now directed toward making the young man understand, rather than towards
sparing his feelings.
But Tom could not seem to grasp it. “What do you mean?” he said,
catching her by both arms. “Madeleine? Killed herself?”
“Yes,” said Miss Morton, shaken out of her own calm by Tom’s excited
voice. “In the library, after we had all gone to bed, she stabbed
herself with that horrible paper-cutter thing. Did you know she was
unhappy?”
“Unhappy? No; why should she be? To-morrow was to have been her wedding
day!”
“To-day,” corrected Miss Morton. “It is already the day on which our
dear Madeleine was to have become a bride. And instead——” Glancing
around the brilliant room and at the bridal bower, Miss Morton’s
composure gave way entirely, and she sobbed hysterically. At this Cicely
Dupuy came across from the library. Putting her arm around Miss Morton,
she led the sobbing woman away, and without a word to Tom Willard gave
him a glance which seemed to say that he must look out for himself, for
her duty was to attend Miss Morton.
As the two women left the drawing-room Tom followed them. He walked
slowly, and stared about as if uncertain where to go. He paused a moment
midway in the room, and, stooping, picked up some small object from the
carpet, which he put in his waistcoat pocket.
A moment more and he had crossed the hall and stood at the library door,
gazing at the scene which had already shocked and saddened the others.
With a groan, as of utter anguish, Tom involuntarily put up one hand
before his eyes.
Then, pulling himself together with an effort, he seemed to dash away a
tear, and walked into the room, saying almost harshly, “What does it
mean?”
Doctor Hills rose to meet him, and by way of a brief explanation he put
into Tom’s hand the paper he had found on the table. Tom read the
written message, and looked more stupefied than ever. With a sudden
gesture he turned towards Schuyler Carleton and said in a low voice,
“but you _did_ love her, didn’t you?”
“I did,” replied Carleton simply.
“Why should she have thought you didn’t?” went on Tom, looking at the
paper, and seeming to soliloquize rather than to address his question to
any one else.
As this was the first time that the “S.” in Madeleine’s note had been
openly assumed to stand for Schuyler Carleton, there was a stir of
excitement all round the room.
“I don’t know,” said Carleton, but a dull, red flush spread over his
white face and his voice trembled.
“You don’t know!” said Tom, in cutting tones. “Man, you _must_ know.”
But no reply was made, and, dropping into a chair, Tom buried his face
in both hands and remained thus for a long time.
Tom Willard was a large, stout man, and possessed of the genial and
merry demeanor which so often accompanies avoirdupois. Save for his
occasional, though really rare, bursts of temper, Tom was always in
joking and laughing mood.
To see him thus in an agonized, speechless despair deeply affected Mrs.
Markham. Tom had always been a favorite with her, and not even Madeleine
had regretted more than she the estrangement between Richard Van Norman
and his nephew. And even as Mrs. Markham looked at the bowed head of the
great strong man she suddenly bethought herself for the first time that
Tom was now heir to the Van Norman fortune.
She wondered if he had himself yet realized it; and then she scolded
herself for letting such thoughts intrude so unfittingly soon. And yet
she well knew that it would not be in ordinary human nature long to
ignore the fact of such a sudden change of fortunes. As she looked at
Tom her glance strayed toward Mr. Carleton, and then the thought struck
her that what Tom had gained this man had lost. For had Madeleine lived
the Van Norman money would have been, in a way, at the disposal of her
husband. The girl’s death then would make Tom a rich man, while Schuyler
Carleton would remain poor. He had always been poor, or at least far
from wealthy, and more than one gossip was of the opinion that he had
wooed Miss Van Norman not entirely because of disinterested love for
her.
While Mrs. Markham was busy with these fast-following thoughts a voice
in the doorway made her look up.
A quiet, unimportant-looking man stood there, and was respectfully
addressing Doctor Hills.
“I’m Hunt, sir,” he said, “a plain-clothes man from headquarters.”
The three men in the room gave a start of surprise, and each turned an
inquiring look at the newcomer.
“Who sent you? And what for?” asked Doctor Hills.
“I’ve been here all night, sir. I’m on guard in the present room
upstairs.”
“I engaged him,” said Mrs. Markham. “Madeleine’s presents are very
valuable, and although the jewels are still in the bank, the silver and
other things upstairs are worth a large amount, and I thought best to
have this man remain here during the night.”
“A very wise precaution, Mrs. Markham,” said Doctor Hills; “and why did
you leave your post, my man?”
“The butler told me of what had happened, and I wondered if I might be
of any service down here. I left the butler in charge of the room while
I came down to inquire.”
“Very thoughtful of you,” said Doctor Hills, with a nod of appreciation;
“and while I hardly think so, we may have use for you before the night
is over. I am expecting Doctor Leonard, the county physician, and until
he comes I can do nothing. I am sure the room above is sufficiently
guarded for the time being, so suppose you sit down here a few minutes
and wait.”
Mr. Hunt chose to take a seat in the hall, just outside the library
door, and thus added one more solemn presence to the quietly waiting
group.
And now Doctor Hills had occasion to add another puzzling condition to
those that had already confronted him.
Almost every one in the room was curiously affected by the appearance of
this detective, or plain-clothes man, as he was called.
Schuyler Carleton gave a start, and his pale face became whiter yet.
Cicely Dupuy looked at him, and then turning her glance toward Mr. Hunt,
whom she could see through the doorway, she favored the latter with a
stare of such venomous hatred that Doctor Hills with difficulty
repressed an exclamation.
Cicely’s big blue eyes roved from Hunt to Carleton and back again, and
her little hands clenched as with a firm resolve of some sort in her
mind; she seemed to brace herself for action.
Her hovering glances annoyed Carleton; he grew nervous and at last
stared straight at her, when her own eyes dropped, and she blushed rosy
red.
But this side-play was observed by no one but Doctor Hills, for the
others were evidently absorbed in serious thoughts of their own
concerning the advent of Mr. Hunt.
Tom Willard stared at him in a sort of perplexity; but Tom’s
good-natured face had worn that perplexed look ever since he had heard
the awful news. He seemed unable to understand, or even to grasp the
facts so clearly visible before him.
But Miss Morton was more disturbed than any one else. She looked at
Hunt, and an expression of fear came into her eyes. She fidgeted about,
she felt in her pocket, she changed her seat twice, and she repeatedly
asked Doctor Hills if he thought Doctor Leonard would arrive soon.
Doctor Leonard did not live in Mapleton, but motored over from his home
in a nearby village. He was a stranger to all those awaiting him in the
Van Norman house, with the exception of Doctor Hills. Unlike that
pleasant-mannered young man, Doctor Leonard was middle aged, of a crusty
disposition and curt speech.
When he came, Doctor Hills presented him to the ladies, and before he
had time to introduce the two men, Doctor Leonard said crossly, “Put the
women out. I cannot conduct this affair with petticoats and hysterics
around me.”
Though not meant to reach the ears of the ladies, the speech was fairly
audible, and with a trace of indignation Miss Morton arose and left the
room. Mrs. Markham followed her, and Cicely went also.
Doctor Leonard closed the library doors, and, turning to Doctor Hills,
asked for a concise statement of what had happened.
In his straightforward manner Doctor Hills gave him a brief outline of
the case, including all the necessary details.
“And yet,” he concluded, “even in the face of that written message, I
cannot think it a suicide.”
“Of course it’s a suicide,” declared Doctor Leonard in his blustering
way; “there is no question whatever. That written confession which you
all declare to be in her handwriting is ample proof that the girl killed
herself. Of course you had to send for me—the stupid old laws of New
Jersey make it imperative that I shall be dragged out many miles away
from my home for every death that isn’t in conventional death-bed
fashion; but there is no suspicion of foul play here. The poor girl
chose to kill herself, and she has done so with the means which she
found near at hand. I will write the burial certificate and leave it
with you. There is no occasion for the coroner.”
“Thank God for that!” exclaimed Schuyler Carleton, in a fervent tone.
“Amen,” said Tom. “It’s dreadful enough to think of poor Maddy as she
is, but had it been any one else who——”
Unheeding the ejaculations of the two men, Doctor Hills said earnestly,
“But, Doctor, if it had not been for the written paper, would you have
called it suicide?”
“That has nothing to do with the case,” declared Doctor Leonard testily.
“The paper is there, and is authentic. No sane man could doubt that it
is a suicide after that.”
“But, Doctor Leonard, it would seem impossible for a woman to stab
herself at that angle, and with such an astonishing degree of force;
also to pull the dagger from the wound, cast it on the floor, and then
to place her arm in that particular position on the table.”
“Why do you say in that particular position?”
“Because the position of her right arm is as if thrown there carelessly,
and not as if flung there in a death agony.”
“You are imaginative, Doctor Hills. The facts may not seem possible, but
since they are the facts you must admit that they are possible.”
“Very well, Doctor Leonard, I accept your decision, and I relinquish all
professional responsibility in the matter.”
“You may do so. There is no occasion for mystery or question. It is a
sad affair, indeed, but no crime is indicated beyond that of
self-destruction. The written confession hints at the motive for the
deed, but that is outside my jurisdiction. Who is the man in the hall? I
fancied him a detective.”
“He is; that is, he is a man from headquarters who is here to watch over
the bridal gifts. He came down-stairs thinking we might require his
services in another way.”
“Send him back to his post. There is no work for detectives, just
because a young girl chose to end her unhappy life.”
Doctor Hills opened the library door and directed Hunt to return to his
place in the present room.
Doctor Leonard, still with his harsh and disagreeable manner, advised
Willard and Carleton to go to their homes, saying he and Doctor Hills
would remain in charge of the library for the rest of the night.
Doctor Hills found the women in the drawing-room, awaiting such message
as Doctor Leonard might have for them. Doctor Hills told them all that
Doctor Leonard had said, and advised them to retire, as the next day
would be indeed a difficult and sorrowful one.
V
A CASE FOR THE CORONER
It was characteristic of Miss Morton that she went straight to her own
room and shut the door. Mrs. Markham, on the other hand, went to the
room occupied by Kitty French. Molly Gardner was there, too, and the two
girls, robed in kimonas, were sitting, white-faced and tearful-eyed,
waiting for some further news from the room whence they had been
banished.
Mrs. Markham told them what Doctor Leonard had said, but Kitty French
broke out impetuously, “Madeleine never killed herself, never! I know
she always said that about the dagger, but she never really meant it,
and any way she never would have done it the night before her wedding. I
tell you she didn’t do it! It was some horrid burglar who came in to
steal her presents, who killed her.”
“I would almost rather it had been so, Kitty dear,” said Mrs. Markham,
gently stroking the brow of the excited girl; “but it could not have
been, for we have very strong locks and bolts against burglars, and
Harris is very careful in his precautions for our safety.”
“I don’t care! Maddy _never_ killed herself. She wouldn’t do it, I know
her too well. Oh, dear! now there won’t be any wedding at all! Isn’t it
dreadful to think of that decorated room, and the bower we planned for
the bride!”
At these thoughts Kitty’s tears began to flow afresh, and Molly, who was
already limp from weeping, joined her.
“There, there,” said Mrs. Markham, gently patting Molly’s shoulder.
“Don’t cry so, dearie. It can’t do any good, and you’ll just make
yourself ill.”
“But I don’t understand,” said Molly, as she mopped her eyes with her
wet ball of a handkerchief; “_why_ did she kill herself?”
“I don’t know,” said Mrs. Markham, but her expression seemed to betoken
a sad suspicion.
“She didn’t kill herself,” reiterated Kitty. “I stick to _that_, but if
she did, I know why.”
This feminine absence of logic was unremarked by her hearers, who both
said, “Why?”
“Because Schuyler didn’t love her enough,” said Kitty earnestly. “She
just worshipped him, and he used to care more for her, but lately he
hasn’t.”
“How do you know?” asked Molly.
“Oh, Madeleine didn’t tell me,” returned Kitty. “I just gathered it.
I’ve been here ’most a week—you know I came several days before you
did, Molly—and I’ve noticed her a lot. Oh, I don’t mean I spied on her,
or anything horrid. Only, I couldn’t help seeing that she wished Mr.
Carleton would be more attentive.”
“Why, I thought he was awfully attentive,” said Molly.
“Oh, attentive, yes. I don’t exactly mean that. But there _was_
something lacking,—don’t you think so, Mrs. Markham?”
“Yes, Kitty, I do think so. In fact, I know that Mr. Carleton didn’t
give Madeleine the heart-whole affection that she gave him. But I hoped
it would all turn out right, and I surely never dreamed it was such a
serious matter as to bring Madeleine to this. But she was a reserved,
proud nature, and if she thought Mr. Carleton had ceased to love her, I
know she would far rather die than marry him.”
“But she could have refused to marry him,” cried Molly. “She didn’t have
to kill herself to get rid of him.”
“She didn’t kill herself,” stubbornly repeated Kitty, but Mrs. Markham
said:
“You don’t understand Maddy’s nature, Molly; she must have had some
sudden and positive proof of Mr. Carleton’s lack of true affection for
her to drive her to this step. But once convinced that he did not care
for her, I know her absolute despair would impel her to the desperate
deed.”
“Why didn’t he love her?” said Molly, who could see no reason why any
man shouldn’t love the magnificent Madeleine.
“I think,” said Kitty slowly, “there was somebody else.”
“How did you know that?” exclaimed Mrs. Markham sharply, as if she had
detected Kitty in some wrongdoing.
“I don’t know it, but I can’t help thinking so. Madeleine has sometimes
asked me if I didn’t think most men preferred gentle, timid dispositions
to a strong, capable nature like her own. Of course she didn’t express
it just like that, but she hinted at it so wistfully, that I told her
no, she was the splendidest, most adorable woman in the whole world. I
meant it, too, but at the same time I do think men ’most always love the
soft, tractable kind of girls, that are not so imperious and
awe-inspiring as Maddy was.”
Surely Kitty ought to know, for she was the most delicious type of soft,
tractable femininity.
Her round, dimpled face was positively peachy, and her curling tendrils
of goldy hair clustered round a low white brow, above appealing violet
eyes. A man might admire the haughty Madeleine, but he would caressingly
love bewitching little Kitty, and would involuntarily feel a sense of
protection toward her, because of the shy trustfulness in her glance.
This was not entirely ingenuous, for wise little Kitty quite understood
her own charm, but it was natural, and in no way forced; and she was
quite content that her lines had fallen in her own pleasant places, and
she left the magnificent Madeleines of the world to pursue their own
rôles. But she had admired and loved Maddy Van Norman, and just because
of their differing natures, had understood why Schuyler Carleton’s
affection was tempered with a certain sense of inferiority.
“You know,” she went on, as if thinking aloud, “everybody was a little
afraid of magnificent Maddy. She was so superb, so regal. You couldn’t
imagine yourself _cuddling_ her!”
“I should say not!” exclaimed Molly. “I could only imagine salaaming to
her, or deferentially kissing her hand.”
“Yes, that’s what I mean. Well, Mr. Carleton got tired of that stilted
kind of an attitude,—or, at least, she thought he did. I don’t know,
I’m sure, but she was possessed with a notion that he cared for some
other girl,—some one of the clinging rosebud sort.”
“Do you know this?” asked Mrs. Markham; “I mean, do you know that Maddy
thought this?”
“Yes, I know it,” asserted Kitty, with a wag of her wise little head. “I
tried to persuade her that no clinging rosebud could rival a tall, proud
lily, but she thoroughly believed there was some one else.”
“But Mr. Carleton was to marry her,” said Mrs. Markham. “I can’t believe
he would do that if he loved another.”
“That’s what bothered Maddy,” said Kitty; “she knew how honorable Mr.
Carleton had always been, and she said that as he was engaged to her, he
would think it his duty to marry her, even though his heart belonged to
some one else.”
“Oh, pshaw!” said Molly. “If he was going to marry her, and didn’t love
her, it was because of her fortune. Probably his rosebud girl hasn’t a
cent.”
“Don’t talk like that,” said Kitty, shuddering. “Somehow it seems
disloyal to both of them.”
“But it is all true,” said Mrs. Markham sadly. “Madeleine has never been
of a confidential nature, but I know that she had the idea Kitty tells
of, and I fear it was true. And I may be disloyal, or even unjust, but I
can’t help thinking Schuyler was attracted by Maddy’s money. He is proud
and ambitious, and he would be quite in his element as the head of a
fine establishment, with plenty of money to spend on it.”
“Well, he’ll never have it now,” said Molly, and as this brought back
the realization of the awful event that had happened, both girls burst
into crying again.
Mrs. Markham, herself with overwrought nerves, found she could do
nothing to comfort the girls, so left them and went to commune with her
grief in her own room.
Meantime the two doctors alone in the library were still in discussion.
“Well, what do you want?” inquired Doctor Leonard angrily. “Do you want
to imply, and with no evidence whatever, that the girl died by some hand
other than her own? Do you want to involve the family in the expense and
unpleasant publicity of a coroner’s inquest, when there is not only no
reason for such a proceeding, but there is every reason against it?”
“I want nothing but to get at the truth,” rejoined Doctor Hills, a
little ruffled himself. “I hold that a young woman, unless endowed with
unusual strength, or possibly under stress of intense passion, could not
inflict upon herself a blow strong enough to drive that dagger to the
hilt in her own breast, pull it forth again, and cast it on the floor,
and after that place her arm in the position it now occupies.”
Doctor Leonard looked thoughtful. “I agree with you,” he said slowly;
“that is, I agree that it does not seem as if a woman could do that.
But, my dear Doctor Hills, Miss Van Norman did do that. We know she did,
from her own written confession, and also by the theory of elimination.
What else _could_ have happened? Have you any suggestion to advance?”
Doctor Hills was somewhat taken aback at Doctor Leonard’s suddenness. Up
to this moment the county physician had stoutly maintained that the case
was a suicide beyond any question, and then, turning, he had put the
question to the younger doctor in such a way that Doctor Hills was not
quite ready with an answer.
“No,” he said hesitatingly; “I have no theory to advance, and, moreover,
I do not consider this an occasion for theories. But we must ascertain
the facts. I state it as a fact that a woman could not stab herself as
Miss Van Norman is stabbed, withdraw the dagger, and then place her
right arm on the table in the position you see it.”
“And I assert that you are stating what is not a fact, but merely your
own opinion.”
Doctor Hills looked disconcerted at this. His companion was an older and
far more experienced man than himself, and not only did Doctor Hills
have no desire to antagonize him, but he wished to show him the
deference that was justly his due.
“You are right,” he said frankly; “it is merely my own opinion. But now
will you give me yours, based, not on the written paper, but the
position and general effect of the body of Miss Van Norman?”
Put thus on his mettle, Doctor Leonard looked carefully at the dead
girl, whose pose was so natural and graceful that she might have been
merely sitting there, resting.
He gazed long and intently, and then said, slowly:
“I see your point, Doctor Hills. It was a vigorous blow, suddenly and
forcefully given. It could scarcely have been done, had the subject been
a frail, slight woman. But Miss Van Norman was of a strong, even
athletic build, and her whole physical make-up indicates strength and
force of muscle. Your observation as to her apparently natural position
is all right so far as it goes; but I have observed more carefully
still, and I notice her evident physical strength, which was doubtless
greatly aided by her stress of mental passion, and I aver that a woman
of her physique could have driven the blow, removed the weapon, and,
perhaps even then unconscious, have thrown her arm on the table as we
now see it.”
“I thank you, Doctor Leonard,” said young Hills, “for your patience with
me. You are doubtless right, and I frankly admit you have made out a
clear case. Miss Van Norman was, indeed, a strong woman. I have been the
family physician for several years, and I know her robust constitution.
Knowing this, and appreciating your superior judgment as to the
possibility of the deed, I am forced to admit your opinion is the true
one. And yet——”
“Besides, Doctor Hills,” went on Doctor Leonard, as the younger man
hesitated, “we cannot, we _must_ not, ignore the written paper. Why
should we do so? Those who know, tell us Miss Van Norman wrote it. It
is, therefore, her dying statement. Dare we disregard her last message,
written in explanation of her otherwise inexplicable act? We may wonder
at this suicide, we may shudder at it; but we may not doubt that it is a
suicide. That paper is not merely evidence,—it is testimony, it is
incontrovertible proof.”
Doctor Leonard ceased speaking, and sat silent because he had nothing
more to say.
Doctor Hills also sat silent, because, try as he might, he could not
feel convinced that the older physician was right. It was absurd, he
well knew, but every time he glanced at the relaxed pose of that white
right arm on the table, he felt more than ever sure that it had lain
there just so when the dagger entered the girl’s breast.
As the two men sat there, almost as motionless as the other still
figure, both saw the knob of the door turn.
They had closed the double doors leading to the hall, on the arrival of
Doctor Leonard, and now the knob of one of them was slowly and
noiselessly turning round.
A glance of recognition passed between them, but neither spoke or moved.
A moment later, the knob having turned completely round, the door began
to open very slowly.
Owing to the position of the two men, it was necessary for the door to
be opened far enough to admit the intruder’s head before they could be
seen, and the doctors waited breathlessly to see who it might be who
desired to come stealthily to the library that night.
Doctor Hills, whose thoughts worked quickly, had already assumed it was
Mrs. Markham, coming to gaze once more on her beloved mistress; but
Doctor Leonard formulated no supposition and merely waited to see.