XVII. THE BEGINNING OF GREAT SURPRISES
“Vous regardez une etoile pour deux motifs, parce qu’elle est lumineuse et parce qu’elle est impenetrable. Vous avez aupres de vous un plus doux rayonnement et un pas grand mystere, la femme.” Les Miserables.
AND now followed days in which I seemed to make little or no progress.Mr. Clavering, disturbed perhaps by my presence, forsook his usualhaunts, thus depriving me of all opportunity of making his acquaintancein any natural manner, while the evenings spent at Miss Leavenworth’swere productive of little else than constant suspense and uneasiness.
The manuscript required less revision than I supposed. But, in thecourse of making such few changes as were necessary, I had ampleopportunity of studying the character of Mr. Harwell. I found him to beneither more nor less than an excellent amanuensis. Stiff, unbending,and sombre, but true to his duty and reliable in its performance, Ilearned to respect him, and even to like him; and this, too, though Isaw the liking was not reciprocated, whatever the respect may have been.He never spoke of Eleanore Leavenworth or, indeed, mentioned the familyor its trouble in any way; till I began to feel that all this reticencehad a cause deeper than the nature of the man, and that if he didspeak, it would be to some purpose. This suspicion, of course, kept merestlessly eager in his presence. I could not forbear giving him slyglances now and then, to see how he acted when he believed himselfunobserved; but he was ever the same, a passive, diligent, unexcitableworker.
This continual beating against a stone wall, for thus I regarded it,became at last almost unendurable. Clavering shy, and the secretaryunapproachable--how was I to gain anything? The short interviews I hadwith Mary did not help matters. Haughty, constrained, feverish, pettish,grateful, appealing, everything at once, and never twice the same, Ilearned to dread, even while I coveted, an interview. She appeared to bepassing through some crisis which occasioned her the keenest suffering.I have seen her, when she thought herself alone, throw up her handswith the gesture which we use to ward off a coming evil or shut out somehideous vision. I have likewise beheld her standing with her proud headabased, her nervous hands drooping, her whole form sinking and inert, asif the pressure of a weight she could neither upbear nor cast asidehad robbed her even of the show of resistance. But this was only once.Ordinarily she was at least stately in her trouble. Even when thesoftest appeal came into her eyes she stood erect, and retained herexpression of conscious power. Even the night she met me in the hall,with feverish cheeks and lips trembling with eagerness, only to turn andfly again without giving utterance to what she had to say, she comportedherself with a fiery dignity that was well nigh imposing.
That all this meant something, I was sure; and so I kept my patiencealive with the hope that some day she would make a revelation. Thosequivering lips would not always remain closed; the secret involvingEleanore’s honor and happiness would be divulged by this restless being,if by no one else. Nor was the memory of that extraordinary, if notcruel, accusation I had heard her make enough to destroy this hope--forhope it had grown to be--so that I found myself insensibly shorteningmy time with Mr. Harwell in the library, and extending my _tete-a-tete_visits with Mary in the reception room, till the imperturbable secretarywas forced to complain that he was often left for hours without work.
But, as I say, days passed, and a second Monday evening came roundwithout seeing me any further advanced upon the problem I had set myselfto solve than when I first started upon it two weeks before. The subjectof the murder had not even been broached; nor was Hannah spoken of,though I observed the papers were not allowed to languish an instantupon the stoop; mistress and servants betraying equal interest in theircontents. All this was strange to me. It was as if you saw a group ofhuman beings eating, drinking, and sleeping upon the sides of a volcanohot with a late eruption and trembling with the birth of a new one. Ilonged to break this silence as we shiver glass: by shouting the nameof Eleanore through those gilded rooms and satin-draped vestibules. Butthis Monday evening I was in a calmer mood. I was determined to expectnothing from my visits to Mary Leavenworth’s house; and entered it uponthe eve in question with an equanimity such as I had not experiencedsince the first day I passed under its unhappy portals.
But when, upon nearing the reception room, I saw Mary pacing the floorwith the air of one who is restlessly awaiting something or somebody,I took a sudden resolution, and, advancing towards her, said: “Do I seeyou alone, Miss Leavenworth?”
She paused in her hurried action, blushed and bowed, but, contrary toher usual custom, did not bid me enter.
“Will it be too great an intrusion on my part, if I venture to come in?” I asked.
Her glance flashed uneasily to the clock, and she seemed about to excuseherself, but suddenly yielded, and, drawing up a chair before the fire,motioned me towards it. Though she endeavored to appear calm, I vaguelyfelt I had chanced upon her in one of her most agitated moods, and thatI had only to broach the subject I had in mind to behold her haughtinessdisappear before me like melting snow. I also felt that I had but fewmoments in which to do it. I accordingly plunged immediately into thesubject.
“Miss Leavenworth,” said I, “in obtruding upon you to-night, I have apurpose other than that of giving myself a pleasure. I have come to makean appeal.”
Instantly I saw that in some way I had started wrong. “An appeal to maketo me?” she asked, breathing coldness from every feature of her face.
“Yes,” I went on, with passionate recklessness. “Balked in every otherendeavor to learn the truth, I have come to you, whom I believe to benoble at the core, for that help which seems likely to fail us in everyother direction: for the word which, if it does not absolutely save yourcousin, will at least put us upon the track of what will.”
“I do not understand what you mean,” she protested, slightly shrinking.
“Miss Leavenworth,” I pursued, “it is needless for me to tell you inwhat position your cousin stands. You, who remember both the form anddrift of the questions put to her at the inquest, comprehend it allwithout any explanation from me. But what you may not know is this, thatunless she is speedily relieved from the suspicion which, justly or not,has attached itself to her name, the consequences which such suspicionentails must fall upon her, and----”
“Good God!” she cried; “you do not mean she will be----”
“Subject to arrest? Yes.”
It was a blow. Shame, horror, and anguish were in every line of herwhite face. “And all because of that key!” she murmured.
“Key? How did you know anything about a key?”
“Why,” she cried, flushing painfully; “I cannot say; didn’t you tellme?”
“No,” I returned.
“The papers, then?”
“The papers have never mentioned it.”
She grew more and more agitated. “I thought every one knew. No, I didnot, either,” she avowed, in a sudden burst of shame and penitence. “Iknew it was a secret; but--oh, Mr. Raymond, it was Eleanore herself whotold me.”
“Eleanore?”
“Yes, that last evening she was here; we were together in thedrawing-room.”
“What did she tell?”
“That the key to the library had been seen in her possession.”
I could scarcely conceal my incredulity. Eleanore, conscious of thesuspicion with which her cousin regarded her, inform that cousin of afact calculated to add weight to that suspicion? I could not believethis.
“But you knew it?” Mary went on. “I have revealed nothing I ought tohave kept secret?”
“No,” said I; “and, Miss Leavenworth, it is this thing which makesyour cousin’s position absolutely dangerous. It is a fact that,left unexplained, must ever link her name with infamy; a bit ofcircumstantial evidence no sophistry can smother, and no denialobliterate. Only her hitherto spotless reputation, and the efforts ofone who, notwithstanding appearances, believes in her innocence, keepsher so long from the clutch of the officers of justice. Th
at key, andthe silence preserved by her in regard to it, is sinking her slowly intoa pit from which the utmost endeavors of her best friends will soon beinadequate to extricate her.”
“And you tell me this----”
“That you may have pity on the poor girl, who will not have pity onherself, and by the explanation of a few circumstances, which cannot bemysteries to you, assist in bringing her from under the dreadful shadowthat threatens to overwhelm her.”
“And would you insinuate, sir,” she cried, turning upon me with a lookof great anger, “that I know any more than you do of this matter? thatI possess any knowledge which I have not already made public concerningthe dreadful tragedy which has transformed our home into a desert, ourexistence into a lasting horror? Has the blight of suspicion fallen uponme, too; and have you come to accuse me in my own house----”
“Miss Leavenworth,” I entreated; “calm yourself. I accuse you ofnothing. I only desire you to enlighten me as to your cousin’s probablemotive for this criminating silence. You cannot be ignorant of it. Youare her cousin, almost her sister, have been at all events her dailycompanion for years, and must know for whom or for what she seals herlips, and conceals facts which, if known, would direct suspicion to thereal criminal--that is, if you really believe what you have hithertostated, that your cousin is an innocent woman.”
She not making any answer to this, I rose and confronted her. “MissLeavenworth, do you believe your cousin guiltless of this crime, ornot?”
“Guiltless? Eleanore? Oh! my God; if all the world were only as innocentas she!”
“Then,” said I, “you must likewise believe that if she refrains fromspeaking in regard to matters which to ordinary observers ought to beexplained, she does it only from motives of kindness towards one lessguiltless than herself.”
“What? No, no; I do not say that. What made you think of any suchexplanation?”
“The action itself. With one of Eleanore’s character, such conductas hers admits of no other construction. Either she is mad, or she isshielding another at the expense of herself.”
Mary’s lip, which had trembled, slowly steadied itself. “And whomhave you settled upon, as the person for whom Eleanore thus sacrificesherself?”
“Ah,” said I, “there is where I seek assistance from you. With yourknowledge of her history----”
But Mary Leavenworth, sinking haughtily back into her chair, stoppedme with a quiet gesture. “I beg your pardon,” said she; “but you make amistake. I know little or nothing of Eleanore’s personal feelings. Themystery must be solved by some one besides me.”
I changed my tactics.
“When Eleanore confessed to you that the missing key had been seen inher possession, did she likewise inform you where she obtained it, andfor what reason she was hiding it?”
“No.”
“Merely told you the fact, without any explanation?”
“Yes.”
“Was not that a strange piece of gratuitous information for her togive one who, but a few hours before, had accused her to the face ofcommitting a deadly crime?”
“What do you mean?”’ she asked, her voice suddenly sinking.
“You will not deny that you were once, not only ready to believe herguilty, but that you actually charged her with having perpetrated thiscrime.”
“Explain yourself!” she cried.
“Miss Leavenworth, do you not remember what you said in that roomupstairs, when you were alone with your cousin on the morning of theinquest, just before Mr. Gryce and myself entered your presence?”
Her eyes did not fall, but they filled with sudden terror.
“You heard?” she whispered.
“I could not help it. I was just outside the door, and----”
“What did you hear?”
I told her.
“And Mr. Gryce?”
“He was at my side.”
It seemed as if her eyes would devour my face. “Yet nothing was saidwhen you came in?”
“No.”
“You, however, have never forgotten it?”
“How could we, Miss Leavenworth?”
Her head fell forward in her hands, and for one wild moment she seemedlost in despair. Then she roused, and desperately exclaimed:
“And that is why you come here to-night. With that sentence written uponyour heart, you invade my presence, torture me with questions----”
“Pardon me,” I broke in; “are my questions such as you, with reasonableregard for the honor of one with whom you are accustomed to associate,should hesitate to answer? Do I derogate from my manhood in asking youhow and why you came to make an accusation of so grave a nature, at atime when all the circumstances of the case were freshly before you,only to insist fully as strongly upon your cousin’s innocence whenyou found there was even more cause for your imputation than you hadsupposed?”
She did not seem to hear me. “Oh, my cruel fate!” she murmured. “Oh, mycruel fate!”
“Miss Leavenworth,” said I, rising, and taking my stand before her;“although there is a temporary estrangement between you and your cousin,you cannot wish to seem her enemy. Speak, then; let me at least know thename of him for whom she thus immolates herself. A hint from you----”
But rising, with a strange look, to her feet, she interrupted me with astern remark: “If you do not know, I cannot inform you; do not ask me,Mr. Raymond.” And she glanced at the clock for the second time.
I took another turn.
“Miss Leavenworth, you once asked me if a person who had committed awrong ought necessarily to confess it; and I replied no, unless by theconfession reparation could be made. Do you remember?”
Her lips moved, but no words issued from them.
“I begin to think,” I solemnly proceeded, following the lead of heremotion, “that confession is the only way out of this difficulty: thatonly by the words you can utter Eleanore can be saved from the doom thatawaits her. Will you not then show yourself a true woman by respondingto my earnest entreaties?”
I seemed to have touched the right chord; for she trembled, and a lookof wistfulness filled her eyes. “Oh, if I could!” she murmured.
“And why can you not? You will never be happy till you do. Eleanorepersists in silence; but that is no reason why you should emulate herexample. You only make her position more doubtful by it.”
“I know it; but I cannot help myself. Fate has too strong a hold uponme; I cannot break away.”
“That is not true. Any one can escape from bonds imaginary as yours.”
“No, no,” she protested; “you do not understand.”
“I understand this: that the path of rectitude is a straight one, andthat he who steps into devious byways is going astray.”
A flicker of light, pathetic beyond description, flashed for a momentacross her face; her throat rose as with one wild sob; her lips opened;she seemed yielding, when--A sharp ring at the front door-bell!
“Oh,” she cried, sharply turning, “tell him I cannot see him; tellhim----”
“Miss Leavenworth,” said I, taking her by both hands, “never mind thedoor; never mind anything but this. I have asked you a question whichinvolves the mystery of this whole affair; answer me, then, for yoursoul’s sake; tell me, what the unhappy circumstances were which couldinduce you--”
But she tore her hands from mine. “The door!” she cried; “it will open,and--”
Stepping into the hall, I met Thomas coming up the basement stairs. “Goback,” said I; “I will call you when you are wanted.”
With a bow he disappeared.
“You expect me to answer,” she exclaimed, when I re-entered, “now, in amoment? I cannot.”
“But----”
“Impossible!” fastening her gaze upon the front door.
“Miss Leavenworth!”
She shuddered.
“I fear the time will never come, if you do not speak now.”
“Impossible,” she reiterated.
Another twang at
the bell.
“You hear!” said she.
I went into the hall and called Thomas. “You may open the door now,” said I, and moved to return to her side.
But, with a gesture of command, she pointed up-stairs. “Leave me!” andher glance passed on to Thomas, who stopped where he was.
“I will see you again before I go,” said I, and hastened up-stairs.
Thomas opened the door. “Is Miss Leavenworth in?” I heard a rich,tremulous voice inquire.
“Yes, sir,” came in the butler’s most respectful and measured accents,and, leaning over the banisters I beheld, to my amazement, the form ofMr. Clavering enter the front hall and move towards the reception room.
The Leavenworth Case Page 17
