“THE HANDWRITING ON THE WALL”
BY the time Jones reached the front hall he found the door open and
Mrs. Burnham awaiting his arrival with an angry sparkle in her eyes.
“Late again, Jones,” she remarked, and her tone caused the butler to
flush uncomfortably. “Help Mr. Burnham off with his coat and then
assist him to bed.”
Burnham rejected the butler’s aid with the same petulance he had shown
to Maynard when the latter offered his assistance.
“I’m not a baby,” he remarked through chattering teeth. “What if I did
catch a chill coming home, Lillian; it’s nothing serious. Here, take my
keys, Jones, and bring me some whiskey from the sideboard.” Jerking the
bunch of keys from the front door lock where he had left it dangling
in his haste to enter the house, he tossed it to the waiting servant,
and laying his hand on Maynard’s arm started with him up the staircase.
Mrs. Burnham turned to follow when Evelyn, who had remained in the
vestibule, stepped inside the house, closed the door, and called her
softly by name.
“Come in the dining room, Mother, dear,” she said. “I must have a word
with you, alone,” and the quiet emphasis on the last word belied her
unnaturally high color and brilliant eyes. “Please, Mother.” Seeing
Mrs. Burnham hesitate, she moved forward and gently encircled her waist
with her arm. “Spare just a moment to me.”
Mrs. Burnham bent forward and kissed her with warmth. “Of course,
Evelyn,” she said cheerily. “Say as many words to me as you want,” and
she led the way into the drawing room, pausing only long enough to turn
on the lights.
“Sit by me here,” she suggested, making herself comfortable on the
sofa, but Evelyn, too nervous to remain quiet, only paused in her
restless moving about to stand in front of her.
“Mother,” she began, and in spite of her determination to keep her
voice steady it shook. “I love René La Montagne.”
Mrs. Burnham’s expression altered. “You think you do, Evelyn,” she
corrected gently.
“No, Mother.” Evelyn’s gaze never shifted. “I love René and I intend to
marry him.”
“Need we go into that?” Mrs. Burnham smiled, not unkindly. “Suppose for
to-night we just admit the first premise--you love him.”
“Thank you, Mother.” Evelyn rested her hands against the table at her
back and steadied herself. “René,” she blushed hotly. “René loves me.”
Mrs. Burnham gazed steadily at her daughter and a sudden wave
of tenderness swept over her, and for a second the charming
picture--Evelyn in her straight young beauty and her tattered Belgian
costume--was blurred from sight by blinding tears. Unconscious of her
mother’s emotion, Evelyn waited a moment before speaking.
“René loves me and I love René,” she reiterated. “Therefore; Mother,
will you announce our engagement to-morrow morning?”
Mrs. Burnham sat bolt upright. “Will I do what?” she demanded.
“Announce my engagement to René La Montagne.”
“My dear child,” Mrs. Burnham raised her hands in horror. “Utterly
unthought of!”
“But why? René and I have thought of it, and we are the most concerned.”
“Preposterous!” fumed Mrs. Burnham. “Why, the man’s under a cloud!”
“Exactly, mother; that is why I wish our engagement announced.” Evelyn
stood proudly erect. “Shall you make the announcement or I, Mother?”
[Illustration: “René,” she blushed hotly, “René loves me.”]
Mrs. Burnham stared at her in blank astonishment. “Have you taken
leave of your senses?” she demanded. “Sit down here, Evelyn, and let us
discuss this matter rationally.”
“Thanks, Mother, but I prefer to stand. I--I will not keep you long; in
fact,” her smile was very winning, “I but wait your answer.”
Mrs. Burnham sighed. “The perversity of life!” she exclaimed. “Why do
you pick out the one man I could not welcome as a son-in-law?”
“But why can’t you welcome him?” asked Evelyn impetuously. “René is
all that a man should be--tender, true, and brave. Look at the record
he had made in that gallant army of France. You have every reason to
be proud of René, mother. Why, then, are you so absurdly prejudiced
against him? He has never done anything to you.”
“Not to me perhaps----” began Mrs. Burnham, but Evelyn gave her no time
to finish.
“Is it fair to take Mr. Burnham’s opinion about René instead of mine?”
she demanded hotly. “My word is just as good as his, if not----”
“Stop, Evelyn.” Mrs. Burnham held up her hand imperatively. “It is
not a question of word but of judgment; you are immature, impulsive,
impressionable----”
“Good gracious, Mother,” Evelyn laughed vexedly. “Any more ‘ims’ you
can think of? Mr. Burnham is determined to get René into trouble, and
it is plain to be seen that he has influenced you against me.”
Mrs. Burnham flushed. “You are unjust, Evelyn,” she remonstrated. “You
carry your dislike of your step-father too far----”
“You mean he has carried his dislike of René too far,” retorted
Evelyn, bitter resentment against Burnham getting the better of her
determination to curb her anger. “He has, even to preferring false
charges against René.”
“Gently, Evelyn, gently.” Mrs. Burnham rose. “Do not say things in
anger which you may bitterly regret later.”
“I shall never regret one word I say in defense of René,” responded
Evelyn with undaunted spirit “And when Mr. Burnham charges René killed
that unknown man in our library, he lies.”
Mrs. Burnham laid a firm hand on Evelyn’s shoulder. “Hush!” she
commanded. “René will have an opportunity to prove his innocence
shortly. I understand----” She faltered for a second, then continued
sternly: “I understand he has been arrested for the crime.”
Evelyn shrank back from her mother and covered her face with her hands.
When she looked up her expression had altered.
“Either you or I will announce in to-morrow’s papers my engagement to
René--which shall it be?” she asked.
“Evelyn.” Mrs. Burnham seldom used that tone in addressing her daughter
and the girl looked at her dumbly. “Have you considered what such a
step means in the face of my disapproval?”
“You mean--giving up my fortune?”
“Yes. By the terms of your father’s will you forfeit your inheritance
if you marry against my wishes.”
“Well, what of it?” Evelyn shrugged her shoulders disdainfully. “Thank
God, money isn’t everything!”
“You are very young.” Mrs. Burnham smiled faintly. “In this case there
is more than money involved; a crime and public scandal. Child!” For
a second Mrs. Burnham’s composure deserted her. “You must be mad to
desire to announce your engagement to a man whom your step-father
charges with a heinous crime.”
“Charges can be disproved,” retorted Evelyn. “Mother,” she laid an
imploring hand on her arm. “Mother, I assure you René is not guilty,
no matter how much circumstantial evidence points to him; he no more
killed that man than did Peter Burnham.”
Rapidly approaching footsteps caused Mrs. Burnham to turn abruptly and
she welcomed Maynard’s entrance almost with eagerness.
“I have persuaded your husband to go to bed,” he said. “I think he will
rest very comfortably. He has given me a prescription to fill for him;
can you tell me where to find the nearest drug store which stays open
all night?”
“I am afraid it is fully six blocks away, on Connecticut Avenue,”
exclaimed Mrs. Burnham. “It is a shame to take you out at this hour of
the night.”
“Not a bit of it.” Maynard nodded gayly at Evelyn. “Too bad you can’t
stroll down town with me, Evelyn, the walk might do you good; not in
that thin dress,” hastily. “Fortunately, to-night I was cast for an
appropriate costume; uniforms are not conspicuous these days.”
“Our uniforms are always conspicuous,” rebuked Evelyn. “Just think of
the gallant men wearing them.”
“All honor to them!” Maynard raised his hand in quick salute. “Some
day, God willing, I’ll go up the line with the boys in khaki and over
the top; until then----” A quick sigh completed the sentence. “I’ve
taken your latch-key, Mrs. Burnham, so don’t have any one wait up for
me,” and he hurried out of the house.
“Go to bed and get some rest, Evelyn,” suggested Mrs. Burnham,
pausing with her hand on the electric light button. “We can talk more
reasonably after a good night’s sleep. Come and see me after breakfast,
and remember----”
“Yes, Mother.” Evelyn waited for her mother to lead the way up the
staircase. But Mrs. Burnham did not complete her sentence until she had
reached the second floor. In front of her door she turned and patted
Evelyn gently on her shoulder. “Remember,” she said, “do nothing rash.”
It was not until Evelyn was in her own bedroom arranging her hair that
she recollected her mother had omitted her customary good-night kiss.
Evelyn’s lip quivered; her sensitive high-strung nature made her a prey
to every slight, however unintentional or imaginary they were. She felt
cruelly the barrier which she had been quick to see was slowly but
surely separating her from her mother, a mother she had idolized up to
the time of her marriage to Peter Burnham.
She had never been able to conquer her distaste for Peter Burnham and
her growing fear that he might some day supplant her in her mother’s
affections. She had little hope that she could win her mother’s consent
to her engagement to René La Montagne, and still less that her mother
would announce the engagement. But Evelyn came of a loyal courageous
race and her fighting blood was up. Her lover, alone in a strange
country, faced, in her opinion, unjust imprisonment for a crime he
had not committed, and she was determined to offset her step-father’s
charges against him by the announcement of their engagement. Let
tongues wag in society and scandal be whispered; if she showed her
faith in René La Montagne others would rally to his aid. There was
Marian Van Ness and Dan Maynard-- A tap on her door awoke her from her
abstraction.
“What is it?” she called.
“It is I, Miss Evelyn,” announced Mrs. Ward, pushing the door farther
open. “Your mother thought you might need my help in getting out of
that dress. Let me do that for you,” and she deftly extracted a pin
Evelyn had been vainly trying to reach for some moments.
“Thanks.” Evelyn submitted to being undressed with alacrity; she was
utterly weary. “Aren’t you up pretty late for a woman who has been as
ill as you have?”
“I am well again,” replied the housekeeper, arranging Evelyn’s clothes
neatly on a chair and picking up brush and comb. “Just slip into bed,
Miss Evelyn, and I’ll brush and braid your hair for you.”
With a murmur of thanks Evelyn followed her advice and partly sat and
lay at ease while the experienced woman (she had graduated from lady’s
maid to her position of housekeeper) deftly arranged her long silky
hair, badly tangled from having worn it loose down her back in the
tableau.
“There, Miss Evelyn, that is done,” Mrs. Ward announced twenty minutes
later. “Is there anything else you would like?”
Evelyn looked about the room. “If you will open all my windows and
raise the shades, I shall be greatly obliged,” she said. “The room is
horribly hot.”
Mrs. Ward hesitated perceptibly. “I’m afraid you are a bit feverish,”
she exclaimed. “Do you think it’s wise to open all the windows, Miss
Evelyn? This room really isn’t any too warm.”
“I can’t sleep in it as it is,” exclaimed Evelyn. “I must have air;
my head is swimming. Don’t worry about my catching cold, Mrs. Ward; I
always sleep with the wind blowing on me.”
“Very well, Miss Evelyn.” The housekeeper went to first one window and
then the other and pulled up the Holland shades, then flung the windows
wide open. On her way to the door she stopped by the bed and looked
thoughtfully down at Evelyn, then without speaking glided from the room
to return a moment later with a silver whistle.
“If the room gets too cold, Miss Evelyn, and you don’t want to get up,
just blow on this and I’ll come downstairs and help you,” she said,
laying the whistle in Evelyn’s hand.
Genuinely touched, Evelyn raised herself on her elbow. “That’s very
thoughtful and kind of you,” she exclaimed. “Thank you so much.”
“Don’t mention it, Miss Evelyn, good-night,” and Mrs. Ward hurried away.
Sleep was far from Evelyn’s eyes and for long hours she tossed and
turned on her pillow; the cool night air gradually lowered the
temperature of the room and she felt relief. She had a touch of fever,
she admitted to herself, touching her hot forehead, and half determined
to get up and rummage around in her mother’s medicine cabinet for a
bottle of “sweet spirits of niter,” but the thought of waking her
mother deterred her.
As the night passed Evelyn slept by fits and starts. She was lying
drowsily awake listening to a distant clock chiming three when she
grew conscious of a light streaming directly in her eyes. Her lids
flew open and she blinked for a few seconds before realization came
to her. Jerking herself up on her elbow she gazed at a thin wave of
light shining steadily through one of the windows full on her pillow.
Too weary to do more than stare, she finally pulled her pillow around
and settled herself in another position. She was just dozing off when
the light again aroused her. Three times she changed her position and
each time the light shone directly in her eyes. There was something
uncanny in its power and its silent search only for her eyes. Evelyn
felt a chill creep down her spine; then, conquering her nervousness,
she reached over to a chair near the bed where lay her wrapper and
proceeded to put it on. There was nothing for her to do but get up and
pull down her window shades.
Suddenly just as she was about to spring out of bed a flash of light on
the blank wall opposite her bed caught her attention and glancing up
she was horrified to see vividly outlined there the scene of Tuesday
morning--the large library chair with the dead man sitting with head
thrown back, and once again she gazed in breathless suspense straight
into the man’s wide open staring eyes.
Evelyn sat spell-bound; then shuddering she covered her eyes with her
hands and cowered back. When she looked up again the wall opposite was
blank. Closing her eyes she pressed the lids down with her finger-tips
and kept them so for at least ten minutes. The next time she looked at
the wall the space was still blank, and steadying her shaken nerves
with the thought that her imagination was running away with her, she
started to rise when before her eyes appeared a cord, exaggerated in
size against the blank wall; suspended apparently by unknown, unseen
means in mid-air, it twined about like some uncanny snake, but even
as it twisted to and fro, Evelyn recognized the peculiar style of the
cord--she had seen it three times before: taken from the dead man’s
pocket, hanging from the open parcel in her hand two days later, and
given to her the next afternoon by Dan Maynard.
With desperate fingers Evelyn groped under her pillow for the silver
whistle--she would not stay another minute alone; she must tell some
one of her hallucination before she went entirely out of her head. With
eyes averted from the opposite wall, she twisted about in bed until the
missing whistle turned up under her left elbow.
Blowing the whistle was not as simple a business as she had
anticipated; her mouth was dry and parched and such breath as she
had in her body only raised a feeble pipe; but in desperation she
persevered. She was bathed in perspiration before a sound of footsteps
brought unspeakable relief.
“Hurry, hurry,” she gasped, as a white-robed figure stepped just inside
her room. “Come nearer. Look!” and with eyes averted she pointed to the
opposite wall.
She was conscious of the figure’s approach at her hoarse whisper, but
the continued silence snapped her last remnant of self-control.
“Tell me you see it,” she begged piteously. “The string, Mrs.
Ward; you see the string!” and she caught the woman and swung her
about, imploring eyes upraised--the woman who faced her was not the
housekeeper, but her mother.
“Be calm, Evelyn,” she said, stroking the girl’s hot head. “What is the
meaning of this?”
“Can’t you see the string on the wall?” asked Evelyn clinging to her.
Mrs. Burnham looked in the direction Evelyn pointed.
“No, dear,” she whispered soothingly. “Look for yourself.”
Slowly, reluctantly Evelyn turned and looked full at the wall--her
mother was right, it was blank. But even as she stared at it, the wall
lightened and once again she gazed into the eyes of the dead man seated
in the chair facing her.
“See, Mother!” she cried.
Like one carved from stone Mrs. Burnham stared at the opposite wall;
motionless, almost with breathing suspended, she continued to look
ahead of her. Suddenly she spoke, and it was a voice Evelyn had never
heard before and would never have recognized as hers.
“I see nothing, Evelyn,” she said. “The wall is blank.”