THE ACCUSATION.
“If she prove guilty—
Farewell my faith in aught of human kind.
I’ll hie me to some hermit’s cave, and there
Forget my race.”
When the doctor had left the library, Malcolm Montrose threw himself
back in his chair, clasped his forehead between his hands, and strove to
master the consternation that seemed to threaten his very reason.
Grief, horror, and amazement, sufficient to have shaken the firmness of
the strongest mind, deprived him for the moment of all power of
practical and definite action. And yet, through all the terrible emotion
that shook his soul to its centre, he was conscious of a profound
incredulity in the truth of the doctor’s statement. But the doubt, the
uncertainty, the mere suspicion of such atrocious crimes, perpetrated in
the bosom of his own family, overwhelmed him with consternation.
“Dead by the hand of the secret poisoner! the baron and his daughter
too! the baron whose whole life had been one long act of the noblest
beneficence, and his child, whose days had been ever devoted to the
happiness of all around her! their benign lives cut off by poison!
Impossible! impossible! it cannot be! it is not so!
“And yet, and yet the suddenness and the strangeness of both deaths, and
the unquestionable competency of the physician who attended them in
their last hours, and who now makes this dreadful assertion!
“And if this is so, by whom, great Heavens? By whom has this atrocious
crime been perpetrated? and for what purpose? Who could have any
interest in the premature death of this noble man and lovely girl?
“No one but—oh, Heaven! but Eudora! She is their heiress; the estate is
now hers, but she is innocent! my life, my honor, my soul will I stake
upon her innocence. And yet, if this father and child shall be proved to
have died by poison, how black the evidence may be made to appear
against her, and how weak her own position! She is an orphan and
friendless, and though on her father’s side of English parentage, she is
of foreign birth and education, and has been in this country too short a
time to establish a character. She has no good antecedents to set
against this dreadful charge with the strong testimony that may be
brought to support it. She was the third in succession to this estate,
and, consequently, her mercenary interest in the deaths of the baron and
his daughter. She was the constant attendant of the late Lord Leaton,
and prepared the drink of which he died. She watched last night by the
side of Agatha, and administered to her the so-called fatal draught. If
they are proved to have died by poison it will ruin her indeed. She will
be called a second Brinvilliers. She will be arraigned, tried,
condemned—oh, Heaven of Heavens! what unspeakable horrors remain in
store for her, innocent as an angel though I know her to be.”
Such were the maddening thoughts that coursed through his brain and
caused the sweat of agony to start from his brow. He wiped the beaded
drops from his pale forehead, and sprang up and paced the room with
disordered steps, laboring in vain for the composure that he could not
obtain.
The death of the noble-hearted baron in the prime of life, the death of
the sweet young girl in dawn of youth, were mournful enough even though
they died from natural causes, and if they perished by poison
administered by treacherous hands their fate was dreadful indeed. And
yet it was nothing to be compared with the unutterable horror of that
train of misfortunes which threatened the orphan, stranger, the innocent
Eudora. And thus other emotions of sorrow for the loss of his near
relatives were swallowed up in an anguish of anxiety for the fate of the
orphan girl.
And so he strove for self-command, and coolness, and clearness of mind,
that he might be prepared to assist at the approaching investigation, in
the hope of discovering the truth, and clearing the fame of Eudora.
He paced up and down the library floor until he had obtained the
necessary state of calmness to deal with this mystery.
When the doctor had left the library he was met in the hall by a
servant, hastening towards him in great agitation, and saying:
“Sir, I was just coming to see you. The Princess Pezzilini begs that you
will hasten at once to my lady’s bedside, as her ladyship is in the
death-throe!”
Without a word of reply the doctor turned and hurried up the stairs and
along the corridor leading to Lady Leaton’s apartments.
When he entered the chamber he found Lady Leaton in violent convulsions,
and restrained from throwing herself out of the bed only by the strong
arms of the Italian princess, which thrown around her shoulders
supported her heaving form.
But, even as the doctor stepped up to the bedside, her form relaxed and
became supple as that of an infant.
The princess laid the head back upon the pillow. Her eyes closed, and
the ashen hue of death overspread her features.
The doctor took up her left hand, and placed his fingers upon the pulse.
But that pulse was still, and that hand was the hand of the dead. He
laid it gently down, and turning, looked upon those gathered around the
bed.
They were the Princess Pezzilini, Eudora Leaton, and her ladyship’s
maid.
Especially he fastened his eyes upon Eudora, who knelt on the opposite
side of the bed, with her face buried in the bed-clothes, in an attitude
of deep grief.
“Can any one here inform me whether Lady Leaton drank of the
tamarind-water which stood upon the mantleshelf of Miss Leaton’s
chamber?” inquired the doctor, looking sternly around him.
“Yes, sir,” answered the lady’s-maid, looking up through her tears;
“when my lady was so agitated by seeing the condition of Miss Leaton as
to be near swooning, and I was obliged to support her in my arms, I
called for a glass of water, and Miss Eudora quickly poured out a
tumbler of tamarind-water, saying there was no other at hand, and held
it to her ladyship’s lips.”
“And her ladyship drank it?”
“Yes, sir; she eagerly drank off the whole glassful, for she was so
anxious to keep up for Miss Leaton’s sake, not believing that she was
past all help,” replied the woman.
“That will do,” said the doctor, once bending his eyes sternly upon the
kneeling form of Eudora.
But the girl, unconscious of the storm that was gathering over her head,
remained absorbed in grief.
“Madame,” said the doctor, turning, to the princess, “your friend has
joined her daughter. There is now no lady at the head of this afflicted
house. I must, therefore, entreat you for charity to assume some
necessary authority here over these dismayed female domestics; at least,
until some measures can be taken for the regulation of the
establishment.”
The Italian princess lifted her fine face, in which grief seemed to
struggle with the habitual composure of pride, and gracefully indicating
Eudora by a small wave of her arm, she said:
“You forget, sir, that we stand in the presence of the young lady of the
house, who, however bowed with grief she may now be, will soon, no
doubt, be found equal to her high position.”
“Madame, if your highness alludes to Miss Eudora Leaton, I must beg to
say that she cannot be permitted to intermeddle with any of the affairs
of the household for the present,” replied the doctor.
The mention of her name in so stern a manner aroused Eudora from her
trance of sorrow, and she arose from her knees, and looked around, to
see every eye bent on her in doubt, perplexity, and suspicion. While she
looked beseechingly from one face to another, as if praying for some
explanation of their strange regards, there came a low rap at the door.
The doctor went and softly opened it. And the voice of a servant was
heard saying:
“The coroner has arrived, and begs to see you at once, if you please,
sir.”
“In good time,” replied the doctor. “Have the police arrived?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Send two of them up to me at once, and say to Coroner Adams, that I
will be with him immediately.”
The servant withdrew, and the doctor, returning to the side of the
Italian princess, said:
“Madame, will your highness be pleased to retire to your own apartments,
as this chamber, with all its other occupants, must be placed in charge
of the police.”
The princess, with a look of surprise, bent her stately head, and passed
forth from the room.
She had scarcely withdrawn when the two policemen presented themselves.
“You will keep the door of this apartment, and let no one enter or pass
out,” said the doctor, posting the two officers one at each entrance of
the death-chamber.
He gave a glance at Eudora, who stood still by the bedside, the image of
grief, wonder, and perplexity, and then he passed on, and went down to
rejoin Mr. Montrose, and to meet the coroner.
He met Malcolm, who was just leaving the library to meet him.
“What is the matter now? What new misfortune has occurred?” inquired the
young man, noticing the doctor’s severe and threatening countenance.
“Lady Leaton has just expired, a victim to the same diabolical agency
that destroyed her husband and child,” said the doctor, sternly.
Montrose started back panic-stricken, and muttering,
“Horror on horror! Are we sleeping or walking—mad or sane? Lady Leaton
dead?”
“We are awake and in our right senses, Mr. Montrose, and Lady Leaton is
dead—dead by the hands of that same young Asiatic fiend who murdered her
husband and her daughter!”
“Dr. Watkins, beware how you charge an innocent girl with so heinous a
crime.”
“Mr. Montrose, I see that you are a partizan of Miss Leaton’s, but I
have made no charge which I am not able to prove before the coroner’s
inquest, and which their verdict will not soon confirm.”
“Does this most innocent and unhappy girl know of what she is accused?”
“She knows her crimes, and doubtless she has reason to suspect that we
know them also.”
“Do not say ‘_we know them_,’ doctor. I do not know of any crime of
hers; on the contrary, _I_ know in my own secret consciousness that she
is most innocent of all crime, and even of all wrong; and _you_ do not
know it; you only suspect it, and in that suspicion you wrong one of the
most excellent young creatures that ever lived.”
“Mr. Montrose, you are blinded by partiality; but the veil will soon be
torn from your eyes.”
“It is _you_ who are blinded by some prejudice when you accuse a young
and lovely girl of a tissue of crimes that would make the blood of a
Borgia run cold with horror!” said the young man, with a shudder.
“We shall see; a few hours will decide between us;” replied the doctor,
grimly.
“Where is the unhappy girl now?” inquired Malcolm Montrose.
“Where she must remain for the present: in the death-chamber of Lady
Leaton, which is now in the charge of the police. And now, Mr. Montrose;
the coroner awaits us in the crimson drawing-room,” said the physician,
leading the way thither.
It was broad daylight, the sun was high in the heavens, though the
dismayed servants seemed only now to remember to extinguish the lights
and open the windows.
Breakfast was prepared in the breakfast-parlor, but no family circle
gathered around it.
The doctor, the Princess Pezzilini, and finally Malcolm Montrose,
strayed separately and at intervals into the room, quaffed each a cup of
coffee, and withdrew.
Meantime, the coroner formed his inquest. The investigation required
some time and much caution, therefore the whole house was placed in
charge of the police while the examination was in progress.
Physicians and chemists were summoned to assist in the autopsy of the
dead bodies and the analysis of the water of which they had both drank
immediately before death.
The autopsy and the analysis both proved successful. Traces of a
virulent poison were found in the bodies of the deceased, and the
presence of the same fatal agent was detected in the beverage of which
they had partaken. It was so far clearly proved that both Lady Leaton
and her daughter had died by poison!
But by whom had it been prepared and administered? That was the next
point of inquiry.
Alas! the question seemed but too easily answered. Nevertheless, the
coroner went coolly, formally, and systematically to work.
The witnesses, that had been kept jealously apart during the progress of
the inquest, were called and examined separately, and their testimony
carefully taken down and compared together. The coroner’s jury then
deliberated long and carefully upon the evidence before them.
The inquest lasted through the whole of two long summer days, and the
sun was setting on the second when they made up their verdict.
“The deceased, Matilda, Baroness Leaton, of Allworth, and her daughter,
the Honorable Agatha Leaton, came to their deaths by the poison of
_Ignatia_, administered in tamarind-water by the hands of Eudora
Leaton.”
A warrant was made out for the arrest of Eudora Leaton, and put in the
hands of an officer for immediate execution.
“There! what do you think of that? Has my charge been proved? Is my
statement confirmed by the coroner’s inquest? What is your opinion now?”
inquired the doctor of Malcolm Montrose, who had been a pale and
agonized spectator of the scene.
“My opinion is what it ever has been and ever will be—that Eudora Leaton
is innocent; innocent as one of God’s holy angels; and upon that issue I
stake my every earthly and every heavenly good, my every temporal and
every eternal hope, my life, honor, and soul!”
“Then you’ll lose them, my young friend, that is all. Ah, Montrose, it
is hard to believe in atrocious crimes, even when we see them recorded
in newspaper paragraphs as committed by strangers and at some distance;
but we are appalled and utterly incredulous when they come closely home
to ourselves. This self-deception is natural, for doubtless other great
criminals have seemed to their own partial friends as unlikely to commit
the crimes of which they have been convicted, as this beautiful young
demon has seemed to us. People of notoriously bad character seldom or
never commit great crimes. They seem to fritter away their natural
wickedness in a succession of small felonies. It is your quiet,
respectable, commonplace people that poison and assassinate just as
though they hoarded all their sinfulness for one grand exploit.”
“Sir, you treat the deepest tragedies of human life, the tragedies of
crime and death, with a levity unbecoming your age, your profession, and
the circumstances in which we are placed,” said the young man, in bitter
sorrow.
“I treat the subject with levity! I never was in more solemn earnest in
my life! If you doubt my words, recall your own experience. Recollect
all the greatest criminals within your own knowledge, and say whether
they were not every one of them, according to their social positions,
very decent, very respectable, or very genteel persons—until they were
clearly convicted of capital crimes? I could name a score within my own
memory, only Heaven pardon them, as they have paid the penalty of their
crimes, I do not wish to vex their ghosts by calling up their names and
deeds to recollection.”
Montrose did not reply. He could scarcely follow the doctor in his
discourse. His thoughts were all engaged with the hapless Eudora and the
train of unutterable misfortunes that lay before her.
While he stood in bitter sorrow, a constable, holding a warrant in his
hand, approached, and touching his hat to the doctor and Mr. Montrose,
requested that they would please accompany him to the chamber of Miss
Leaton, that he might serve the warrant.