THE ARREST.
“Why bend their brows so sternly on me, Vaughn?
What have I done? Oh, tell me quickly, youth!
My soul can ill endure their frowning looks.”
Through all this long, dreadful investigation, Eudora had remained in
the death-chamber of Lady Leaton, bowed down with grief, but unconscious
of the heavy clouds that were gathering darkly over her young head.
She had seen the body of her aunt carried away from the chamber towards
the crimson drawing-room where the coroner’s inquest was held, and where
the _post-mortem_ examination was made.
She had been called in her turn to give her separate testimony before
the jury, and she had described the deaths of Agatha and that of Lady
Leaton simply as she had witnessed them. She had not omitted to mention
a circumstance that she had regarded as a dream—namely, the passage and
disappearance of a dark-robed woman in Agatha’s chamber. At the close of
her testimony she had been conducted back to the chamber from which she
had been taken, and there she had tarried through the remainder of the
investigation.
Half stunned with grief, she felt no disposition and made no attempt to
leave the room. She saw the policemen guarding the doors, but did not
even suspect that she was their prisoner. She had noticed in the morning
the strange regards of those around her, but, absorbed in sorrow for the
loss of her relatives, the circumstance had passed from her mind.
In the course of the day food and drink had been sent to her by the
thoughtful attention of Malcolm Montrose, but she had partaken of
nothing but a cup of tea.
And now, at the close of this long and terrible day, she remained as has
been said, bowed down with grief, but totally unsuspicious of the dark
storm that was gathering around her. She sat in a low chair beside the
now empty bed, with her head down upon the coverlet, so dead to all
external impressions, that the door was opened and the room half-filled
with people before she moved. There was the Princess Pezzilini, Malcolm
Montrose, Dr. Watkins, the officer who brought the warrant, the two
policemen that kept the doors, and a crowd of male and female servants
drawn thither by curiosity.
And still Eudora did not look up.
The Princess Pezzilini glided softly to her side and stood bending over
her with looks of compassion; then raising her blue eyes swimming in
tears to the faces of the doctor and Mr. Montrose, she said:
“Forgive me; I know that she is most guilty, and that I of all persons
should most condemn her, for she has destroyed my benefactress; but she
is so young, I cannot help pitying her, for we know that the more guilty
the wretched girl may be the more needful of compassion she is.”
The voice of the princess sounding so near her ear caused Eudora to look
up; and at the same moment the officer who held the warrant advanced,
and laying his hand upon her shoulder, said:
“Miss Eudora Leaton, you are my prisoner.”
She did not understand. She arose quickly to her feet, and looked
inquiringly into the face of the constable, and from his face into those
of the persons that crowded the room and gathered around her. As her
star-like eyes ranged around the circle, the eyes of those she looked
upon sank to the ground, while dark frowns lowered upon every brow.
As she gazed, her perplexity gave place to a vague alarm.
“What is the matter? What is the meaning of this?” she inquired, in
faltering accents.
An ominous silence followed her question, while the eyes of the crowd
were once more fixed sternly upon her.
“Why do you look upon me so? What is it? Will no one speak?” she
demanded, while a vague, overpowering terror took possession of her
heart.
“Tell her, officer, and put an end to this,” sternly commanded the
doctor.
“Miss Eudora Leaton, you are my prisoner,” repeated the constable, again
laying his hand upon her.
“Your prisoner!” she exclaimed, shrinking in dismay and abhorrence from
the degrading touch. “Your prisoner! what do you mean?”
“Tell her, officer, and end this,” repeated the doctor, while Eudora
looked wildly from one to the other, and sank back in her chair.
“Miss Leaton,” said the constable, blandly, “the crowner’s ’quest has
been and found a verdict against you, charging you with poisoning of
your aunt, Matilda, Lady Leaton, and your cousin, the Honorable Agatha
Leaton; and this paper in my hand is the crowner’s warrant for your
arrest.”
Before he had finished, Eudora had sprung to her feet, and now she stood
with her dark, starry eyes dilated and blazing with a horror that
approached insanity.
At length she found her voice. Clasping her hands and raising her eyes,
in a passion of self-vindication, she exclaimed:
“Great Lord of heaven! is there any one on earth capable of such heinous
crimes? Is there any one here who believes me to be so?”
The doctor came to her side, saying:
“Young girl, the proof against you is too clear to leave a doubt upon
the mind of any one present.”
“Proof? how can there be proof of that which never happened—which never
could have happened?—a crime which my very soul abhors; at which my
whole frame shudders, from which my whole nature recoils—and committed
by me and upon those whom I was bound to love and respect and serve! and
committed for what purpose, great Heaven! for what purpose? What object
could I have had in the destruction of my own nearest kindred, dearest
friends, and only protectors?” demanded the accused girl, in a tone of
impassioned grief, indignation and horror.
“Your object was obvious to the dullest comprehension; it forms one of
the strongest points in the evidence against you,” said the implacable
doctor.
“My object, then, what was it? You, who charge me with the crime,
declare the object!” exclaimed Eudora, rivetting upon his face her
blazing eyes, through which her rising and indignant soul flashed
repudiation at so vile a charge.
“Your object, girl, was the inheritance of their estates. Lord and Lady
Leaton and their daughter being dead, you are the sole heiress of
unencumbered Allworth,” replied the unflinching physician.
The fire that flashed from her eyes, the color that burned upon her
cheeks, died slowly out. The pallor of unutterable horror spread like
death over her face. She reeled as though she must have fallen to the
floor, but recovered herself by a violent effort. Clasping her hands in
the agonizing earnestness of her appeal, she exclaimed:
“Oh! does any one here believe this of me?”
Stern silence was the only reply.
“Madame Pezzilini! you have known me intimately for months—do you
believe it?” she said, turning in an anguish of supplication to the
Italian princess.
“Bellissima, my heart is broken—do not ask me!” said the princess,
averting her face.
Eudora turned her despairing eyes to the crowd of stern, pitiless,
accusing faces around her, and seeing the form of Malcolm Montrose in
the background, she extended her clasped hands, in passionate prayer,
towards him, and the tones of her voice arose, wild, high, and piercing
in the agony of her last appeal, as she cried:
“Mr. Montrose! oh, Mr. Montrose! _you_ do not believe me to be such a
fiend?”
“No, no, no!” said Malcolm, earnestly, fervently, vehemently, as he
pushed his way through the crowd, and came to her side and took her
hand. “No, Eudora! I do not believe it! I have never for an instant been
tempted to believe it! You are innocent of the very thought of evil! and
this I will uphold both in private and in public! I will stand by you
like a brother; I will aid, protect and defend you to the last, so far
as you have need of me, and I power to serve you—and to this I pledge my
life, and soul, and honor! And as I keep this pledge to you, may Heaven
deal with me at my own greatest extremity! Take comfort, sweet girl!
Your innocence is a mighty, invincible stronghold, which all these
atrocious charges must assail in vain.”
“Oh, thanks! thanks! thanks!” said Eudora, her fiery eyes melting into
the first tears that she had shed since her arrest.
“Mr. Montrose, I would recommend you to be cautious,” said the doctor,
severely; “for let me inform you, young gentleman, that you are not so
far removed from suspicion as your friends could wish! Your betrothal to
the late Miss Leaton, and your attachment to the present one, are both
too well known already. And I assure you, the propriety of your own
arrest as an accomplice to this crime was seriously discussed at the
inquest.”
The cheeks of Malcolm Montrose glowed, his eyes flashed, and he made one
threatening step towards his accuser, then recollecting himself, he
dropped his hand, saying:
“No, no, no! you are an old friend of the family, and it is your zeal
alone for them that urges you to such indecorous speech and action. And
since the wisdom of the coroner’s jury was engaged with the question of
my arrest, I wish to Heaven they had ordered it! Since they have found a
verdict against this most innocent girl, I would to the Lord they had
found one against me as her accomplice, that I might stand where she
will have to stand; meet what she will have to meet; and endure what she
will have to endure! Go, tell the nearest magistrate from me, that in
all the felonies Eudora Leaton has committed Malcolm Montrose has been
her aider and abettor—nay, her instigator! Tell him, from me, that when
Eudora Leaton poisoned her kindred, Malcolm Montrose procured the bane
and mixed the drink! Tell him that when Eudora Leaton is in the
prison-cell, or waits in the prisoner’s dock, or stands upon the
scaffold, Malcolm Montrose should be by her side as far the more guilty
of the two! Tell him this from me, and get me arrested, and I will thank
you!”
“You are mad, Mr. Montrose, as indeed the events of this day are well
calculated to make you,” replied the doctor.
Then turning to the officer, he said:
“It is getting late; had you not better remove your prisoner?”
“It is some distance to the county gaol, sir. Is there such a thing as a
chaise in the stables, that I could have the use of to carry her in? or
else is there a messenger I could send to the Leaton Arms to fetch one?”
inquired the constable.
“There is a chaise in the stables, I know. Go, John, and order it to be
got ready,” commanded the doctor.
The old servant withdrew to obey. The constable turned to Eudora, and
said:
“Miss Leaton, while the chaise is getting ready, you had better be
putting on your things.”
“Oh, Heaven! is this some dreadful dream or raving madness that has
taken possession of me, or is it true that I must leave the house where
lie the dead bodies of my kindred, and go—to the county gaol, charged
with the murder of my nearest relations? Oh, horror! horror! Oh, save
me, Malcolm, save me!” she cried, covering her face with her hands as
though to shut out some horrid vision, and sinking to the floor.
Montrose stooped and raised her, whispering:
“I will! I will, Eudora! if it is in human power to do it! You need not
be taken from here to-night—you must not be! I will see the magistrates
myself.”
Then turning to the crowd of servants that still lingered in the room,
he inquired:
“Have the magistrates yet taken their departure?”
“No, sir; they are taking some refreshments in the dining-room,”
answered one of the servants.
“Rest here, dear Eudora, until I return,” said Montrose, placing her in
an easy-chair; and then going to the side of the Italian princess, he
said:
“Madame, for Heaven’s sake, speak to her.”
And he hurried from the chamber, and went down into the dining-room,
where the magistrates were sitting over their wine.
He addressed them respectfully, speaking of the approaching storm, the
darkness of the night, and the badness of the mountain-roads that lay
between Allworth and the county gaol; and proposed that as the accused
was but a young and delicate girl, she might be permitted to remain at
Allworth Abbey through the night.
Mr. Montrose, as the nearest male representative of the Leaton family,
might be supposed to have considerable influence with the magistrates.
The latter were, besides, pleased with their day’s work, and subdued by
the genial influence of the juice of the grape; and the boon that was
craved by Malcolm Montrose was not, under the circumstances,
unreasonable. Therefore, after some little delay and consultation, it
was agreed that the accused should remain at the Abbey through the
night, securely locked up in the chamber which she now occupied, and
strictly guarded by a pair of constables, one of which was to be placed
on the outside of each door.
And Malcolm Montrose was authorized to bear this order to the constable.
Meanwhile Eudora had sunk back in the large chair where he had left her,
and covered her face with her hands. The Princess Pezzilini had
despatched a servant to the little bed-room of Eudora to fetch her
bonnet and shawl. And now she stood beside the chair of the unhappy
girl, urging her to arise and prepare herself to accompany the
constable, and saying:
“It will all turn out for the best, Bellissima, end how it may. If you
are proved innocent you will be set at liberty; if you are proved guilty
you will have the privilege of expiating your crime by the death of your
body and thus save your soul. So, end as it may, Bellissima, it will all
be right.”
“But lawk, mum, s’posen she be innocent, and yet be found guilty, as
many and many a one have been before her?” suggested Tabitha Tabs, the
maid who had now returned with the bonnet and shawl, and stood with them
hanging over her arm.
“In that case, my good girl, she will be a martyr, and go to bliss. So,
end as it may, it will all be right. We should bow to the will of
Heaven,” said the princess, piously.
“Can’t see it, mum, as it would all be right for the innocent to be
conwicted, nor the will of Heaven, nyther, begging your pardon, mum, for
speaking of my poor mind,” said Tabby, respectfully.
“You are a simple girl, and need instruction. Now, assist your young
mistress to put on her bonnet and shawl. Eudora, stand up, my poor
child, and put on your wrappings.”
“Yes, Miss, do so if you please, as the storm is rising, and it is
getting late, and the roads is horrid between here and the gaol,” said
the constable, showing signs of impatience.
“Ah, wait! pray wait until Mr. Montrose returns. He went to ask the
magistrates if I might be confined here until morning,” pleaded Eudora.
“Do your duty, officer! Why do you stand arrested by the prayers of that
evil girl? She did not fear to commit crime, she should not fear to meet
its consequences. Do your duty at once, for every moment she is
permitted to remain beneath this honored roof is an outrage to the
memory of those whom she has hurried to their early graves,” said the
doctor, sternly.
The constable still hesitated, and Eudora still stood with pale face,
intense eyes, and clasped hands, silently imploring delay, when the door
opened, and Malcolm Montrose entered with the order of the magistrates,
commanding Eudora Leaton to be locked in the chamber, under strict
guard, until the morning.
“Thank you, thank you! Oh, thank you for this short respite, dear
Malcolm!” exclaimed the poor girl, bursting into tears of relief.
Malcolm pressed her hand in silence, and then whispered to her to hope.
The doctor really trembled with rage.
“Very well,” he said, “I will see at least, that her present prison is
secure. Madame Pezzilini, will your highness condescend to withdraw from
the room?” he added, turning respectfully to the princess.
“Good-night, Eudora; repent and pray,” said the princess, and bowing
graciously to Mr. Montrose and to the doctor, she withdrew.
“Leave the room, and go about your several businesses every man and
woman of you! I want this room to myself and the constable,” was the
next stern order of the doctor to the assembled domestics.
All immediately departed except Tabitha Tabs, who went boldly and placed
herself beside her young mistress as a tower of strength.
“Follow your fellow-servants, woman,” commenced the doctor.
“When my young lady orders me to do so, sir,” replied Tabitha, coldly.
Eudora’s left hand was clenched in that of Malcolm Montrose, and she
threw out her right hand and grasped that of her humble attendant,
exclaiming eagerly:
“Oh, no, no, no, do not leave me, good Tabitha!” For she felt almost
safe between the two.
“Not till they tears me away piecemeal with pincers, Miss! for I reckon
I’m too big to be forced away all at once,” replied Tabitha, violently,
drawing up her large person, and looking defiance from her resolute
eyes.
“Officers, remove that contumacious girl from the room,” said the doctor
angrily.
The two constables stepped forward to obey, but Malcolm Montrose dropped
the hand of Eudora and confronted them, saying:
“On your peril!”
Then turning to the enraged physician, he said:
“Doctor, nothing but my knowledge of the sincerity of your attachment to
the late family enables me to endure the violence of your conduct. But
you push your privileges and my patience too far. You have no right to
say that this girl shall not remain in attendance upon her unhappy
mistress through the night. What harm can she do? Besides, if Miss
Leaton is to be guarded by constables placed on the outside of her
chamber door, it is but proper that she should have a female attendant
in the room with her.”
“Very well,” said the doctor, grimly, “as far as I am concerned, she may
keep her waiting-woman _in_; but I shall take very good care that she
herself does not get _out_.”
And so saying, he went immediately to the two high Gothic windows that
lighted the vast room, closed the strong oaken shutters, placed the iron
bars across them, secured the latter with padlocks, and gave the keys to
the head constable, who held the warrant. He next stationed one of the
officers on the other side of the door leading to the other rooms of his
suite of apartments, directing him to lock the door and keep the key in
his pocket. And, finally, having ascertained that all the fastenings of
the chamber were well secured, he prepared to withdraw.
Malcolm Montrose pressed the hand of Eudora to his heart, saying:
“Good-night, dearest Eudora. Confide in the God who watches over to
deliver innocence.” And bending lowly to her ear, he whispered:
“Hope.” Then raising his head and looking kindly toward Tabitha, he
said:
“Good girl, take great care of your mistress to-night.”
“You may trust me for that, sir,” answered Miss Tabs, confidently.
And once more pressing the hand of Eudora, he resigned it and withdrew
from the room.
The doctor and the head constable followed. They all paused in the hall
outside until the constable had double-locked the door, and put the key
in his pocket, and taken his station before the room.
“And now I think your prisoner is quite secure, even though you should
sleep on your post, officer,” said the doctor, with grim satisfaction,
as he walked from the spot.
Malcolm Montrose smiled strangely as he followed.
In the hall below they were met by a servant, who announced the arrival
of Mr. Carter, the family solicitor, who had asked to see Mr. Montrose,
and who had been shown to the library, where he now waited.
Malcolm immediately went thither, and when seated at the writing-table
with the attorney, related to him all the details of the household
tragedy, and the arrest of Eudora Leaton upon the awful charge of
poisoning the whole family.
Even the clear-headed, case-hardened old lawyer was shocked and
stupified by the dreadful story. When Malcolm had finished, and the
lawyer had recovered his presence of mind, they discussed the affair as
calmly as circumstances would permit. The lawyer insisted that the
evidence against the accused girl was quite convicting, and that there
was not in the whole wide range of human possibility a single chance of
her being acquitted; while Malcolm, in agonized earnestness, persisted
in upholding her perfect innocence.
“But if _she_ did not do it, who did it?” pertinently inquired the
lawyer.
“Aye, WHO indeed! Conjecture is at a full stand!” answered Malcolm,
wiping the drops forced out by mental anguish from his brow.
“Is no one else amenable to suspicion?”
“Not one!”
“Had the late family deeply offended any person, or casually injured any
one, or made any enemy?”
“No, no, no; they never wronged or offended a human being, or had an
enemy in the world.”
“Was there no one whose interest ran counter to those of the late baron
and his House?”
“None on earth! Lord Leaton and his family were on the best possible
terms with all their friends, acquaintances and dependants. They were
widely, deeply, and sincerely beloved.”
“It comes back, then, to this; that no one would have any interest in
the extinction of this whole family, except this half-Indian girl, who
is their heiress, who it appears attended them in their illness, and
prepared and administered the drinks of which they died, and in which
the poison was detected—the poison, mark you, of the _Faber Sancta
Ignatii_, a deadly product of the East, scarcely known in England, but
familiar, no doubt, to this Asiatic girl. Mr. Montrose, the case is very
clear,” said the lawyer, with an ominous shake of the head.
“Then you think,” said the young man, in a tone of anguish, “that if she
is brought to trial——”
His voice was choked by his rising agony. He could utter no more.
“I think it as certain as any future event can be in this uncertain
world that Eudora Leaton will be condemned and executed for the
poisoning of her uncle’s family. Mr. Montrose! Good Heavens, sir, you
are very ill! You—you have not partaken of any food or drink in this
thrice-accursed house, but what you could rely upon?” exclaimed the
lawyer, rising up in alarm, and going to the side of the young man, who
had fallen back in his chair, his whole form convulsed, his pallid
features writhing, and the drops of sweat, wrung from anguish that he
vainly endeavored to subdue and control, beading upon his icy brow.
“Mr. Montrose—let me call——”
“No, no,” interrupted Malcolm, holding up his hand with an adjuring
gesture, and struggling to regain his self-control, for manhood can ill
brook to bend beneath the power of suffering.
“No! It is the blow!”
“Then, Malcolm, meet it like a man!” said the lawyer, who began to
understand that it was a mental, and not a physical agony that convulsed
the strong frame of the young man.
“But she, Eudora, so young and beautiful, so innocent and so beloved, to
be hurled down to a destruction so appalling!” burst in groans of
anguish from the heaving breast of Malcolm.
He dropped his arms and head upon the table, while sobs of agony
convulsed his great chest.
“But I will save her!” he said to himself. “In spite of all this, I will
save her. I have staked my life, my soul and honor upon her innocence;
and now I will peril that same life, soul, and honor for her
deliverance!”
This mental resolution gave him great strength, for at once he resumed
the command of himself, arose, apologized to the lawyer for the
exhibition of emotion into which he had been betrayed, and would have
resumed the conversation in a calmer frame of mind, had not a servant
entered and announced supper.
Malcolm begged the lawyer to excuse him for not appearing at the supper
table, and also requested him to bear his excuses to the magistrates who
had assisted at the coroner’s inquest, and who now remained to supper.
The lawyer readily promised to represent Mr. Montrose to the guests, and
withdrew for that purpose.
Malcolm arose and paced the library floor, engaged in close thought for
about half an hour, and then passed out to seek the privacy of his own
chamber.
The whole house was in a painful though subdued bustle.
The members of the coroner’s jury, though at liberty to go, had not yet
dispersed. The strange fascination that spell-binds men to the scene of
any atrocious crime or awful calamity, kept them lingering about the
halls and chambers of Allworth Abbey.
The undertaker’s people were also in the house making preliminary
arrangements for the approaching double funeral. And the servants of the
family were continually passing to and fro, waiting upon them.
Malcolm passed through them all and went to his own chamber, locked
himself in, and threw himself upon a chair near the bay window that
overlooked the Black Pool.
It was a beautiful summer night, and the stars that spangled the clear,
blue-black canopy of heaven were reflected on the surface of the Black
Pool like jewels upon an Ethiope’s dark bosom.
But Malcolm had no eye for the beauty of the starlight night. He was
thinking of that black and endless night that had gathered over Eudora’s
head. He rested his elbow upon the arms of his chair, and bowed his head
upon his hand, and thus he sat for more than an hour without changing
his position. Then he arose and looked forth from the window, and turned
and paced the floor, stopping at intervals to listen. Thus passed
another hour. And by this time the troubled household had settled to
repose, and all was quiet.
Then Malcolm Montrose left his room, locking the door and taking the key
with him, and passed down the long corridor leading to the central
upper-hall and the grand staircase. When he entered the hall he saw the
constable standing on guard before the chamber door of the imprisoned
girl. The man was wide-awake, on the alert, and touched his hat as Mr.
Montrose passed. Malcolm went down the great staircase and through the
deserted lower hall to the main entrance, where he unbarred and unlocked
the doors and let himself out.
He took his way immediately to the stables, entered them, drew forth a
light chaise, led out a swift horse, put him between the shafts, and
finally jumped into the driver’s seat, and drove off through the
northern gate towards a thickly-wooded part of the park until he reached
the ruins of an ancient nunnery. Then he jumped out and fastened his
horse to a tree, and sought the cellars of the ruins, reiterating his
resolution:
“I have staked my life, soul, and honor upon Eudora’s innocence, and now
to peril life, soul, and honor for Eudora’s salvation!”