Knowing my darling's innocence, I felt the insult shown her in my heart
of hearts, and might in the heat of the moment have been betrayed into
an unwise utterance of my indignation, if at that moment I had not
encountered the eye of Mr. Armstrong, fixed on me from the rear hall. In
the mingled surprise and distress he displayed, I saw that it was not
from any indiscretion of his that this feeling against her had started.
He had not betrayed the trust I had placed in him, yet the murmur had
gone about which virtually ostracized her, and instead of confronting
the eager looks of friends, she found herself met by averted glances and
coldly turned backs, and soon by an almost empty hall.
She flushed as she realized the effect of her presence and cast me an
agonized look, which, without her expectation, perhaps, roused every
instinct of chivalry within me. Advancing, I met her at the foot of the
stairs, and with one quick word seemed to restore her to herself.
"Be patient!" I whispered. "To-morrow they will be all around you again.
Perhaps sooner. Go into the conservatory and wait."
She gave me a grateful pressure of the hand, while I bounded up stairs,
determined that nothing should stop me from finding Gilbertine and
giving her the letter with which Sinclair had intrusted me.
But this was more easily planned than accomplished. When I had reached
the third floor (an unaccustomed and strange spot for me to find myself
in) I at first found no one who could tell me to which room Miss Murray
had retired. Then, when I did come across a stray housemaid and she,
with an extraordinary stare, had pointed out the door, I found it quite
impossible to gain any response from within, though I could hear a
quick step moving restlessly to and fro and now and then catch the sound
of a smothered sob or low cry. The wretched girl would not heed me,
though I told her who I was and that I had a letter from Mr. Sinclair in
my hand. Indeed, she presently became perfectly quiet and let me knock
again and again, till the situation became ridiculous and I felt obliged
to draw off.
Not that I thought of yielding. No, I would stay there till her own
fancy drove her to open the door, or till Mr. Armstrong should come up
and force it. A woman upon whom so many interests depended would not be
allowed to remain shut up the whole morning. Her position as a possible
bride forbade it. Guilty or innocent, she must show herself before long.
As if in answer to my expectation, a figure appeared at this very moment
at the other end of the hall. It was Dutton, the butler, and in his hand
he held a telegram. He seemed astonished to see me there, but passed me
with a simple bow and stopped before the door I had so unavailingly
assailed a few minutes before.
"A telegram, miss," he shouted, as no answer was made to his knock. "Mr.
Armstrong asked me to bring it to you. It is from the bishop and calls
for an immediate reply."
There was a stir within, but the door did not open. Meanwhile, I had
sealed and thrust forth the letter I had held concealed in my breast
pocket.
"Give her this, too," I signified, and pointed to the crack under the
door.
He took the letter, laid the telegram on it, and pushed them both in.
Then he stood up and eyed the unresponsive panels with the set look of a
man who does not easily yield his purpose.
"I will wait for the answer," he shouted through the keyhole, and
falling back he took up his stand against the opposite wall.
I could not keep him company there. Withdrawing into a big dormer
window, I waited with beating heart to see if her door would open.
Apparently not, yet as I still lingered, I heard the lock turn, followed
by the sound of a measured but hurried step. Dashing from my retreat, I
reached the main hall in time to see Miss Murray disappear toward the
staircase. This was well, and I was about to follow when, to my
astonishment, I perceived Dutton standing in the doorway she had just
left, staring down at the floor with a puzzled look.
"She didn't pick up the letters," he cried, in amazement. "She just
walked over them. What shall I do now? It's the strangest thing I ever
saw."
"Take them to the little boudoir over the porch," I suggested. "Mr.
Sinclair is there and if she is not on her way to join him now she
certainly will be soon."
Without a word Dutton caught up the letters and made for the stairs.
Left to await the result, I found myself so worked upon that I wondered
how much longer I should find myself able to endure these shifts of
feeling and constantly recurring moments of extreme suspense. To escape
the torture of my own thoughts, or, possibly, to get some idea of how
Dorothy was sustaining an ordeal which was fast destroying my own
self-possession, I prepared to go down stairs. What was my astonishment
in passing the little boudoir on the second floor, to find its door ajar
and the place empty. Either the interview between Sinclair and
Gilbertine had been very much curtailed, or it had not yet taken place.
With a heart heavy with forebodings I no longer sought to analyze, I
made my way down and reached the lower step of the great staircase just
as a half-dozen girls, rushing from different quarters of the hall,
surrounded the heavy form of Mr. Armstrong coming from his own little
room.
Their questions made a small hubbub. With a good-natured gesture, he put
them all back and, raising his voice, said to the assembled crowd:
"It has been decided by Miss Murray that, under the circumstances, it
will be wiser for her to postpone the celebration of her marriage to
some time and place less fraught with mournful suggestions. A telegram
has just been sent to the bishop to that effect, and while we all suffer
from this disappointment, I am sure there is no one here who will not
see the propriety of her decision."
As he finished, Gilbertine appeared behind him. At the same moment I
caught, or thought I did, the flash of Sinclair's eye from the recesses
of the room beyond; but I could not stop to make sure of this, for
Gilbertine's look and manner were such as to draw my full attention, and
it was with a mixture of almost inexplicable emotions that I saw her
thread her way among her friends, in a state of high feeling which made
her blind to their outstretched hands and deaf to the murmur of interest
and sympathy which instinctively followed her. She was making for the
stairs, and whatever her thoughts, whatever the state of her mind, she
moved superbly, in her pale, yet seemingly radiant abstraction. I
watched her, fascinated, yet when she left the last group and began to
cross the small square of carpet which alone separated us, I stepped
down and aside, feeling that to meet her eye just then without knowing
what had passed between her and Sinclair would be cruel to her and
well-nigh unbearable to myself.
She saw the movement and seemed to hesitate an instant, then she turned
for one brief instant in my direction, and I saw her smile. Great God!
it was the smile of innocence. Fleeting as it was, the pride that was in
it, the sweet assertion and the joy were unmistakable. I felt like
springing to Sinclair's side in the gladness of my relief, but there was
no time; another door had opened down the hall, another person had
stepped upon the scene, and Miss Murray, as well as myself, recognized
by the hush which at once fell upon every one present that something of
still more startling import awaited us.
"Mr. Armstrong and ladies!" said this stranger (I knew he was a stranger
by the studied formality of the former's bow). "I have made a few
inquiries since I came here a short time ago, and I find that there is
one young lady in the house who ought to be able to tell me better than
any one else under what circumstances Mrs. Lansing breathed her last. I
allude to her niece, who slept in the adjoining room. Is that young lady
here? Her name, if I remember rightly, is Camerden--Miss Dorothy
Camerden."
A movement as of denial passed from group to group down the hall, and,
while no one glanced toward the library and some did glance up stairs, I
felt the dart of sudden fear--or was it hope--that Dorothy, hearing her
name called, would leave the conservatory and proudly confront the
speaker in face of this whole suspicious throng. But no Dorothy
appeared. On the contrary, it was Gilbertine who turned, and with an air
of authority for which no one was prepared, asked in tones vibrating
with feeling:
"Has this gentleman the official right to question who was and who was
not with my aunt when she died?"
Mr. Armstrong, who showed his surprise as ingenuously as he did every
other emotion, glanced up at the light figure hovering over them from
the staircase and made out to answer:
"This gentleman has every right, Miss Murray. He is the coroner of the
town, accustomed to inquire into all cases of sudden death."
"Then," she vehemently rejoined, her pale cheeks breaking out into a
scarlet flush, above which her eyes shone with an almost unearthly
brilliancy, "do not summon Dorothy Camerden. She is not the witness you
want. I am. I am the one who uttered that scream; I am the one who saw
our aunt die. Dorothy can not tell you what took place in her room and
at her bedside, for Dorothy was not there; but _I_ can."
Amazed, not as others were, at the assertion itself, but at the manner
and publicity of the utterance, I contemplated this surprising girl in
ever-increasing wonder. Always beautiful, always spirited and proud, she
looked at that moment as if nothing in the shape of fear, or even
contumely, could touch her. She faced the astonishment of her best
friends with absolute fearlessness, and before the general murmur could
break into words, added:
"I feel it my duty to speak thus publicly, because, by keeping silent so
long, I have allowed a false impression to go about. Stunned with
terror, I found it impossible to speak during that first shock. Besides,
I was in a measure to blame for the catastrophe itself and lacked
courage to own it. It was I who took the little crystal flask into my
aunt's room. I had been fascinated by it from the first, fascinated
enough to long to see it closer and to hold it in my hand. But I was
ashamed of this fascination, ashamed, I mean, to have any one know that
I could be moved by such a childish impulse; so, instead of taking the
box itself, which might easily be missed, I simply abstracted the tiny
vial. It strikes me now as a very strange thing for me to do, but then
it seemed a natural enough impulse; and it was with a feeling of decided
satisfaction I carried this coveted object about with me till I got to
my room. Then, when the house was quiet and my room-mate asleep, I took
it out and looked at it, and feeling an irresistible desire to share my
amusement with my cousin, I stole to her room by means of the connecting
balcony, just as I had done many times before when our aunt was in bed
and asleep. But unlike any previous occasion, I found the room empty.
Dorothy was not there; but as the light was burning high I knew she
would soon be back and so ventured to step in. Instantly, I heard my
aunt's voice. She was awake and wanted something. She had evidently
called before, for her voice was sharp with impatience, and she used
some very harsh words. When she heard me in Dorothy's room, she shouted
again, and, as I have always been accustomed to obey her commands, I
hastened to her side, with the little vial concealed in my hand. As she
had expected to see Dorothy and not me, she rose up in unreasoning
anger, asking where my cousin was and why I was not in bed. I attempted
to answer her, but she would not listen to me and bade me turn up the
gas, which I did. Then with her eyes fixed on mine as though she knew I
was trying to conceal something from her, she commanded me to rearrange
her hair and make her more comfortable. This I could not do with the
tiny flask still in my hand, so with a quick movement, which I hoped
would pass unobserved, I slid it behind some bottles standing on a table
by the bedside, and bent to do what she required. But to attempt to
escape her eye was useless. She had seen my action and at once began to
feel about for what I had attempted to hide from her. Coming in contact
with the tiny flask, she seized it, and with a smile I shall never
forget held it up between us. 'What's this?' she cried, showing such
astonishment at its minuteness and perfection of shape that it was
immediately apparent she had heard nothing of the amethyst box displayed
by Mr. Sinclair in the library. 'I never saw a bottle as small as this
before. What is in it and why were you so afraid of my seeing it?' As
she spoke, she attempted to wrench out the stopper. It stuck, so I was
in hopes she would fail in the effort, but she was a woman of uncommon
strength and presently it yielded and I saw the vial open in her hand.
"Aghast with terror, I caught at the table beside me, fearing to drop
before her eyes. Instantly, her look of curiosity changed to one of
suspicion, and repeating, 'What's in it? What's in it?' she raised the
flask to her nostrils, and when she found she could make out nothing
from the smell, lowered it to her lips, with the intention, I suppose,
of determining its contents by tasting them. As I caught sight of this
fatal action, and beheld the one drop, which Mr. Sinclair had said was
enough to kill a man, slip from its hiding-place of centuries into her
open throat, I felt as if the poison had entered my own veins; I could
neither speak nor move. But when, an instant later, I met the look which
spread suddenly over her face--a look of horror and hatred, accusing
horror and unspeakable hatred mingled with what I dimly felt must mean
death--an agonized cry burst from my lips, after which, panicstricken, I
flew as if for life, back by the way I had come, to my own room. This
was a great mistake. I should have remained with my aunt and boldly met
the results of the tragedy which my folly had brought about. But terror
knows no law, and having once yielded to the instinct of concealment, I
knew no other course than to continue to maintain an apparent ignorance
of what had just occurred. With chattering teeth and an awful numbness
at my heart, I tore off my wrapper and slid into bed. Miss Lane had not
wakened, but every one else had and the hall was full of people. This
terrified me still more, and for the moment I felt that I could never
own the truth and bring down upon myself all this wonder and curiosity.
So I allowed a wrong impression of the event to go about, for which act
of cowardice I now ask the pardon of every one here, as I have already
asked that of Mr. Sinclair and of our kind friend, Mr. Armstrong."
She paused, and stood for a moment confronting us all with proud eyes
and flaming cheeks, then amid a hubbub which did not seem to affect her
in the least, she stepped down, and approaching the man who, she had
been told, had a right to her full confidence, she said, loud enough for
all who wished to hear her:
"I am ready to give you whatever further information you may require.
Shall I step into the drawing-room with you?"
He bowed and as they disappeared from the great hall the hubbub of
voices became tumultuous.
Naturally I should have joined in the universal expressions of surprise
and the gossip incident to such an unexpected revelation. But I found
myself averse to any kind of talk. Till I could meet Sinclair's eye and
discern in it the happy clearing-up of all his doubts, I should not feel
free to be my own ordinary and sociable self again. But Sinclair showed
every evidence of wishing to keep in the background, and while this was
natural enough, so far as people in general were concerned, I thought it
odd and very unlike him not to give me an opportunity to express my
congratulations at the turn affairs had taken and the frank attitude
assumed by Gilbertine. I own I felt much disturbed by this neglect, and
as the minutes passed and he failed to appear, I found my satisfaction
in her explanations dwindle under the consciousness that they had
failed, in some respects, to account for the situation; and before I
knew it, I was the prey of fresh doubts which I did my best to smother,
not only for the sake of Sinclair, but because I was still too much
under the influence of Gilbertine's imposing personality to wish to
believe aught but what her burning words conveyed. She must have spoken
the truth, but was it the entire truth? I hated myself for asking the
question; hated myself for being more critical with her than I had been
with Dorothy, who certainly had not made her own part in this tragedy as
clear as one who loved her could wish. Ah, Dorothy! it was time some one
told her that Gilbertine had openly vindicated her and that she could
now come forth and face her friends without hesitation and without
dread. Was she still in the conservatory? Doubtless. But it would be
better perhaps for me to make sure.
Approaching the place by the small door connecting it with the hall-way
in which I stood, I took a hurried look within, and, seeing no one,
stepped boldly down between the palms to the little nook where lovers of
this quiet spot were accustomed to sit. It was empty, and so was the
library beyond. Coming back, I accosted Dutton, whom I found
superintending the removal of the potted plants which encumbered the
passages, and asked him if he knew where Miss Camerden was? He answered
without hesitation that she had stood in the rear hall a little while
before, listening to Miss Murray; that she had then gone up stairs by
the spiral staircase, leaving word with him that if anybody wanted her
she would be found in the small boudoir over the porch.
I thanked him and was on my way to join her, when Mr. Armstrong called
me. He must have kept me a half-hour in his room, discussing every
aspect of the affair and apologizing for the necessity which he now felt
for bidding farewell to most of his guests, among whom, he was careful
to state, he did not include me. Then, when I thought this topic
exhausted, he began to talk about his wife, and what this dreadful
occurrence was to her and how he despaired of ever reconciling her to
the fact that it had been considered necessary to call in a coroner.
Then he spoke of Sinclair, but with some constraint and a more careful
choice of words, at which, realizing that I was to reap nothing from
this interview, only suffer strong and continual irritation at a delay
which was costing me the inestimable privilege of being the first to
tell Dorothy of her reestablishment in every one's good opinion, I
exerted myself for release and to such good purpose that I presently
found myself again in the hall, where the first person I ran against was
Sinclair.
He started and so did I at this unexpected encounter. Then we stood
still, and I stared at him in amazement, for everything about the man
was changed, and--inexplicable fact!--in nothing was this change more
marked than in his attitude toward myself. Yet he tried to be friendly
and meet me on the old footing, and observed as soon as we found
ourselves beyond the hearing of others:
"You heard what Gilbertine said. There is no reason for doubting her
words. _I_ do not doubt them and you will show yourself my friend
by not doubting them either." Then with some impetuosity and a gleam
in his eye quite foreign to its natural expression, he pursued, with
a pitiful effort to speak dispassionately: "Our wedding is
postponed--indefinitely. There are reasons why this seemed best to Miss
Murray. To you, I will say, that postponed nuptials seldom culminate in
marriage. In fact, I have just released Miss Murray from all obligations
to myself."
The stare of utter astonishment I gave him called up a flush, the first
and only one I have ever seen on his face. What was I to say, what could
I say, in response to such a declaration, following so immediately upon
his warm assertion of her innocence? Nothing. With that indefinable
chill between us, which had come I knew not how, I felt tongue-tied.
He saw my embarrassment, possibly my emotion, for he smiled somewhat
bitterly and put a step or so between us before he remarked:
"Miss Murray has my good wishes. Out of respect to her position I shall
show her a friend's attention while we remain in this house. That is all
I have to say, Walter. You and I have held our last conversation on this
subject."
He was gone before I had sufficiently recovered to realize that in this
conversation I had had no part, neither had it contained any explanation
of the very facts which had once formed our greatest grounds for doubt,
namely, Beaton's dream, the smothered cry uttered behind Sinclair's
shoulder when he first made known the deadly qualities of the little
vial, and lastly, the strange desire acknowledged to by both these young
ladies to touch and hold an object calculated rather to repel than to
attract the normal feminine heart.
At every previous stage of this ever-shifting drama, my instinct had
been to set my wits against the facts, and, if I could, puzzle out the
mystery. But I felt no such temptation now. My one desire was to act,
and that immediately. Dorothy, for all Gilbertine's intimation to the
contrary, held the key to the enigma in her own breast. Otherwise, she
would not have ventured upon that surprising and necessarily unpalatable
advice to Sinclair--an advice he seemed to have followed--not to marry
Gilbertine Murray at the time proposed. Nothing, short of a secret
acquaintanceship with facts unknown as yet to the rest of us, could have
nerved her to such an act.
My one hope, then, of understanding the matter lay with her. To seek her
at once in the place where I had been told she awaited me seemed the
only course to take. If any real gratitude underlay the look of trust
which she had given me at the termination of our last interview, she
would reward my confidence in her by unbosoming herself to me.
I was at the door of the boudoir immediately upon forming this
resolution. Finding it ajar, I pushed it softly open, and as softly
entered. To my astonishment, the place was very dark. Not only had the
shades been drawn down, but the shutters had been closed, so that it was
with difficulty I detected the slight, black-robed figure which lay,
face down, among the cushions of a lounge. She had evidently not heard
my entrance, for she did not move; and, struck by her pathetic attitude,
I advanced in a whirl of feeling which made me forget all
conventionalities and everything else, in fact, but that I loved her and
had the utmost confidence in her power to make me happy. Laying my hand
softly on her head, I tenderly whispered:
"Look up, dear. Whatever barrier may have intervened between us has
fallen. Look up and hear how I love you."
She thrilled as a woman only thrills when her secret soul is moved, and,
rising with a certain grand movement, turned her face upon me, glorious
with a feeling that not even the dimness of the room could hide.
Why, then, did my brain whirl and my heart collapse?
It was Gilbertine and not Dorothy who stood before me.