THE STORY OF A CRIME.
Nurse Hagar was displeased. She plied her knitting-needles fiercely,
and seemed to rejoice in their sharp clicking. She rocked furiously
backwards and forwards, and sharply admonished the cat to "take
himself away," or she "would certainly rock on his tail." She "wanted
to do something to somebody, she did!" She looked across the fields in
the direction of Oakley, and dropping her knitting and bringing her
chair to a tranquil state, soliloquized:
"It's always the way with young folks; they don't never remember that
old uns have feelings. They run away after a new face, and if it's a
young one and a handsome one, they turn everybody out of their
thoughts; everybody else. Not that I think that city fellow's a
handsome chap; by no means," she grumbled; "but Maidie does; that's
certain sure. And she won't let me say a word about him--oh, no; I'm a
poor old woman, and my advice is not wanted!"
Hagar resumed her knitting and her rocking with fresh vigor. But her
face relaxed a measure of its grimness as, looking up, her eye rested
on a dainty nosegay, tossed in at the window only that morning, by
this same neglectful young girl.
"She don't mean to forget me, to be sure," she resumed. "She is always
kind and gentle to her old nurse. She is lonesome, of course, and
should have young company, like other girls, but--" here the needles
slacked again--"drat that city chap! I wish he had stayed away from
Bellair."
"Goodness, auntie, what a face! I am almost afraid to come in."
Madeline laughed, despite her anxiety, as Aunt Hagar permitted her
opinion of the "city feller" to manifest itself in every feature.
"Get that awfully defiant look out of your countenance, auntie,"
continued Madeline; "for I'm coming in to have a long talk with you,
and I must not be frightened in the beginning."
The lovely face disappeared from the open window, and in a moment
reappeared in the doorway.
To permit herself to be propitiated in a moment, however, was not in
the nature of Dame Hagar.
"I s'pose you think it's very respectful to pop your saucy head in at
an old woman's window, and set her all of a tremble and then tell her,
because she is not grinning for her own amusement, that she looks
awfully cross, and that you are afraid she will bite you. You are a
nice one to talk of being afraid; you, who never showed an atom of
fear of anything from your cradle up. If you were a bit afraid, when
you were out in the woods, for instance, and meet a long-legged animal
with a smooth tongue, and eyes that ought to make you nervous,
'twouldn't be to your discredit, I think. Of course, I don't mean to
say that you don't meet him quite by accident; oh, no! And I don't
_say_ that he ain't a very nice, respectable sort of chap, whatever I
may _think_. You are just like your poor mother, and if this fellow
with a name that might as well be Devil, and done with it--"
"There, now, auntie--" Madeline's face flushed, and she put the cat
down with sudden emphasis; "I won't let you say bad things of Mr.
Davlin, for I think you would be sorry for it afterward."
She drew a low seat to the side of the old lady, and looking her full
in the face, spoke in a voice low, intense, full of purpose.
"Auntie, it is time you told me more about my mother. You have evaded,
my step-father has forbidden, my questioning, but if I am ever to know
aught of my dead mother's history, I intend to hear it from your lips
to-day."
Surprise for a time held the old woman speechless; a look of sorrow
and affection drove the querulousness out of her face and voice.
"What ails you, child?" she said, wonderingly. "Do you want to make
Mr. Arthur hate me more, and keep you from me entirely? Don't you
know, dearie, how he swore that the day I told you these things, he
would forbid you to visit me; and if you disobeyed, take you away
where I could not even hear of you?"
Tears were in Hagar's eyes, and she held out her wrinkled hands
imploringly. "Don't tease your old nurse, dearie; don't. I can't tell
you these things now, and they could not make you any happier, child.
Wait a little; the time will come--"
"So will old age, auntie; and death, and all the knowledge we want, I
suppose, when it is too late to make it profitable. Well, auntie, I
will tell you something in exchange for my mother's story, and to make
it easier for you to relate it. But first, will you answer a few
questions?--wait, I know what you would say," as the old woman made a
deprecating movement, and essayed to speak. "Hear me, now."
Hagar looked at the girl earnestly for a moment, and then said,
quietly:
"Go on then, dearie."
"First," pursued Madeline; "my father dislikes me very much; is this
the truth?" Hagar nodded assent.
"He dislikes you because you were always good to me." Here she paused,
and Hagar again nodded.
"Because you were attached to my mother." Again she paused, and again
the old woman bowed assent.
"And because"--the girl fixed the eyes of the old nurse with her
own,--"because you were too familiar with my mother's past, and his,
and knew too well the secret of his hatred of me!"
Hagar sat silent and motionless, but Madeline, who had read her answer
in the troubled face, continued: "Very good; I knew all this before,
and I'll tell you what else I know. I know why Mr. John Arthur hates
me!"
Hagar opened her mouth, and shut it again quickly.
"He hates me," pursued Madeline, "because my mother left him her
fortune so tied up that he can only use it; never dispose of it. And
at his death it reverts to me."
Hagar still looked her amazement, and Madeline condensed the remainder
of her force into one telling shot.
"If I would be kind enough to die, he would consider it a great favor.
But as I evidently intend to live long, he desires, of course, to see
me happy. Therefore he has bargained me in marriage to Amos Adams, for
the splendid consideration of a few thousand dollars, and the promise
of a few thousand more _if I die young_!"
Still the bewildered look rested upon the old woman's face, and still
she gazed at the young girl before her. Suddenly, she leaned forward,
and taking the fair head between two trembling hands, gazed long at
her. As if satisfied at last with her scrutiny, she drew a deep,
sighing breath and leaned back in her chair.
"It's true," groaned Hagar; "it's too true! She has found it out, and
my little girl has gone away;--my Baby Madeline is become a woman!
There was never a coward in all the race, and a Payne never forgave!
It has come at last," she wailed, "and now, what will she do?"
Madeline lost not a look nor tone; and when the old woman ceased her
rocking and moaning, she suggested, with a half smile:
"Hadn't I better marry old Adams, auntie, worry them both into
untimely graves, and be a rich young widow?"
Hagar gazed at her in silence. And Madeline, taking her hand in her
own, said: "Shall I tell you how I discovered all this, auntie, dear?"
"Yes, child; go on." And she bent upon the girl a look of attention.
Madeline drew close to her side, and briefly related what had
transpired while she sat in her favorite tree; not stating, by the
bye, how it occurred that she was in the grove at that very opportune
time. Hagar's indignation was unbounded, but she continued to gaze at
Madeline in a strange, half fearful, half wondering, wholly expectant
way, that the girl could not interpret.
"And now, Aunt Hagar," pursued Madeline, seriously, "I want to
understand this matter more fully, and I will not say a word of my
plans until you have told me what I came to hear. I shall not come to
you again for this information; it is surely my right, and time now is
precious."
Madeline half rose, seeing that her nurse still rocked dismally and
looked irresolute. "I can bide my time, and fight my battles alone, if
need be," she continued, coldly. "I won't trouble you again, nurse,"
turning as if to go.
"Stop, child!" cried Hagar; "let an old woman think. I'll tell you all
I can; all I know. Don't turn away from your old nurse, dearie; her
only thought is for your good. Yes; you must not be left in the dark
now,--sit down child; sit down."
Madeline resumed her seat, and old Hagar, after another season of
moaning and rocking, proceeded to relate, with many wanderings from
the point, and many interpolations and opinions of her own, the brief,
sad story of Mrs. Arthur's married life and early death. Bereft of
Hagar's ornamental extras, it was as follows:
Madeline Harcourt, an orphan, and the adopted daughter of a wealthy
bachelor uncle, had incurred his displeasure by loving and marrying
Lionel Payne, handsome, brave to a fault, with no other wealth than
his keen intellect, his unsullied honor, and his loving, manly heart.
[Illustration: "I can bide my time, and fight my battles alone if need
be."--page 30]
Lionel Payne had entered upon the study of law, but circumstances
threw in his way certain mysteries that had long been puzzling the
heads of the foremost detectives, and the young law student
discovered in himself not only a marked taste for the study of
mysteries, but a talent that was remarkable. So he gave up his law
studies to become a detective. He rose rapidly in his new profession,
giving all the strength of his splendid ability to the study of
intricate and difficult cases, and became known among detectives, and
dreaded among criminals, as "Payne, the Expert."
He had lived two happy years with his young wife, and been six months
the proud father of baby Madeline, when he fell a victim to his
dangerous pursuit, shot dead by a bullet from the hand of a fleeing
assassin.
John Arthur had been a fellow law student with Lionel Payne, and he
had followed the career of the young expert with curious interest,
being, as much as was possible to his selfish nature, a friend and
admirer of the rising young detective. And Lionel Payne, open and
manly himself, and seeing no trace of the serpent in the seeming
disinterestedness of Arthur, introduced him proudly into his happy
home. Arthur was struck by the beauty of the young wife, and became a
frequent and welcome visitor.
One day, there came to the office where John Arthur earned his bread
reluctantly, as a salaried clerk, the uncle of Madeline Payne. He had
come to make a will, in which he left all his possessions to his
beloved niece, Madeline, and her heirs forever after. This was several
months before the sudden death of Lionel Payne.
Ten months after she became a widow, Madeline's uncle died. Left alone
with her little child, and with no resources but her own efforts,
Madeline's mother struggled on, ever the object of the kind
watchfulness and unobtrusive care of John Arthur, who professed to
adore the child for the sake of the father, and through the baby
Madeline, gradually won his way in the mother's esteem. Mrs. Payne was
deeply grateful, and her mother's heart was touched by the devotion of
Arthur to her little child. So it came about that, after a time, she
gave him her hand, and all of her heart that was not buried with
Lionel. A little later she learned that her uncle was dead, and she
became mistress of a handsome fortune.
Soon came the knowledge that her husband's heart was not all gold, and
the suspicion, as well, that her uncle's will and its purport had long
been no secret to him. But, partly from force of habit, and partly
because he was not yet quiet hardened, John Arthur kept up his farce
of affection for the child. And while his wife awoke to a knowledge of
many of his short-comings, she always believed in his love for her
little one.
The two elements that were strongest in the nature of John Arthur were
selfishness and pride. From his youth up his idols had been gold and
self. Born into the world minus that "golden spoon" for which he
sighed in youth, and schemed in later years, he had ever felt towards
said world a half-fledged enmity. As he reached the age of manhood,
his young sister was formally adopted by the only surviving relatives
of the two; and becoming in due course of time and nature sole
possessor of a very nice little fortune, afterwards held her head very
high. Later, in consequence of some little indiscretions of her
brother at the time when he was set free in the world--the result of
the popular superstition held by him that "the world owed him a
living,"--she held herself aloof from and ignored him completely.
By degrees Mrs. Arthur's eyes became opened to the true character of
the man she had married. Moments she had of doubting, and then of
fearing that she wronged him too deeply, for her nature was a just
one. It was in one of these latter moods that she made her will,
before she had become aware that even his love for her little girl was
only a well acted lie; believing her secure of love and care during
his life, she made sure that, at his death, her darling should be
supplied with all that money could give. She had long been in the
fatal toils of that dread destroyer, heart disease, and suddenly,
before she had found opportunity for securing her little daughter
further, as she had since begun to realize it was needful to do, she
was seized with a paroxysm that snapped the frail cord of life.
A short time before her death, she had given into the keeping of old
Hagar, a package, to be delivered to little Madeline when she should
become a woman, and with the express wish that, should John Arthur
prove a kind guardian meanwhile, she would burn the journal it
contained, unread.
Old Hagar now placed in Madeline's hands the package, which was found
to contain her mother's most valuable jewels, and the tear-stained
journal, which the girl seated herself to peruse, with sorrowful awe.
The last page being turned, and the sad life of her mother fully
revealed, Madeline bowed her head and wept bitterly, heedless of the
attempt of old Hagar to comfort her, until the name of her step-father
upon the old woman's lips brought her suddenly to her feet, the tears
still on her cheeks, but her eyes flashing, and on her countenance a
look that might have been a revelation to John Arthur, had that
gentleman been there to see. Taking the old woman's hand, and holding
it tightly in her own, the girl said:
"Thanks, auntie, for recalling me. I have no time for tears now.
Listen, and don't interrupt me. My poor mother died with a heart
filled with fears for my future, left to that man's keeping. At the
time of her death, he believed himself her unconditional heir. She
feared for her life with him, and her sickness was aggravated in every
possible manner by him, and I fully believe that, in intent if not in
deed, John Arthur is my _mother's murderer_!"
The old woman's face expressed as plainly as words could do, that she
shared in this belief. The girl went on, in the same rapid, firm tone:
"He killed the mother for gold, and now he would sell her child. He
will fail; and this is but the beginning. As he drove my mother into
her grave, I will hunt him into his! He shall suffer all that she
suffered, and more! I know where you obtained your independence now,
Aunt Hagar; and he hates you doubly because my mother's love provided
for you a home, and for her child a haven in time of need. It was
well. Keep the old cottage open for me, Aunt Hagar. Keep an eye on
John Arthur, for my sake. Never fear for me, whatever happens. Expect
to hear from me at any time, to see me at any moment. Don't answer any
questions about me. A thousand thanks for all your love and kindness,
auntie; good-by."
Before the old woman could recover from her astonishment, or utter a
word, Madeline had kissed her, swiftly taken up the precious package,
and was gone! Hagar hastened to the door, but the girl was speeding
swiftly down the path, and was quickly lost to view.
"Oh! Oh! Oh!" moaned Hagar, seating herself in the doorway; "her
father's passion and her mother's pride! Sorrow and trouble before
her, and she all alone; dark, dark, dark; the world against her!
Sorrow and trouble--it's in the blood! And she'll never give it up!
She'll fight her wrongs to the bitter end. Oh, my precious girl!" and
she buried her head in her apron and wept.
The sun's last ray had faded from the highest hill-top. The little
birds had folded their wings and hushed their warblings. Dark clouds
came sweeping up from the west, and one, heavy and black, passed above
the roof of Oakley, bent down, and rested there. Hagar, still
sorrowing in the doorway, saw and interpreted. Dark days to come to
the master of that overshadowed house. Dreary days and bitter
nights--ah, how many, before that cloud should be lifted from over it,
or light hearts beat beneath its roof.
"I beg pardon, madame, you appear in trouble; perhaps I intrude?"
It was Lucian Davlin's soft, lazy voice, and that disagreeable half
smile lurked about the corners of his eyes and mouth.
"I've had more welcome visitors," said the old woman, with more truth
than politeness, and rubbing her eyes with the corner of her apron,
"what do you want?"
"Only a small matter of information, which I believe you can give me."
"Well," said Hagar, testily.
"I want to make a few inquiries about Mr. Arthur of Oakley."
"About Miss Madeline, I suppose you mean. I won't tell you a word--"
"My dear, good woman, I don't ask nor wish any information regarding
that young lady--my inquiries solely concern the father. He is said to
be wealthy!"
"What is John Arthur or his money to you?" she questioned, eying him
with much disfavor.
"Nothing whatever," he indifferently replied. "I merely inquire on
behalf of a friend."
"I'll throw him off the scent if he does mean Madeline," thought the
old woman.
"Well, Mr. whatever your name is, if it will satisfy your friend to
know that Mr. John Arthur is master of Oakley, and everybody knows
there's no finer property in the State, and that he has a yearly
income of ten thousand or more, why, tell him or her so. And you may
as well say, at the same time, that he is too stingy and mean to keep
the one in repair, or spend decently the other. And when he
dies"--here she suddenly checked herself--"well, when he dies, his
heirs, whoever they may be, will inherit all the more because of his
meanness."
"And who, pray, may be his heirs?"
"How should I know who a stingy old reprobate will choose to inherit
after him? I think he has a sister somewhere, but I don't know."
"H'm, thank you--for my friend. Good-night."
Smiling that same Mephistophelian smile, Lucian Davlin sauntered away,
apparently satisfied with himself and what was passing in his mind.
"He'll do," he muttered; "and she'll do him. It will be a good thing
for her, just now, and very convenient for me into the bargain. Cora's
a marvellously fine woman, but little Madeline is fresh as a rose, and
a few months of the city will make her sharp enough. Only let me keep
them apart; that's all." Satisfaction beamed in his eye and smiled on
his lip. "Pretty Madeline will be the envy of half the boulevard."
Now he has neared the trysting tree. "I think I'll just smoke here,
and wait for my pretty bird; this is the place and almost the time."
He smoked and he waited; the time came, and passed; his cigar expired;
the shadows deepened--but still he waited.
And he waited in vain. No light form advanced through, the gathering
night; no sweet voice greeted him.
The time was far past now, and, muttering an oath, the disappointed
lover strode away, and was lost in the night.
Madeline was standing in her own room, the threshold of which John
Arthur had never crossed since the day when a silent form was borne
from it, and laid in that peaceful home, the churchyard. She had just
received the summons, for which, only, she lingered--the command of
Mr. Arthur to attend at the altar of hospitality, and pour, for Mr.
Amos Adams, the tea.
She was attired in a neat dark garment which was vastly becoming. She
had made her toilet with more than usual care, as if, perhaps, to do
honor to her ancient suitor--at least so thought Mr. Arthur, when she
presented herself before him.
She had put her chiefest treasures in a little, a very little,
travelling bag. And now she threw across her arm a large cloak, took
her hat, veil, and bag, and descended softly to the hall below. It was
faintly lighted from the lower end, and Madeline deposited her
belongings in a darkened niche near a door, peeped put into the night
that had come on cloudy and starless, and entered the room where
waited the two conspirators, and supper.
John Arthur was more bland and smiling than Madeline had ever before
known him, while as for old Amos, he nearly lost himself in a maze of
grins and chuckles, but displayed a very unloverlike appetite,
nevertheless, and divided his attention pretty evenly between the
beautiful face of Madeline, and the viands on the table.
Madeline betrayed no sign of surprise at her step-papa's unwonted
cordiality, and no annoyance at the ogling and chuckling of her
antiquated suitor. In truth, she favored him with more than one
expressive smile, the meaning of which he little guessed, as she
contrasted him once more with handsome Lucian Davlin, and smiled again
at the picture of his coming defeat.
The meal was partaken of in comparative silence, all apparently quite
satisfied with their own thoughts--ah, how different! It was not until
old Jane, the servant, had been dismissed that Mr. Arthur drew his
chair a trifle nearer that of his friend, and leaning his arms upon
the table, looked across at Madeline, and said:
"My dear, I believe you are aware of the honor this gentleman desires
to confer upon you? I think I have hinted at the truth upon one or two
occasions?"
Madeline veiled her too expressive eyes behind their long lashes, but
made no reply.
"It is my desire," he continued, surveying with satisfaction the
appearance of humility with which his words were received, "and the
desire of Mr. Adams as well, that we should come to a satisfactory
understanding to-night. We will, therefore, settle the preliminaries
at once:--this is your desire, I think, Mr. Adams?"
"Oh, certainly! Oh, yes, yes," ejaculated old Amos, in a transport of
grins.
"And this will, I trust,"--he was growing more stately and polite
every moment--"this, of course, is satisfactory to you, Miss
Madeline?"
"Perfectly." She looked him full in the face now, and somehow her
glance slightly impaired his feeling of dignity and security.
"Very good; and now having formally accepted the proffered hand of Mr.
Adams--"
"Pardon me, sir, you are too fast. Mr. Adams has not offered
himself."
"Nonsense,"--Mr. Arthur suddenly forgot his politeness--"haven't I
just stated his offer?"
Madeline leaned back in her chair, and looked from one to the other
with a tranquil smile.
"Perhaps; but unfortunately there is a law in existence which
prohibits a man from marrying his grandmother, and likewise objects, I
believe, to a young woman's espousing her step-papa, however much
adored. And as you can't marry me, my dear parent and guardian, why I
object to listening to a proposal from your lips."
John Arthur gazed in angry consternation upon the girl's still smiling
face, but before the impatient words that he would have uttered could
find voice, old Amos, who had interpreted her smiles as being
favorable to himself, came gallantly to the rescue.
"Right! quite right," he chuckled. "Of course, you know, Arthur--Miss
Madeline, ahem--that's what I meant, you know. It's the proper way,"
he gasped; and the general expression of his countenance did not tend
to make his observations the more lucid--"I meant, you know--ah,
well--will you honor me Miss Madeline--by--by your hand, you know?"
This effort of oratory was received with smiling attention by the
girl, who now addressed herself entirely to him, without heeding the
effect of her words upon her step-father, or his interpolations, as
she proceeded.
"Mr. Adams;"--she spoke in a low, even tone, and gradually permitted
the real feelings that were seeking for expression to show themselves
in her every feature--"Mr. Adams, I think I appreciate _as it
deserves_ the honor you desire to bestow upon me; believe me, too,
when I say that I am as grateful as it is proper I should be. But, Mr.
Adams, I am only a mere girl, and you might pay too dearly for me."
"What the deuce does the fool mean?" growled Mr. Arthur.
"I don't dispute the fact that I am a perfectly marketable commodity,
and it is very right and proper that my dear step-papa--who dotes on
me, whose idol I have been for long years--should set a high valuation
upon my unworthy head. Yet this little Arcadian transaction is really
not just the thing for the present century and country. And so, Mr.
Adams, I must beg leave to thank you for the honor you proffer, and,
thanking you, to decline it!"
For a moment no one spoke; there was neither sound nor movement in the
room. John Arthur was literally speechless with rage, and old Amos was
just as speechless from astonishment; while Madeline gazed from one to
the other unmoved. As soon as he could articulate, John Arthur
confronted her, and taking her roughly by the shoulder, demanded:
"What do you mean, you ungrateful jade? What are you talking about?"
"About your contract in flesh and blood, Mr. Arthur. About your very
worthy scheme for putting money in your pockets by making me this
man's wife. If I am to be sold, sir, I will make my own bargain; be
very sure of that; and _this_ is not my bargain!"
"Don't talk to me of bargains, you little idiot! Do you think to defy
me? Do you dare to defy me?"
His rage passed all bounds. She put the width of the table between
them and surveyed him across it, mockingly.
"Listen, girl, I am your lawful guardian; you shall obey me!"
"Really, now, don't, step-papa; you are actually purple in the face!
You might die, you know; think of your heart, do, and take a glass of
water."
Old Adams collapsed in the remote corner whither he had fled. The
miser was not at home in a tempest, and this was already beyond his
depth. He gasped in speechless amaze and affright. Was this the girl
he had thought to mold as his wife, this fearless, defiant creature?
Already he began to congratulate himself upon his lucky escape. "She
would murder me some day," he thought, shuddering.
For the time being, John Arthur was a madman. Defied, mocked, by this
girl who had been a burden to his very life! He raged, he raved, he
cursed; and so raging and raving, he cursed her, and then in vile,
bitter words hurled his anathema at her dead mother's memory.
Then the mocking smile was gone, the taunting voice changed its tone;
and as it changed, old Amos, cowering in his corner, shuddered afresh.
Her whole face underwent a transformation. Her form dilated, she
sprang before her step-father and the ring of her voice checked the
imprecations on his lips.
"Stop," she cried; "don't add the last drop to your already overfull
measure! Don't double the force of the thunderbolt that will strike
you some day! Is it not enough that you have hated me all my life
through; that you have loaded down my childhood with unkind words,
curses, and wishes for my death? Not enough that you follow me with
your hatred because my mother's own will be mine at your death? Not
enough that you would barter my life--yes, my _life_--for gold, sell
my heart's blood for your own ease and comfort? And now must you
pollute the name of my mother, as you polluted her life? Never breathe
her name again; never _dare_ to name her! I, her daughter, tell you
that for her every tear, every heart pang, every sigh, _you_ shall pay
dearly; _dearly!_ I will avenge my mother's wrongs, some day; for _you
are her murderer_!"
[Illustration: "I will avenge my mother's wrongs some day; for _you
are her murderer_."--page 42.]
John Arthur gazed in speechless amaze into the space before him--but
she was gone! The stern, vengeful, set face was no longer there. The
proud, ringing voice was no longer sounding in his ear. The uplifted,
warning, threatening hand menaced him only in memory. And before the
might of her purpose, and the force of her maledictions, he stood as
in a trance.
When he had so far recovered himself as to think of her sudden
disappearance, he went out quickly. The entrance door stood wide open;
the dim light flickered on an empty hall and stairway; the sky was
black with clouds, and never a star; the wind moaned about the house;
and across the meadow came the doleful howl of old Hagar's watch-dog.
But Madeline was not to be found.
Always, in the days to come, he remembered her face as it had looked
on him that night. Often in dreams he would start and cry out, haunted
by the sound of her scornful voice, the spectre of her threatening
hand.