ANNE WATSON’S STORY
Liddy discovered the fresh break in the trunk-room wall while we were
at luncheon, and ran shrieking down the stairs. She maintained that, as
she entered, unseen hands had been digging at the plaster; that they
had stopped when she went in, and she had felt a gust of cold damp air.
In support of her story she carried in my wet and muddy boots, that I
had unluckily forgotten to hide, and held them out to the detective and
myself.
“What did I tell you?” she said dramatically. “Look at ’em. They’re
yours, Miss Rachel—and covered with mud and soaked to the tops. I tell
you, you can scoff all you like; something has been wearing your shoes.
As sure as you sit there, there’s the smell of the graveyard on them.
How do we know they weren’t tramping through the Casanova churchyard
last night, and sitting on the graves!”
Mr. Jamieson almost choked to death. “I wouldn’t be at all surprised if
they were doing that very thing, Liddy,” he said, when he got his
breath. “They certainly look like it.”
I think the detective had a plan, on which he was working, and which
was meant to be a coup. But things went so fast there was no time to
carry it into effect. The first thing that occurred was a message from
the Charity Hospital that Mrs. Watson was dying, and had asked for me.
I did not care much about going. There is a sort of melancholy pleasure
to be had out of a funeral, with its pomp and ceremony, but I shrank
from a death-bed. However, Liddy got out the black things and the crape
veil I keep for such occasions, and I went. I left Mr. Jamieson and the
day detective going over every inch of the circular staircase,
pounding, probing and measuring. I was inwardly elated to think of the
surprise I was going to give them that night; as it turned out, I DID
surprise them almost into spasms.
I drove from the train to the Charity Hospital, and was at once taken
to a ward. There, in a gray-walled room in a high iron bed, lay Mrs.
Watson. She was very weak, and she only opened her eyes and looked at
me when I sat down beside her. I was conscience-stricken. We had been
so engrossed that I had left this poor creature to die without even a
word of sympathy.
The nurse gave her a stimulant, and in a little while she was able to
talk. So broken and half-coherent, however, was her story that I shall
tell it in my own way. In an hour from the time I entered the Charity
Hospital, I had heard a sad and pitiful narrative, and had seen a woman
slip into the unconsciousness that is only a step from death.
Briefly, then, the housekeeper’s story was this:
She was almost forty years old, and had been the sister-mother of a
large family of children. One by one they had died, and been buried
beside their parents in a little town in the Middle West. There was
only one sister left, the baby, Lucy. On her the older girl had
lavished all the love of an impulsive and emotional nature. When Anne,
the elder, was thirty-two and Lucy was nineteen, a young man had come
to the town. He was going east, after spending the summer at a
celebrated ranch in Wyoming—one of those places where wealthy men send
worthless and dissipated sons, for a season of temperance, fresh air
and hunting. The sisters, of course, knew nothing of this, and the
young man’s ardor rather carried them away. In a word, seven years
before, Lucy Haswell had married a young man whose name was given as
Aubrey Wallace.
Anne Haswell had married a carpenter in her native town, and was a
widow. For three months everything went fairly well. Aubrey took his
bride to Chicago, where they lived at a hotel. Perhaps the very
unsophistication that had charmed him in Valley Mill jarred on him in
the city. He had been far from a model husband, even for the three
months, and when he disappeared Anne was almost thankful. It was
different with the young wife, however. She drooped and fretted, and on
the birth of her baby boy, she had died. Anne took the child, and named
him Lucien.
Anne had had no children of her own, and on Lucien she had lavished all
her aborted maternal instinct. On one thing she was determined,
however: that was that Aubrey Wallace should educate his boy. It was a
part of her devotion to the child that she should be ambitious for him:
he must have every opportunity. And so she came east. She drifted
around, doing plain sewing and keeping a home somewhere always for the
boy. Finally, however, she realized that her only training had been
domestic, and she put the boy in an Episcopalian home, and secured the
position of housekeeper to the Armstrongs. There she found Lucien’s
father, this time under his own name. It was Arnold Armstrong.
I gathered that there was no particular enmity at that time in Anne’s
mind. She told him of the boy, and threatened exposure if he did not
provide for him. Indeed, for a time, he did so. Then he realized that
Lucien was the ruling passion in this lonely woman’s life. He found out
where the child was hidden, and threatened to take him away. Anne was
frantic. The positions became reversed. Where Arnold had given money
for Lucien’s support, as the years went on he forced money from Anne
Watson instead until she was always penniless. The lower Arnold sank in
the scale, the heavier his demands became. With the rupture between him
and his family, things were worse. Anne took the child from the home
and hid him in a farmhouse near Casanova, on the Claysburg road. There
she went sometimes to see the boy, and there he had taken fever. The
people were Germans, and he called the farmer’s wife _Grossmutter_. He
had grown into a beautiful boy, and he was all Anne had to live for.
The Armstrongs left for California, and Arnold’s persecutions began
anew. He was furious over the child’s disappearance and she was afraid
he would do her some hurt. She left the big house and went down to the
lodge. When I had rented Sunnyside, however, she had thought the
persecutions would stop. She had applied for the position of
housekeeper, and secured it.
That had been on Saturday. That night Louise arrived unexpectedly.
Thomas sent for Mrs. Watson and then went for Arnold Armstrong at the
Greenwood Club. Anne had been fond of Louise—she reminded her of Lucy.
She did not know what the trouble was, but Louise had been in a state
of terrible excitement. Mrs. Watson tried to hide from Arnold, but he
was ugly. He left the lodge and went up to the house about two-thirty,
was admitted at the east entrance and came out again very soon.
Something had occurred, she didn’t know what; but very soon Mr. Innes
and another gentleman left, using the car.
Thomas and she had got Louise quiet, and a little before three, Mrs.
Watson started up to the house. Thomas had a key to the east entry, and
gave it to her.
On the way across the lawn she was confronted by Arnold, who for some
reason was determined to get into the house. He had a golf-stick in his
hand, that he had picked up somewhere, and on her refusal he had struck
her with it. One hand had been badly cut, and it was that, poisoning
having set in, which was killing her. She broke away in a frenzy of
rage and fear, and got into the house while Gertrude and Jack Bailey
were at the front door. She went up-stairs, hardly knowing what she was
doing. Gertrude’s door was open, and Halsey’s revolver lay there on the
bed. She picked it up and turning, ran part way down the circular
staircase. She could hear Arnold fumbling at the lock outside. She
slipped down quietly and opened the door: he was inside before she had
got back to the stairs. It was quite dark, but she could see his white
shirt-bosom. From the fourth step she fired. As he fell, somebody in
the billiard-room screamed and ran. When the alarm was raised, she had
had no time to get up-stairs: she hid in the west wing until every one
was down on the lower floor. Then she slipped upstairs, and threw the
revolver out of an upper window, going down again in time to admit the
men from the Greenwood Club.
If Thomas had suspected, he had never told. When she found the hand
Arnold had injured was growing worse, she gave the address of Lucien at
Richfield to the old man, and almost a hundred dollars. The money was
for Lucien’s board until she recovered. She had sent for me to ask me
if I would try to interest the Armstrongs in the child. When she found
herself growing worse, she had written to Mrs. Armstrong, telling her
nothing but that Arnold’s legitimate child was at Richfield, and
imploring her to recognize him. She was dying: the boy was an
Armstrong, and entitled to his father’s share of the estate. The papers
were in her trunk at Sunnyside, with letters from the dead man that
would prove what she said. She was going; she would not be judged by
earthly laws; and somewhere else perhaps Lucy would plead for her. It
was she who had crept down the circular staircase, drawn by a magnet,
that night Mr. Jamieson had heard some one there. Pursued, she had fled
madly, anywhere—through the first door she came to. She had fallen down
the clothes chute, and been saved by the basket beneath. I could have
cried with relief; then it had not been Gertrude, after all!
That was the story. Sad and tragic though it was, the very telling of
it seemed to relieve the dying woman. She did not know that Thomas was
dead, and I did not tell her. I promised to look after little Lucien,
and sat with her until the intervals of consciousness grew shorter and
finally ceased altogether. She died that night.