Produced by Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.
AGATHA WEBB
BY ANNA KATHARINE GREEN (MRS. CHARLES ROHLFS)
AUTHOR OF "THE LEAVENWORTH CASE," "THAT AFFAIR NEXT DOOR" "LOST MAN'S
LANE," ETC.
THIS BOOK IS INSCRIBED TO MY FRIEND
PROFESSOR A. V. DICEY
OF OXFORD, ENGLAND
CONTENTS
BOOK I
THE PURPLE ORCHID
I--A Cry on the Hill
II--One Night's Work
III--The Empty Drawer
IV--The Full Drawer
V--A Spot on the Lawn
VI--"Breakfast is Served, Gentlemen!"
VII--"Marry Me"
VIII--"A Devil That Understands Men"
IX--A Grand Woman
X--Detective Knapp Arrives
XI--The Man with a Beard
XII--Wattles Comes
XIII--Wattles Goes
XIV--A Final Temptation
XV--The Zabels Visited
XVI--Local Talent at Work
XVII--The Slippers, the Flower, and What Sweetwater Made of Them
XVIII--Some Leading Questions
XIX--Poor Philemon
XX--A Surprise for Mr. Sutherland
BOOK II
THE MAN OF NO REPUTATION
XXI--Sweetwater Reasons
XXII--Sweetwater Acts
XXIII--A Sinister Pair
XXIV--In the Shadow of the Mast
XXV--In Extremity
XXVI--The Adventure of the Parcel
XXVII--The Adventure of the Scrap of Paper and the Three Words
XXVIII--"Who Are You?"
XXIX--Home Again
BOOK III
HAD BATSY LIVED!
XXX--What Followed the Striking of the Clock
XXXI--A Witness Lost
XXXII--Why Agatha Webb will Never be Forgotten in Sutherlandtown
XXXIII--Father and Son
XXXIV--"Not When They Are Young Girls"
XXXV--Sweetwater Pays His Debt at Last to Mr. Sutherland
BOOK I
THE PURPLE ORCHID
I
A CRY ON THE HILL
The dance was over. From the great house on the hill the guests had all
departed and only the musicians remained. As they filed out through the
ample doorway, on their way home, the first faint streak of early dawn
became visible in the east. One of them, a lank, plain-featured young
man of ungainly aspect but penetrating eye, called the attention of the
others to it.
"Look!" said he; "there is the daylight! This has been a gay night for
Sutherlandtown."
"Too gay," muttered another, starting aside as the slight figure of a
young man coming from the house behind them rushed hastily by. "Why,
who's that?"
As they one and all had recognised the person thus alluded to, no one
answered till he had dashed out of the gate and disappeared in the woods
on the other side of the road. Then they all spoke at once.
"It's Mr. Frederick!"
"He seems in a desperate hurry."
"He trod on my toes."
"Did you hear the words he was muttering as he went by?"
As only the last question was calculated to rouse any interest, it alone
received attention.
"No; what were they? I heard him say something, but I failed to catch
the words."
"He wasn't talking to you, or to me either, for that matter; but I have
ears that can hear an eye wink. He said: 'Thank God, this night of
horror is over!' Think of that! After such a dance and such a spread, he
calls the night horrible and thanks God that it is over. I thought he
was the very man to enjoy this kind of thing."
"So did I."
"And so did I."
The five musicians exchanged looks, then huddled in a group at the gate.
"He has quarrelled with his sweetheart," suggested one.
"I'm not surprised at that," declared another. "I never thought it would
be a match."
"Shame if it were!" muttered the ungainly youth who had spoken first.
As the subject of this comment was the son of the gentleman whose house
they were just leaving, they necessarily spoke low; but their tones were
rife with curiosity, and it was evident that the topic deeply interested
them. One of the five who had not previously spoken now put in a word:
"I saw him when he first led out Miss Page to dance, and I saw him again
when he stood up opposite her in the last quadrille, and I tell you,
boys, there was a mighty deal of difference in the way he conducted
himself toward her in the beginning of the evening and the last. You
wouldn't have thought him the same man. Reckless young fellows like him
are not to be caught by dimples only. They want cash."
"Or family, at least; and she hasn't either. But what a pretty girl she
is! Many a fellow as rich as he and as well connected would be satisfied
with her good looks alone."
"Good looks!" High scorn was observable in this exclamation, which was
made by the young man whom I have before characterised as ungainly. "I
refuse to acknowledge that she has any good looks. On the contrary, I
consider her plain."
"Oh! Oh!" burst in protest from more than one mouth. "And why does she
have every fellow in the room dangling after her, then?" asked the
player on the flageolet.
"She hasn't a regular feature."
"What difference does that make when it isn't her features you notice,
but herself?"
"I don't like her."
A laugh followed this.
"That won't trouble her, Sweetwater. Sutherland does, if you don't, and
that's much more to the point. And he'll marry her yet; he can't help
it. Why, she'd witch the devil into leading her to the altar if she took
a notion to have him for her bridegroom."
"There would be consistency in that," muttered the fellow just
addressed. "But Mr. Frederick--"
"Hush! There's some one on the doorstep. Why, it's she!"
They all glanced back. The graceful figure of a young girl dressed in
white was to be seen leaning toward them from the open doorway. Behind
her shone a blaze of light--the candles not having been yet extinguished
in the hall--and against this brilliant background her slight form, with
all its bewitching outlines, stood out in plain relief.
"Who was that?" she began in a high, almost strident voice, totally out
of keeping with the sensuous curves of her strange, sweet face. But the
question remained unanswered, for at that moment her attention, as well
as that of the men lingering at the gate, was attracted by the sound of
hurrying feet and confused cries coming up the hill.
"Murder! Murder!" was the word panted out by more than one harsh voice;
and in another instant a dozen men and boys came rushing into sight in a
state of such excitement that the five musicians recoiled from the gate,
and one of them went so far as to start back toward the house. As he did
so he noticed a curious thing. The young woman whom they had all
perceived standing in the door a moment before had vanished, yet she was
known to possess the keenest curiosity of any one in town.
"Murder! Murder!" A terrible and unprecedented cry in this old,
God-fearing town. Then came in hoarse explanation from the jostling
group as they stopped at the gate: "Mrs. Webb has been killed! Stabbed
with a knife! Tell Mr. Sutherland!"
Mrs. Webb!
As the musicians heard this name, so honoured and so universally
beloved, they to a man uttered a cry. Mrs. Webb! Why, it was impossible.
Shouting in their turn for Mr. Sutherland, they all crowded forward.
"Not Mrs. Webb!" they protested. "Who could have the daring or the heart
to kill HER?"
"God knows," answered a voice from the highway. "But she's dead--we've
just seen her!"
"Then it's the old man's work," quavered a piping voice. "I've always
said he would turn on his best friend some day. 'Sylum's the best place
for folks as has lost their wits. I--"
But here a hand was put over his mouth, and the rest of the words was
lost in an inarticulate gurgle. Mr. Sutherland had just appeared on the
porch.
He was a superb-looking man, with an expression of mingled kindness and
dignity that invariably awakened both awe and admiration in the
spectator. No man in the country--I was going to say no woman was more
beloved, or held in higher esteem. Yet he could not control his only
son, as everyone within ten miles of the hill well knew.
At this moment his face showed both pain and shock.
"What name are you shouting out there?" he brokenly demanded. "Agatha
Webb? Is Agatha Webb hurt?"
"Yes, sir; killed," repeated a half-dozen voices at once. "We've just
come from the house. All the town is up. Some say her husband did it."
"No, no!" was Mr. Sutherland's decisive though half-inaudible response.
"Philemon Webb might end his own life, but not Agatha's. It was the
money--"
Here he caught himself up, and, raising his voice, addressed the crowd
of villagers more directly.
"Wait," said he, "and I will go back with you. Where is Frederick?" he
demanded of such members of his own household as stood about him.
No one knew.
"I wish some one would find my son. I want him to go into town with me."
"He's over in the woods there," volunteered a voice from without.
"In the woods!" repeated the father, in a surprised tone.
"Yes, sir; we all saw him go. Shall we sing out to him?"
"No, no; I will manage very well without him." And taking up his hat Mr.
Sutherland stepped out again upon the porch.
Suddenly he stopped. A hand had been laid on his arm and an insinuating
voice was murmuring in his ear:
"Do you mind if I go with you? I will not make any trouble."
It was the same young lady we have seen before.
The old gentleman frowned--he who never frowned and remarked shortly:
"A scene of murder is no place for women."
The face upturned to his remained unmoved.
"I think I will go," she quietly persisted. "I can easily mingle with
the crowd."
He said not another word against it. Miss Page was under pay in his
house, but for the last few weeks no one had undertaken to contradict
her. In the interval since her first appearance on the porch, she had
exchanged the light dress in which she had danced at the ball, for a
darker and more serviceable one, and perhaps this token of her
determination may have had its influence in silencing him. He joined the
crowd, and together they moved down-hill. This was too much for the
servants of the house. One by one they too left the house till it stood
absolutely empty. Jerry snuffed out the candles and shut the front door,
but the side entrance stood wide open, and into this entrance, as the
last footstep died out on the hillside, passed a slight and resolute
figure. It was that of the musician who had questioned Miss Page's
attractions.
II
ONE NIGHT'S WORK
Sutherlandtown was a seaport. The village, which was a small one,
consisted of one long street and numerous cross streets running down
from the hillside and ending on the wharves. On one of the corners thus
made, stood the Webb house, with its front door on the main street and
its side door on one of the hillside lanes. As the group of men and boys
who had been in search of Mr. Sutherland entered this last-mentioned
lane, they could pick out this house from all the others, as it was the
only one in which a light was still burning. Mr. Sutherland lost no time
in entering upon the scene of tragedy. As his imposing figure emerged
from the darkness and paused on the outskirts of the crowd that was
blocking up every entrance to the house, a murmur of welcome went up,
after which a way was made for him to the front door.
But before he could enter, some one plucked him by the sleeve.
"Look up!" whispered a voice into his ear.
He did so, and saw a woman's body hanging half out of an upper window.
It hung limp, and the sight made him sick, notwithstanding his
threescore years of experience.
"Who's that?" he cried. "That's not Agatha Webb."
"No, that's Batsy, the cook. She's dead as well as her mistress. We left
her where we found her for the coroner to see."
"But this is horrible," murmured Mr. Sutherland. "Has there been a
butcher here?"
As he uttered these words, he felt another quick pressure on his arm.
Looking down, he saw leaning against him the form of a young woman, but
before he could address her she had started upright again and was moving
on with the throng. It was Miss Page.
"It was the sight of this woman hanging from the window which first drew
attention to the house," volunteered a man who was standing as a sort of
guardian at the main gateway. "Some of the sailors' wives who had been
to the wharves to see their husbands off on the ship that sailed at
daybreak, saw it as they came up the lane on their way home, and gave
the alarm. Without that we might not have known to this hour what had
happened."
"But Mrs. Webb?"
"Come in and see."
There was a board fence about the simple yard within which stood the
humble house forever after to be pointed out as the scene of
Sutherlandtown's most heart-rending tragedy. In this fence was a gate,
and through this gate now passed Mr. Sutherland, followed by his
would-be companion, Miss Page. A path bordered by lilac bushes led up to
the house, the door of which stood wide open. As soon as Mr. Sutherland
entered upon this path a man approached him from the doorway. It was
Amos Fenton, the constable.
"Ah, Mr. Sutherland," said he, "sad business, a very sad business! But
what little girl have you there?"
"This is Miss Page, my housekeeper's niece. She would come.
Inquisitiveness the cause. I do not approve of it."
"Miss Page must remain on the doorstep. We allow no one inside excepting
yourself," he said respectfully, in recognition of the fact that nothing
of importance was ever undertaken in Sutherlandtown without the
presence of Mr. Sutherland.
Miss Page curtsied, looking so bewitching in the fresh morning light
that the tough old constable scratched his chin in grudging admiration.
But he did not reconsider his determination. Seeing this, she accepted
her defeat gracefully, and moved aside to where the bushes offered her
more or less protection from the curiosity of those about her. Meanwhile
Mr. Sutherland had stepped into the house.
He found himself in a small hall with a staircase in front and an open
door at the left. On the threshold of this open door a man stood, who at
sight of him doffed his hat. Passing by this man, Mr. Sutherland entered
the room beyond. A table spread with eatables met his view, beside
which, in an attitude which struck him at the moment as peculiar, sat
Philemon Webb, the well-known master of the house.
Astonished at seeing his old friend in this room and in such a position,
he was about to address him, when Mr. Fenton stopped him.
"Wait!" said he. "Take a look at poor Philemon before you disturb him.
When we broke into the house a half-hour ago he was sitting just as you
see him now, and we have let him be for reasons you can easily
appreciate. Examine him closely, Mr. Sutherland; he won't notice it."
"But what ails him? Why does he sit crouched against the table? Is he
hurt too?"
"No; look at his eyes."
Mr. Sutherland stooped and pushed aside the long grey locks that half
concealed the countenance of his aged friend.
"Why," he cried, startled, "they are closed! He isn't dead?"
"No, he is asleep."
"Asleep?"
"Yes. He was asleep when we came in and he is asleep yet. Some of the
neighbours wanted to wake him, but I would not let them. His wits are
not strong enough to bear a sudden shock."
"No, no, poor Philemon! But that he should sit sleeping here while
she--But what do these bottles mean and this parade of supper in a room
they were not accustomed to eat in?"
"We don't know. It has not been eaten, you see. He has swallowed a glass
of port, but that is all. The other glasses have had no wine in them,
nor have the victuals been touched."
"Seats set for three and only one occupied," murmured Mr. Sutherland.
"Strange! Could he have expected guests?"
"It looks like it. I didn't know that his wife allowed him such
privileges; but she was always too good to him, and I fear has paid for
it with her life."
"Nonsense! he never killed her. Had his love been anything short of the
worship it was, he stood in too much awe of her to lift his hand against
her, even in his most demented moments."
"I don't trust men of uncertain wits," returned the other. "You have not
noticed everything that is to be seen in this room."
Mr. Sutherland, recalled to himself by these words, looked quickly about
him. With the exception of the table and what was on and by it there was
nothing else in the room. Naturally his glance returned to Philemon
Webb.
"I don't see anything but this poor sleeping man," he began.
"Look at his sleeve."
Mr. Sutherland, with a start, again bent down. The arm of his old friend
lay crooked upon the table, and on its blue cotton sleeve there was a
smear which might have been wine, but which was--blood.
As Mr. Sutherland became assured of this, he turned slightly pale and
looked inquiringly at the two men who were intently watching him.
"This is bad," said he. "Any other marks of blood below stairs?"
"No; that one smear is all."
"Oh, Philemon!" burst from Mr. Sutherland, in deep emotion. Then, as he
looked long and shudderingly at his friend, he added slowly:
"He has been in the room where she was killed; so much is evident. But
that he understood what was done there I cannot believe, or he would not
be sleeping here like a log. Come, let us go up-stairs."
Fenton, with an admonitory gesture toward his subordinate, turned
directly toward the staircase. Mr. Sutherland followed him, and they at
once proceeded to the upper hall and into the large front room which had
been the scene of the tragedy.
It was the parlour or sitting-room of this small and unpretentious
house. A rag carpet covered the floor and the furniture was of the
plainest kind, but the woman who lay outstretched on the stiff,
old-fashioned lounge opposite the door was far from being in accord with
the homely type of her surroundings. Though the victim of a violent
death, her face and form, both of a beauty seldom to be found among
women of any station, were so majestic in their calm repose, that Mr.
Sutherland, accustomed as he was to her noble appearance, experienced a
shock of surprise that found vent in these words:
"Murdered! she? You have made some mistake, my friends. Look at her
face!"
But even in the act of saying this his eyes fell on the blood which had
dyed her cotton dress and he cried:
"Where was she struck and where is the weapon which has made this
ghastly wound?"
"She was struck while standing or sitting at this table," returned the
constable, pointing to two or three drops of blood on its smooth
surface. "The weapon we have not found, but the wound shows that it was
inflicted by a three-sided dagger."
"A three-sided dagger?"
"Yes."
"I didn't know there was such a thing in town. Philemon could have had
no dagger."
"It does not seem so, but one can never tell. Simple cottages like these
often contain the most unlooked-for articles."
"I cannot imagine a dagger being among its effects," declared Mr.
Sutherland. "Where was the body of Mrs. Webb lying when you came in?"
"Where you see it now. Nothing has been moved or changed."
"She was found here, on this lounge, in the same position in which we
see her now?"
"Yes, sir."
"But that is incredible. Look at the way she lies! Hands crossed, eyes
closed, as though made ready for her burial. Only loving hands could
have done this. What does it mean?"
"It means Philemon; that is what it means Philemon."
Mr. Sutherland shuddered, but said nothing. He was dumbfounded by these
evidences of a crazy man's work. Philemon Webb always seemed so
harmless, though he had been failing in mind for the last ten years.
"But" cried Mr. Sutherland, suddenly rousing, "there is another victim.
I saw old woman Batsy hanging from a window ledge, dead."
"Yes, she is in this other room; but there is no wound on Batsy."
"How was she killed, then?"
"That the doctors must tell us."
Mr. Sutherland, guided by Mr. Fenton's gesture, entered a small room
opening into the one in which they stood. His attention was at once
attracted by the body of the woman he had seen from below, lying half in
and half out of the open window. That she was dead was evident; but, as
Mr. Fenton had said, no wound was to be seen upon her, nor were there
any marks of blood on or about the place where she lay.
"This is a dreadful business," groaned Mr. Sutherland, "the worst I have
ever had anything to do with. Help me to lift the woman in; she has been
long enough a show for the people outside."
There was a bed in this room (indeed, it was Mrs. Webb's bedroom), and
upon this poor Batsy was laid. As the face came uppermost both gentlemen
started and looked at each other in amazement. The expression of terror
and alarm which it showed was in striking contrast to the look of
exaltation to be seen on the face of her dead mistress.
III
THE EMPTY DRAWER
As they re-entered the larger room, they were astonished to come upon
Miss Page standing in the doorway. She was gazing at the recumbent
figure of the dead woman, and for a moment seemed unconscious of their
presence.
"How did you get in? Which of my men was weak enough to let you pass,
against my express instructions?" asked the constable, who was of an
irritable and suspicious nature.
She let the hood drop from her head, and, turning, surveyed him with a
slow smile. There was witchery in that smile sufficient to affect a much
more cultivated and callous nature than his, and though he had been
proof against it once he could not quite resist the effect of its
repetition.
"I insisted upon entering," said she. "Do not blame the men; they did
not want to use force against a woman." She had not a good voice and she
knew it; but she covered up this defect by a choice of intonations that
carried her lightest speech to the heart. Hard-visaged Amos Fenton gave
a grunt, which was as near an expression of approval as he ever gave to
anyone.
"Well! well!" he growled, but not ill-naturedly, "it's a morbid
curiosity that brings you here. Better drop it, girl; it won't do you
any good in the eyes of sensible people."
"Thank you," was her demure reply, her lips dimpling at the corners in a
way to shock the sensitive Mr. Sutherland.
Glancing from her to the still outlines of the noble figure on the
couch, he remarked with an air of mild reproof:
"I do not understand you, Miss Page. If this solemn sight has no power
to stop your coquetries, nothing can. As for your curiosity, it is both
ill-timed and unwomanly. Let me see you leave this house at once, Miss
Page; and if in the few hours which must elapse before breakfast you can
find time to pack your trunks, you will still farther oblige me."
"Oh, don't send me away, I entreat you."
It was a cry from her inner heart, which she probably regretted, for she
instantly sought to cover up her inadvertent self-betrayal by a
submissive bend of the head and a step backward. Neither Mr. Fenton nor
Mr. Sutherland seemed to hear the one or see the other, their attention
having returned to the more serious matter in hand.
"The dress which our poor friend wears shows her to have been struck
before retiring," commented Mr. Sutherland, after another short survey
of Mrs. Webb's figure. "If Philemon--"
"Excuse me, sir," interrupted the voice of the young man who had been
left in the hall, "the lady is listening to what you say. She is still
at the head of the stairs."
"She is, is she!" cried Fenton, sharply, his admiration for the
fascinating stranger having oozed out at his companion's rebuff. "I will
soon show her--" But the words melted into thin air as he reached the
door. The young girl had disappeared, and only a faint perfume remained
in the place where she had stood.
"A most extraordinary person," grumbled the constable, turning back, but
stopping again as a faint murmur came up from below.
"The gentleman is waking," called up a voice whose lack of music was
quite perceptible at a distance.
With a bound Mr. Fenton descended the stairs, followed by Mr.
Sutherland.
Miss Page stood before the door of the room in which sat Philemon Webb.
As they reached her side, she made a little bow that was half mocking,
half deprecatory, and slipped from the house. An almost unbearable
sensation of incongruity vanished with her, and Mr. Sutherland, for one,
breathed like a man relieved.
"I wish the doctor would come," Fenton said, as they watched the slow
lifting of Philemon Webb's head. "Our fastest rider has gone for him,
but he's out Portchester way, and it may be an hour yet before he can
get here."
"Philemon!"
Mr. Sutherland had advanced and was standing by his old friend's side.
"Philemon, what has become of your guests? You've waited for them here
until morning."
The old man with a dazed look surveyed the two plates set on either side
of him and shook his head.
"James and John are getting proud," said he, "or they forget, they
forget."
James and John. He must mean the Zabels, yet there were many others
answering to these names in town. Mr. Sutherland made another effort.
"Philemon, where is your wife? I do not see any place set here for her!"
"Agatha's sick, Agatha's cross; she don't care for a poor old man like
me."
"Agatha's dead and you know it," thundered back the constable, with
ill-judged severity. "Who killed her? tell me that. Who killed her?"
A sudden quenching of the last spark of intelligence in the old man's
eye was the dreadful effect of these words. Laughing with that strange
gurgle which proclaims an utterly irresponsible mind, he cried:
"The pussy cat! It was the pussy cat. Who's killed? I'm not killed.
Let's go to Jericho."
Mr. Sutherland took him by the arm and led him up-stairs. Perhaps the
sight of his dead wife would restore him. But he looked at her with the
same indifference he showed to everything else.
"I don't like her calico dresses," said he. "She might have worn silk,
but she wouldn't. Agatha, will you wear silk to my funeral?"
The experiment was too painful, and they drew him away. But the
constable's curiosity had been roused, and after they had found some one
to take care of him, he drew Mr. Sutherland aside and said:
"What did the old man mean by saying she might have worn silk? Are they
better off than they seem?" Mr. Sutherland closed the door before
replying.
"They are rich," he declared, to the utter amazement of the other. "That
is, they were; but they may have been robbed; if so, Philemon was not
the wretch who killed her. I have been told that she kept her money in
an old-fashioned cupboard. Do you suppose they alluded to that one?"
He pointed to a door set in the wall over the fireplace, and Mr. Fenton,
perceiving a key sticking in the lock, stepped quickly across the floor
and opened it. A row of books met his eyes, but on taking them down a
couple of drawers were seen at the back.
"Are they locked?" asked Mr. Sutherland.
"One is and one is not."
"Open the one that is unlocked."
Mr. Fenton did so.
"It is empty," said he.
Mr. Sutherland cast a look toward the dead woman, and again the perfect
serenity of her countenance struck him.
"I do not know whether to regard her as the victim of her husband's
imbecility or of some vile robber's cupidity. Can you find the key to
the other drawer?"
"I will try."
"Suppose you begin, then, by looking on her person. It should be in her
pocket, if no marauder has been here."
"It is not in her pocket."
"Hanging to her neck, then, by a string?"
"No; there is a locket here, but no key. A very handsome locket, Mr.
Sutherland, with a child's lock of golden hair--"
"Never mind, we will see that later; it is the key we want just now."
"Good heavens!"
"What is it?"
"It is in her hand; the one that lies underneath."
"Ah! A point, Fenton."
"A great point."
"Stand by her, Fenton. Don't let anyone rob her of that key till the
coroner comes, and we are at liberty to take it."
"I will not leave her for an instant."
"Meanwhile, I will put back these books."
He had scarcely done so when a fresh arrival occurred. This time it was
one of the village clergymen.
IV
THE FULL DRAWER
This gentleman had some information to give. It seems that at an early
hour of this same night he had gone by this house on his way home from
the bedside of a sick parishioner. As he was passing the gate he was run
into by a man who came rushing out of the yard, in a state of violent
agitation. In this man's hand was something that glittered, and though
the encounter nearly upset them both, he had not stopped to utter an
apology, but stumbled away out of sight with a hasty but infirm step,
which showed he was neither young nor active. The minister had failed to
see his face, but noticed the ends of a long beard blowing over his
shoulder as he hurried away.
Philemon was a clean-shaven man.
Asked if he could give the time of this encounter, he replied that it
was not far from midnight, as he was in his own house by half-past
twelve.
"Did you glance up at these windows in passing?" asked Mr. Fenton.
"I must have; for I now remember they were both lighted."
"Were the shades up?"
"I think not. I would have noticed it if they had been."
"How were the shades when you broke into the house this morning?"
inquired Mr. Sutherland of the constable.
"Just as they are now; we have moved nothing. The shades were both
down--one of them over an open window."
"Well, we may find this encounter of yours with this unknown man a
matter of vital importance, Mr. Crane."
"I wish I had seen his face."
"What do you think the object was you saw glittering in his hand?"
"I should not like to say; I saw it but an instant."
"Could it have been a knife or an old-fashioned dagger?"
"It might have been."
"Alas! poor Agatha! That she, who so despised money, should fall a
victim to man's cupidity! Unhappy life, unhappy death! Fenton, I shall
always mourn for Agatha Webb."
"Yet she seems to have found peace at last," observed the minister. "I
have never seen her look so contented." And leading Mr. Sutherland
aside, he whispered: "What is this you say about money? Had she, in
spite of appearances, any considerable amount? I ask, because in spite
of her humble home and simple manner of living, she always put more on
the plate than any of her neighbours. Besides which, I have from time to
time during my pastorate received anonymously certain contributions,
which, as they were always for sick or suffering children--"
"Yes, yes; they came from her, I have no doubt of it. She was by no
means poor, though I myself never knew the extent of her means till
lately. Philemon was a good business man once; but they evidently
preferred to live simply, having no children living--"
"They have lost six, I have been told."
"So the Portchester folks say. They probably had no heart for display or
for even the simplest luxuries. At all events, they did not indulge in
them."
"Philemon has long been past indulging in anything."
"Oh, he likes his comfort, and he has had it too. Agatha never stinted
him."
"But why do you think her death was due to her having money?"
"She had a large sum in the house, and there are those in town who knew
this."
"And is it gone?"
"That we shall know later."
As the coroner arrived at this moment, the minister's curiosity had to
wait. Fortunately for his equanimity, no one had the presumption to ask
him to leave the room.
The coroner was a man of but few words, and but little given to emotion.
Yet they were surprised at his first question:
"Who is the young woman standing outside there, the only one in the
yard?"
Mr. Sutherland, moving rapidly to the window, drew aside the shade.
"It is Miss Page, my housekeeper's niece," he explained. "I do not
understand her interest in this affair. She followed me here from the
house and could hardly be got to leave this room, into which she
intruded herself against my express command."
"But look at her attitude!" It was Mr. Fenton who spoke. "She's crazier
than Philemon, it seems to me."
There was some reason for this remark. Guarded by the high fence from
the gaze of the pushing crowd without, she stood upright and immovable
in the middle of the yard, like one on watch. The hood, which she had
dropped from her head when she thought her eyes and smile might be of
use to her in the furtherance of her plans, had been drawn over it
again, so that she looked more like a statue in grey than a living,
breathing woman. Yet there was menace in her attitude and a purpose in
the solitary stand she took in that circle of board-girded grass, which
caused a thrill in the breasts of those who looked at her from that
chamber of death.
"A mysterious young woman," muttered the minister.
"And one that I neither countenance nor understand," interpolated Mr.
Sutherland. "I have just shown my displeasure at her actions by
dismissing her from my house."
The coroner gave him a quick look, seemed about to speak, but changed
his mind and turned toward the dead woman.
"We have a sad duty before us," said he.
The investigations which followed elicited one or two new facts. First,
that all the doors of the house were found unlocked; and, secondly, that
the constable had been among the first to enter, so that he could vouch
that no disarrangement had been made in the rooms, with the exception of
Batsy's removal to the bed.
Then, his attention being drawn to the dead woman, he discovered the key
in her tightly closed hand.
"Where does this key belong?" he asked.
They showed him the drawers in the cupboard.
"One is empty," remarked Mi. Sutherland. "If the other is found to be in
the same condition, then her money has been taken. That key she holds
should open both these drawers."
"Then let it be made use of at once. It is important that we should know
whether theft has been committed here as well as murder." And drawing
the key out, he handed it to Mr. Fenton.
The constable immediately unlocked the drawer and brought it and its
contents to the table.
"No money here," said he.
"But papers as good as money," announced the doctor. "See! here are
deeds and more than one valuable bond. I judge she was a richer woman
than any of us knew."
Mr. Sutherland, meantime, was looking with an air of disappointment into
the now empty drawer.
"Just as I feared," said he. "She has been robbed of her ready money. It
was doubtless in the other drawer."
"How came she by the key, then?"
"That is one of the mysteries of the affair; this murder is by no means
a simple one. I begin to think we shall find it full of mysteries."
"Batsy's death, for instance?"
"O yes, Batsy! I forgot that she was found dead too."
"Without a wound, doctor."
"She had heart disease. I doctored her for it. The fright has killed
her."
"The look of her face confirms that."
"Let me see! So it does; but we must have an autopsy to prove it."
"I would like to explain before any further measures are taken, how I
came to know that Agatha Webb had money in her house," said Mr.
Sutherland, as they stepped back into the other room. "Two days ago, as
I was sitting with my family at table, old gossip Judy came in. Had Mrs.
Sutherland been living, this old crone would not have presumed to
intrude upon us at mealtime, but as we have no one now to uphold our
dignity, this woman rushed into our presence panting with news, and told
us all in one breath how she had just come from Mrs. Webb; that Mrs.
Webb had money; that she had seen it, she herself; that, going into the
house as usual without knocking, she had heard Agatha stepping overhead
and had gone up; and finding the door of the sitting-room ajar, had
looked in, and seen Agatha crossing the room with her hands full of
bills; that these bills were big bills, for she heard Agatha cry, as she
locked them up in the cupboard behind the book-shelves, 'A thousand
dollars! That is too much money to have in one's house'; that she, Judy,
thought so too, and being frightened at what she had seen, had crept
away as silently as she had entered and run away to tell the neighbours.
Happily, I was the first she found up that morning, but I have no doubt
that, in spite of my express injunctions, she has since related the news
to half the people in town."
"Was the young woman down yonder present when Judy told this story?"
asked the coroner, pointing towards the yard.
Mr. Sutherland pondered. "Possibly; I do not remember. Frederick was
seated at the table with me, and my housekeeper was pouring out the
coffee, but it was early for Miss Page. She has been putting on great
airs of late."
"Can it be possible he is trying to blind himself to the fact that his
son Frederick wishes to marry this girl?" muttered the clergyman into
the constable's ear.
The constable shook his head. Mr. Sutherland was one of those debonair
men, whose very mildness makes them impenetrable.
V
A SPOT ON THE LAWN
The coroner, on leaving the house, was followed by Mr. Sutherland. As
the fine figures of the two men appeared on the doorstep, a faint cheer
was heard from the two or three favoured persons who were allowed to
look through the gate. But to this token of welcome neither gentleman
responded by so much as a look, all their attention being engrossed by
the sight of the solitary figure of Miss Page, who still held her stand
upon the lawn. Motionless as a statue, but with her eyes fixed upon
their faces, she awaited their approach. When they were near her she
thrust one hand from under her cloak, and pointing to the grass at her
feet, said quietly:
"See this?"
They hastened towards her and bent down to examine the spot she
indicated.
"What do you find there?" cried Mr. Sutherland, whose eyesight was not
good.
"Blood," responded the coroner, plucking up a blade of grass and
surveying it closely.
"Blood," echoed Miss Page, with so suggestive a glance that Mr.
Sutherland stared at her in amazement, not understanding his own
emotion.
"How were you able to discern a stain so nearly imperceptible?" asked
the coroner.
"Imperceptible? It is the only thing I see in the whole yard," she
retorted, and with a slight bow, which was not without its element of
mockery, she turned toward the gate.
"A most unaccountable girl," commented the doctor. "But she is right
about these stains. Abel," he called to the man at the gate, "bring a
box or barrel here and cover up this spot. I don't want it disturbed by
trampling feet."
Abel started to obey, just as the young girl laid her hand on the gate
to open it.
"Won't you help me?" she asked. "The crowd is so great they won't let me
through."
"Won't they?" The words came from without. "Just slip out as I slip in,
and you'll find a place made for you."
Not recognising the voice, she hesitated for a moment, but seeing the
gate swaying, she pushed against it just as a young man stepped through
the gap. Necessarily they came face to face.
"Ah, it's you," he muttered, giving her a sharp glance.
"I do not know you," she haughtily declared, and slipped by him with
such dexterity she was out of the gate before he could respond.
But he only snapped his finger and thumb mockingly at her, and smiled
knowingly at Abel, who had lingered to watch the end of this encounter.
"Supple as a willow twig, eh?" he laughed. "Well, I have made whistles
out of willows before now, and hallo! where did you get that?"
He was pointing to a rare flower that hung limp and faded from Abel's
buttonhole.
"This? Oh, I found it in the house yonder. It was lying on the floor of
the inner room, almost under Batsy's skirts. Curious sort of flower. I
wonder where she got it?"
The intruder betrayed at once an unaccountable emotion. There was a
strange glitter in his light green eyes that made Abel shift rather
uneasily on his feet. "Was that before this pretty minx you have just
let out came in here with Mr. Sutherland?"
"O yes; before anyone had started for the hill at all. Why, what has
this young lady got to do with a flower dropped by Batsy?"
"She? Nothing. Only--and I have never given you bad advice, Abel--don't
let that thing hang any longer from your buttonhole. Put it into an
envelope and keep it, and if you don't hear from me again in regard to
it, write me out a fool and forget we were ever chums when little
shavers."
The man called Abel smiled, took out the flower, and went to cover up
the grass as Dr. Talbot had requested. The stranger took his place at
the gate, toward which the coroner and Mr. Sutherland were now
advancing, with an air that showed his great anxiety to speak with them.
He was the musician whom we saw secretly entering the last-mentioned
gentleman's house after the departure of the servants.
As the coroner paused before him he spoke. "Dr. Talbot," said he,
dropping his eyes, which were apt to betray his thoughts too plainly,
"you have often promised that you would give me a job if any matter came
up where any nice detective work was wanted. Don't you think the time
has come to remember me?"
"You, Sweetwater? I'm afraid the affair is too deep for an inexperienced
man's first effort. I shall have to send to Boston for an expert.
Another time, Sweetwater, when the complications are less serious."
The young fellow, with a face white as milk, was turning away.
"But you'll let me stay around here?" he pleaded, pausing and giving the
other an imploring look.
"O yes," answered the good-natured coroner. "Fenton will have work
enough for you and half a dozen others. Go and tell him I sent you."
"Thank you," returned the other, his face suddenly losing its aspect of
acute disappointment. "Now I shall see where that flower fell," he
murmured.
VI
"BREAKFAST IS SERVED, GENTLEMEN!"
Mr. Sutherland returned home. As he entered the broad hall he met his
son, Frederick. There was a look on the young man's face such as he had
not seen there in years.
"Father," faltered the youth, "may I have a few words with you?"
The father nodded kindly, though it is likely he would have much
preferred his breakfast; and the young man led him into a little
sitting-room littered with the faded garlands and other tokens of the
preceding night's festivities.
"I have an apology to make," Frederick began, "or rather, I have your
forgiveness to ask. For years" he went on, stumbling over his words,
though he gave no evidence of a wish to restrain them--"for years I have
gone contrariwise to your wishes and caused my mother's heart to ache
and you to wish I had never been born to be a curse to you and her."
He had emphasised the word mother, and spoke altogether with force and
deep intensity. Mr. Sutherland stood petrified; he had long ago given up
this lad as lost.
"I--I wish to change. I wish to be as great a pride to you as I have
been a shame and a dishonour. I may not succeed at once; but I am in
earnest, and if you will give me your hand--"
The old man's arms were round the young man's shoulders at once.
"Frederick!" he cried, "my Frederick!"
"Do not make me too much ashamed," murmured the youth, very pale and
strangely discomposed. "With no excuse for my past, I suffer intolerable
apprehension in regard to my future, lest my good intentions should fail
or my self-control not hold out. But the knowledge that you are
acquainted with my resolve, and regard it with an undeserved sympathy,
may suffice to sustain me, and I should certainly be a base poltroon if
I should disappoint you or her twice."
He paused, drew himself from his father's arms, and glanced almost
solemnly out of the window. "I swear that I will henceforth act as if
she were still alive and watching me."
There was strange intensity in his manner. Mr. Sutherland regarded him
with amazement. He had seen him in every mood natural to a reckless man,
but never in so serious a one, never with a look of awe or purpose in
his face. It gave him quite a new idea of Frederick.
"Yes," the young man went on, raising his right hand, but not removing
his eyes from the distant prospect on which they were fixed, "I swear
that I will henceforth do nothing to discredit her memory. Outwardly and
inwardly, I will act as though her eye were still upon me and she could
again suffer grief at my failures or thrill with pleasure at my
success."
A portrait of Mrs. Sutherland, painted when Frederick was a lad of ten,
hung within a few feet of him as he spoke. He did not glance at it, but
Mr. Sutherland did, and with a look as if he expected to behold a
responsive light beam from those pathetic features.
"She loved you very dearly," was his slow and earnest comment. "We have
both loved you much more deeply than you have ever seemed to realise,
Frederick."
"I believe it," responded the young man, turning with an expression of
calm resolve to meet his father's eye. "As proof that I am no longer
insensible to your affection, I have made up my mind to forego for your
sake one of the dearest wishes of my heart. Father" he hesitated before
he spoke the word, but he spoke it firmly at last,--"am I right in
thinking you would not like Miss Page for a daughter?"
"Like my housekeeper's niece to take the place in this house once
occupied by Marietta Sutherland? Frederick, I have always thought too
well of you to believe you would carry your forgetfulness of me so far
as that, even when I saw that you were influenced by her attractions."
"You did not do justice to my selfishness, father. I did mean to marry
her, but I have given up living solely for myself, and she could never
help me to live for others. Father, Amabel Page must not remain in this
house to cause division between you and me."
"I have already intimated to her the desirability of her quitting a home
where she is no longer respected," the old gentleman declared. "She
leaves on the 10.45 train. Her conduct this morning at the house of Mrs.
Webb--who perhaps you do not know was most cruelly and foully murdered
last night--was such as to cause comment and make her an undesirable
adjunct to any gentleman's family."
Frederick paled. Something in these words had caused him a great shock.
Mr. Sutherland was fond enough to believe that it was the news of this
extraordinary woman's death. But his son's words, as soon as he could
find any, showed that his mind was running on Amabel, whom he perhaps
had found it difficult to connect even in the remotest way with crime.
"She at this place of death? How could that be? Who would take a young
girl there?"
The father, experiencing, perhaps, more compassion for this
soon-to-be-disillusioned lover than he thought it incumbent upon him to
show, answered shortly, but without any compromise of the unhappy truth:
"She went; she was not taken. No one, not even myself, could keep her
back after she had heard that a murder had been committed in the town.
She even intruded into the house; and when ordered out of the room of
death took up her stand in the yard in front, where she remained until
she had the opportunity of pointing out to us a stain of blood on the
grass, which might otherwise have escaped our attention."
"Impossible!" Frederick's eye was staring; he looked like a man struck
dumb by surprise or fear. "Amabel do this? You are mocking me, sir, or I
may be dreaming, which may the good God grant."
His father, who had not looked for so much emotion, eyed his son in
surprise, which rapidly changed to alarm as the young man faltered and
fell back against the wall.
"You are ill, Frederick; you are really ill. Let me call down Mrs.
Harcourt. But no, I cannot summon her. She is this girl's aunt."
Frederick made an effort and stood up.
"Do not call anybody," he entreated. "I expect to suffer some in casting
this fascinating girl out of my heart. Ultimately I will conquer the
weakness; indeed I will. As for her interest in Mrs. Webb's death"--how
low his voice sank and how he trembled!" she may have been better
friends with her than we had any reason to suppose. I can think of no
other motive for her conduct. Admiration for Mrs. Webb and horror---"
"Breakfast is served, gentlemen!" cried a thrilling voice behind them.
Amabel Page stood smiling in the doorway.
VII
"MARRY ME"
"Wait a moment, I must speak to you." It was Amabel who was holding
Frederick back. She had caught him by the arm as he was about leaving
the room with his father, and he felt himself obliged to stop and
listen.
"I start for Springfield to-day," she announced. "I have another
relative there living at the house. When shall I have the pleasure of
seeing you in my new home?"
"Never." It was said regretfully, and yet with a certain brusqueness,
occasioned perhaps by over-excited feeling. "Hard as it is for me to say
it, Amabel, it is but just for me to tell you that after our parting
here to-day we will meet only as strangers. Friendship between us would
be mockery, and any closer relationship has become impossible."
It had cost him an immense effort to say these words, and he expected,
fondly expected, I must admit, to see her colour change and her head
droop. But instead of this she looked at him steadily for a moment, then
slipped her hand down his arm till she reached his palm, which she
pressed with sudden warmth, drawing him into the room as she did so, and
shutting the door behind them. He was speechless, for she never had
looked so handsome or so glowing. Instead of showing depression or
humiliation even, she confronted him with a smile more dangerous than
any display of grief, for it contained what it had hitherto lacked,
positive and irresistible admiration. Her words were equally dangerous.
"I kiss your hand, as the Spaniards say." And she almost did so, with a
bend of her head, which just allowed him to catch a glimpse of two
startling dimples.
He was astounded. He thought he knew this woman well, but at this moment
she was as incomprehensible to him as if he had never made a study of
her caprices and sought an explanation for her ever-shifting
expressions.
"I am sensible of the honour," said he, "but hardly understand how I
have earned it."
Still that incomprehensible look of admiration continued to illumine her
face.
"I did not know I could ever think so well of you," she declared. "If
you do not take care, I shall end by loving you some day."
"Ah!" he ejaculated, his face contracting with sudden pain; "your love,
then, is but a potentiality. Very well, Amabel, keep it so and you will
be spared much misery. As for me, who have not been as wise as you---"
"Frederick!" She had come so near he did not have the strength to
finish. Her face, with its indefinable charm, was raised to his, as she
dropped these words one by one from her lips in lingering cadence:
"Frederick--do you love me, then, so very much?"
He was angry; possibly because he felt his resolution failing him. "You
know!" he hotly began, stepping back. Then with a sudden burst of
feeling, that was almost like prayer, he resumed: "Do not tempt me,
Amabel. I have trouble enough, without lamenting the failure of my first
steadfast purpose."
"Ah!" she said, stopping where she was, but drawing him toward her by
every witchery of which her mobile features were capable; "your generous
impulse has strengthened into a purpose, has it? Well, I'm not worth it,
Frederick."
More and more astounded, understanding her less than ever, but charmed
by looks that would have moved an anchorite, he turned his head away in
a vain attempt to escape an influence that was so rapidly undermining
his determination.
She saw the movement, recognised the weakness it bespoke, and in the
triumph of her heart allowed a low laugh to escape her.
Her voice, as I have before said, was unmusical though effective; but
her laugh was deliciously sweet, especially when it was restrained to a
mere ripple, as now.
"You will come to Springfield soon," she avowed, slipping from before
him so as to leave the way to the door open.
"Amabel!" His voice was strangely husky, and the involuntary opening and
shutting of his hands revealed the emotion under which he was labouring.
"Do you love me? You have acknowledged it now and then, but always as if
you did not mean it. Now you acknowledge that you may some day, and this
time as if you did mean it. What is the truth? Tell me, without coquetry
or dissembling, for I am in dead earnest, and---" He paused, choked, and
turned toward the window where but a few minutes before he had taken
that solemn oath. The remembrance of it seemed to come back with the
movement. Flushing with a new agitation, he wheeled upon her sharply.
"No, no," he prayed, "say nothing. If you swore you did not love me I
should not believe it, and if you swore that you did I should only find
it harder to repeat what must again be said, that a union between us can
never take place. I have given my solemn promise to---"
"Well, well. Why do you stop? Am I so hard to talk to that the words
will not leave your lips?"
"I have promised my father I will never marry you. He feels that he has
grounds of complaint against you, and as I owe him everything---"
He stopped amazed. She was looking at him intently, that same low laugh
still on her lips.
"Tell the truth," she whispered. "I know to what extent you consider
your father's wishes. You think you ought not to marry me after what
took place last night. Frederick, I like you for this evidence of
consideration on your part, but do not struggle too relentlessly with
your conscience. I can forgive much more in you than you think, and if
you really love me---"
"Stop! Let us understand each other." He had turned mortally pale, and
met her eyes with something akin to alarm. "What do you allude to in
speaking of last night? I did not know there was anything said by us in
our talk together---"
"I do not allude to our talk."
"Or--or in the one dance we had---"
"Frederick, a dance is innocent."
The word seemed to strike him with the force of a blow.
"Innocent," he repeated, "innocent?" becoming paler still as the full
weight of her meaning broke gradually upon him.
"I followed you into town," she whispered, coming closer, and breathing
the words into his ear. "But what I saw you do there will not prevent me
from obeying you if you say: 'Follow me wherever I go, Amabel;
henceforth our lives are one.'"
"My God!"
It was all he said, but it seemed to create a gulf between them. In the
silence that followed, the evil spirit latent beneath her beauty began
to make itself evident even in the smile which no longer called into
view the dimples which belong to guileless mirth, while upon his face,
after the first paralysing effect of her words had passed, there
appeared an expression of manly resistance that betrayed a virtue which
as yet had never appeared in his selfish and altogether reckless life.
That this was more than a passing impulse he presently made evident by
lifting his hand and pushing her slowly back.
"I do not know what you saw me do," said he; "but whatever it was, it
can make no difference in our relations."
Her whisper, which had been but a breath before, became scarcely
audible.
"I did not pause at the gate you entered," said she. "I went in after
you."
A gasp of irresistible feeling escaped him, but he did not take his eyes
from her face.
"It was a long time before you came out," she went on, "but previous to
that time the shade of a certain window was thrust aside, and---"
"Hush!" he commanded, in uncontrollable passion, pressing his hand with
impulsive energy against her mouth. "Not another word of that, or I
shall forget you are a woman or that I have ever loved you."
Her eyes, which were all she had remaining to plead with, took on a
peculiar look of quiet satisfaction, and power. Seeing it, he let his
hand fall and for the first time began to regard her with anything but a
lover's eyes.
"I was the only person in sight at that time," she continued. "You have
nothing to fear from the world at large."
"Fear?"
The word made its own echo; she had no need to emphasise it even by a
smile. But she watched him as it sunk into his consciousness with an
intentness it took all his strength to sustain. Suddenly her bearing and
expression changed. The few remains of sweetness in her face vanished,
and even the allurement which often lasts when the sweetness is gone,
disappeared in the energy which now took possession of her whole
threatening and inflexible personality.
"Marry me," she cried, "or I will proclaim you to be the murderer of
Agatha Webb."
She had seen the death of love in his eyes.
VIII
"A DEVIL THAT UNDERSTANDS MEN"
Frederick Sutherland was a man of finer mental balance than he himself,
perhaps, had ever realised. After the first few moments of stupefaction
following the astounding alternative which had been given him, he broke
out with the last sentence she probably expected to hear:
"What do you hope from a marriage with me, that to attain your wishes
you thus sacrifice every womanly instinct?"
She met him on his own ground.
"What do I hope?" She actually glowed with the force of her secret
desire. "Can you ask a poor girl like me, born in a tenement house, but
with tastes and ambitions such as are usually only given to those who
can gratify them? I want to be the rich Mr. Sutherland's daughter;
acknowledged or unacknowledged, the wife of one who can enter any house
in Boston as an equal. With a position like that I can rise to anything.
I feel that I have the natural power and aptitude. I have felt it since
I was a small child."
"And for that---" he began.
"And for that," she broke in, "I am quite willing to overlook a blot on
your record. Confident that you will never repeat the risk of last
night, I am ready to share the burden of your secret through life. If
you treat me well, I am sure I can make that burden light for you."
With a quick flush and an increase of self-assertion, probably not
anticipated by her, he faced the daring girl with a desperate resolution
that showed how handsome he could be if his soul once got control of his
body.
"Woman," he cried, "they were right; you are little less than a devil."
Did she regard it as a compliment? Her smile would seem to say so.
"A devil that understands men," she answered, with that slow dip of her
dimples that made her smile so dangerous. "You will not hesitate long
over this matter; a week, perhaps."
"I shall not hesitate at all. Seeing you as you are, makes my course
easy. You will never share any burden with me as my wife."
Still she was not abashed.
"It is a pity," she whispered; "it would have saved you such unnecessary
struggle. But a week is not long to wait. I am certain of you then. This
day week at twelve o'clock, Frederick."
He seized her by the arm, and lost to everything but his rage, shook her
with a desperate hand.
"Do you mean it?" he cried, a sudden horror showing itself in his face,
notwithstanding his efforts to conceal it.
"I mean it so much," she assured him, "that before I came home just now
I paid a visit to the copse over the way. A certain hollow tree, where
you and I have held more than one tryst, conceals within its depths a
package containing over one thousand dollars. Frederick, I hold your
life in my hands."
The grasp with which he held her relaxed; a mortal despair settled upon
his features, and recognising the impossibility of further concealing
the effect of her words upon him, he sank into a chair and covered his
face with his hands. She viewed him with an air of triumph, which
brought back some of her beauty. When she spoke it was to say:
"If you wish to join me in Springfield before the time I have set, well
and good. I am willing that the time of our separation should be
shortened, but it must not be lengthened by so much as a day. Now, if
you will excuse me, I will go and pack my trunks."
He shuddered; her voice penetrated him to the quick.
Drawing herself up, she looked down on him with a strange mixture of
passion and elation.
"You need fear no indiscretion on my part, so long as our armistice
lasts," said she. "No one can drag the truth from me while any hope
remains of your doing your duty by me in the way I have suggested."
And still he did not move.
"Frederick?"
Was it her voice that was thus murmuring his name? Can the tiger snarl
one moment and fawn the next?
"Frederick, I have a final word to say--a last farewell. Up to this hour
I have endured your attentions, or, let us say, accepted them, for I
always found you handsome and agreeable, if not the master of my heart.
But now it is love that I feel, love; and love with me is no fancy, but
a passion--do you hear?--a passion which will make life a heaven or hell
for the man who has inspired it. You should have thought of this when
you opposed me."
And with a look in which love and hatred contended for mastery, she bent
and imprinted a kiss upon his forehead. Next moment she was gone.
Or so he thought. But when, after an interval of nameless recoil, he
rose and attempted to stagger from the place, he discovered that she had
been detained in the hall by two or three men who had just come in by
the front door.
"Is this Miss Page?" they were asking.
"Yes, I am Miss Page--Amabel Page" she replied with suave politeness.
"If you have any business with me, state it quickly, for I am about to
leave town."
"That is what we wish to prevent," declared a tall, thin young man who
seemed to take the lead. "Till the inquest has been held over the
remains of Mrs. Webb, Coroner Talbot wishes you to regard yourself as a
possible witness."
"Me?" she cried, with an admirable gesture of surprise and a wide
opening of her brown eyes that made her look like an astonished child.
"What have I got to do with it?"
"You pointed out a certain spot of blood on the grass, and--well, the
coroner's orders have to be obeyed, miss. You cannot leave the town
without running the risk of arrest"
"Then I will stay in it," she smiled. "I have no liking for arrests,"
and the glint of her eye rested for a moment on Frederick. "Mr.
Sutherland," she continued, as that gentleman appeared at the
dining-room door, "I shall have to impose upon your hospitality for a
few days longer. These men here inform me that my innocent interest in
pointing out to you that spot of blood on Mrs. Webb's lawn has awakened
some curiosity, and that I am wanted as a witness by the coroner."
Mr. Sutherland, with a quick stride, lessened the distance between
himself and these unwelcome intruders. "The coroner's wishes are
paramount just now," said he, but the look he gave his son was not soon
forgotten by the spectators.
IX
A GRAND WOMAN
There was but one topic discussed in the country-side that day, and that
was the life and character of Agatha Webb.
Her history had not been a happy one. She and Philemon had come from
Portchester some twenty or more years before to escape the sorrows
associated with their native town. They had left behind them six small
graves in Portchester churchyard; but though evidences of their
affliction were always to be seen in the countenances of either, they
had entered with so much purpose into the life of their adopted town
that they had become persons of note there till Philemon's health began
to fail, when Agatha quit all outside work and devoted herself
exclusively to him. Of her character and winsome personality we can
gather some idea from the various conversations carried on that day from
Portchester Green to the shipyards in Sutherlandtown.
In Deacon Brainerd's cottage, the discussion was concerning Agatha's
lack of vanity; a virtue not very common at that time among the women of
this busy seaport.
"For a woman so handsome," the good deacon was saying "(and I think I
can safely call her the finest-featured woman who ever trod these
streets), she showed as little interest in dress as anyone I ever knew.
Calico at home and calico at church, yet she looked as much of a lady in
her dark-sprigged gowns as Mrs. Webster in her silks or Mrs. Parsons in
her thousand-dollar sealskin."
As this was a topic within the scope of his eldest daughter's
intelligence she at once spoke up: "I never thought she needed to dress
so plainly. I don't believe in such a show of poverty myself. If one is
too poor to go decent, all right; but they say she had more money than
most anyone in town. I wonder who is going to get the benefit of it?"
"Why, Philemon, of course; that is, as long as he lives. He doubtless
had the making of it."
"Is it true that he's gone clean out of his head since her death?"
interposed a neighbour who had happened in.
"So they say. I believe widow Jones has taken him into her house."
"Do you think," asked a second daughter with becoming hesitation, "that
he had anything to do with her death? Some of the neighbours say he
struck her while in one of his crazy fits, while others declare she was
killed by some stranger, equally old and almost as infirm."
"We won't discuss the subject," objected the deacon. "Time will show who
robbed us of the greatest-hearted and most capable woman in these
parts."
"And will time show who killed Batsy?" It was a morsel of a girl who
spoke; the least one of the family, but the brightest. "I'm sorry for
Batsy; she always gave me cookies when I went to see Mrs. Webb."
"Batsy was a good girl for a Swede," allowed the deacon's wife, who had
not spoken till now. "When she first came into town on the spars of that
wrecked ship we all remember, there was some struggle between Agatha and
me as to which of us should have her. But I didn't like the task of
teaching her the name of every pot and pan she had to use in the
kitchen, so I gave her up to Agatha; and it was fortunate I did, for
I've never been able to understand her talk to this day."
"I could talk with her right well," lisped the little one. "She never
called things by their Swedish names unless she was worried; and I never
worried her."
"I wonder if she would have worshipped the ground under your feet, as
she did that under Agatha's?" asked the deacon, eying his wife with just
the suspicion of a malicious twinkle in his eye.
"I am not the greatest-hearted and most capable woman in town," retorted
his wife, clicking her needles as she went on knitting.
In Mr. Sprague's house on the opposite side of the road, Squire Fisher
was relating some old tales of bygone Portchester days. "I knew Agatha
when she was a girl," he avowed. "She had the grandest manners and the
most enchanting smile of any rich or poor man's daughter between the
coast and Springfield. She did not dress in calico then. She wore the
gayest clothes her father could buy. her, and old Jacob was not without
means to make his daughter the leading figure in town. How we young
fellows did adore her, and what lengths we went to win one of her
glorious smiles! Two of us, John and James Zabel, have lived bachelors
for her sake to this very day; but I hadn't courage enough for that; I
married and"--something between a sigh and a chuckle filled out the
sentence.
"What made Philemon carry off the prize? His good looks?"
"Yes, or his good luck. It wasn't his snap; of that you may be sure.
James Zabel had the snap, and he was her first choice, too, but he got
into some difficulty--I never knew just what it was, but it was regarded
as serious at the time--and that match was broken off. Afterwards she
married Philemon. You see, I was out of it altogether; had never been in
it, perhaps; but there were three good years of my life in which I
thought of little else than Agatha. I admired her spirit, you see. There
was something more taking in her ways than in her beauty, wonderful as
that was. She ruled us with a rod of iron, and yet we worshipped her. I
have wondered to see her so meek of late. I never thought she would be
satisfied with a brick-floored cottage and a husband of failing wits.
But no one, to my knowledge, has ever heard a complaint from her lips;
and the dignity of her afflicted wife-hood has far transcended the
haughtiness of those days when she had but to smile to have all the
youth of Portchester at her feet."
"I suppose it was the loss of so many children that reconciled her to a
quiet life. A woman cannot close the eyes of six children, one after the
other, without some modification taking place in her character."
"Yes, she and Philemon have been unfortunate; but she was a splendid
looking girl, boys. I never see such grand-looking women now."
In a little one-storied cottage on the hillside a woman was nursing a
baby and talking at the same time of Agatha Webb.
"I shall never forget the night my first baby fell sick," she faltered;
"I was just out of bed myself, and having no nearer neighbours then than
now, I was all alone on the hillside, Alec being away at sea. I was too
young to know much about sickness, but something told me that I must
have help before morning or my baby would die. Though I could just walk
across the floor, I threw a shawl around me, took my baby in my arms,
and opened the door. A blinding gust of rain blew in. A terrible storm
was raging and I had not noticed it, I was so taken up with the child.
"I could not face that gale. Indeed, I was so weak I fell on my knees as
it struck me and became dripping wet before I could drag myself inside.
The baby began to moan and everything was turning dark before me, when I
heard a strong, sweet voice cry out in the roadway:
"'Is there room in this house for me till the storm has blown by? I
cannot see my way down the hillside.'
"With a bursting heart I looked up. A woman was standing in the doorway,
with the look of an angel in her eyes. I did not know her, but her face
was one to bring comfort to the saddest heart. Holding up my baby, I
cried:
"'My baby is dying; I tried to go for the doctor, but my knees bent
under me. Help me, as you are a mother--I--- '
"I must have fallen again, for the next thing I remember I was lying by
the hearth, looking up into her face, which was bending over me. She was
white as the rag I had tied about my baby's throat, and by the way her
breast heaved she was either very much frightened or very sorry.
"'I wish you had the help of anyone else,' said she. 'Babies perish in
my arms and wither at my breast. I cannot touch it, much as I yearn to.
But let me see its face; perhaps I can tell you what is the matter with
it.'
"I showed her the baby's face, and she bent over it, trembling very
much, almost as much indeed as myself.
"'It is very sick,' she said, 'but if you will use the remedies I
advise, I think you can save it.' And she told me what to do, and helped
me all she could; but she did not lay a finger on the little darling,
though from the way she watched it I saw that her heart was set on his
getting better. And he did; in an hour he was sleeping peacefully, and
the terrible weight was gone from my heart and from hers. When the storm
stopped, and she could leave the house, she gave me a kiss; but the look
she gave him meant more than kisses. God must have forgotten her
goodness to me that night when He let her die so pitiable a death."
At the minister's house they were commenting upon the look of serenity
observable in her dead face.
"I have known her for thirty years," her pastor declared, "and never
before have I seen her wear a look of real peace. It is wonderful,
considering the circumstances. Do you think she was so weary of her
life's long struggle that she hailed any release from it, even that of
violence?"
A young man, a lawyer, visiting them from New York, was the only one to
answer.
"I never saw the woman you are talking about," said he, "and know
nothing of the circumstances of her death beyond what you have told me.
But from the very incongruity between her expression and the violent
nature of her death, I argue that there are depths to this crime which
have not yet been sounded."
"What depths? It is a simple case of murder followed by theft. To be
sure we do not yet know the criminal, but money was his motive; that is
clear enough."
"Are you ready to wager that that is all there is to it?"
This was a startling proposition to the minister.
"You forget my cloth," said he.
The young man smiled. "That is true. Pardon me. I was only anxious to
show how strong my conviction was against any such easy explanation of a
crime marked by such contradictory features."
Two children on the Portchester road were exchanging boyish confidences.
"Do you know what I think about it?" asked one.
"Naw! How should I?"
"Wall, I think old Mrs. Webb got the likes of what she sent. Don't you
know she had six children once, and that she killed every one of them?"
"Killed'em--she?"
"Yes, I heard her tell granny once all about it. She said there was a
blight on her house--I don't know what that is; but I guess it's
something big and heavy--and that it fell on every one of her children,
as fast as they came, and killed 'em."
"Then I'm glad I ben't her child."
Very different were the recollections interchanged between two
middle-aged Portchester women.
"She was drinking tea at my house when her sister Sairey came running in
with the news that the baby she had left at home wasn't quite right.
That was her first child, you know."
"Yes, yes, for I was with her when that baby came," broke in the other,
"and such joy as she showed when they told her it was alive and well I
never saw. I do not know why she didn't expect it to be alive, but she
didn't, and her happiness was just wonderful to see."
"Well, she didn't enjoy it long. The poor little fellow died young. But
I was telling you of the night when she first heard he was ailing.
Philemon had been telling a good story, and we were all laughing, when
Sairey came in. I can see Agatha now. She always had the most brilliant
eyes in the county, but that day they were superbly dazzling. They
changed, though, at the sight of Sairey's face, and she jumped to meet
her just as if she knew what Sairey was going to say before ever a word
left her lips. 'My baby!' (I can hear her yet.) 'Something is the matter
with the baby!' And though Sairey made haste to tell her that he was
only ailing and not at all ill, she turned upon Philemon with a look
none of us ever quite understood; he changed so completely under it,
just as she had under Sairey's; and to neither did the old happiness
ever return, for the child died within a week, and when the next came it
died also, and the next, till six small innocents lay buried in yonder
old graveyard."
"I know; and sad enough it was too, especially as she and Philemon were
both fond of children. Well, well, the ways of Providence are past
rinding out! And now she is gone and Philemon---"
"Ah, he'll follow her soon; he can't live without Agatha."
Nearer home, the old sexton was chattering about the six gravestones
raised in Portchester churchyard to these six dead infants. He had been
sent there to choose a spot in which to lay the mother, and was full of
the shock it gave him to see that line of little stones, telling of a
past with which the good people of Sutherlandtown found it hard to
associate Philemon and Agatha Webb.
"I'm a digger of graves," he mused, half to himself and half to his old
wife watching him from the other side of the hearthstone. "I spend a
good quarter of my time in the churchyard; but when I saw those six
little mounds, and read the inscriptions over them, I couldn't help
feeling queer. Think of this! On the first tiny headstone I read these
words:"
STEPHEN,
Son of Philemon and Agatha Webb,
Died, Aged Six Weeks.
God be merciful to me a sinner!
"Now what does that mean? Did you ever hear anyone say?"
"No," was his old wife's answer. "Perhaps she was one of those Calvinist
folks who believe babies go to hell if they are not baptised."
"But her children were all baptised. I've been told so; some of them
before she was well out of her bed. 'God be merciful to me a sinner!'
And the chick not six weeks old! Something queer about that, dame, if it
did happen more than thirty years ago."
"What did you see over the grave of the child who was killed in her arms
by lightning?"
"This:
"'And he was not, for God took him.'"
Farmer Waite had but one word to say:
"She came to me when my Sissy had the smallpox; the only person in town
who would enter my doors. More than that; when Sissy was up and I went
to pay the doctor's bill I found it had been settled. I did not know
then who had enough money and compassion to do this for me; now I do."
Many an act of kindness which had been secretly performed in that town
during the last twenty years came to light on that day, the most notable
of which was the sending of a certain young lad to school and his
subsequent education as a minister.
But other memories of a sweeter and more secret nature still came up
likewise, among them the following: