XXVII. AMY BELDEN
“A merrier man
Within the limits of becoming mirth,
I never spent an hour’s talk withal.”
Love’s Labour’s Lost.
I had a client in R---- by the name of Monell; and it was from him
I had planned to learn the best way of approaching Mrs. Belden.
When, therefore, I was so fortunate as to meet him, almost on my
arrival, driving on the long road behind his famous trotter Alfred,
I regarded the encounter as a most auspicious beginning of a very
doubtful enterprise.
“Well, and how goes the day?” was his exclamation as, the first
greetings passed, we drove rapidly into town.
“Your part in it goes pretty smoothly,” I returned; and thinking I
could never hope to win his attention to my own affairs till I had
satisfied him in regard to his, I told him all I could concerning
the law-suit then pending; a subject so prolific of question
and answer, that we had driven twice round the town before he
remembered he had a letter to post. As it was an important one,
admitting of no delay, we hasted at once to the post-office, where
he went in, leaving me outside to watch the rather meagre stream
of goers and comers who at that time of day make the post-office
of a country town their place of rendezvous. Among these, for some
reason, I especially noted one middle-aged woman; why, I cannot
say; her appearance was anything but remarkable. And yet when she
came out, with two letters in her hand, one in a large and one in
a small envelope, and meeting my eye hastily drew them under her
shawl, I found myself wondering what was in her letters and who she
could be, that the casual glance of a stranger should unconsciously
move her to an action so suspicious. But Mr. Monell’s reappearance
at the same moment, diverted my attention, and in the interest of
the conversation that followed, I soon forgot both the woman and
her letters. For determined that he should have no opportunity to
revert to that endless topic, a law case, I exclaimed with the
first crack of the whip,--“There, I knew there was something I
wanted to ask you. It is this: Are you acquainted with any one is
this town by the name of Belden?”
“There is a widow Belden in town; I don’t know of any other.”
“Is her first name Amy?”
“Yes, Mrs. Amy Belden.”
“That is the one,” said I. “Who is she, what is she, and what is
the extent of your acquaintance with her?”
“Well,” said he, “ I cannot conceive why you should be interested
in such an antiquated piece of commonplace goodness as she is, but
seeing you ask, I have no objection to telling you that she is the
very respectable relict of a deceased cabinetmaker of this town;
that she lives in a little house down the street there, and that
if you have any forlorn old tramp to be lodged over night, or any
destitute family of little ones to be looked after, she is the
one to go to. As to knowing her, I know her as I do a dozen other
members of our church there up over the hill. When I see her I
speak to her, and that is all.”
“A respectable widow, you say. Any family?”
“No; lives alone, has a little income, I believe; must have, to
put the money on the plate she always does; but spends her time in
plain sewing and such deeds of charity, as one with small means
but willing heart can find the opportunity of doing in a town like
this. But why in the name of wonders do you ask?”
“Business,” said I, “business. Mrs. Belden--don’t mention it by
the way--has got mixed up in a case of mine, and I felt it due to
my curiosity if not to my purse, to find out something about her.
And I am not satisfied yet. The fact is I would give something,
Monell, for the opportunity of studying this woman’s character. Now
couldn’t you manage to get me introduced into her house in some way
that would make it possible and proper for me to converse with her
at my leisure? Business would thank you if you could.”
“Well, I don’t know; I suppose it could be done. She used to take
lodgers in the summer when the hotel was full, and might be induced
to give a bed to a friend of mine who is very anxious to be near
the post-office on account of a business telegram he is expecting,
and which when it comes will demand his immediate attention.” And
Mr. Monell gave me a sly wink of his eye, little imagining how near
the mark he had struck.
“You need not say that. Tell her I have a peculiar dislike to
sleeping in a public house, and that you know of no one better
fitted to accommodate me, for the short time I desire to be in
town, than herself.”
“And what will be said of my hospitality in allowing you under
these circumstances to remain in any other house than my own?”
“I don’t know; very hard things, no doubt; but I guess your
hospitality can stand it.”
“Well, if you persist, we will see what can be done.” And driving
up to a neat white cottage of homely, but sufficiently attractive
appearance, he stopped.
“This is her house,” said he, jumping to the ground; “let’s go in
and see what we can do.”
Glancing up at the windows, which were all closed save the two
on the veranda overlooking the street, I thought to myself, “If
she has anybody in hiding here, whose presence in the house she
desires to keep secret, it is folly to hope she will take me in,
however well recommended I may come.” But, yielding to the example
of my friend, I alighted in my turn and followed him up the short,
grass-bordered walk to the front door.
“As she has no servant, she will come to the door herself, so be
ready,” he remarked as he knocked.
I had barely time to observe that the curtains to the window at
my left suddenly dropped, when a hasty step made itself heard
within, and a quick hand drew open the door; and I saw before
me the woman whom I had observed at the post-office, and whose
action with the letters had struck me as peculiar. I recognized
her at first glance, though she was differently dressed, and had
evidently passed through some worry or excitement that had altered
the expression of her countenance, and made her manner what it was
not at that time, strained and a trifle uncertain. But I saw no
reason for thinking she remembered me. On the contrary, the look
she directed towards me had nothing but inquiry in it, and when Mr.
Monell pushed me forward with the remark, “A friend of mine; in
fact my lawyer from New York,” she dropped a hurried old-fashioned
curtsey whose only expression was a manifest desire to appear
sensible of the honor conferred upon her, through the mist of a
certain trouble that confused everything about her.
“We have come to ask a favor, Mrs. Belden; but may we not come in?
“said my client in a round, hearty voice well calculated to recall
a person’s thoughts into their proper channel. “I have heard many
times of your cosy home, and am glad of this opportunity of seeing
it.” And with a blind disregard to the look of surprised resistance
with which she met his advance, he stepped gallantly into the
little room whose cheery red carpet and bright picture-hung walls
showed invitingly through the half-open door at our left.
Finding her premises thus invaded by a sort of French _coup
d’etat_, Mrs. Belden made the best of the situation, and pressing
me to enter also, devoted herself to hospitality. As for Mr.
Monell, he quite blossomed out in his endeavors to make himself
agreeable; so much so, that I shortly found myself laughing at
his sallies, though my heart was full of anxiety lest, after all,
our efforts should fail of the success they certainly merited.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Belden softened more and more, joining in the
conversation with an ease hardly to be expected from one in her
humble circumstances. Indeed, I soon saw she was no common woman.
There was a refinement in her speech and manner, which, combined
with her motherly presence and gentle air, was very pleasing. The
last woman in the world to suspect of any underhanded proceeding,
if she had not shown a peculiar hesitation when Mr. Monell broached
the subject of my entertainment there.
“I don’t know, sir; I would be glad, but,” and she turned a very
scrutinizing look upon me, “the fact is, I have not taken lodgers
of late, and I have got out of the way of the whole thing, and am
afraid I cannot make him comfortable. In short, you will have to
excuse me.”
“But we can’t,” returned Mr. Monell. “What, entice a fellow into
a room like this”--and he cast a hearty admiring glance round the
apartment which, for all its simplicity, both its warm coloring
and general air of cosiness amply merited, “and then turn a cold
shoulder upon him when he humbly entreats the honor of staying a
single night in the enjoyment of its attractions? No, no, Mrs.
Belden; I know you too well for that. Lazarus himself couldn’t
come to your door and be turned away; much less a good-hearted,
clever-headed young gentleman like my friend here.”
“You are very good,” she began, an almost weak love of praise
showing itself for a moment in her eyes; “but I have no room
prepared. I have been house-cleaning, and everything is topsy-turvy
Mrs. Wright, now, over the way----”
“My young friend is going to stop here,” Mr. Mouell broke in, with
frank positiveness. “If I cannot have him at my own house,--and for
certain reasons it is not advisable,--I shall at least have the
satisfaction of knowing he is in the charge of the best housekeeper
in R----.”
“Yes,” I put in, but without too great a show of interest; “I
should be sorry, once introduced here, to be obliged to go
elsewhere.”
The troubled eye wavered away from us to the door.
“I was never called inhospitable,” she commenced; “but everything
in such disorder. What time would you like to come?”
“I was in hopes I might remain now,” I replied; “I have some
letters to write, and ask nothing better than for leave to sit here
and write them.”
At the word letters I saw her hand go to her pocket in a movement
which must have been involuntary, for her countenance did not
change, and she made the quick reply:
“Well, you may. If you can put up with such poor accommodations as
I can offer, it shall not be said I refused you what Mr. Monell is
pleased to call a favor.”
And, complete in her reception as she had been in her resistance,
she gave us a pleasant smile, and, ignoring my thanks, bustled out
with Mr. Monell to the buggy, where she received my bag and what
was, doubtless, more to her taste, the compliments he was now more
than ever ready to bestow upon her.
“I will see that a room is got ready for you in a very short space
of time,” she said, upon re-entering. “Meanwhile, make yourself
at home here; and if you wish to write, why I think you will find
everything for the purpose in these drawers.” And wheeling up a
table to the easy chair in which I sat, she pointed to the small
compartments beneath, with an air of such manifest desire to have
me make use of anything and everything she had, that I found myself
wondering over my position with a sort of startled embarrassment
that was not remote from shame.
“Thank you; I have materials of my own,” said I, and hastened to
open my bag and bring out the writing-case, which I always carried
with me.
“Then I will leave you,” said she; and with a quick bend and a
short, hurried look out of the window, she hastily quitted the room.
I could hear her steps cross the hall, go up two or three stairs,
pause, go up the rest of the flight, pause again, and then pass on.
I was left on the first floor alone.
XXVIII. A WEIRD EXPERIENCE
“Flat burglary as ever was committed.”
Much Ado about Nothing.
The first thing I did was to inspect with greater care the room in
which I sat.
It was a pleasant apartment, as I have already said; square, sunny,
and well furnished. On the floor was a crimson carpet, on the walls
several pictures, at the windows, cheerful curtains of white,
tastefully ornamented with ferns and autumn leaves; in one corner
an old melodeon, and in the centre of the room a table draped
with a bright cloth, on which were various little knick-knacks
which, without being rich or expensive, were both pretty and, to
a certain extent, ornamental. But it was not these things, which
I had seen repeated in many other country homes, that especially
attracted my attention, or drew me forward in the slow march which
I now undertook around the room. It was the something underlying
all these, the evidences which I found, or sought to find, not
only in the general aspect of the room, but in each trivial object
I encountered, of the character, disposition, and history of the
woman with whom I now had to deal. It was for this reason I studied
the daguerreotypes on the mantel-piece, the books on the shelf, and
the music on the rack; for this and the still further purpose of
noting if any indications were to be found of there being in the
house any such person as Hannah.
First then, for the little library, which I was pleased to see
occupied one corner of the room. Composed of a few well-chosen
books, poetical, historical, and narrative, it was of itself
sufficient to account for the evidences of latent culture
observable in Mrs. Belden’s conversation. Taking out a well-worn
copy of _Byron_, I opened it. There were many passages marked,
and replacing the book with a mental comment upon her evident
impressibility to the softer emotions, I turned towards the
melodeon fronting me from the opposite wall. It was closed, but
on its neatly-covered top lay one or two hymn-books, a basket of
russet apples, and a piece of half-completed knitting work.
I took up the latter, but was forced to lay it down again without
a notion for what it was intended. Proceeding, I next stopped
before a window opening upon the small yard that ran about the
house, and separated it from the one adjoining. The scene without
failed to attract me, but the window itself drew my attention,
for, written with a diamond point on one of the panes, I perceived
a row of letters which, as nearly as I could make out, were meant
for some word or words, but which utterly failed in sense or
apparent connection. Passing it by as the work of some school-girl,
I glanced down at the work-basket standing on a table at my side.
It was full of various kinds of work, among which I spied a pair
of stockings, which were much too small, as well as in too great
a state of disrepair, to belong to Mrs. Belden; and drawing them
carefully out, I examined them for any name on them. Do not start
when I say I saw the letter H plainly marked upon them. Thrusting
them back, I drew a deep breath of relief, gazing, as I did so, out
of the window, when those letters again attracted my attention.
[Illustration: (Cursive letters)]
What could they mean? Idly I began to read them backward, when--But
try for yourself, reader, and judge of my surprise! Elate at the
discovery thus made, I sat down to write my letters. I had barely
finished them, when Mrs. Belden came in with the announcement that
supper was ready. “As for your room,” said she, “I have prepared
my own room for your use, thinking you would like to remain on the
first floor.” And, throwing open a door at my side, she displayed
a small, but comfortable room, in which I could dimly see a
bed, an immense bureau, and a shadowy looking-glass in a dark,
old-fashioned frame.
“I live in very primitive fashion,” she resumed, leading the way
into the dining-room; “but I mean to be comfortable and make others
so.”
“I should say you amply succeeded,” I rejoined, with an
appreciative glance at her well-spread board.
She smiled, and I felt I had paved the way to her good graces in a
way that would yet redound to my advantage.
Shall I ever forget that supper! its dainties, its pleasant
freedom, its mysterious, pervading atmosphere of unreality, and
the constant sense which every bountiful dish she pressed upon
me brought of the shame of eating this woman’s food with such
feelings of suspicion in my heart! Shall I ever forget the emotion
I experienced when I first perceived she had something on her mind,
which she longed, yet hesitated, to give utterance to! Or how she
started when a cat jumped from the sloping roof of the kitchen
on to the grass-plot at the back of the house; or how my heart
throbbed when I heard, or thought I heard, a board creak overhead!
We were in a long and narrow room which seemed, curiously enough,
to run crosswise of the house, opening on one side into the parlor,
and on the other into the small bedroom, which had been allotted to
my use.
“You live in this house alone, without fear?” I asked, as Mrs.
Belden, contrary to my desire, put another bit of cold chicken on
my plate. “Have you no marauders in this town: no tramps, of whom a
solitary woman like you might reasonably be afraid?”
“No one will hurt me,” said she; “and no one ever came here for
food or shelter but got it.”
“I should think, then, that living as you do, upon a railroad, you
would be constantly overrun with worthless beings whose only trade
is to take all they can get without giving a return.”
“I cannot turn them away. It is the only luxury I have: to feed the
poor.”
“But the idle, restless ones, who neither will work, nor let others
work----”
“Are still the poor.”
Mentally remarking, here is the woman to shield an unfortunate who
has somehow become entangled in the meshes of a great crime, I drew
back from the table. As I did so, the thought crossed me that, in
case there was any such person in the house as Hannah, she would
take the opportunity of going up-stairs with something for her to
eat; and that she might not feel hampered by my presence, I stepped
out on the veranda with my cigar.
While smoking it, I looked about for Q. I felt that the least token
of his presence in town would be very encouraging at this time. But
it seemed I was not to be afforded even that small satisfaction. If
Q was anywhere near, he was lying very low.
Once again seated with Mrs. Belden (who I know came down-stairs
with an empty plate, for going into the kitchen for a drink, I
caught her in the act of setting it down on the table), I made up
my mind to wait a reasonable length of time for what she had to
say; and then, if she did not speak, make an endeavor on my own
part to surprise her secret.
But her avowal was nearer and of a different nature from what I
expected, and brought its own train of consequences with it.
“You are a lawyer, I believe,” she began, taking down her knitting
work, with a forced display of industry.
“Yes,” I said; “that is my profession.”
She remained for a moment silent, creating great havoc in her work
I am sure, from the glance of surprise and vexation she afterwards
threw it. Then, in a hesitating voice, remarked:
“Perhaps you may be willing, then, to give me some advice. The
truth is, I am in a very curious predicament; one from which I
don’t know how to escape, and yet which demands immediate action. I
should like to tell you about it; may I?”
“You may; I shall be only too happy to give you any advice in my
power.”
She drew in her breath with a sort of vague relief, though her
forehead did not lose its frown.
“It can all be said in a few words. I have in my possession a
package of papers which were intrusted to me by two ladies, with
the understanding that I should neither return nor destroy them
without the full cognizance and expressed desire of both parties,
given in person or writing. That they were to remain in my hands
till then, and that nothing or nobody should extort them from me.”
“That is easily understood,” said I; for she stopped.
“But, now comes word from one of the ladies, the one, too, most
interested in the matter, that, for certain reasons, the immediate
destruction of those papers is necessary to her peace and safety.”
“And do you want to know what your duty is in this case?”
“Yes,” she tremulously replied.
I rose. I could not help it: a flood of conjectures rushing in
tumult over me.
“It is to hold on to the papers like grim death till released from
your guardianship by the combined wish of both parties.”
“Is that your opinion as a lawyer?”
“Yes, and as a man. Once pledged in that way, you have no choice.
It would be a betrayal of trust to yield to the solicitations of
one party what you have undertaken to return to both. The fact that
grief or loss might follow your retention of these papers does
not release you from your bond. You have nothing to do with that;
besides, you are by no means sure that the representations of the
so-called interested party are true. You might be doing a greater
wrong, by destroying in this way, what is manifestly considered of
value to them both, than by preserving the papers intact, according
to compact.”
“But the circumstances? Circumstances alter cases; and in short,
it seems to me that the wishes of the one most interested ought
to be regarded, especially as there is an estrangement between
these ladies which may hinder the other’s consent from ever being
obtained.”
“No,” said I; “two wrongs never make a right; nor are we at liberty
to do an act of justice at the expense of an injustice. The papers
must be preserved, Mrs. Belden.”
Her head sank very despondingly; evidently it had been her wish to
please the interested party. “Law is very hard,” she said; “very
hard.”
“This is not only law, but plain duty,” I remarked. “Suppose a
case different; suppose the honor and happiness of the other party
depended upon the preservation of the papers; where would your duty
be then?”
“But----”
“A contract is a contract,” said I, “and cannot be tampered with.
Having accepted the trust and given your word, you are obliged to
fulfil, to the letter, all its conditions. It would be a breach of
trust for you to return or destroy the papers without the mutual
consent necessary.”
An expression of great gloom settled slowly over her features. “I
suppose you are right,” said she, and became silent.
Watching her, I thought to myself, “If I were Mr. Gryce, or even
Q, I would never leave this seat till I had probed this matter to
the bottom, learned the names of the parties concerned, and where
those precious papers are hidden, which she declares to be of so
much importance.” But being neither, I could only keep her talking
upon the subject until she should let fall some word that might
serve as a guide to my further enlightenment; I therefore turned,
with the intention of asking her some question, when my attention
was attracted by the figure of a woman coming out of the back-door
of the neighboring house, who, for general dilapidation and
uncouthness of bearing, was a perfect type of the style of tramp of
whom we had been talking at the supper table. Gnawing a crust which
she threw away as she reached the street, she trudged down the
path, her scanty dress, piteous in its rags and soil, flapping in
the keen spring wind, and revealing ragged shoes red with the mud
of the highway.
“There is a customer that may interest you,” said I.
Mrs. Belden seemed to awake from a trance. Rising slowly, she
looked out, and with a rapidly softening gaze surveyed the forlorn
creature before her.
“Poor thing!” she muttered; “but I cannot do much for her to-night.
A good supper is all I can give her.”
And, going to the front door, she bade her step round the house to
the kitchen, where, in another moment, I heard the rough creature’s
voice rise in one long “Bless you!” that could only have been
produced by the setting before her of the good things with which
Mrs. Belden’s larder seemed teeming.
But supper was not all she wanted. After a decent length of time,
employed as I should judge in mastication, I heard her voice rise
once more in a plea for shelter.
“The barn, ma’am, or the wood-house. Any place where I can lie out
of the wind.” And she commenced a long tale of want and disease, so
piteous to hear that I was not at all surprised when Mrs. Belden
told me, upon re-entering, that she had consented, notwithstanding
her previous determination, to allow the woman to lie before the
kitchen fire for the night.
“She has such an honest eye,” said she; “and charity is my only
luxury.”
The interruption of this incident effectually broke up our
conversation. Mrs. Belden went up-stairs, and for some time I was
left alone to ponder over what I had heard, and determine upon my
future course of action. I had just reached the conclusion that she
would be fully as liable to be carried away by her feelings to the
destruction of the papers in her charge, as to be governed by the
rules of equity I had laid down to her, when I heard her stealthily
descend the stairs and go out by the front door. Distrustful of
her intentions, I took up my hat and hastily followed her. She
was on her way down the main street, and my first thought was,
that she was bound for some neighbor’s house or perhaps for the
hotel itself; but the settled swing into which she soon altered
her restless pace satisfied me that she had some distant goal in
prospect; and before long I found myself passing the hotel with
its appurtenances, even the little schoolhouse, that was the last
building at this end of the village, and stepping out into the
country beyond. What could it mean?
But still her fluttering figure hasted on, the outlines of her
form, with its close shawl and neat bonnet, growing fainter and
fainter in the now settled darkness of an April night; and still
I followed, walking on the turf at the side of the road lest she
should hear my footsteps and look round. At last we reached a
bridge. Over this I could hear her pass, and then every sound
ceased. She had paused, and was evidently listening. It would not
do for me to pause too, so gathering myself into as awkward a shape
as possible, I sauntered by her down the road, but arrived at a
certain point, stopped, and began retracing my steps with a sharp
lookout for her advancing figure, till I had arrived once more at
the bridge. She was not there.
Convinced now that she had discovered my motive for being in her
house and, by leading me from it, had undertaken to supply Hannah
with an opportunity for escape, I was about to hasten back to the
charge I had so incautiously left, when a strange sound heard at my
left arrested me. It came from the banks of the puny stream which
ran under the bridge, and was like the creaking of an old door on
worn-out hinges.
Leaping the fence, I made my way as best I could down the sloping
field in the direction from which the sound came. It was quite
dark, and my progress was slow; so much so, that I began to fear
I had ventured upon a wild-goose chase, when an unexpected streak
of lightning shot across the sky, and by its glare I saw before me
what seemed, in the momentary glimpse I had of it, an old barn.
From the rush of waters near at hand, I judged it to be somewhere
on the edge of the stream, and consequently hesitated to advance,
when I heard the sound of heavy breathing near me, followed by a
stir as of some one feeling his way over a pile of loose boards;
and presently, while I stood there, a faint blue light flashed up
from the interior of the barn, and I saw, through the tumbled-down
door that faced me, the form of Mrs. Belden standing with a lighted
match in her hand, gazing round on the four walls that encompassed
her. Hardly daring to breathe, lest I should alarm her, I watched
her while she turned and peered at the roof above her, which was
so old as to be more than half open to the sky, at the flooring
beneath, which was in a state of equal dilapidation, and finally
at a small tin box which she drew from under her shawl and laid on
the ground at her feet. The sight of that box at once satisfied
me as to the nature of her errand. She was going to hide what she
dared not destroy; and, relieved upon this point, I was about to
take a step forward when the match went out in her hand. While she
was engaged in lighting another, I considered that perhaps it would
be better for me not to arouse her apprehensions by accosting her
at this time, and thus endanger the success of my main scheme; but
to wait till she was gone, before I endeavored to secure the box.
Accordingly I edged my way up to the side of the barn and waited
till she should leave it, knowing that if I attempted to peer in
at the door, I ran great risk of being seen, owing to the frequent
streaks of lightning which now flashed about us on every side.
Minute after minute went by, with its weird alternations of heavy
darkness and sudden glare; and still she did not come. At last,
just as I was about to start impatiently from my hiding-place, she
reappeared, and began to withdraw with faltering steps toward the
bridge. When I thought her quite out of hearing, I stole from my
retreat and entered the barn. It was of course as dark as Erebus,
but thanks to being a smoker I was as well provided with matches as
she had been, and having struck one, I held it up; but the light
it gave was very feeble, and as I did not know just where to look,
it went out before I had obtained more than a cursory glimpse
of the spot where I was. I thereupon lit another; but though I
confined my attention to one place, namely, the floor at my feet,
it too went out before I could conjecture by means of any sign
seen there where she had hidden the box. I now for the first time
realized the difficulty before me. She had probably made up her
mind, before she left home, in just what portion of this old barn
she would conceal her treasure; but I had nothing to guide me: I
could only waste matches. And I did waste them. A dozen had been
lit and extinguished before I was so much as sure the box was not
under a pile of debris that lay in one corner, and I had taken the
last in my hand before I became aware that one of the broken boards
of the floor was pushed a little out of its proper position. One
match! and that board was to be raised, the space beneath examined,
and the box, if there, lifted safely out. I concluded not to waste
my resources, so kneeling down in the darkness, I groped for the
board, tried it, and found it to be loose. Wrenching at it with
all my strength, I tore it free and cast it aside; then lighting
my match looked into the hole thus made. Something, I could not
tell what, stone or box, met my eye, but while I reached for it,
the match flew out of my hand. Deploring my carelessness, but
determined at all hazards to secure what I had seen, I dived down
deep into the hole, and in another moment had the object of my
curiosity in my hands. It was the box!
Satisfied at this result of my efforts, I turned to depart, my
one wish now being to arrive home before Mrs. Belden. Was this
possible? She had several minutes the start of me; I would have to
pass her on the road, and in so doing might be recognized. Was the
end worth the risk? I decided that it was.
Regaining the highway, I started at a brisk pace. For some little
distance I kept it up, neither overtaking nor meeting any one.
But suddenly, at a turn in the road, I came unexpectedly upon
Mrs. Belden, standing in the middle of the path, looking back.
Somewhat disconcerted, I hastened swiftly by her, expecting her to
make some effort to stop me. But she let me pass without a word.
Indeed, I doubt now if she even saw or heard me. Astonished at
this treatment, and still more surprised that she made no attempt
to follow me, I looked back, when I saw what enchained her to the
spot, and made her so unmindful of my presence. The barn behind us
was on fire!
Instantly I realized it was the work of my hands; I had dropped a
half-extinguished match, and it had fallen upon some inflammable
substance.
Aghast at the sight, I paused in my turn, and stood staring. Higher
and higher the red flames mounted, brighter and brighter glowed
the clouds above, the stream beneath; and in the fascination of
watching it all, I forgot Mrs. Belden. But a short, agitated gasp
in my vicinity soon recalled her presence to my mind, and drawing
nearer, I heard her exclaim like a person speaking in a dream,
“Well, I didn’t mean to do it”; then lower, and with a certain
satisfaction in her tone, “But it’s all right, any way; the thing
is lost now for good, and Mary will be satisfied without any one
being to blame.”
I did not linger to hear more; if this was the conclusion she had
come to, she would not wait there long, especially as the sound of
distant shouts and running feet announced that a crowd of village
boys was on its way to the scene of the conflagration.
The first thing I did, upon my arrival at the house, was to assure
myself that no evil effects had followed my inconsiderate desertion
of it to the mercies of the tramp she had taken in; the next to
retire to my room, and take a peep at the box. I found it to be a
neat tin coffer, fastened with a lock. Satisfied from its weight
that it contained nothing heavier than the papers of which Mrs.
Belden had spoken, I hid it under the bed and returned to the
sitting-room. I had barely taken a seat and lifted a book when Mrs.
Belden came in.
“Well!” cried she, taking off her bonnet and revealing a face much
flushed with exercise, but greatly relieved in expression; “this
_is_ a night! It lightens, and there is a fire somewhere down
street, and altogether it is perfectly dreadful out. I hope you
have not been lonesome,” she continued, with a keen searching of
my face which I bore in the best way I could. “I had an errand to
attend to, but didn’t expect to stay so long.”
I returned some nonchalant reply, and she hastened from the room to
fasten up the house.
I waited, but she did not come back; fearful, perhaps, of betraying
herself, she had retired to her own apartment, leaving me to take
care of myself as best I might. I own that I was rather relieved at
this. The fact is, I did not feel equal to any more excitement that
night, and was glad to put off further action until the next day.
As soon, then, as the storm was over, I myself went to bed, and,
after several ineffectual efforts, succeeded in getting asleep.
XXIX. THE MISSING WITNESS
“I fled and cried out death.”
Milton.
“MR. RAYMOND!”
The voice was low and searching; it reached me in my dreams, waked
me, and caused me to look up. Morning had begun to break, and
by its light I saw, standing in the open door leading into the
dining-room, the forlorn figure of the tramp who had been admitted
into the house the night before. Angry and perplexed, I was about
to bid her be gone, when, to my great surprise, she pulled out a
red handkerchief from her pocket, and I recognized Q.
“Read that,” said he, hastily advancing and putting a slip of paper
into my hand. And, without another word or look, left the room,
closing the door behind him.
Rising in considerable agitation, I took it to the window, and by
the rapidly increasing light, succeeded in making out the rudely
scrawled lines as follows:
“She is here; I have seen her; in the room marked with a
cross in the accompanying plan. Wait till eight o’clock,
then go up. I will contrive some means of getting Mrs.
B---- out of the house.”
Sketched below this was the following plan of the upper floor:
[Illustration: (Upper floor plan)]
Hannah, then, was in the small back room over the dining-room, and
I had not been deceived in thinking I had heard steps overhead, the
evening before. Greatly relieved, and yet at the same time much
moved at the near prospect of being brought face to face with one
who we had every reason to believe was acquainted with the dreadful
secret involved in the Leavenworth murder, I lay down once more,
and endeavored to catch another hour’s rest. But I soon gave up
the effort in despair, and contented myself with listening to the
sounds of awakening life which now began to make themselves heard
in the house and neighborhood.
As Q had closed the door after him, I could only faintly hear
Mrs. Belden when she came down-stairs. But the short, surprised
exclamation which she uttered upon reaching the kitchen and finding
the tramp gone and the back-door wide open, came plainly enough
to my ears, and for a moment I was not sure but that Q had made a
mistake in thus leaving so unceremoniously. But he had not studied
Mrs. Belden’s character in vain. As she came, in the course of her
preparations for breakfast, into the room adjoining mine, I could
hear her murmur to herself:
“Poor thing! She has lived so long in the fields and at the
roadside, she finds it unnatural to be cooped up in the house all
night.”
The trial of that breakfast! The effort to eat and appear
unconcerned, to chat and make no mistake,--May I never be called
upon to go through such another! But at last it was over, and I was
left free to await in my own room the time for the dreaded though
much-to-be-desired interview. Slowly the minutes passed; eight
o’clock struck, when, just as the last vibration ceased, there came
a loud knock at the back-door, and a little boy burst into the
kitchen, crying at the top of his voice: “Papa’s got a fit! Oh,
Mrs. Belden! papa’s got a fit; do come!”
Rising, as was natural, I hastened towards the kitchen, meeting
Mrs. Belden’s anxious face in the doorway.
“A poor wood-chopper down the street has fallen in a fit,” she
said. “Will you please watch over the house while I see what I can
do for him? I won’t be absent any longer than I can help.”
And almost without waiting for my reply, she caught up a shawl,
threw it over her head, and followed the urchin, who was in a state
of great excitement, out into the street.
Instantly the silence of death seemed to fill the house, and a
dread the greatest I had ever experienced settled upon me. To leave
the kitchen, go up those stairs, and confront that girl seemed
for the moment beyond my power; but, once on the stair, I found
myself relieved from the especial dread which had overwhelmed me,
and possessed, instead, of a sort of combative curiosity that led
me to throw open the door which I saw at the top with a certain
fierceness new to my nature, and not altogether suitable, perhaps,
to the occasion.
I found myself in a large bedroom, evidently the one occupied by
Mrs. Belden the night before. Barely stopping to note certain
evidences of her having passed a restless night, I passed on to the
door leading into the room marked with a cross in the plan drawn
for me by Q. It was a rough affair, made of pine boards rudely
painted. Pausing before it, I listened. All was still. Raising the
latch, I endeavored to enter. The door was locked. Pausing again, I
bent my ear to the keyhole. Not a sound came from within; the grave
itself could not have been stiller. Awe-struck and irresolute,
I looked about me and questioned what I had best do. Suddenly I
remembered that, in the plan Q had given me, I had seen intimation
of another door leading into this same room from the one on the
opposite side of the hall. Going hastily around to it, I tried it
with my hand. But it was as fast as the other. Convinced at last
that nothing was left me but force, I spoke for the first time,
and, calling the girl by name, commanded her to open the door.
Receiving no response, I said aloud with an accent of severity:
“Hannah Chester, you are discovered; if you do not open the door,
we shall be obliged to break it down; save us the trouble, then,
and open immediately.”
Still no reply.
Going back a step, I threw my whole weight against the door. It
creaked ominously, but still resisted.
[Illustration: “I could not prevent a feeling of sickly
apprehension from seizing me as I turned towards the silent figure
stretched so near”]
Stopping only long enough to be sure no movement had taken place
within, I pressed against it once more, this time with all my
strength, when it flew from its hinges, and I fell forward into a
room so stifling, chill, and dark that I paused for a moment to
collect my scattered senses before venturing to look around me. It
was well I did so. In another moment, the pallor and fixity of the
pretty Irish face staring upon me from amidst the tumbled clothes
of a bed, drawn up against the wall at my side, struck me with so
deathlike a chill that, had it not been for that one instant of
preparation, I should have been seriously dismayed. As it was, I
could not prevent a feeling of sickly apprehension from seizing
me as I turned towards the silent figure stretched so near, and
observed with what marble-like repose it lay beneath the patchwork
quilt drawn across it, asking myself if sleep could be indeed so
like death in its appearance. For that it was a sleeping woman I
beheld, I did not seriously doubt. There were too many evidences
of careless life in the room for any other inference. The clothes,
left just as she had stepped from them in a circle on the floor;
the liberal plate of food placed in waiting for her on the chair by
the door, --food amongst which I recognized, even in this casual
glance, the same dish which we had had for breakfast --all and
everything in the room spoke of robust life and reckless belief in
the morrow.
And yet so white was the brow turned up to the bare beams of the
unfinished wall above her, so glassy the look of the half-opened
eyes, so motionless the arm lying half under, half over, the edge
of the coverlid that it was impossible not to shrink from contact
with a creature so sunk in unconsciousness. But contact seemed to
be necessary; any cry which I could raise at that moment would
be ineffectual enough to pierce those dull ears. Nerving myself,
therefore, I stooped and lifted the hand which lay with its
telltale scar mockingly uppermost, intending to speak, call, do
something, anything, to arouse her. But at the first touch of her
hand on mine an unspeakable horror thrilled me. It was not only
icy cold, but stiff. Dropping it in my agitation, I started back
and again surveyed the face. Great God! when did life ever look
like that? What sleep ever wore such pallid hues, such accusing
fixedness? Bending once more I listened at the lips. Not a breath,
nor a stir. Shocked to the core of my being, I made one final
effort. Tearing down the clothes, I laid my hand upon her heart. It
was pulseless as stone.
XXX. BURNED PAPER
“I could have better spared a better man.”
Henry IV.
I do not think I called immediately for help. The awful shock of
this discovery, coming as it did at the very moment life and hope
were strongest within me; the sudden downfall which it brought of
all the plans based upon this woman’s expected testimony; and,
worst of all, the dread coincidence between this sudden death
and the exigency in which the guilty party, whoever it was, was
supposed to be at that hour were much too appalling for instant
action. I could only stand and stare at the quiet face before me,
smiling in its peaceful rest as if death were pleasanter than we
think, and marvel over the providence which had brought us renewed
fear instead of relief, complication instead of enlightenment,
disappointment instead of realization. For eloquent as is death,
even on the faces of those unknown and unloved by us, the causes
and consequences of this one were much too important to allow the
mind to dwell upon the pathos of the scene itself. Hannah, the
girl, was lost in Hannah the witness.
But gradually, as I gazed, the look of expectation which I
perceived hovering about the wistful mouth and half-open lids
attracted me, and I bent above her with a more personal interest,
asking myself if she were quite dead, and whether or not immediate
medical assistance would be of any avail. But the more closely
I looked, the more certain I became that she had been dead for
some hours; and the dismay occasioned by this thought, taken with
the regrets which I must ever feel, that I had not adopted the
bold course the evening before, and, by forcing my way to the
hiding-place of this poor creature, interrupted, if not prevented
the consummation of her fate, startled me into a realization of
my present situation; and, leaving her side, I went into the next
room, threw up the window, and fastened to the blind the red
handkerchief which I had taken the precaution to bring with me.
Instantly a young man, whom I was fain to believe Q, though he bore
not the least resemblance, either in dress or facial expression to
any renderings of that youth which I had yet seen, emerged from the
tinsmith’s house, and approached the one I was in.
Observing him cast a hurried glance in my direction, I crossed the
floor, and stood awaiting him at the head of the stairs.
“Well?” he whispered, upon entering the house and meeting my glance
from below; “have you seen her?”
“Yes,” I returned bitterly, “I have seen her!”
He hurriedly mounted to my side. “And she has confessed?”
“No; I have had no talk with her.” Then, as I perceived him growing
alarmed at my voice and manner, I drew him into Mrs. Belden’s room
and hastily inquired: “What did you mean this morning when you
informed me you had seen this girl? that she was in a certain room
where I might find her?”
“What I said.”
“You have, then, been to her room?”
[Illustration: “I crawled up on to the ledge of the slanting roof
last night . . . and . . . saw her moving round the room”]
“No; I have only been on the outside of it. Seeing a light, I
crawled up on to the ledge of the slanting roof last night while
both you and Mrs. Belden were out, and, looking through the
window, saw her moving round the room.” He must have observed my
countenance change, for he stopped. “What is to pay?” he cried.
I could restrain myself no longer. “Come,” I said, “and see for
yourself!” And, leading him to the little room I had just left,
I pointed to the silent form lying within. “You told me I should
find Hannah here; but you did not tell me I should find her in this
condition.”
“Great heaven!” he cried with a start: “not dead?”
“Yes,” I said, “dead.”
It seemed as if he could not realize it. “But it is impossible!” he
returned. “She is in a heavy sleep, has taken a narcotic----”
“It is not sleep,” I said, “or if it is, she will never wake.
Look!” And, taking the hand once more in mine, I let it fall in its
stone weight upon the bed.
The sight seemed to convince him. Calming down, he stood gazing at
her with a very strange expression upon his face. Suddenly he moved
and began quietly turning over the clothes that were lying on the
floor.
“What are you doing?” I asked. “What are you looking for?”
“I am looking for the bit of paper from which I saw her take what I
supposed to be a dose of medicine last night. Oh, here it is!” he
cried, lifting a morsel of paper that, lying on the floor under the
edge of the bed, had hitherto escaped his notice.
“Let me see!” I anxiously exclaimed.
He handed me the paper, on the inner surface of which I could dimly
discern the traces of an impalpable white powder.
“This is important,” I declared, carefully folding the paper
together. “If there is enough of this powder remaining to show that
the contents of this paper were poisonous, the manner and means
of the girl’s death are accounted for, and a case of deliberate
suicide made evident.”
“I am not so sure of that,” he retorted. “If I am any judge of
countenances, and I rather flatter myself I am, this girl had no
more idea she was taking poison than I had. She looked not only
bright but gay; and when she tipped up the paper, a smile of almost
silly triumph crossed her face. If Mrs. Belden gave her that dose
to take, telling her it was medicine----”
“That is something which yet remains to be learned; also whether
the dose, as you call it, was poisonous or not. It may be she died
of heart disease.”
He simply shrugged his shoulders, and pointed first at the plate of
breakfast left on the chair, and secondly at the broken-down door.
“Yes,” I said, answering his look, “Mrs. Belden has been in here
this morning, and Mrs. Belden locked the door when she went out;
but that proves nothing beyond her belief in the girl’s hearty
condition.”
“A belief which that white face on its tumbled pillow did not seem
to shake?”
“Perhaps in her haste she may not have looked at the girl, but
have set the dishes down without more than a casual glance in her
direction?”
“I don’t want to suspect anything wrong, but it is such a
coincidence!”
This was touching me on a sore point, and I stepped back. “Well,”
said I, “there is no use in our standing here busying ourselves
with conjectures. There is too much to be done. Come!” and I moved
hurriedly towards the door.
“What are you going to do?” he asked. “Have you forgotten this
is but an episode in the one great mystery we are sent here to
unravel? If this girl has come to her death by some foul play, it
is our business to find it out.”
“That must be left for the coroner. It has now passed out of our
hands.”
“I know; but we can at least take full note of the room and
everything in it before throwing the affair into the hands of
strangers. Mr. Gryce will expect that much of us, I am sure.”
“I have looked at the room. The whole is photographed on my mind. I
am only afraid I can never forget it.”
“And the body? Have you noticed its position? the lay of the
bed-clothes around it? the lack there is of all signs of struggle
or fear? the repose of the countenance? the easy fall of the hands?”
“Yes, yes; don’t make me look at it any more.”
“Then the clothes hanging on the wall?”--rapidly pointing out each
object as he spoke. “Do you see? a calico dress, a shawl,--not the
one in which she was believed to have run away, but an old black
one, probably belonging to Mrs. Belden. Then this chest,”--opening
it,--“containing a few underclothes marked,--let us see, ah, with
the name of the lady of the house, but smaller than any she ever
wore; made for Hannah, you observe, and marked with her own name to
prevent suspicion. And then these other clothes lying on the floor,
all new, all marked in the same way. Then this--Halloo! look here!”
he suddenly cried.
Going over to where he stood I stooped down, when a wash-bowl half
full of burned paper met my eye.
“I saw her bending over something in this corner, and could not
think what it was. Can it be she is a suicide after all? She has
evidently destroyed something here which she didn’t wish any one to
see.”
“I do not know,” I said. “I could almost hope so.”
“Not a scrap, not a morsel left to show what it was; how
unfortunate!”
“Mrs. Belden must solve this riddle,” I cried.
“Mrs. Belden must solve the whole riddle,” he replied; “the secret
of the Leavenworth murder hangs upon it.” Then, with a lingering
look towards the mass of burned paper, “Who knows but what that was
a confession?”
The conjecture seemed only too probable.
“Whatever it was,” said I, “it is now ashes, and we have got to
accept the fact and make the best of it.”
“Yes,” said he with a deep sigh; “that’s so; but Mr. Gryce will
never forgive me for it, never. He will say I ought to have known
it was a suspicious circumstance for her to take a dose of medicine
at the very moment detection stood at her back.”
“But she did not know that; she did not see you.”
“We don’t know what she saw, nor what Mrs. Belden saw. Women are a
mystery; and though I flatter myself that ordinarily I am a match
for the keenest bit of female flesh that ever walked, I must say
that in this case I feel myself thoroughly and shamefully worsted.”
“Well, well,” I said, “the end has not come yet; who knows what a
talk with Mrs. Belden will bring out? And, by the way, she will
be coming back soon, and I must be ready to meet her. Everything
depends upon finding out, if I can, whether she is aware of this
tragedy or not. It is just possible she knows nothing about it.”
And, hurrying him from the room, I pulled the door to behind me,
and led the way down-stairs.
“Now,” said I, “there is one thing you must attend to at once.
A telegram must be sent Mr. Gryce acquainting him with this
unlooked-for occurrence.”
“All right, sir,” and Q started for the door.
“Wait one moment,” said I. “I may not have another opportunity to
mention it. Mrs. Belden received two letters from the postmaster
yesterday; one in a large and one in a small envelope; if you could
find out where they were postmarked----”
Q put his hand in his pocket. “I think I will not have to go far to
find out where one of them came from. Good George, I have lost it!”
And before I knew it, he had returned up-stairs.
That moment I heard the gate click.
XXXI. Q
“Thereby hangs a tale.”
Taming of the Shrew.
“It was all a hoax; nobody was ill; I have been imposed upon,
meanly imposed upon!” And Mrs. Belden, flushed and panting, entered
the room where I was, and proceeded to take off her bonnet; but
whilst doing so paused, and suddenly exclaimed: “What is the
matter? How you look at me! Has anything happened?”
“Something very serious has occurred,” I replied; “you have been
gone but a little while, but in that time a discovery has been
made--” I purposely paused here that the suspense might elicit from
her some betrayal; but, though she turned pale, she manifested less
emotion than I expected, and I went on--“which is likely to produce
very important consequences.”
To my surprise she burst violently into tears. “I knew it, I knew
it!” she murmured. “I always said it would be impossible to keep
it secret if I let anybody into the house; she is so restless. But
I forget,” she suddenly said, with a frightened look; “you haven’t
told me what the discovery was. Perhaps it isn’t what I thought;
perhaps----”
I did not hesitate to interrupt her. “Mrs. Belden,” I said, “I
shall not try to mitigate the blow. A woman who, in the face of
the most urgent call from law and justice, can receive into her
house and harbor there a witness of such importance as Hannah,
cannot stand in need of any great preparation for hearing that her
efforts, have been too successful, that she has accomplished her
design of suppressing valuable testimony, that law and justice are
outraged, and that the innocent woman whom this girl’s evidence
might have saved stands for ever compromised in the eyes of the
world, if not in those of the officers of the law.”
Her eyes, which had never left me during this address, flashed wide
with dismay.
“What do you mean?” she cried. “I have intended no wrong; I have
only tried to save people. I--I--But who are you? What have you
got to do with all this? What is it to you what I do or don’t
do? You said you were a lawyer. Can it be you are come from Mary
Leavenworth to see how I am fulfilling her commands, and----”
“Mrs. Belden,” I said, “it is of small importance now as to who I
am, or for what purpose I am here. But that my words may have the
more effect, I will say, that whereas I have not deceived you,
either as to my name or position, it is true that I am the friend
of the Misses Leavenworth, and that anything which is likely to
affect them, is of interest to me. When, therefore, I say that
Eleanore Leavenworth is irretrievably injured by this girl’s
death----”
“Death? What do you mean? Death!”
The burst was too natural, the tone too horror-stricken for me to
doubt for another moment as to this woman’s ignorance of the true
state of affairs.
“Yes,” I repeated, “the girl you have been hiding so long and so
well is now beyond your control. Only her dead body remains, Mrs.
Belden.”
I shall never lose from my ears the shriek which she uttered, nor
the wild, “I don’t believe it! I don’t believe it!” with which she
dashed from the room and rushed up-stairs.
Nor that after-scene when, in the presence of the dead, she stood
wringing her hands and protesting, amid sobs of the sincerest
grief and terror, that she knew nothing of it; that she had left
the girl in the best of spirits the night before; that it was true
she had locked her in, but this she always did when any one was
in the house; and that if she died of any sudden attack, it must
have been quietly, for she had heard no stir all night, though she
had listened more than once, being naturally anxious lest the girl
should make some disturbance that would arouse me.
“But you were in here this morning?” said I.
“Yes; but I didn’t notice. I was in a hurry, and thought she was
asleep; so I set the things down where she could get them and came
right away, locking the door as usual.”
“It is strange she should have died this night of all others. Was
she ill yesterday?”
“No, sir; she was even brighter than common; more lively. I never
thought of her being sick then or ever. If I had----”
“You never thought of her being sick?” a voice here interrupted.
“Why, then, did you take such pains to give her a dose of medicine
last night?” And Q entered from the room beyond.
“I didn’t!” she protested, evidently under the supposition it was
I who had spoken. “Did I, Hannah, did I, poor girl?” stroking the
hand that lay in hers with what appeared to be genuine sorrow and
regret.
“How came she by it, then? Where she did she get it if you didn’t
give it to her?”
This time she seemed to be aware that some one besides myself was
talking to her, for, hurriedly rising, she looked at the man with a
wondering stare, before replying.
“I don’t know who you are, sir; but I can tell you this, the girl
had no medicine,--took no dose; she wasn’t sick last night that I
know of.”
“Yet I saw her swallow a powder.”
“Saw her!--the world is crazy, or I am--saw her swallow a powder!
How could you see her do that or anything else? Hasn’t she been
shut up in this room for twenty-four hours?”
“Yes; but with a window like that in the roof, it isn’t so very
difficult to see into the room, madam.”
“Oh,” she cried, shrinking, “I have a spy in the house, have I? But
I deserve it; I kept her imprisoned in four close walls, and never
came to look at her once all night. I don’t complain; but what was
it you say you saw her take? medicine? poison?”
“I didn’t say poison.”
“But you meant it. You think she has poisoned herself, and that I
had a hand in it!”
“No,” I hastened to remark, “he does not think you had a hand in
it. He says he saw the girl herself swallow something which he
believes to have been the occasion of her death, and only asks you
now where she obtained it.”
“How can I tell? I never gave her anything; didn’t know she had
anything.”
Somehow, I believed her, and so felt unwilling to prolong the
present interview, especially as each moment delayed the action
which I felt it incumbent upon us to take. So, motioning Q to
depart upon his errand, I took Mrs. Belden by the hand and
endeavored to lead her from the room. But she resisted, sitting
down by the side of the bed with the expression, “I will not leave
her again; do not ask it; here is my place, and here I will stay,”
while Q, obdurate for the first time, stood staring severely upon
us both, and would not move, though I urged him again to make
haste, saying that the morning was slipping away, and that the
telegram to Mr. Gryce ought to be sent.
“Till that woman leaves the room, I don’t; and unless you promise
to take my place in watching her, I don’t quit the house.”
Astonished, I left her side and crossed to him.
“You carry your suspicions too far,” I whispered, “and I think you
are too rude. We have seen nothing, I am sure, to warrant us in
any such action; besides, she can do no harm here; though, as for
watching her, I promise to do that much if it will relieve your
mind.”
“I don’t want her watched here; take her below. I cannot leave
while she remains.”
“Are you not assuming a trifle the master?”
“Perhaps; I don’t know. If I am, it is because I have something in
my possession which excuses my conduct.”
“What is that? the letter?”
“Yes.”
Agitated now in my turn, I held out my hand. “Let me see,” I said.
“Not while that woman remains in the room.”
Seeing him implacable, I returned to Mrs. Belden.
“I must entreat you to come with me,” said I. “This is not a common
death; we shall be obliged to have the coroner here and others. You
had better leave the room and go below.”
“I don’t mind the coroner; he is a neighbor of mine; his coming
won’t prevent my watching over the poor girl until he arrives.”
“Mrs. Belden,” I said, “your position as the only one conscious of
the presence of this girl in your house makes it wiser for you not
to invite suspicion by lingering any longer than is necessary in
the room where her dead body lies.”
“As if my neglect of her now were the best surety of my good
intentions towards her in time past!”
“It will not be neglect for you to go below with me at my earnest
request. You can do no good here by staying; will, in fact, be
doing harm. So listen to me or I shall be obliged to leave you in
charge of this man and go myself to inform the authorities.”
This last argument seemed to affect her, for with one look of
shuddering abhorrence at Q she rose, saying, “You have me in your
power,” and then, without another word, threw her handkerchief over
the girl’s face and left the room. In two minutes more I had the
letter of which Q had spoken in my hands.
“It is the only one I could find, sir. It was in the pocket of the
dress Mrs. Belden had on last night. The other must be lying around
somewhere, but I haven’t had time to find it. This will do, though,
I think. You will not ask for the other.”
Scarcely noticing at the time with what deep significance he spoke,
I opened the letter. It was the smaller of the two I had seen her
draw under her shawl the day before at the post-office, and read as
follows:
“DEAR, DEAR FRIEND:
“I am in awful trouble. You who love me must know it. I cannot
explain, I can only make one prayer. Destroy what you have,
to-day, instantly, without question or hesitation. The consent
of any one else has nothing to do with it. You must obey. I am
lost if you refuse. Do then what I ask, and save
“ONE WHO LOVES YOU.”
It was addressed to Mrs. Belden; there was no signature or date,
only the postmark New York; but I knew the handwriting. It was Mary
Leavenworth’s.
“A damning letter!” came in the dry tones which Q seemed to think
fit to adopt on this occasion. “And a damning bit of evidence
against the one who wrote it, and the woman who received it!”
“A terrible piece of evidence, indeed,” said I, “if I did not
happen to know that this letter refers to the destruction of
something radically different from what you suspect. It alludes to
some papers in Mrs. Belden’s charge; nothing else.”
“Are you sure, sir?”
“Quite; but we will talk of this hereafter. It is time you sent
your telegram, and went for the coroner.”
“Very well, sir.” And with this we parted; he to perform his role
and I mine.
I found Mrs. Belden walking the floor below, bewailing her
situation, and uttering wild sentences as to what the neighbors
would say of her; what the minister would think; what Clara,
whoever that was, would do, and how she wished she had died before
ever she had meddled with the affair.