this,” said he; “my friend’s
happiness is entirely involved in the establishment of his
marriage.”
He appeared so relieved, my curiosity was yet further aroused. I
therefore said: “I have given you my opinion as to the legality
of this marriage; but it may be quite another thing to prove it,
should the same be contested.”
He started, cast me an inquiring look, and murmured:
“True.”
“Allow me to ask you a few questions. Was the lady married under
her own name?”
“She was.”
“The gentleman?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did the lady receive a certificate?”
“She did.”
“Properly signed by the minister and witnesses?”
He bowed his head in assent.
“Did she keep this?”
“I cannot say; but I presume she did.”
“The witnesses were----”
“A hired man of the minister----”
“Who can be found?”
“Who cannot be found.”
“Dead or disappeared?”
“The minister is dead, the man has disappeared.”
“The minister dead!”
“Three months since.”
“And the marriage took place when?”
“Last July.”
“The other witness, the lady friend, where is she?”
“She can be found; but her action is not to be depended upon.”
“Has the gentleman himself no proofs of this marriage?”
Mr. Clavering shook his head. “He cannot even prove he was in the
town where it took place on that particular day.”
“The marriage certificate was, however, filed with the clerk of the
town?” said I.
“It was not, sir.”
“How was that?”
“I cannot say. I only know that my friend has made inquiry, and
that no such paper is to be found.”
I leaned slowly back and looked at him. “I do not wonder your
friend is concerned in regard to his position, if what you hint is
true, and the lady seems disposed to deny that any such ceremony
ever took place. Still, if he wishes to go to law, the Court may
decide in his favor, though I doubt it. His sworn word is all he
would have to go upon, and if she contradicts his testimony under
oath, why the sympathy of a jury is, as a rule, with the woman.”
Mr. Clavering rose, looked at me with some earnestness, and finally
asked, in a tone which, though somewhat changed, lacked nothing
of its former suavity, if I would be kind enough to give him in
writing that portion of my opinion which directly bore upon the
legality of the marriage; that such a paper would go far towards
satisfying his friend that his case had been properly presented;
as he was aware that no respectable lawyer would put his name to
a legal opinion without first having carefully arrived at his
conclusions by a thorough examination of the law bearing upon the
facts submitted.
This request seeming so reasonable, I unhesitatingly complied with
it, and handed him the opinion. He took it, and, after reading it
carefully over, deliberately copied it into his memorandum-book.
This done, he turned towards me, a strong, though hitherto subdued,
emotion showing itself in his countenance.
“Now, sir,” said he, rising upon me to the full height of his
majestic figure, “I have but one more request to make; and that is,
that you will receive back this opinion into your own possession,
and in the day you think to lead a beautiful woman to the altar,
pause and ask yourself: ‘Am I sure that the hand I clasp with such
impassioned fervor is free? Have I any certainty for knowing that
it has not already been given away, like that of the lady whom, in
this opinion of mine, I have declared to be a wedded wife according
to the laws of my country?’”
“Mr. Clavering!”
But he, with an urbane bow, laid his hand upon the knob of the
door. “I thank you for your courtesy, Mr. Raymond, and I bid you
good-day. I hope you will have no need of consulting that paper
before I see you again.” And with another bow, he passed out.
It was the most vital shock I had yet experienced; and for a moment
I stood paralyzed. Me! me! Why should he mix me up with the affair
unless--but I would not contemplate that possibility. Eleanore
married, and to this man? No, no; anything but that! And yet I
found myself continually turning the supposition over in my mind
until, to escape the torment of my own conjectures, I seized my
hat, and rushed into the street in the hope of finding him again
and extorting from him an explanation of his mysterious conduct.
But by the time I reached the sidewalk, he was nowhere to be seen.
A thousand busy men, with their various cares and purposes, had
pushed themselves between us, and I was obliged to return to my
office with my doubts unsolved.
I think I never experienced a longer day; but it passed, and at
five o’clock I had the satisfaction of inquiring for Mr. Clavering
at the Hoffman House. Judge of my surprise when I learned that his
visit to my office was his last action before taking passage upon
the steamer leaving that day for Liverpool; that he was now on the
high seas, and all chance of another interview with him was at an
end. I could scarcely believe the fact at first; but after a talk
with the cabman who had driven him off to my office and thence to
the steamer, I became convinced. My first feeling was one of shame.
I had been brought face to face with the accused man, had received
an intimation from him that he was not expecting to see me again
for some time, and had weakly gone on attending to my own affairs
and allowed him to escape, like the simple tyro that I was. My
next, the necessity of notifying Mr. Gryce of this man’s departure.
But it was now six o’clock, the hour set apart for my interview
with Mr. Harwell. I could not afford to miss that, so merely
stopping to despatch a line to Mr. Gryce, in which I promised to
visit him that evening, I turned my steps towards home. I found Mr.
Harwell there before me.
XX. “TRUEMAN! TRUEMAN! TRUEMAN!”
“Often do the spirits
Of great events stride on before the events,
And in to-day already walks to-morrow.”
Coleridge.
Instantly a great dread seized me. What revelations might not this
man be going to make! But I subdued the feeling; and, greeting
him with what cordiality I could, settled myself to listen to his
explanations.
But Trueman Harwell had no explanations to give, or so it seemed;
on the contrary, he had come to apologize for the very violent
words he had used the evening before; words which, whatever their
effect upon me, he now felt bound to declare had been used without
sufficient basis in fact to make their utterance of the least
importance.
“But you must have thought you had grounds for so tremendous an
accusation, or your act was that of a madman.”
His brow wrinkled heavily, and his eyes assumed a very gloomy
expression. “It does not follow,” he returned. “Under the pressure
of surprise, I have known men utter convictions no better founded
than mine without running the risk of being called mad.”
“Surprise? Mr. Clavering’s face or form must, then, have been
known to you. The mere fact of seeing a strange gentleman in the
hall would have been insufficient to cause you astonishment, Mr.
Harwell.”
He uneasily fingered the back of the chair before which he stood,
but made no reply.
“Sit down,” I again urged, this time with a touch of command in my
voice. “This is a serious matter, and I intend to deal with it as
it deserves. You once said that if you knew anything which might
serve to exonerate Eleanore Leavenworth from the suspicion under
which she stands, you would be ready to impart it.”
“Pardon me. I said that if I had ever known anything calculated to
release her from her unhappy position, I would have spoken,” he
coldly corrected.
“Do not quibble. You know, and I know, that you are keeping
something back; and I ask you, in her behalf, and in the cause of
justice, to tell me what it is.”
“You are mistaken,” was his dogged reply. “I have reasons, perhaps,
for certain conclusions I may have drawn; but my conscience will
not allow me in cold blood to give utterance to suspicions which
may not only damage the reputation of an honest man, but place
me in the unpleasant position of an accuser without substantial
foundation for my accusations.”
“You occupy that position already,” I retorted, with equal
coldness. “Nothing can make me forget that in my presence you have
denounced Henry Clavering as the murderer of Mr. Leavenworth. You
had better explain yourself, Mr. Harwell.”
He gave me a short look, but moved around and took the chair. “You
have me at a disadvantage,” he said, in a lighter tone. “If you
choose to profit by your position, and press me to disclose the
little I know, I can only regret the necessity under which I lie,
and speak.”
“Then you are deterred by conscientious scruples alone?”
“Yes, and by the meagreness of the facts at my command.”
“I will judge of the facts when I have heard them.”
He raised his eyes to mine, and I was astonished to observe a
strange eagerness in their depths; evidently his convictions were
stronger than his scruples. “Mr. Raymond,” he began, “you are a
lawyer, and undoubtedly a practical man; but you may know what it
is to scent danger before you see it, to feel influences working
in the air over and about you, and yet be in ignorance of what it
is that affects you so powerfully, till chance reveals that an
enemy has been at your side, or a friend passed your window, or the
shadow of death crossed your book as you read, or mingled with your
breath as you slept?”
I shook my head, fascinated by the intensity of his gaze into some
sort of response.
“Then you cannot understand me, or what I have suffered these last
three weeks.” And he drew back with an icy reserve that seemed to
promise but little to my now thoroughly awakened curiosity.
“I beg your pardon,” I hastened to say; “but the fact of my
never having experienced such sensations does not hinder me from
comprehending the emotions of others more affected by spiritual
influences than myself.”
He drew himself slowly forward. “Then you will not ridicule me if I
say that upon the eve of Mr. Leavenworth’s murder I experienced in
a dream all that afterwards occurred; saw him murdered, saw”--and
he clasped his hands before him, in an attitude inexpressibly
convincing, while his voice sank to a horrified whisper, “saw the
face of his murderer!”
I started, looked at him in amazement, a thrill as at a ghostly
presence running through me.
“And was that----” I began.
“My reason for denouncing the man I beheld before me in the hall of
Miss Leavenworth’s house last night? It was.” And, taking out his
handkerchief, he wiped his forehead, on which the perspiration was
standing in large drops.
“You would then intimate that the face you saw in your dream and
the face you saw in the hall last night were the same?”
He gravely nodded his head.
I drew my chair nearer to his. “Tell me your dream,” said I.
“It was the night before Mr. Leavenworth’s murder. I had gone to
bed feeling especially contented with myself and the world at
large; for, though my life is anything but a happy one,” and he
heaved a short sigh, “some pleasant words had been said to me
that day, and I was revelling in the happiness they conferred,
when suddenly a chill struck my heart, and the darkness which a
moment before had appeared to me as the abode of peace thrilled to
the sound of a supernatural cry, and I heard my name, ‘Trueman,
Trueman, Trueman,’ repeated three times in a voice I did not
recognize, and starting from my pillow beheld at my bedside a
woman. Her face was strange to me,” he solemnly proceeded, “but I
can give you each and every detail of it, as, bending above me, she
stared into my eyes with a growing terror that seemed to implore
help, though her lips were quiet, and only the memory of that cry
echoed in my ears.”
“Describe the face,” I interposed.
“It was a round, fair, lady’s face. Very lovely in contour, but
devoid of coloring; not beautiful, but winning from its childlike
look of trust. The hair, banded upon the low, broad forehead,
was brown; the eyes, which were very far apart, gray; the mouth,
which was its most charming feature, delicate of make and very
expressive. There was a dimple in the chin, but none in the cheeks.
It was a face to be remembered.”
“Go on,” said I.
“Meeting the gaze of those imploring eyes, I started up. Instantly
the face and all vanished, and I became conscious, as we sometimes
do in dreams, of a certain movement in the hall below, and the
next instant the gliding figure of a man of imposing size entered
the library. I remember experiencing a certain thrill at this,
half terror, half curiosity, though I seemed to know, as if by
intuition, what he was going to do. Strange to say, I now seemed to
change my personality, and to be no longer a third party watching
these proceedings, but Mr. Leavenworth himself, sitting at his
library table and feeling his doom crawling upon him without
capacity for speech or power of movement to avert it. Though my
back was towards the man, I could feel his stealthy form traverse
the passage, enter the room beyond, pass to that stand where the
pistol was, try the drawer, find it locked, turn the key, procure
the pistol, weigh it in an accustomed hand, and advance again. I
could feel each footstep he took as though his feet were in truth
upon my heart, and I remember staring at the table before me as if
I expected every moment to see it run with my own blood. I can see
now how the letters I had been writing danced upon the paper before
me, appearing to my eyes to take the phantom shapes of persons and
things long ago forgotten; crowding my last moments with regrets
and dead shames, wild longings, and unspeakable agonies, through
all of which that face, the face of my former dream, mingled, pale,
sweet, and searching, while closer and closer behind me crept that
noiseless foot till I could feel the glaring of the assassin’s
eyes across the narrow threshold separating me from death and hear
the click of his teeth as he set his lips for the final act. Ah!”
and the secretary’s livid face showed the touch of awful horror,
“what words can describe such an experience as that? In one moment,
all the agonies of hell in the heart and brain, the next a blank
through which I seemed to see afar, and as if suddenly removed from
all this, a crouching figure looking at its work with starting eyes
and pallid back-drawn lips; and seeing, recognize no face that I
had ever known, but one so handsome, so remarkable, so unique in
its formation and character, that it would be as easy for me to
mistake the countenance of my father as the look and figure of the
man revealed to me in my dream.”
“And this face?” said I, in a voice I failed to recognize as my own.
“Was that of him whom we saw leave Mary Leavenworth’s presence last
night and go down the hall to the front door.”
XXI. A PREJUDICE
“True, I talk of dreams,
Which are the children of an idle brain
Begot of nothing but vain phantasy.”
Romeo and Juliet.
For one moment I sat a prey to superstitious horror; then, my
natural incredulity asserting itself, I looked up and remarked:
“You say that all this took place the night previous to the actual
occurrence?”
He bowed his head. “For a warning,” he declared.
“But you did not seem to take it as such?”
“No; I am subject to horrible dreams. I thought but little of it in
a superstitious way till I looked next day upon Mr. Leavenworth’s
dead body.”
“I do not wonder you behaved strangely at the inquest.”
“Ah, sir,” he returned, with a slow, sad smile; “no one knows what
I suffered in my endeavors not to tell more than I actually knew,
irrespective of my dream, of this murder and the manner of its
accomplishment.”
“You believe, then, that your dream foreshadowed the manner of the
murder as well as the fact?”
“I do.”
“It is a pity it did not go a little further, then, and tell us
how the assassin escaped from, if not how he entered, a house so
securely fastened.”
His face flushed. “That would have been convenient,” he repeated.
“Also, if I had been informed where Hannah was, and why a stranger
and a gentleman should have stooped to the committal of such a
crime.”
Seeing that he was nettled, I dropped my bantering vein. “Why do
you say a stranger?” I asked; “are you so well acquainted with all
who visit that house as to be able to say who are and who are not
strangers to the family?
“I am well acquainted with the faces of their friends, and Henry
Clavering is not amongst the number; but----”
“Were you ever with Mr. Leavenworth,” I interrupted, “when he has
been away from home; in the country, for instance, or upon his
travels?”
“No.” But the negative came with some constraint.
“Yet I suppose he was in the habit of absenting himself from home?”
“Certainly.”
“Can you tell me where he was last July, he and the ladies?”
“Yes, sir; they went to R----. The famous watering-place, you know.
Ah,” he cried, seeing a change in my face, “do you think he could
have met them there?”
I looked at him for a moment, then, rising in my turn, stood level
with him, and exclaimed:
“You are keeping something back, Mr. Harwell; you have more
knowledge of this man than you have hitherto given me to
understand. What is it?”
He seemed astonished at my penetration, but replied: “I know no
more of the man than I have already informed you; but”--and a
burning flush crossed his face, “if you are determined to pursue
this matter--” and he paused, with an inquiring look.
“I am resolved to find out all I can about Henry Clavering,” was my
decided answer.
“Then,” said he, “I can tell you this much. Henry Clavering wrote
a letter to Mr. Leavenworth a few days before the murder, which
I have some reason to believe produced a marked effect upon the
household.” And, folding his arms, the secretary stood quietly
awaiting my next question.
“How do you know?” I asked.
“I opened it by mistake. I was in the habit of reading Mr.
Leavenworth’s business letters, and this, being from one
unaccustomed to write to him, lacked the mark which usually
distinguished those of a private nature.”
“And you saw the name of Clavering?”
“I did; Henry Ritchie Clavering.”
“Did you read the letter?” I was trembling now.
The secretary did not reply.
“Mr. Harwell,” I reiterated, “this is no time for false delicacy.
Did you read that letter?”
“I did; but hastily, and with an agitated conscience.”
“You can, however, recall its general drift?”
“It was some complaint in regard to the treatment received by him
at the hand of one of Mr. Leavenworth’s nieces. I remember nothing
more.”
“Which niece?”
“There were no names mentioned.”
“But you inferred----”
“No, sir; that is just what I did not do. I forced myself to forget
the whole thing.”
“And yet you say it produced an effect upon the family?”
“I can see now that it did. None of them have ever appeared quite
the same as before.”
“Mr. Harwell,” I gravely continued; “when you were questioned as
to the receipt of any letter by Mr. Leavenworth, which might seem
in any manner to be connected with this tragedy, you denied having
seen any such; how was that?”
“Mr. Raymond, you are a gentleman; have a chivalrous regard for the
ladies; do you think you could have brought yourself (even if in
your secret heart you considered some such result possible, which I
am not ready to say I did) to mention, at such a time as that, the
receipt of a letter complaining of the treatment received from one
of Mr. Leavenworth’s nieces, as a suspicious circumstance worthy to
be taken into account by a coroner’s jury?”
I shook my head. I could not but acknowledge the impossibility.
“What reason had I for thinking that letter was one of importance?
I knew of no Henry Ritchie Clavering.”
“And yet you seemed to think it was. I remember you hesitated
before replying.”
“It is true; but not as I should hesitate now, if the question were
put to me again.”
Silence followed these words, during which I took two or three
turns up and down the room.
“This is all very fanciful,” I remarked, laughing in the vain
endeavor to throw off the superstitious horror his words had
awakened.
He bent his head in assent. “I know it,” said he. “I am practical
myself in broad daylight, and recognize the flimsiness of an
accusation based upon a poor, hardworking secretary’s dream, as
plainly as you do. This is the reason I desired to keep from
speaking at all; but, Mr. Raymond,” and his long, thin hand
fell upon my arm with a nervous intensity which gave me almost
the sensation of an electrical shock, “if the murderer of Mr.
Leavenworth is ever brought to confess his deed, mark my words, he
will prove to be the man of my dream.”
I drew a long breath. For a moment his belief was mine; and a
mingled sensation of relief and exquisite pain swept over me as I
thought of the possibility of Eleanore being exonerated from crime
only to be plunged into fresh humiliation and deeper abysses of
suffering.
“He stalks the streets in freedom now,” the secretary went on, as
if to himself; “even dares to enter the house he has so wofully
desecrated; but justice is justice and, sooner or later, something
will transpire which will prove to you that a premonition so
wonderful as that I received had its significance; that the voice
calling ‘Trueman, Trueman,’ was something more than the empty
utterances of an excited brain; that it was Justice itself, calling
attention to the guilty.”
I looked at him in wonder. Did he know that the officers of justice
were already upon the track of this same Clavering? I judged not
from his look, but felt an inclination to make an effort and see.
“You speak with strange conviction,” I said; “but in all
probability you are doomed to be disappointed. So far as we know,
Mr. Clavering is a respectable man.”
He lifted his hat from the table. “I do not propose to denounce
him; I do not even propose to speak his name again. I am not a
fool, Mr. Raymond. I have spoken thus plainly to you only in
explanation of last night’s most unfortunate betrayal; and while I
trust you will regard what I have told you as confidential, I also
hope you will give me credit for behaving, on the whole, as well
as could be expected under the circumstances.” And he held out his
hand.
“Certainly,” I replied as I took it. Then, with a sudden impulse
to test the accuracy of this story of his, inquired if he had any
means of verifying his statement of having had this dream at the
time spoken of: that is, before the murder and not afterwards.
“No, sir; I know myself that I had it the night previous to that of
Mr. Leavenworth’s death; but I cannot prove the fact.”