What if this man, these men and this woman, were in league with him
whose rivalry I feared, and whom I had intended to supplant on the
morrow. It was a wild surmise, but was it any wilder than to believe I
was held here for a mere whim, a freak, a joke, as this bowing,
smiling man before me would have me believe?
Rising in fresh excitement, I struck my hand on the table. "You want
to keep me from going on the steamer," I cried. "That other wretch who
loves her has paid you--"
But that other wretch could not know that I was meditating any such
unusual scheme, as following him without a full day's warning. I
thought of this even before I had finished my sentence, and did not
need the blank astonishment in the face of the man before me to
convince me that I had given utterance to a foolish accusation. "It
would have been some sort of a motive for your actions," I humbly
added, as I sank back from my hostile attitude; "now you have none."
I thought he bestowed upon me a look of quiet pity, but if so he soon
hid it with his uplifted glass.
"Forget the girl," said he; "I know of a dozen just as pretty."
I was too indignant to answer.
"Women are the bane of life," he now sententiously exclaimed. "They
are ever intruding themselves between a man and his comfort, as for
instance just now between yourself and this good wine."
I caught up the bottle in sheer desperation.
"Don't talk of them," I cried, "and I will try and drink. I almost
wish there was poison in the glass. My death here might bring
punishment upon you."
He shook his head, totally unmoved by my passion.
"We deal punishment, not receive it. It would not worry me in the
least to leave you lying here upon the floor."
I did not believe this, but I did not stop to weigh the question
then; I was too much struck by a word he had used.
"Deal punishment?" I repeated. "Are you punishing me? Is that why I am
here?"
He laughed and held out his glass to mine.
"You enjoy being sarcastic," he observed. "Well, it gives a spice to
conversation, I own. Talk is apt to be dull without it."
For reply I struck the glass from his hand; it fell and shivered, and
he looked for the moment really distressed.
"I had rather you had struck me," he remarked, "for I have an answer
for an injury like that; but for a broken glass--" He sighed and
looked dolefully at the pieces on the floor.
Mortified and somewhat ashamed, I put down my own glass.
"You should not have exasperated me," I cried, and walked away beyond
temptation, to the other side of the room.
His spirits had received a dampener, but in a few minutes he seized
upon a cigar and began smoking; as the wreaths curled over his head he
began to talk, and this time it was on subjects totally foreign to
myself and even to himself. It was good talk; that I recognized,
though I hardly listened to what he said. I was asking myself what
time it had now got to be, and what was the meaning of my
incarceration, till my brain became weary and I could scarcely
distinguish the topic he discussed. But he kept on for all my seeming,
and indeed real, indifference, kept on hour after hour in a monologue
he endeavored to make interesting, and which probably would have been
so if the time and occasion had been fit for my enjoying it. As it
was, I had no ear for his choicest phrases, his subtlest criticisms,
or his most philosophic disquisitions. I was wrapped up in self and my
cruel disappointment, and when in a certain access of frenzy I leaped
to my feet and took a look at the watch still lying on the table, and
saw it was four o'clock in the morning, I gave a bound of final
despair, and throwing myself on the floor, gave myself up to the heavy
sleep that mercifully came to relieve me.
I was roused by feeling a touch on my breast. Clapping my hand to the
spot where I had felt the intruding hand, I discovered that my watch
had been returned to my pocket. Drawing it out I first looked at it
and then cast my eyes quickly about the room. There was no one with
me, and the doors stood open between me and the hall. It was eight
o'clock, as my watch had just told me.
That I rushed from the house and took the shortest road to the
steamer, goes without saying. I could not cross the ocean with Dora,
but I might yet see her and tell her how near I came to giving her my
company on that long voyage which now would only serve to further the
ends of my rival. But when, after torturing delays on cars and
ferry-boats, and incredible efforts to pierce a throng that was
equally determined not to be pierced, I at last reached the wharf, it
was to behold her, just as I had fancied in my wildest moments,
leaning on a rail of the ship and listening, while she abstractedly
waved her hand to some friends below, to the words of the man who had
never looked so handsome to me or so odious as at this moment of his
unconscious triumph. Her father was near her, and from his eager
attitude and rapidly wandering gaze I saw that he was watching for me.
At last he spied me struggling aboard, and immediately his face
lighted up in a way which made me wish he had not thought it necessary
to wait for my anticipated meeting with his daughter.
"Ah, Dick, you are late," he began, effusively, as I put foot on deck.
But I waved him back and went at once to Dora.
"Forgive me, pardon me," I incoherently said, as her sweet eyes rose
in startled pleasure to mine. "I would have brought you flowers, but I
meant to sail with you, Dora, I tried to--but wretches, villains,
prevented it and--and--"
"Oh, it does not matter," she said, and then blushed, probably because
the words sounded unkind, "I mean--"
But she could not say what she meant, for just then the bell rang for
all visitors to leave, and her father came forward, evidently thinking
all was right between us, smiled benignantly in her face, gave her a
kiss and me a wink and disappeared in the crowd that was now rapidly
going ashore.
I felt that I must follow, but I gave her one look and one squeeze of
the hand, and then as I saw her glances wander to his face, I groaned
in spirit, stammered some words of choking sorrow and was gone, before
her embarrassment would let her speak words, which I knew would only
add to my grief and make this hasty parting unendurable.
The look of amazement and chagrin with which her father met my
reappearance on the dock can easily be imagined.
"Why, Dick," he exclaimed, "aren't you going after all? I thought I
could rely on you. Where's your pluck, lad? Scared off by a frown? I
wouldn't have believed it, Dick. What if she does frown to-day; she
will smile to-morrow."
I shook my head; I could not tell him just then that it was not
through any lack of pluck on my part that I had failed him.
When I left the dock I went straight to a restaurant, for I was faint
as well as miserable. But my cup of coffee choked me and the rolls and
eggs were more than I could face. Rising impatiently, I went out. Was
any one more wretched than I that morning and could any one nourish a
more bitter grievance? As I strode towards my lodgings I chewed the
cud of my disappointment till my wrongs loomed up like mountains and
I was seized by a spirit of revenge. Should I let such an interference
as I had received go unpunished? No, if the wretch who had detained me
was not used to punishment he should receive a specimen of it now and
from a man who was no longer a prisoner, and who once aroused did not
easily forego his purposes. Turning aside from my former destination,
I went immediately to a police-station and when I had entered my
complaint was astonished to see that all the officials had grouped
about me and were listening to my words with the most startled
interest.
"Was the man who came for you a German?" one asked.
I said "Yes."
"And the man who stood guardian over you and entertained you with wine
and cigars, was not he a German too?"
I nodded acquiescence and they at once began to whisper together; then
one of them advanced to me and said:
"You have not been home, I understand; you had better come."
Astonished by his manner I endeavored to inquire what he meant, but he
drew me away, and not till we were within a stone's throw of my office
did he say, "You must prepare yourself for a shock. The impertinences
you suffered from last night were unpleasant no doubt, but if you had
been allowed to return home, you might not now be deploring them in
comparative peace and safety."
"What do you mean?"
"That your partner was not as fortunate as yourself. Look up at the
house; what do you see there?"
A crowd was what I saw first, but he made me look higher, and then I
perceived that the windows of my room, of our room, were shattered and
blackened and that part of the casement of one had been blown out.
"A fire!" I shrieked. "Poor Richter was smoking--"
"No, he was not smoking. He had no time for a smoke. An infernal
machine burst in that room last night and your friend was its wretched
victim."
I never knew why my friend's life was made a sacrifice to the revenge
of his fellow-countrymen. Though we had been intimate in the year we
had been together, he had never talked to me of his country and I had
never seen him in company with one of his own nation. But that he was
the victim of some political revenge was apparent, for though it
proved impossible to find the man who had detained me, the house was
found and ransacked, and amongst other secret things was discovered
the model of the machine which had been introduced into our room, and
which had proved so fatal to the man it was addressed to. Why men who
were so relentless in their purposes towards him should have taken
such pains to keep me from sharing his fate, is one of those anomalies
in human nature which now and then awake our astonishment. If I had
not lost Dora through my detention at their hands I should look back
upon that evening with sensations of thankfulness. As it is, I
sometimes question if it would not have been better if they had let me
take my chances.
* * * * *
Have I lost Dora? From a letter I received to-day I begin to think
not.
THE BLACK CROSS.
A black cross had been set against Judge Hawkins' name; why, it is not
for me to say. We were not accustomed to explain our motives or to
give reasons for our deeds. The deeds were enough, and this black
cross meant death; and when it had been shown us, all that we needed
to know further was at what hour we should meet for the contemplated
raid.
A word from the captain settled that; and when the next Friday came, a
dozen men met at the place of rendezvous, ready for the ride which
should bring them to the Judge's solitary mansion across the
mountains.
I was amongst them, and in as satisfactory a mood as I had ever been
in my life; for the night was favorable, and the men hearty and in
first-rate condition.
But after we had started, and were threading a certain wood, I began
to have doubts. Feelings I had never before experienced assailed me
with a force that first perplexed and then astounded me. I was afraid,
and what rather heightened than diminished the unwonted sensation, was
the fact that I was not afraid of anything tangible, either in the
present or future, but of something unexplainable and peculiar, which,
if it lay in the skies, certainly made them look dark indeed; and if
it hid in the forest, caused its faintest murmur to seem like the
utterance of a great dread, as awful as it was inexplicable.
I nevertheless proceeded, and should have done so if the great streaks
of lightning which now and then shot zigzag through the sky had taken
the shape of words and bid us all beware. I was not one to be daunted,
and knew no other course than that of advance when once a stroke of
justice had been planned, and the direction for its fulfilment marked
out. I went on, but I began to think, and that to me was an
experience; for I had never been taught to reflect, only to fight and
obey.
The house towards which we were riding was built on a hillside, and
the first thing we saw on emerging from the forest, was a light
burning in one of its distant windows. This was a surprise; for the
hour was late, and in that part of the country people were accustomed
to retire early, even such busy men as the Judge. He must have a
visitor, and a visitor meant a possible complication of affairs; so a
halt was called and I was singled out to reconnoitre the premises, and
bring back word of what we had a right to expect.
I started off in a strange state of mind. The fear I had spoken of had
left me, but a vague shadow remained, through which, as through a
mist, I saw the light in that far away window beckoning me on to what
I felt was in some way to make an end of my present life. As I drew
nearer to it, the feeling increased; then it, too, left me, and I
found myself once more the daring avenger. This was when I came to the
foot of the hill and discovered I had but a few steps more to take.
The house, which had now become plainly visible, was a solid one of
stone, built as I have said, on the hillside. It faced the road, as
was shown by the large portico, dimly to be discerned in that
direction; but its rooms were mainly on the side, and it was from one
of these that the light shone. As I came yet nearer, I perceived that
these rooms were guarded by a piazza, which, communicating with the
portico in front, afforded an open road to that window and a clear
sight of what lay behind it.
I was instantly off my horse and upon the piazza, and before I had had
time to realize that my fears had returned to me with double force, I
had crept with stealthy steps towards that uncurtained window and
looked in.
What did I see? At first nothing but a calm, studious figure, bending
above a batch of closely written papers, upon which the light shone
too brightly for me to perceive much of what lay beyond them. But
gradually an influence, of whose workings I was scarcely conscious,
drew my eyes away, and I began to discover on every side strange and
beautiful objects which greatly interested me, until suddenly my eyes
fell upon a vision of loveliness so enchanting that I forgot to look
elsewhere, and became for the moment nothing but sight and feeling.
It was a picture, or so I thought in that first instant of awe and
delight. But presently I saw that it was a woman, living and full of
the thoughts that had never been mine; and at the discovery a sudden
trembling seized me; for I had never seen anything in heaven or earth
like her beauty, while she saw nothing but the man who was bending
over his papers.
There was a door or something dark behind her, and against it her tall
strong figure, clad in a close white gown, stood out with a
distinctness that was not altogether earthly. But it was her face that
held me, and made of me from moment to moment a new man.
For in it I discerned what I had never believed in till now, devotion
that had no limit, and love which asked nothing in return. She seemed
to be faltering on the threshold of that room, like one who would like
to enter but does not dare, and in another moment, with a smile that
pierced me through and through, she turned as if to go. Instantly I
forgot everything but my despair, and leaned forward with an
impetuosity that betrayed my presence, for she glanced quickly towards
the window, and seeing me, turned pale, even while she rose in height
till I felt myself shrink and grow small before her.
Thrusting out her hand, she caught from the table before her what
looked like a small dagger, and holding it up, advanced upon me with
blazing eyes and parted lips, not seeing that the Judge had risen to
his feet, not seeing anything but my face glued against the pane, and
staring with an expression that must have struck her to the heart as
surely as her look pierced mine. When she was almost upon me I turned
and fled. Hell could not have frightened me, but Heaven did; and for
me that woman was Heaven whether she smiled or frowned, gazed upon
another with love, or raised a dagger to strike me to the ground.
How soon I met my mates I cannot say. In a few minutes, doubtless, for
they had stolen after me and had detected me running away from the
window. I was forced to tell my tale, and I told it unhesitatingly,
for I knew I could not save him--if I wanted to--and I knew I should
save her or die in the attempt.
"He is alone there with a girl," I announced. "Whether she is his wife
or not I cannot say, but there is no cross against her name, and I
ask that she be spared not only from sharing his fate, but from the
sight of his death, for she loves him."
This from me! No wonder the captain stared, then laughed. But I did
not laugh in return, and being the strongest man in the band and the
surest with my rifle, he did not trifle long, but listened to my plans
and in part consented to them, so that I retreated to my post at the
gateway with something like confidence, while he, approaching the
door, lifted the knocker and let it fall with a resounding clang that
must have rung like a knell of death to the hearts within.
For the Judge knew our errand. I saw it in his face when he rose to
his feet, and he had no hope, for we had never failed in our attempts,
and the house, though strongly built, was easily assailable.
* * * * *
While the captain knocked, three men had scaled the portico and were
ready to enter the open windows, if the Judge refused to appear or
offered any resistance to what was known as the captain's will.
"Death to the Judge!" was the cry; and it was echoed not only at the
door, but around the house, where the rest of the men had drawn a
cordon ready to waylay any one who sought to escape. Death to the
Judge! And the Judge was loved by that woman and would be mourned by
her till--But a voice is speaking, a voice from out that great house,
and it asks what is wanted and what the meaning is of these threats of
death.
And the captain answers short and sharp:
"The Ku-Klux commands but never explains. What it commands now is for
Judge Hawkins to come forth. If he shrinks or delays his house will be
entered and burnt; but if he will come out and meet like a man what
awaits him, his house shall go free and his family remain unmolested."
"And what is it that awaits him?" pursued the voice.
"Four bullets from four unerring rifles," returned the captain.
"It is well; he will come forth," cried the voice, and then in a
huskier tone: "Let me kiss the woman I love. I will not keep you
long."
And the captain answered nothing, only counted out clearly and
steadily, "One--two--three," up to a hundred, then he paused, turned,
and lifted his hand; when instantly our four rifles rose, and at the
same moment the door, with a faint grating sound I shall never forget,
slowly opened and the firm, unshrinking figure of the Judge appeared.
We did not delay. One simultaneous burst of fire, one loud quick
crack, and his figure fell before our eyes. A sound, a cry from
within, then all was still, and the captain, mounting his horse, gave
one quick whistle and galloped away. We followed him, but I was the
last to mount, and did not follow long; for at the flash of those guns
I had seen a smile cross our victim's lip, and my heart was on fire,
and I could not rest till I had found my way back to that open doorway
and the figure lying within it.
There it was, and behind it a house empty as my heart has been since
that day. A man's dress covering a woman's form--and over the
motionless, perfect features, that same smile which I had seen in the
room beyond and again in the quick glare of the rifles.
I had harbored no evil thought concerning her, but when I beheld that
smile now sealed and fixed upon her lips, I found the soul I had never
known I possessed until that day.
A MYSTERIOUS CASE.
It was a mystery to me, but not to the other doctors. They took, as
was natural, the worst possible view of the matter, and accepted the
only solution which the facts seem to warrant. But they are men, and I
am a woman; besides, I knew the nurse well, and I could not believe
her capable of wilful deceit, much less of the heinous crime which
deceit in this case involved. So to me the affair was a mystery.
The facts were these:
My patient, a young typewriter, seemingly without friends or enemies,
lay in a small room of a boarding-house, afflicted with a painful but
not dangerous malady. Though she was comparatively helpless, her vital
organs were strong, and we never had a moment's uneasiness concerning
her, till one morning when we found her in an almost dying condition
from having taken, as we quickly discovered, a dose of poison,
instead of the soothing mixture which had been left for her with the
nurse. Poison! and no one, not even herself or the nurse, could
explain how the same got into the room, much less into her medicine.
And when I came to study the situation, I found myself as much at loss
as they; indeed, more so; for I knew I had made no mistake in
preparing the mixture, and that, even if I had, this especial poison
could not have found its way into it, owing to the fact that there
neither was nor ever had been a drop of it in my possession.
The mixture, then, was pure when it left my hand, and, according to
the nurse, whom, as I have said, I implicitly believe, it went into
the glass pure. And yet when, two hours later, without her having left
the room or anybody coming into it, she found occasion to administer
the draught, poison was in the cup, and the patient was only saved
from death by the most immediate and energetic measures, not only on
her part, but on that of Dr. Holmes, whom in her haste and
perturbation she had called in from the adjacent house.
The patient, young, innocent, unfortunate, but of a strangely
courageous disposition, betrayed nothing but the utmost surprise at
the peril she had so narrowly escaped. When Dr. Holmes intimated that
perhaps she had been tired of suffering, and had herself found means
of putting the deadly drug into her medicine, she opened her great
gray eyes, with such a look of child-like surprise and reproach, that
he blushed, and murmured some sort of apology.
"Poison myself?" she cried, "when you promise me that I shall get
well? You do not know what a horror I have of dying in debt, or you
would never say that."
This was some time after the critical moment had passed, and there
were in the room Mrs. Dayton, the landlady, Dr. Holmes, the nurse, and
myself. At the utterance of these words we all felt ashamed and cast
looks of increased interest at the poor girl.
She was very lovely. Though without means, and to all appearance
without friends, she possessed in great degree the charm of
winsomeness, and not even her many sufferings, nor the indignation
under which she was then laboring, could quite rob her countenance of
that tender and confiding expression which so often redeems the
plainest face and makes beauty doubly attractive.
"Dr. Holmes does not know you," I hastened to say; "I do, and utterly
repel for you any such insinuation. In return, will you tell me if
there is any one in the world whom you can call your enemy? Though the
chief mystery is how so deadly and unusual a poison could have gotten
into a clean glass, without the knowledge of yourself or the nurse,
still it might not be amiss to know if there is any one, here or
elsewhere, who for any reason might desire your death."
The surprise in the child-like eyes increased rather than diminished.
"I don't know what to say," she murmured. "I am so insignificant and
feeble a person that it seems absurd for me to talk of having an
enemy. Besides, I have none. On the contrary, every one seems to love
me more than I deserve. Haven't you noticed it, Mrs. Dayton?"
The landlady smiled and stroked the sick girl's hand.
"Indeed," she replied, "I have noticed that people love you, but I
have never thought that it was more than you deserved. You are a dear
little thing, Addie."
And though she knew and I knew that the "every one" mentioned by the
poor girl meant ourselves, and possibly her unknown employer, we were
none the less touched by her words. The more we studied the mystery,
the deeper and less explainable did it become.
And indeed I doubt if we should have ever got to the bottom of it, if
there had not presently occurred in my patient a repetition of the
same dangerous symptoms, followed by the same discovery, of poison in
the glass, and the same failure on the part of herself and nurse to
account for it. I was aroused from my bed at midnight to attend her,
and as I entered her room and met her beseeching eyes looking upon me
from the very shadow of death, I made a vow that I would never cease
my efforts till I had penetrated the secret of what certainly looked
like a persistent attempt upon this poor girl's life.
I went about the matter deliberately. As soon as I could leave her
side, I drew the nurse into a corner and again questioned her. The
answers were the same as before. Addie had shown distress as soon as
she had swallowed her usual quantity of medicine, and in a few minutes
more was in a perilous condition.
"Did you hand the glass yourself to Addie?"
"I did."
"Where did you take it from?"
"From the place where you left it--the little stand on the farther
side of the bed."
"And do you mean to say that you had not touched it since I prepared
it?"
"I do, ma'am."
"And that no one else has been in the room?"
"No one, ma'am."
I looked at her intently. I trusted her, but the best of us are but
mortal.
"Can you assure me that you have not been asleep during this time?"
"Look at this letter I have been writing," she returned. "It is eight
pages long, and it was not begun when you left us at 10 o'clock."
I shook my head and fell into a deep revery. How was that matter to be
elucidated, and how was my patient to be saved? Another draught of
this deadly poison, and no power on earth could resuscitate her. What
should I do, and with what weapons should I combat a danger at once so
subtle and so deadly? Reflection brought no decision, and I left the
room at last, determined upon but one point, and that was the
immediate removal of my patient. But before I had left the house I
changed my mind even on this point. Removal of the patient meant
safety to her, perhaps, but not the explanation of her mysterious
poisoning. I would change the position of her bed, and I would even
set a watch over her and the nurse, but I would not take her out of
the house--not yet.
And what had produced this change in my plans? The look of a woman
whom I met on the stairs. I did not know her, but when I encountered
her glance I felt that there was some connection between us, and I was
not at all surprised to hear her ask:
"And how is Miss Wilcox to-day?"
"Miss Wilcox is very low," I returned. "The least neglect, the least
shock to her nerves, would be sufficient to make all my efforts
useless. Otherwise--"
"She will get well?"
I nodded. I had exaggerated the condition of the sufferer, but some
secret instinct compelled me to do so. The look which passed over the
woman's face satisfied me that I had done well; and, though I left the
house, it was with the intention of speedily returning and making
inquiries into the woman's character and position in the household.
I learned little or nothing. That she occupied a good room and paid
for it regularly seemed to be sufficient to satisfy Mrs. Dayton. Her
name, which proved to be Leroux, showed her to be French, and her
promptly paid $10 a week showed her to be respectable--what more could
any hard-working landlady require? But I was distrustful. Her face,
though handsome, possessed an eager, ferocious look which I could not
forget, and the slight gesture with which she had passed me at the
close of the short conversation I have given above had a suggestion of
triumph in it which seemed to contain whole volumes of secret and
mysterious hate. I went into Miss Wilcox's room very thoughtful.
"I am going--"
But here the nurse held up her hand. "Hark," she whispered; she had
just set the clock, and was listening to its striking.
I did hark, but not to the clock.
"Whose step is that?" I asked, after she had left the clock, and sat
down.
"Oh, some one in the next room. The walls here are very thin--only
boards in places."
I did not complete what I had begun to say. If I could hear steps
through the partition, then could our neighbors hear us talk, and what
I had determined upon must be kept secret from all outsiders. I drew a
sheet of paper toward me and wrote:
"I shall stay here to-night. Something tells me that in doing this I
shall solve this mystery. But I must appear to go. Take my
instructions as usual, and bid me good-night. Lock the door after me,
but with a turn of the key instantly unlock it again. I shall go down
stairs, see that my carriage drives away, and quietly return. On my
re-entrance I shall expect to find Miss Wilcox on the couch with the
screen drawn up around it, you in your big chair, and the light
lowered. What I do thereafter need not concern you. Pretend to go to
sleep."
The nurse nodded, and immediately entered upon the programme I had
planned. I prepared the medicine as usual, placed it in its usual
glass, and laid that glass where it had always been set, on a small
table at the farther side of the bed. Then I said "Good-night," and
passed hurriedly out.
I was fortunate enough to meet no one, going or coming. I regained the
room, pushed open the door, and finding everything in order, proceeded
at once to the bed, upon which, after taking off my hat and cloak and
carefully concealing them, I lay down and deftly covered myself up.
My idea was this--that by some mesmeric influence of which she was
ignorant, the nurse had been forced to either poison the glass herself
or open the door for another to do it. If this were so, she or the
other person would be obliged to pass around the foot of the bed in
order to reach the glass, and I should be sure to see it, for I did
not pretend to sleep. By the low light enough could be discerned for
safe movement about the room, and not enough to make apparent the
change which had been made in the occupant of the bed. I waited with
indescribable anxiety, and more than once fancied I heard steps, if
not a feverish breathing close to my bed-head; but no one appeared,
and the nurse in her big chair did not move.
At last I grew weary, and fearful of losing control over my eyelids, I
fixed my gaze upon the glass, as if in so doing I should find a
talisman to keep me awake, when, great God! what was it I saw! A hand,
a creeping hand coming from nowhere and joined to nothing, closing
about that glass and drawing it slowly away till it disappeared
entirely from before my eyes!
I gasped--I could not help it--but I did not stir. For now I knew I
was asleep and dreaming. But no, I pinch myself under the clothes, and
find that I am very wide awake indeed; and then--look! look! the glass
is returning; the hand--a woman's hand--is slowly setting it back in
its place, and--
With a bound I have that hand in my grasp. It is a living hand, and it
is very warm and strong and fierce, and the glass has fallen and lies
shattered between us, and a double cry is heard, one from behind the
partition, through an opening in which this hand had been thrust, and
one from the nurse, who has jumped to her feet and is even now
assisting me in holding the struggling member, upon which I have
managed to scratch a tell-tale mark with a piece of the fallen glass.
At sight of the iron-like grip which this latter lays upon the
intruding member, I at once release my own grasp.
"Hold on," I cried, and leaping from the bed, I hastened first to my
patient, whom I carefully reassured, and then into the hall, where I
found the landlady running to see what was the matter. "I have found
the wretch," I cried, and drawing her after me, hurried about to the
other side of the partition, where I found a closet, and in it the
woman I had met on the stairs, but glaring now like a tiger in her
rage, menace, and fear.
That woman was my humble little patient's bitter but unknown enemy.
Enamoured of a man who--unwisely, perhaps--had expressed in her
hearing his admiration for the pretty typewriter, she had conceived
the idea that he intended to marry the latter, and, vowing vengeance,
had taken up her abode in the same house with the innocent girl,
where, had it not been for the fortunate circumstance of my meeting
her on the stairs, she would certainly have carried out her scheme of
vile and secret murder. The poison she had bought in another city, and
the hole in the partition she had herself cut. This had been done at
first for the purpose of observation, she having detected in passing
by Miss Wilcox's open door that a banner of painted silk hung over
that portion of the wall in such a way as to hide any aperture which
might be made there.
Afterward, when Miss Wilcox fell sick, and she discovered by short
glimpses through her loop-hole that the glass of medicine was placed
on a table just under this banner, she could not resist the temptation
to enlarge the hole to a size sufficient to admit the pushing aside of
the banner and the reaching through of her murderous hand. Why she did
not put poison enough in the glass to kill Miss Wilcox at once I have
never discovered. Probably she feared detection. That by doing as she
did she brought about the very event she had endeavored to avert, is
the most pleasing part of the tale. When the gentleman of whom I have
spoken learned of the wicked attempt which had been made upon Miss
Wilcox's life, his heart took pity upon her, and a marriage ensued,
which I have every reason to believe is a happy one.
SHALL HE WED HER?
When I met Taylor at the Club the other night, he looked so cheerful I
scarcely knew him.
"What is it?" cried I, advancing with outstretched hand.
"I am going to be married," was his gay reply. "This is my last night
at the Club."
I was glad, and showed it. Taylor is a man for whom domestic life is a
necessity. He has never been at home with us, though we all liked him,
and he in his way liked us.
"And who is the fortunate lady?" I inquired; for I had been out of
town for some time, and had not as yet been made acquainted with the
latest society news.
"My intended bride is Mrs. Walworth, the young widow--"
He must have seen a change take place in my expression, for he
stopped.
"You know her, of course?" he added, after a careful study of my face.
I had by this time regained my self-possession.
"Of course," I repeated, "and I have always thought her one of the
most attractive women in the city. Another shake upon it, old man."
But my heart was heavy and my mind perplexed notwithstanding the
forced cordiality of my tones, and I took an early opportunity to
withdraw by myself and think over the situation.
Mrs. Walworth? She is a pretty woman, and what is more, she is to all
appearance a woman whose winning manners bespeak a kindly heart. "Just
the person," I contemplated, "whom I would pick out for the helpmate
of my somewhat exacting friend, if--" I paused on that if. It was a
formidable one and grew none the smaller or less important under my
broodings. Indeed, it seemed to dilate until it assumed gigantic
proportions, worrying me and weighing so heavily upon my conscience
that I at last rose from the newspaper at which I had been hopelessly
staring, and looking up Taylor again asked him how soon he expected to
become a benedict.
His answer startled me. "In a week," he replied, "and if I have not
asked you to the ceremony it is because Helen is not in a position
to--"
I suppose he finished the sentence, but I did not hear him. If the
marriage was so near, of course it would be folly on my part to
attempt to hinder it. I drew off for the second time.
But I could not remain easy. Taylor is a good fellow, and it would be
a shame to allow him to marry a woman with whom he could never be
happy. He would feel any such disappointment so keenly, so much more
keenly than most men. A lack of principle or even of sensibility on
her part would make him miserable. Anticipating heaven, he would not
need a hell to make him wretched; a purgatory would do it. Was I right
then in letting him proceed in his intentions regarding Mrs. Walworth,
when she possibly was the woman who--I paused and tried to call up
her countenance before me. It was a sweet one and possibly a true
one. I might have trusted her for myself, but I do not look for
perfection, and Taylor does, and will certainly go to the bad if he is
deceived in his expectations. But in a week! It is too late for
interference--only it is never too late till the knot is tied. As I
thought of this, I decided impulsively, and perhaps you may say
unwisely, to give him a hint of his danger, and I did it in this wise:
"Taylor," said I, when I had him safely in my own rooms, "I am going
to tell you a bit of personal history, curious enough, I think, to
interest you even upon the eve of your marriage. I do not know when I
shall see you again, and I should like you to know how a lawyer and
man of the world can sometimes be taken in."
He nodded, accepting the situation good-humoredly, though I saw by the
abstraction with which he gazed into the fire that I should have to be
very interesting to lure him from the thoughts that engrossed him. As
I meant to be very interesting, this did not greatly concern me.
"One morning last spring," I began, "I received in my morning mail a
letter, the delicate penmanship of which at once attracted my
attention and awakened my curiosity. Turning to the signature, I read
the name of a young lady friend of mine, and somewhat startled at the
thought that this was the first time I had ever seen the handwriting
of one I knew so well, I perused the letter with an interest that
presently became painful as I realized the tenor of its contents. I
will not quote the letter, though I could, but confine myself to
saying that after a modest recognition of my friendship for her--quite
a fatherly friendship, I assure you, as she is only eighteen, and I,
as you know, am well on towards fifty--she proceeded to ask in a
humble and confiding spirit for the loan--do not start--of fifty
dollars. Such a request coming from a young girl well connected and
with every visible sign of being generously provided for by her
father, was certainly startling to an old bachelor of settled ways and
strict notions, but remembering her youth and the childish innocence
of her manner, I turned over the page and read as her reason for
proffering such a request, that her heart was set upon aiding a
certain poor family that stood in immediate need of food, clothes, and
medicines, but that she could not do what she wished, because she had
already spent all the money allowed her by her father for such
purposes and dared not go to him for more, as she had once before
offended him by doing this, and feared if she repeated her fault he
would carry out the threat he had then made of stopping her allowance
altogether. But the family was a deserving one and she could not see
any member of it starve, so she came to me, of whose goodness she was
assured, convinced I would understand her perplexity and excuse her,
and so forth and so forth, in language quite child-like and
entreating, which, if it did not satisfy my ideas of propriety, at
least touched my heart and made any action which I could take in the
matter extremely difficult.
"To refuse her request would be at once to mortify and aggrieve her;
to accede to it and give her the fifty dollars she asked--a sum by the
way I could not well spare--would be to encourage an action easily
pardoned once, but which if repeated would lead to unpleasant
complications, to say the least. The third course, of informing her
father of what she needed, I did not even consider, for I knew him
well enough to be sure that nothing but pain to her would be the
result. I therefore compromised the affair by inclosing the money in a
letter, in which I told her that I comprehended her difficulty and
sent with pleasure the amount she needed, but that as a friend I must
add that while in the present instance she had run no risk of being
misunderstood or unkindly censured, that such a request made to
another man and under other circumstances might provoke a surprise
capable of leading to the most unpleasant consequences, and advised
her if she ever again found herself in such a strait to appeal
directly to her father, or else to deny herself a charity which she
was in no position to bestow.
"This letter I undertook to deliver myself, for one of the curious
points of her communication had been the entreaty that I would not
delay the help she needed by trusting the money to any hand but my
own, but would bring it to a certain hotel down-town and place it at
the beginning of the book of Isaiah in the large Bible I would find
lying on a side table in the small parlor off the main one. She would
seek it there before the morning was over, and so, without the
intervention of a third party, acquire the means she desired for
helping a poor and deserving family.
"I knew the hotel she mentioned, and I remembered the room, but I did
not remember the Bible. However, it was sure to be in the place she
indicated; and though I was not in much sympathy with my errand, I
respected her whim and carried the letter down-town. I had reached
Main Street and was in sight of the hotel designated, when suddenly on
the opposite corner of the street I saw the young girl herself. She
looked as fresh as the morning, and smiled so gayly I felt somewhat
repaid for the annoyance she had caused me, and gratified that I could
cut matters short by putting the letter directly in her hand, I
crossed the street to her side. As soon as we were face to face, I
said:
"'How fortunate I am to meet you. Here is the amount you need sealed
up in this letter. You see I had it all ready.'
"The face she lifted to mine wore so blank a look that I paused,
astonished.
"'What do you mean?' she asked, her eyes looking straight into mine
with such innocence in their clear blue depths, I was at once
convinced she knew nothing of the matter with which my thoughts were
busy. 'I am very glad to see you, but I do not in the least understand
what you mean by the amount I need.' And she glanced at the letter I
held out, with an air of distrust mingled with curiosity.
"'You cut me short in my efforts to do a charitable action. I heard,
no matter how, that you were interested just now in a destitute
family, and took this way of assisting you in their behalf.'
"Her blue eyes opened wider. 'The poor are always with us,' she
replied, 'but I know of no especial family just now that requires any
such help as you intimate. If I did, papa would give me what
assistance I needed.'
"I was greatly pleased to hear her say this, for I am very fond of my
young friend, but I was deeply indignant also against the unknown
person who had taken advantage of my regard for this young girl to
force money from me. I therefore did not linger at her side, but after
due apologies hastened immediately here where there is a man employed
who to my knowledge had once been a trusted member of the police.
"Telling him no more of the story than was necessary to ensure his
co-operation in the plan I had formed to discover the author of this
fraud, I extracted the bank-notes from the letter I had written, and
put in their place stiff pieces of manila paper. Taking the envelope
so filled to the hotel already referred to, I placed it at the opening
chapters of Isaiah in the Bible, as described. There was no one in any
of the rooms when I went in, and I encountered only a bell-boy as I
came out, but at the door I ran against a young man whom I strictly
forbore to recognize, but whom I knew to be my improvised detective
coming to take his stand in some place where he could watch the parlor
and note who went into it.
"At noon I returned to the hotel, passed immediately to the small
parlor and looked into the Bible. The letter was gone. Coming out of
the room, I was at once joined by my detective.
"'Has the letter been taken?' he eagerly inquired.
"I nodded.
"His brows wrinkled and he looked both troubled and perplexed.
"'I don't understand it,' he remarked. 'I've seen every one who has
gone into that room since you left it, but I do not know any more than
before who took the letter. You see,' he continued, as I looked at him
sharply, 'I had to remain out here. If I had gone even into the large
room, the Bible would not have been disturbed, nor the letter either.
So, in the hope of knowing the rogue at sight, I strolled about this
hall, and kept my eye constantly on that door, but--'
"He looked embarrassed, and stopped. 'You say the letter is gone,' he
suggested, after a moment.
"'Yes,' I returned.
"He shook his head. 'Nobody went into that room or came out of it,' he
went on, 'whom you would have wished me to follow. I should have
thought myself losing time if I had taken one step after any one of
them.'
"'But who did go into that room?' I urged, impatient at his
perplexity.
"'Only three persons this morning,' he returned. 'You know them all.'
And he mentioned first Mrs. Couldock."
Taylor, who was lending me the superficial attention of a preoccupied
man, smiled frankly at the utterance of this name. "Of course, she had
nothing to do with such a debasing piece of business," he observed.
"Of course not," I repeated. "Nor does it seem likely that Miss Dawes
could have been concerned in it. Yet my detective told me that she was
the next person who went into the parlor."
"I do not know Miss Dawes so well," remarked Taylor, carelessly.
"But I do," said I; "and I would as soon suspect my sister of a
dishonorable act as this noble, self-sacrificing woman."
"The third person?" suggested Taylor.
I got up and crossed the floor. When my back was to him, I said,
quietly--"was Mrs. Walworth."
The silence that followed was very painful. I did not care to break
it, and he, doubtless, found himself unable to do so. It must have
been five minutes before either of us spoke; then he suddenly cried:
"Where is that detective, as you call him? I want to see him."
"Let me see him for you," said I. "I should hardly wish Sudley,
discreet as I consider him, to know you had any interest in this
affair."
Taylor rose and came to where I stood.
"You believe," said he, "that she, the woman I am about to marry, is
the one who wrote you that infamous letter?"
I faced him quite frankly. "I do not feel ready to acknowledge that,"
I replied. "One of those three women took my letter out from the
Bible, where I placed it; which of them wrote the lines that provoked
it I do not dare conjecture. You say it was not Mrs. Couldock, I say
it was not Miss Dawes, but--"
He broke in upon me impetuously.
"Have you the letter?" he asked.
I had, and showed it to him.
"It is not Helen's handwriting," he said.
"Nor is it that of Mrs. Couldock or Miss Dawes."
He looked at me for a moment in a wild sort of way.
"You think she got some one to write it for her?" he cried. "Helen! my
Helen! But it is not so; it cannot be so. Why, Huntley, to have sent
such a letter as that over the name of an innocent young girl, who,
but for the happy chance of meeting you as she did might never have
had the opportunity of righting herself in your estimation, argues a
cold and calculating selfishness closely allied to depravity. And my
Helen is an angel--or so I have always thought her."
The depth to which his voice sank in the last sentence showed that for
all his seeming confidence he was not without his doubts.
I began to feel very uncomfortable, and not knowing what consolation
to offer, I ventured upon the suggestion that he should see Mrs.
Walworth and frankly ask her whether she had been to the hotel on Main
Street on such a day, and if so, if she had seen a letter addressed
to Miss N---- lying on the table of the small parlor. His answer
showed how much his confidence in her had been shaken.
"A woman who, for the sake of paying some unworthy debt or of
gratifying some whim of feminine vanity, could make use of a young
girl's signature to obtain money, would not hesitate at any denial.
She would not even blench at my questions."
He was right.
"I must be convinced in some other way," he went on. "Mrs. Couldock or
Miss Dawes do not either of them possess any more truthful or
ingenuous countenance than she does, and though it seems madness to
suspect such women--"
"Wait," I broke in. "Let us be sure of all the facts before we go on.
You lie down here and close your eyes; now pull the rug up so. I will
have Sudley in and question him. If you do not turn towards the light
he will not know who you are."
Taylor followed my suggestion, and in a few moments Sudley stood
before me. I opened upon him quite carelessly.
"Sudley," said I, throwing down the newspaper I had been ostensibly
reading, "you remember that little business you did for me in Main
Street last month? Something I've been reading made me think of it
again."
"Yes, sir."
"Have you never had a conviction yourself as to which of the three
ladies you saw go into the parlor took the letter I left hid in the
Bible?"
"No, sir. You see I could not. All of them are well known in society
here and all of them belong to the most respectable families. I
wouldn't dare to choose between them, sir."
"Certainly not," I rejoined, "unless you have some good reason for
doing so, such as having been able to account for the visits of two of
the ladies to the hotel, and not of the third."
"They all had a good pretext for being there. Mrs. Couldock gave her
card to the boy before going into the parlor, and left as soon as he
returned with word that the lady she called to see was not in. Miss
Dawes gave no card, but asked for a Miss Terhune, I think, and did
not remain a moment after she was informed that that lady had left the
hotel."
"And Mrs. Walworth?"
"She came in from the street adjusting her veil, and upon looking
around for a mirror was directed to the parlor, into which she at once
stepped. She remained there but a moment, and when she came out passed
directly into the street."
These words disconcerted me; the mirror was just over the table in the
small room, but I managed to remark nonchalantly:
"Could you not tell whether any of these three ladies opened the
Bible?"
"Not without seeming intrusive."
I sighed and dismissed the man. When he was gone I approached Taylor.
"He can give us no assistance," I cried.
My friend was already on his feet, looking very miserable.
"I know of only one thing to do," he remarked. "To-morrow I shall call
upon Mrs. Couldock and Miss Dawes, and entreat them to tell me if, for
any reason, they undertook to deliver a letter mysteriously left in
the Bible of the ---- Hotel one day last month. They may have been
deputed to do so, and be quite willing to acknowledge it."
"And Mrs. Walworth? Will you not ask her the same question?"
He shook his head and turned away.
"Very well," said I to myself, "then I will."
Accordingly the next day I called upon Mrs. Walworth.
Taking her by the hand, I gently forced her to stand for a moment
where the light from the one window fell full upon her face. I said:
"You must pardon my intrusion upon you at a time when you are
naturally so busy, but there is something you can do for me that will
rid me of a great anxiety. You remember being in ---- Hotel one
morning last month?"
She was looking quietly up at me, her lips parted, her eyes smiling
and expectant, but at the mention of that hotel I thought--and yet I
may have been mistaken--that a slight change took place in her
expression, if it was only that the glance grew more gentle and the
smile more marked.
But her voice when she answered was the same as that with which she
had uttered her greeting.
"I do not remember," she replied, "yet I may have been there; I go to
so many places. Why do you ask?" she inquired.
"Because if you were there on that morning--and I have been told you
were--you may be able to solve a question that is greatly perplexing
me."
Still the same gentle, inquiring look on her face; only now there was
a little furrow of wonder or interest between the eyes.
"I had business in that hotel on that morning," I continued. "I had
left a letter for a young friend of mine in the Bible that lies on the
small table of the inner parlor, and as she never received it I have
been driven into making all kinds of inquiries in the hope of finding
some explanation of the fact. As you were there at the time you may
have seen something that would aid me. Is it not possible, Mrs.
Walworth?"
Her smile, which had faded, reappeared. On the lips which Taylor so
much admired a little pout became visible, and she looked quite
enchanting.
"I do not even remember being at that hotel at all," she protested.
"Did Mr. Taylor say I was there?" she inquired, with just that added
look of exquisite näivete which the utterance of a lover's name should
call up on the face of a prospective bride.
"No," I answered gravely; "Mr. Taylor, unhappily, was not with you
that morning." She looked startled.
"Unhappily," she repeated. "What do you mean by that word?" And she
drew back looking very much displeased.
I had expected this, and so was not thrown off my guard.
"I mean," I proceeded calmly, "that if you had had such a companion
with you on that morning I should now be able to put my questions to
him, instead of taking your time and interrupting your affairs by my
importunities."
"You will tell me just what you mean," said she, earnestly.
I was equally emphatic in my reply. "That is only just. You ought to
know why I trouble you with this matter. It is because this letter of
which I speak was taken from its hiding-place by some one who went
into the hotel parlor between the hours of 10:30 and 12 o'clock, and
as to my certain knowledge only three persons crossed its threshold on
that especial morning at that especial time, I naturally appeal to
each of them in turn for an answer to the problem that is troubling
me. You know Miss N----. Seeing by accident a letter addressed to her
lying in a Bible in a strange hotel, you might have thought it your
duty to take it out and carry it to her. If you did and if you lost
it--"
"But I didn't," she interrupted, warmly. "I know nothing about any
such letter, and if you had not declared so positively that I was in
that hotel on that especial day I should be tempted to deny that too,
for I have no recollection of going there last month."
"Not for the purpose of rearranging a veil that had been blown off?"
"Oh!" she said, but as one who recalls a forgotten fact, not as one
who is tripped up in an evasion.
I began to think her innocent, and lost some of the gloom which had
been oppressing me.
"You remember now?" said I.
"Oh, yes, I remember that."
Her manner so completely declared that her acknowledgments stopped
there, I saw it would be useless to venture further. If she were
innocent she could not tell more, if she were guilty she would not;
so, feeling that the inclination of my belief was in favor of the
former hypothesis, I again took her hand, and said:
"I see that you can give me no help. I am sorry, for the whole
happiness of a man, and perhaps that of a woman also, depends upon the
discovery as to who took the letter from out the Bible where I had
hidden it on that unfortunate morning." And, making her another low
bow, I was about to take my departure, when she grasped me impulsively
by the arm.
"What man?" she whispered; and in a lower tone still, "What woman?"
I turned and looked at her. "Great heaven!" thought I, "can such a
face hide a selfish and intriguing heart?" and in a flash I summoned
up in comparison before me the plain, honest, and reliable countenance
of Mrs. Couldock and that of the comely and unpretending Miss Dawes,
and knew not what to think.
"You do not mean yourself?" she continued, as she met my look of
distress.
"No," I returned; "happily for me my welfare is not bound up in the
honor of any woman." And leaving that shaft to work its way into her
heart, if that heart were vulnerable, I took my leave, more troubled
and less decided than when I entered.
For her manner had been absolutely that of a woman surprised by
insinuations she was too innocent to rate at their real importance.
And yet, if she did not take away that letter, who did? Mrs. Couldock?
Impossible. Miss Dawes? The thought was untenable, even for an
instant. I waited in great depression of spirits for the call I knew
Taylor would not fail to make that evening.
When he came I saw what the result of my revelations was likely to be
as plainly as I see it now. He had conversed frankly with Mrs.
Couldock and with Miss Dawes, and was perfectly convinced as to the
utter ignorance of them both in regard to the whole affair. In
consequence, Mrs. Walworth was guilty in his estimation, and being
held guilty could be no wife for him, much as he had loved her, and
urgent as may have been the cause for her act.
"But," said I, in some horror of the consequences of an interference
for which I was almost ready to blame myself now, "Mrs. Couldock and
Miss Dawes could have done no more than deny all knowledge of this
letter. Now Mrs. Walworth does that, and--"
"You have seen her? You have asked her--"
"Yes, I have seen her, and I have asked her, and not an eyelash
drooped as she affirmed a complete ignorance of the whole affair."
Taylor's head fell.
"I told you how that would be," he murmured at last. "I cannot feel
that it is any proof of her innocence. Or rather," he added, "I should
always have my doubts."
"And Mrs. Couldock and Miss Dawes?"
"Ah!" he cried, rising and turning away; "there is no question of
marriage between either of them and myself."
I was therefore not astonished when the week went by and no
announcement of his wedding appeared. But I was troubled and am
troubled still, for if mistakes are made in criminal courts, and the
innocent sometimes, through the sheer force of circumstantial
evidence, are made to suffer for the guilty, might it not be that in
this little question of morals Mrs. Walworth has been wronged, and
that when I played the part of arbitrator in her fate, I only
succeeded in separating two hearts whose right it was to be made
happy?
It is impossible to tell, nor is time likely to solve the riddle. Must
I then forever blame myself, or did I only do in this matter what any
honest man would have done in my place? Answer me, some one, for I do
not find my lonely bachelor life in any wise brightened by the doubt,
and would be grateful to any one who would relieve me of it.