I do know that we were both silent and that at last, with a quick
breath, she reached out and thumped on the floor with a cane that stood
beside the bed until a girl came running up from below stairs.
"Get the shawl, Fanny, dear," said Miss Emily, "and wrap it up for Miss
Blakiston."
I wanted desperately, while the girl left the room to obey, to say
something helpful, something reassuring. But I could not. My voice
failed me. And Miss Emily did not give me another opportunity. She
thanked me rather formally for the flowers I had brought from her
garden, and let me go at last with the parcel under my arm, without
further reference to it. The situation was incredible.
Somehow I had the feeling that Miss Emily would never reopen the subject
again. She had given me my chance, at who knows what cost, and I had not
taken it. There had been something in her good-by--I can not find words
for it, but it was perhaps a finality, an effect of a closed door--that
I felt without being able to analyze.
I walked back to the house, refusing the offices of Mr. Staley, who met
me on the road. I needed to think. But thinking took me nowhere. Only
one conclusion stood out as a result of a mile and a half of mental
struggle. Something must be done. Miss Emily ought to be helped. She was
under a strain that was killing her.
But to help I should know the facts. Only, were there any facts to know?
Suppose--just by way of argument, for I did not believe it--that the
confession was true; how could I find out anything about it? Five years
was a long time. I could not go to the neighbors. They were none too
friendly as it was. Besides, the secret, if there was one, was not mine,
but was Miss Emily's.
I reached home at last, and smuggled the shawl into the house. I had no
intention of explaining its return to Maggie. Yet, small as it was in
its way, it offered a problem at once. For Maggie has a penetrating eye
and an inquiring nature. I finally decided to take the bull by the horns
and hang it in its accustomed place in the hall, where Maggie, finding
it at nine o'clock that evening, set up such a series of shrieks and
exclamations as surpassed even her own record.
I knitted that evening. It has been my custom for years to knit
bedroom-slippers for an old ladies' home in which I am interested.
Because I can work at them with my eyes shut, through long practise,
I find the work soothing. So that evening I knitted at Eliza
Klinordlinger's fifth annual right slipper, and tried to develop a
course of action.
I began with a major premise--to regard the confession as a real one,
until it was proved otherwise. Granted, then, that my little old Miss
Emily had killed a woman.
1st--Who was the woman?
2nd--Where is the body?
3rd--What was the reason for the crime?
Question two I had a tentative answer for. However horrible and
incredible it seemed, it was at least possible that Miss Emily had
substituted the body for the books, and that what Mrs. Graves described
as a rite had indeed been one. But that brought up a picture I could not
face. And yet--
I called up the local physician, a Doctor Lingard, that night and asked
him about Miss Emily's condition. He was quite frank with me.
"It's just a breaking up," he said. "It has come early, because she has
had a trying life, and more responsibility than she should have had."
"I have been wondering if a change of scene would not be a good thing,"
I suggested. But he was almost scornful.
"Change!" he said. "I've been after her to get away for years. She won't
leave. I don't believe she has been twelve miles away in thirty years."
"I suppose her brother was a great care," I observed.
It seemed to me that the doctor's hearty voice was a trifle less frank
when he replied. But when I rang off I told myself that I, too, was
becoming neurasthenic and suspicious. I had, however, learned what I had
wanted to know. Miss Emily had had no life outside Bolivar County. The
place to look for her story was here, in the immediate vicinity.
That night I made a second visit to the basement. It seemed to me, with
those chaotic shelves before me, that something of the haste and terror
of a night five years before came back to me, a night when, confronted
by the necessity for concealing a crime, the box upstairs had been
hurriedly unpacked, its contents hidden here and locked away, and some
other content, inert and heavy, had taken the place of the books.
Miss Emily in her high bed, her Bible and spectacles on the stand beside
her, her starched pillows, her soft and highbred voice? Or another
Miss Emily, panting and terror-stricken, carrying down her armfuls of
forbidden books, her slight figure bent under their weight, her ears
open for sounds from the silent house? Or that third Miss Emily, Martin
Sprague's, a strange wild creature, neither sane nor insane, building a
crime out of the fabric of a nightmare? Which was the real Emily Benton?
Or was there another contingency that I had not thought of? Had some
secret enemy of Miss Emily's, some hysterical girl from the parish,
suffering under a fancied slight, or some dismissed and revengeful
servant, taken this strange method of retaliation, done it and then
warned the little old lady that her house contained such a paper? I
confess that this last thought took hold on me. It offered a way out
that I clutched at.
I had an almost frantic feeling by that time that I must know the
truth. Suspense was weighing on me. And Maggie, never slow to voice
an unpleasant truth, said that night, as she brought the carafe of
ice-water to the library, "You're going off the last few days, Miss
Agnes." And when I made no reply: "You're sagging around the chin.
There's nothing shows age like the chin. If you'd rub a little
lemon-juice on at night you'd tighten up some."
I ignored her elaborately, but I knew she was right. Heat and sleepless
nights and those early days of fear had told on me. And although I
usually disregard Maggie's cosmetic suggestions, culled from the beauty
columns of the evening paper, a look in the mirror decided me. I went
downstairs for the lemon. At least, I thought it was for the lemon. I
am not sure. I have come to be uncertain of my motives. It is distinctly
possible that, sub-consciously, I was making for the cellar all the
time. I only know that I landed there, with a lemon in my hand, at
something after eleven o'clock.
The books were piled in disorder on the shelves. Their five years of
burial had not hurt them beyond a slight dampness of the leaves. No
hand, I believe, had touched them since they were taken from the box
where Mrs. Graves had helped to pack them. Then, if I were shrewd, I
should perhaps gather something from their very disorder, But, as a
matter of fact, I did not.
I would, quite certainly, have gone away as I came, clueless, had I not
attempted to straighten a pile of books, dangerously sagging--like my
chin!--and threatening a fall. My effort was rewarded by a veritable
Niagara of books. They poured over the edge, a few first, then more,
until I stood, it seemed, knee-deep in a raging sea of atheism.
Somewhat grimly I set to work to repair the damage, and one by one I
picked them up and restored them. I put them in methodically this time,
glancing at each title to place the volume upright. Suddenly, out of
the darkness of unbelief, a title caught my eye and held it, "The
Handwriting of God." I knew the book. It had fallen into bad company,
but its theology was unimpeachable. It did not belong. It--
I opened it. The Reverend Samuel Thaddeus had written his own name in
it, in the cramped hand I had grown to know. Evidently its presence
there was accidental. I turned it over in my hands, and saw that it was
closed down on something, on several things, indeed. They proved to be a
small black note-book, a pair of spectacles, a woman's handkerchief.
I stood there looking at them. They might mean nothing but the
accidental closing of a book, which was mistakenly placed in bad
company, perhaps by Mrs. Graves. I was inclined to doubt her knowledge
of religious literature. Or they might mean something more, something I
had feared to find.
Armed with the volume, and the lemon forgotten--where the cook found it
the next day and made much of the mystery--I went upstairs again.
Viewed in a strong light, the three articles took on real significance.
The spectacles I fancied were Miss Emily's. They were, to all
appearances, the duplicates of those on her tidy bedside stand. But the
handkerchief was not hers. Even without the scent, which had left it,
but clung obstinately to the pages of the book, I knew it was not hers.
It was florid, embroidered, and cheap. And held close to the light, I
made out a laundry-mark in ink on the border. The name was either Wright
or Knight.
The note-book was an old one, and covered a period of almost twenty
years. It contained dates and cash entries. The entries were nearly all
in the Reverend Samuel Thaddeus's hand, but after the date of his death
they had been continued in Miss Emily's writing. They varied little,
save that the amounts gradually increased toward the end, and the dates
were further apart. Thus, in 1898 there were six entries, aggregating
five hundred dollars. In 1902-1903 there were no entries at all, but
in 1904 there was a single memorandum of a thousand dollars. The entire
amount must have been close to twenty-five thousand dollars. There was
nothing to show whether it was money saved or money spent, money paid
out or come in.
But across the years 1902 and 1903, the Reverend Thaddeus had written
diagonally the word "Australia." There was a certain amount of
enlightenment there. Carlo Benton had been in Australia during those
years. In his "Fifty Years in Bolivar County," the father had rather
naively quoted a letter from Carlo Benton in Melbourne. A record, then,
in all probability, of sums paid by this harassed old man to a worthless
son.
Only the handkerchief refused to be accounted for.
I did not sleep that night. More and more, as I lay wide-eyed through
the night, it seemed to me that Miss Emily must be helped, that she was
drifting miserably out of life for need of a helping hand.
Once, toward morning, I dozed off, to waken in a state of terror that I
recognized as a return of the old fear. But it left me soon, although I
lay awake until morning.
That day I made two resolves--to send for Willie and to make a
determined effort to see the night telephone-operator. My letter to
Willie off, I tried to fill the day until the hour when the night
telephone-operator was up and about, late in the afternoon.
The delay was simplified by the arrival of Mrs. Graves, in white silk
gloves and a black cotton umbrella as a sunshade. She had lost her air
of being afraid I might patronize her, and explained pantingly that she
had come on an errand, not to call.
"I'm at my Christmas presents now," she said, "and I've fixed on a
bedroom set for Miss Emily. I suppose you won't care if I go right up
and measure the dresser-top, will you?"
I took her up, and her sharp eyes roved over the stairs and the upper
hall.
"That's where Carlo died," she said. "It's never been used since, unless
you--" she had paused, staring into Miss Emily's deserted bedroom.
"It's a good thing I came," she said. "The eye's no use to trust to,
especially for bureaus."
She looked around the room. There was, at that moment, something tender
about her. She even lowered her voice and softened it. It took on,
almost comically, the refinements of Miss Emily's own speech.
"Whose photograph is that?" she asked suddenly. "I don't know that I
ever saw it before. But it looks familiar, too."
She reflected before it. It was clear that she felt a sort of resentment
at not recognizing the young and smiling woman in the old walnut frame,
but a moment later she was measuring the dresser-top, her mind set on
Christmas benevolence.
However, before she went out, she paused near the photograph.
"It's queer," she said. "I've been in this room about a thousand times,
and I've never noticed it before. I suppose you can get so accustomed to
a thing that you don't notice it."
As she went out, she turned to me, and I gathered that not only the
measurement for a gift had brought her that afternoon.
"About those books," she said. "I run on a lot when I get to talking.
I suppose I shouldn't have mentioned them. But I'm sure you'll keep the
story to yourself. I've never even told Mr. Graves."
"Of course I shall," I assured her. "But--didn't the hackman see you
packing the books?"
"No, indeed. We packed them the afternoon after the funeral, and it was
the next day that Staley took them off. He thought it was old bedding
and so on, and he hinted to have it given to him. So Miss Emily and I
went along to see it was done right."
So I discovered that the box had sat overnight in the Benton house.
There remained, if I was to help Miss Emily, to discover what had
occurred in those dark hours when the books were taken out and something
else substituted.
The total result of my conversation that afternoon on the front porch of
the small frame house on a side street with the night telephone-operator
was additional mystery.
I was not prepared for it. I had anticipated resentment and possibly
insolence. But I had not expected to find fright. Yet the girl was
undeniably frightened. I had hardly told her the object of my visit
before I realized that she was in a state of almost panic.
"You can understand how I feel," I said. "I have no desire to report the
matter, of course. But some one has been calling the house repeatedly at
night, listening until I reply, and then hanging up the receiver. It is
not accidental. It has happened too often."
"I'm not supposed to give out information about calls."
"But--just think a moment," I went on. "Suppose some one is planning to
rob the house, and using this method of finding out if we are there or
not?"
"I don't remember anything about the calls you are talking about," she
parried, without looking at me. "As busy as I am--"
"Nonsense," I put in, "you know perfectly well what I am talking about.
How do I know but that it is the intention of some one to lure me
downstairs to the telephone and then murder me?"
"I am sure it is not that," she said. For almost the first time she
looked directly at me, and I caught a flash of something--not defiance.
It was, indeed, rather like reassurance.
"You see, you know it is not that." I felt all at once that she did know
who was calling me at night, and why. And, moreover, that she would not
tell. If, as I suspected, it was Miss Emily, this girl must be to some
extent in her confidence.
"But--suppose for a moment that I think I know who is calling me?" I
hesitated. She was a pretty girl, with an amiable face, and more than a
suggestion of good breeding and intelligence about her. I made a quick
resolve to appeal to her. "My dear child," I said, "I want so very much,
if I can, to help some one who is in trouble. But before I can help, I
must know that I can help, and I must be sure it is necessary. I wonder
if you know what I am talking about?"
"Why don't you go back to the city?" she said suddenly. "Go away and
forget all about us here. That would help more than anything."
"But--would it?" I asked gently. "Would my going away help--her?"
To my absolute amazement she began to cry. We had been sitting on a
cheap porch seat, side by side, and she turned her back to me and put
her head against the arm of the bench.
"She's going to die!" she said shakily. "She's weaker every day. She is
slipping away, and no one does anything."
But I got nothing more from her. She had understood me, it was clear,
and when at last she stopped crying, she knew well enough that she had
betrayed her understanding. But she would not talk. I felt that she was
not unfriendly, and that she was uncertain rather than stubborn. In the
end I got up, little better off than when I came.
"I'll give you time to think it over," I said. "Not so much about the
telephone calls, because you've really answered that. But about Miss
Emily. She needs help, and I want to help her. But you tie my hands."
She had a sort of gift for silence. As I grew later on to know Anne
Bullard better, I realized that even more. So now she sat silent, and
let me talk.
"What I want," I said, "is to have Miss Emily know that I am
friendly--that I am willing to do anything to--to show my friendliness.
Anything."
"You see," she said, with a kind of dogged patience, "it isn't really
up to you, or to me either. It's something else." She hesitated. "She's
very obstinate," she added.
When I went away I was aware that her eyes followed me, anxious and
thoughtful eyes, with something of Miss Emily's own wide-eyed gaze.
Willie came late the next evening. I had indeed gone up-stairs to retire
when I heard his car in the drive. When I admitted him, he drew me into
the library and gave me a good looking over.
"As I thought!" he said. "Nerves gone, looks gone. I told you Maggie
would put a curse on you. What is it?"
So I told him. The telephone he already knew about. The confession he
read over twice, and then observed, characteristically, that he would be
eternally--I think the word is "hornswoggled."
When I brought out "The Handwriting of God," following Mrs. Graves's
story of the books, he looked thoughtful. And indeed by the end of the
recital he was very grave.
"Sprague is a lunatic," he said, with conviction. "There was a body, and
it went into the river in the packing-case. It is distinctly possible
that this Knight--or Wright--woman, who owned the handkerchief, was the
victim. However, that's for later on. The plain truth is, that there was
a murder, and that Miss Emily is shielding some one else."
And, after all, that was the only immediate result of Willie's visit--a
new theory! So that now it stood: there was a crime. There was no crime.
Miss Emily had committed it. Miss Emily had not committed it. Miss Emily
had confessed it, but some one else had committed it.
For a few hours, however, our attention was distracted from Miss Emily
and her concerns by the attempted robbery of the house that night.
I knew nothing of it until I heard Willie shouting downstairs. I was
deeply asleep, relaxed no doubt by the consciousness that at last there
was a man in the house. And, indeed, Maggie slept for the same reason
through the entire occurrence.
"Stop, or I'll fire!" Willie repeated, as I sat up in bed.
I knew quite well that he had no weapon. There was not one in the house.
But the next moment there was a loud report, either a door slamming or a
pistol-shot, and I ran to the head of the stairs.
There was no light below, but a current of cool night air came up the
staircase. And suddenly I realized that there was complete silence in
the house.
"Willie!" I cried out, in an agony of fright. But he did not reply. And
then, suddenly, the telephone rang.
I did not answer it. I know now why it rang, that there was real anxiety
behind its summons. But I hardly heard it then. I was convinced that
Willie had been shot.
I must have gone noiselessly down the stairs, and at the foot I ran
directly into Willie. He was standing there, only a deeper shadow in
the blackness, and I had placed my hand over his, as it lay on the
newel-post, before he knew I was on the staircase. He wheeled sharply,
and I felt, to my surprise, that he held a revolver in his hand.
"Willie! What is it?" I said in a low tone.
"'Sh," he whispered. "Don't move--or speak."
We listened, standing together. There were undoubtedly sounds outside,
some one moving about, a hand on a window-catch, and finally not
particularly cautious steps at the front door. It swung open. I could
hear it creak as it moved slowly on its hinges.
I put a hand out to steady myself by the comfort of Willie's presence
before me, between me and that softly-opening door. But Willie was
moving forward, crouched down, I fancied, and the memory of that
revolver terrified me.
"Don't shoot him, Willie!" I almost shrieked.
"Shoot whom?" said Willie's cool voice, just inside the door.
I knew then, and I went sick all over. Somewhere in the hall between us
crouched the man I had taken for Willie, crouched with a revolver in
his right hand. The door was still open, I knew, and I could hear
Willie fumbling on the hall-stand for matches. I called out something
incoherent about not striking a light; but Willie, whistling softly to
show how cool he was, struck a match. It was followed instantly by a
report, and I closed my eyes.
When I opened them, Willie was standing unhurt, staring over the burning
match at the door, which was closed, and I knew that the report had been
but the bang of the heavy door.
"What in blazes slammed that door?" he said.
"The burglar, or whatever he is," I said, my voice trembling in spite
of me. "He was here, in front of me. I laid my hand on his. He had a
revolver in it. When you opened the door, he slipped out past you."
Willie muttered something, and went toward the door. A moment later I
was alone again, and the telephone was ringing. I felt my way back
along the hall. I touched the cat, which had been sleeping on the
telephone-stand. He merely turned over.
I have tried, in living that night over again, to record things as they
impressed me. For, after all, this is a narrative of motive rather than
of incidents, of emotions as against deeds. But at the time, the
brief conversation over the telephone seemed to me both horrible and
unnatural.