THE STUBBORN WITNESS.
“If a woman will, she will, you may depend on’t:
And if she won’t, she won’t, and there’s an end on’t.”
We must return to the scene of the tragedy, and relate what took place
at Allworth Abbey immediately after the escape of Eudora.
In the first place, as soon as Eudora had taken leave, and before she
had passed through the secret egress, Tabitha shut her eyes, and turned
her back so that she might not actually _see_ by what means, or in whose
company her mistress quitted the chamber.
But as soon as she heard the panel slipped into its place, and the bolt
on the other side shot across it, she turned, and with a smile of
triumph, sank into the easy-chair, saying:
“Now they may cross-examine me until all is blue, if they like, and I
can swear a hole through an iron pot that I never saw how she left the
room.”
And so saying, Miss Tabs yielded herself up to the repose of which she
stood so much in need.
It was late in the morning when she was awakened by a loud knocking at
the door.
She started up, recollected in an instant where she was, who rapped, and
what was required.
She jumped up, rubbed her eyes, shook herself, and went to the door.
“Well, what do you want?” she inquired, as she opened it a little way.
“We want the prisoner. Here’s some breakfast for her. Let her eat it
quickly, for the chaise is at the door to convey her to the county
gaol,” said the policeman on duty, handing in a waiter of coffee and
bread.
“The prisoner? What prisoner are you talking about? There is no prisoner
here!” said Tabitha, disdainfully, as she received the waiter, and set
it upon the side-table.
“Miss Eudora Leaton, your missus, our prisoner. Tell her to get herself
ready quickly, as we must take her off towards the prison directly,”
said the policeman.
“My missus! Why, haven’t you taken her off already?” exclaimed Tabitha,
in well-assumed surprise.
“Taken her off already? No! What do you mean?” inquired the policeman,
in astonishment.
“I mean as how she isn’t here! as you know very well she isn’t, ’cause
you’ve taken her away! What have you done with her—eh?” cried Tabitha.
“Come, woman, none of your nonsense; it won’t do with us, I can tell
you; so just get your missus ready to go with us.”
“And I tell you she ain’t _here_! and you know it a great deal better
than I do! ’cause you _must_ have taken her away! You kept the door!”
“Not here!” exclaimed the policeman, passing without ceremony into the
room, and proceeding to search it.
“Now it is of no use to try to gammon people in this way, by pretending
to search the room where you know very well that she cannot be found,”
said Tabitha, scornfully.
“Where is she?” thundered the policeman.
“That’s what _you’ll_ have to tell! _You_ kept the door! I suppose you
came in while I was asleep and stole her away! Mayhap you’ve murdered
her and thrown her into the lake for aught that I know! Oh! you shall
pay for it!” cried Tabitha, working herself up into a well-acted
passion.
The policeman, without paying further heed to her words, immediately
gave the alarm; and the chamber was soon filled with an eager and
curious crowd.
“Now, then! what is all this about?” inquired the doctor, who was
present.
“Why, sir, this girl declares that the prisoner has escaped!” said the
policeman.
“I don’t declare no such thing! I declares that when I woke up this
morning she was gone; and it stands to reason, as that perlice guarded
the door, he must have stolen her away while I was asleep,” cried
Tabitha, in an angry voice.
“Escaped? how? when? where? Look to all the outer doors and windows.
Search the house! Search the grounds! Give the alarm in the
neighborhood! Fifty pounds to any of you who will bring her back!
Disperse! quick! she destroyed all your master’s family!” exclaimed the
doctor, vehemently, addressing the assembled servants, who hurried away
to obey him.
“How came you to be so, so negligent, officer, as to let your prisoner
pass you?” inquired Squire Humphreys, one of the magistrates, who had
remained in the house all night, because he was a friend and neighbor of
the late Lord Leaton.
“As Heaven hears me, your worship, she never got out through this door!
I never left my post for a single minute during the night, but stood
leaning up against the door itself; so that even if I had dropped
asleep, and the door could have been opened, I should have fallen down
and been roused by the fall. But I never closed my eyes during the whole
night, your worship,” said the policeman.
“This is most wonderful,” continued the magistrate, who, with the
doctor, made a careful examination of the room, including the fastenings
of the window-shutters, which were all found secure.
“Has any one questioned my comrade, your worship?” inquired the
policeman, respectfully.
“Sure enough no one has done so,” said the doctor, going and knocking at
the door of the little dressing-room.
The officer on guard there unlocked the door, and stood face to face
with the doctor.
“Your prisoner has escaped! How came you to be so careless as to let her
pass?” demanded the doctor.
“Pass! On my honor, sir, no one has passed me the whole night. I have
stood with my back leaning against the door and the key in my pocket all
the time,” said the officer, in astonishment.
“This is most inexplicable! Did neither of you hear any noise in the
night?” inquired the magistrate.
“None whatever, your worship,” said the first officer.
“Everything was as silent as death, sir,” added the second.
“This is most incredible! The girl seems to have been a sorceress as
well as a poisoner, and to have vanished up the chimney in a flame of
fire!” exclaimed the doctor, in an angry dismay.
“I beg your worship’s pardon,” said the principal policeman, coming up
and touching his forehead to the magistrate.
“Well, Sims, what is it?”
“I think, sir, as the prisoner could not have escaped through either of
the doors guarded by me or my comrade, that she must have got out in
some other manner, and that this young woman, who stayed with her all
night must know all about it; and with submission to your worship, I
think she ought to be made to tell.”
“Oh! _ought_ I? I’d like to see who’ll make _me_ tell anything I don’t
want to tell!” exclaimed Miss Tabs, thrown as completely off her guard
as any passionate person may be if one can only succeed in making them
angry.
“I agree with you,” said the doctor to the policeman. Then turning to
Tabitha, he said: “Young woman, you have betrayed yourself. You
evidently know something of this mysterious escape of the prisoner. And
we must insist upon your divulging all that you do know.”
“Werry well, insist away; I aint no manner of objection to your
insisting as much as ever you please,” replied Tabitha, folding her
arms, setting her teeth, and grinning defiance at the doctor.
“How did the prisoner escape from the room?” demanded the latter.
“I don’t know,” replied Tabitha.
“You _do_ know, and I will make you tell,” vociferated the doctor.
“Werry well then, make me,” sneered Miss Tabs.
“How did the prisoner escape, I ask you?”
“And I tell you I don’t know.”
“Young woman, I am that sure you _do_ know, and you shall be forced to
tell.”
“Listen to me then; I will tell you what I _do_ know, and I won’t tell
you anything more.”
“That is all we wish to hear. Go on.”
“Well then, I fell asleep in that chair, and when I woke up my missus
was gone. That’s what I _know_. And it stands to reason as that perlice,
as kept the passage door, must have come in while I was asleep and stole
her off.”
“Young woman, are you telling the truth?”
“Yes, sir; ’pon my word and honor.”
“The _whole_ truth?”
“Lawk, sir, I don’t _know_ the whole truth no more nor Pontius Pilate.”
“Girl! you know more than you choose to tell; but I will find a way to
make you open your mouth,” said the doctor, sternly.
“And I won’t open my mouth no wider for nobody on earth, nor for nothing
that can be done to me! I’ll be burked, and made a subject of, and
’natomized in a dissecting-room afore I’ll open my mouth any wider for
anybody on earth! So there now!”
“Young woman, it is my duty to inform you that if you know anything of
the escape of the prisoner, you can be made to divulge it,” said the
magistrate.
“I don’t know nothing at all about it, and I won’t divulge anything
about it,” said Miss Tabs, rather inconsistently. “I won’t! to save
anybody’s life! And I’d like to see who’ll make me speak when I don’t
want to speak! I’d like to see the Church and the State try to do it! or
the army and navy try to do it! or the House of Commons and the House of
Lords try! or the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Lord Chancellor try!
or all of them together try to make me speak when I don’t want to
speak!”
“Or hold your tongue when you don’t want to hold it, you impudent
creature!” exclaimed the doctor, in a rage.
“Well, I s’pose people can be imperent if they choose to take the
consequences, can’t they? And here am I, ready to take the consequences.
I s’pose you’ll do something dreadful to me! well, do it; here I am,
ready to be made a wictim of, or a martyr of, or a ’natomy of! But I
won’t speak! I won’t speak! I won’t! to please anybody.”
“You are speaking all the time, you wretch! You are deafening us with
your speech, if you would only speak to the purpose,” said the doctor.
“Your words, young woman, betray that you do know more of this matter
than you are willing to divulge,” said the magistrate, gravely.
“I have told you what I do know, sir; that when I closed my eyes my
mistress was still in the room, and when I woke up she was gone.”
“But have you no knowledge or suspicion of how she went?”
“I have no certain knowledge, sir, as I did not see her when she left.
But as there seems no other way of her getting out of the room, it
stands to reason that that policeman as kept the passage door must have
let her out.”
The magistrate and the doctor looked at each other in perplexity. They
had full faith in the policeman; they had no faith whatever in Tabitha,
and yet the evidence was certainly against the policeman, and in favor
of Tabitha. She saw this, and followed up her advantage by saying,
valiantly:
“There, gentlemen, I have told you the truth. I can’t tell you any more
than that. Now you may do your worst to me, for here I stand ready to be
a martyr to the truth.”
The doctor and the magistrate still continued to look into each other’s
faces for counsel.
“Why don’t you make the policeman confess? Don’t you see that there was
no other way for Miss Leaton to escape but through the door that he
guarded, for the dressing-room guarded by the other policeman has no
outlet, and the window-shutters were all barred and padlocked by the
doctor, who took away the keys with him. And even if he had not done so,
the windows are full sixty feet from the ground, and even if she had
attempted to jump from either of them, she must have broken her neck.
But she could not even have attempted it, since the windows were found
as they were left, securely fastened. And therefore, your worship, is it
not perfectly clear as my mistress must have left the room through the
door guarded by that perlice?” concluded Tabitha, pointing vindictively
at the innocent but discomfitted officer.
“Sims, this looks very badly for you,” said the magistrate.
“I know it do, your worship, but I hope my character is above
suspicion.”
“I believe it to be, Sims, and I do not myself suspect you.”
In fact, both the magistrate and the doctor strongly suspected Tabitha,
but as the evidence was certainly not against her, they could do nothing
in the premises.
They left the chamber, and went down into the crimson drawing-room,
which had been the scene of so many of the investigations, to consult
with the others upon the best means of searching for and recapturing the
fugitive.
They remained long in consultation before it occurred to them to summon
one who might be supposed to take the deepest interest in the matter.
Then Mr. Humphreys said:
“Had not Mr. Montrose better be requested to give us his company and
counsel in this affair?”
“Certainly,” replied Doctor Watkins, ringing the bell.
“Give my respects to Mr. Montrose, and say that we should be pleased to
see him here,” said the doctor to the footman who answered the bell.
The servant withdrew, but presently returned with the news.
“Mr. Montrose has not yet risen, sir.”
“Lazy fellow, and it is nearly twelve o’clock,” said the doctor,
dismissing that matter from his mind, and resuming the business with the
magistrates.
The form of a placard was drawn up, offering a reward for the
apprehension of Eudora Leaton, and this was ordered to be immediately
printed and posted all over the country. The police were sent out in
every direction to prosecute the search; and when these measures for the
apprehension of the fugitive had been taken, the doctor ordered in
breakfast, and sat down with the magistrate and solicitor to partake of
it. And while they were thus engaged, Malcolm Montrose, who had returned
home unobserved, quietly entered the dining-room, and bade them good
morning.
“Oh, you are up at last!” said the doctor.
“I had a very bad night’s rest; that must be my apology for a very late
appearance,” said Malcolm, drawing his chair to the table.
“And have you heard since you came down that the prisoner has escaped?”
“Yes, so my servant informed me; but she cannot have gone far.”
“Why, no; and as the promptest measures have been taken for her
apprehension, we hope soon to have her safely lodged in jail. But the
great mystery is the manner of her escape. She must have vanished up the
chimney. I suspect Tabs of knowing more about it than she is willing to
tell; but then there is no evidence against her, and she insists that
her mistress must have been spirited away by the policeman on guard
while she, Tabs, slept. And in fact if we were not assured of the
fidelity of Sims, this would seem the most likely solution of the
mystery.”
“I should think it would seem the only one,” said Malcolm, secretly
thanking Heaven that Tabitha had proved “game,” and that the manner of
Eudora’s escape was as yet unknown and unsuspected.
The remainder of the day was passed in fruitless search for the
fugitive, of whom several traces were supposed to have been found. One
policeman brought back the report that a young lady in deep mourning had
taken the night train at Poolville for Edinburgh. Another that a young
person answering to the description of Eudora Leaton had been seen to
get into the cross-country stage-coach going to Sherbourne. A third
brought the intelligence that a young woman in black had been seen to go
on board a vessel bound for Abbeyport—a small sea-coast village six
miles from Allworth—to Arrach, on the north coast of Ireland.
Policemen, armed with warrants, were sent off in all these directions,
while the route of the fugitive remained undiscovered.
Late that night Lieutenant Norham Montrose, the younger brother of
Malcolm, arrived at the Abbey.
Norham Montrose was, in form and features, the very counterpart of
Malcolm, having the same tall, broad-shouldered, deep-chested, strong
limbed athletic form, the same noble Roman features, and the same
commanding presence. But in complexion and in temperament they were as
opposite as day and night; for whereas Malcolm was fair as a Saxon, with
clear, blue eyes, and light auburn hair, Norham was dark as a Spaniard,
with jet-black eyes and raven-black hair and whiskers. And where Malcolm
was gracious, liberal and confiding, Norham was haughty, reserved and
suspicious.
He had not visited the Abbey since the arrival of Eudora from India, and
consequently he had never seen her. The letter from the family solicitor
that summoned him to the house informed him of all that had taken place.
And now he came with his dark blood boiling, and his heart burning in
hatred and vengeance against her whom he considered the fell destroyer
of the doomed Leaton family.
Malcolm received him with grave affection, and they talked over the late
tragedy in very much the same strain in which Malcolm had already
discussed the circumstances with others—Malcolm insisting upon the
innocence of Eudora, and Norham, like former opponents, appealing to the
overwhelming evidence against her.
The next day had been appointed for the double funeral.
At an early hour of the morning the guests began to assemble to pay due
respect to the memory of the deceased.
Among the neighboring gentry who had been invited to assist at the
solemnities, were the respective families of the Honorable Mrs.
Elverton, of Edenlawn, and the veteran Admiral Sir Ira Brunton, of the
Anchorage.
These, as the nearest neighbors and dearest friends of the deceased,
arrived first upon the premises.
The admiral came alone in a mourning coach, and was received by Mr.
Montrose and Lieutenant Montrose.
Mrs. Elverton came, accompanied by her daughter Alma, and was received
by the Princess Pezzilini in the deepest mourning.
It was high noon when, in all the “pomp, pride and circumstance” of
death, the remains of Lady Leaton and her daughter Agatha were consigned
to the family vault under the chapel, where three months before those of
the head of the House had been laid. They were placed, the wife on the
right and the daughter on the left of the late Lord Leaton. And it was
with feelings deeper than awe that the mourners left the chapel where
rested the bodies of the last of that once flourishing but now
extinguished race.
After the funeral obsequies were over, it was arranged that the brothers
Malcolm and Norham Montrose, as next of kin and heirs presumptive,
should remain for the present in charge of Allworth Abbey.
But as it was known that the Princess Pezzilini, still a young and
beautiful woman, could not continue as the guest of two gentlemen in a
house where there was no other lady, she was immediately overwhelmed
with invitations. All the country gentry contended for the honor of the
company of an exiled princess. But the beautiful Italian decided to
accept for the present the hospitality of the veteran hero, Admiral Sir
Ira Brunton.
And the same evening, attended by Miss Tabs, whom she had taken into her
service, the princess accompanied the gallant admiral to his elegant
retreat, the Anchorage.