by Anthology
You remember that slip; a business communication broken into by these totally irrelevant words, “one of my sons he”. Is it any wonder that these twelve commonplace men keenly felt their position in face of what looked like a direct accusation from the father’s hand?
Yet as these five words, simple in themselves and gaining meaning only from the effort which this young girl had made to suppress them, were capable of being construed in a hundred different ways, the faces which at first blush mirrored but one thought gradually assumed a non-committal aspect, which would have been more encouraging to the men thus compromised, if the facts still to be brought out in explanation of Miss Meredith’s conduct towards them had not been of so damaging a character.
Hope, who surmised, if she did not know, the contents of the letter she now heard rustling in the coroner’s hand, awaited his next question with evident perturbation. Alfred, who may have hoped that this letter would not appear so early in the examination, forgot himself for a moment and cast a look at his brothers, which they took pains to ignore, perhaps because of the effort it cost them to preserve their own countenances in face of the impending ordeal.
I was witness both to this appeal and its rebuff, but to all appearance Dr. Frisbie saw neither. He was deciding with what form of words to introduce his new subject.
“Miss Meredith,” he said at last, “you will now take this letter in your own hand. Have you ever seen it before?”
“Yes, sir, it was a letter which was entrusted to me by my uncle, and which I was told to preserve in secrecy so long as he retained his health and life.”
“It is addressed, as all may see: To my three sons, George, Leighton, and Alfred Gillespie. Miss Meredith, did you understand by these words that the enclosed was intended equally for your three cousins?”
“Yes, sir. My uncle Archibald told me so. He expressly said, in giving it into my charge, that in the event of his sudden or unexplainable death, his three sons were to read this letter together.”
“It has been opened, I see. Is that a sign it has been so delivered and read?”
“Yes, sir. When on the night I made that inconsiderate attempt to suppress the slip of paper on which my uncle had transcribed the five words you have just shown to the jury, one of my cousins reproached me with having drawn erroneous and unwarrantable conclusions from what was there written. I justified myself by handing over this letter. Though I was never shown its contents, I was well aware of the circumstances under which it was written and—and I was certain it would prove my best excuse for what would otherwise have seemed monstrous in one—who—”
She was too disturbed to proceed.
The coroner looked at her kindly, but it was no part of his duty to allow any sympathy he might feel for the witness to interfere with his endeavour to reach the truth. He therefore urged her to relate the circumstances to which she alluded; in other words, to explain how this letter addressed collectively to her three cousins came to be written.
She grew still more distressed.
“Does not the letter explain itself?” she remonstrated. “Spare me, I pray. My uncle’s sons have been brothers to me. Do not make me repeat what passed between my uncle and myself on that unhappy morning when he first unburdened himself of his intolerable grief.”
“I fear that I cannot spare you,” replied the coroner; but I will grant you a short respite while this letter, or such portions of it as bear upon Mr. Gillespie’s death, is being read to the jury. Gentlemen, it is written in Mr. Gillespie’s own hand, and it is dated just a month prior to his unhappy demise. Miss Meredith, you may sit.”
She fell rather than sank into the chair offered her, and for a moment I felt myself the prey of a boundless indignation as I witnessed the callousness shown towards her by the three men who up to this time had presumably regarded her with more or less affection. To me her position called for their especial sympathy. The heroism she evinced was the heroism of a loving woman who sacrifices herself, and what is dearest to her, to her idea of justice and law. And while such action may be easy for a man, it is hard beyond expression for a woman, who, as we know, is much more apt to listen to the voice of her heart than to any abstract appeal of right and justice. Yet these same relatives of hers sat still and scarcely looked her way, though she glanced repeatedly and with heartrending appeal in their direction.
I am quite ready to admit that I was too prejudiced a witness to be just to these men. Had I not myself been under the influence of a sudden and violent passion, I would have seen that Alfred needed sympathy as well as she; for Alfred was the man most menaced by the contents of the letter now on the point of being read; and he knew this as certainly as she did.
As this letter is better known to you than it was to me up to this hour, I leave you to judge of its effect upon the jury and the excited crowd of spectators thronging the room at every point. Heads which had wagged in doubt now drooped in heaviest depression; and while all eyes seemed to shrink from an attempt to read the three white faces on the witnesses bench, the attention of all was concentrated there, and it was with quite a sense of shock that Dr. Frisbie’s voice was heard rising again in renewed examination of the young lady whose precipitate action had brought to public notice this touching letter of a heartbroken father.
His first question was a leading one. Had Mr. Gillespie followed up his former confidences by any further allusions to the attempt which had been made upon his life?
Her answer was a direct negative. Though she had detected in her uncle signs of great unhappiness, he had held no further conversation with her on this topic, and life had gone on as usual in the great house.
“But he talked of poisons, and refused to take any more of the medicine which came so near killing him?”
“Uncle Archibald took no more of this medicine, certainly. That is, I saw no more of it in the house. But he never talked of poisons, that is, publicly or in my presence.”
“Not at the table?”
“Not after that night, sir.”
“He had before?”
“Only incidentally. He had laughed at some of Dr. Bennett’s remarks, and once I heard him mention the danger of taking an overdose of the remedy that was doing him so much good. It was while jesting with me upon my refusal to allow anyone else to portion it out for him.”
“That was your duty, then?”
“Assuredly.”
“Were you in the habit of preparing his glass when alone or in the presence of his sons?”
“As it happened, sir. I had but one dread; that of miscounting the drops.”
“And he took no more of this medicine after that especial night?”
“No, sir. He asked Dr. Bennett for a narcotic of less dangerous properties, and was given chloral.”
“Did you hear any remarks made on this change?”
“None.”
“What became of the phial which held the remainder of this medicine marked Poison?”
“I emptied it out at my uncle’s request.”
“You were your uncle’s nurse, then, typewriter, and friend?”
“He trusted me, sir, in all these capacities.”
“Did he trust you with his business concerns?”
“Not at all. I merely wrote letters to his dictation.”
“Did you know, or have you ever heard, the value of his estate?”
“I have never even asked myself whether he counted his fortune by thousands or millions.”
The dignity, the simplicity, with which this was said made it an impressive termination to a very painful examination. As I noted the effect it produced, I was in hopes that she would be allowed to retire for the day. But the coroner had other views. With a hesitancy that more or less prepared us for what was to come, he addressed her again, saying quietly:
“I have spared you a public reading of certain portions of your uncle’s letter, referring to yourself and the wishes he openly cherished in your behalf. In return, will you inform me if you a
re engaged to marry any one of these young men?”
The thrill, the start given to the witnesses bench by this pointed question, communicated itself to officer and spectator. In George’s fiery flush and Alfred’s sudden paleness, emotions could be seen at work of sufficient significance to draw every eye; though few present, I dare say, ascribed these emotions to their rightful sources. To myself, divided as I was in feeling between the anxiety I could not but feel as her lawyer to see her parry a question too personal not to be humiliating, and the interest with which, as her lover, I awaited a response which would solve my own doubts and make clear my own position, there was something in the attitude of both these men strongly suggestive of a like uncertainty. Were her feelings, then, as much of a mystery to them as they were to me? Did George fear to hear her say she was engaged to Alfred, and Alfred dread to hear her admit that she was irrevocably pledged to George? If so, what a situation had been evolved by this question publicly put by a city functionary! No wonder the young girl dropped her eyes before venturing a reply.
But the spirit of self-protection, always greater in woman than in man where heart secrets are involved, gave her strength to meet this crisis with a baffling serenity. Raising her patient eyes, she replied with a sweet composure which acted like a tonic upon the agitated hearts about her:
“There is no such engagement. I have lived in their house like a sister. Their father was my mother’s brother.”
Another man than Coroner Frisbie would have let her go, but this honest, if kindly, official was strangely tenacious when he had a point to gain. Flushing himself, for her look was directed quite steadily upon him, he gravely repeated:
“Do you mean to say that no words of love ever passed between you and any of these gentlemen?”
This was too much. Expecting to see her recoil, possibly break down, I eagerly looked her way for the permission to interfere, which she might now be ready to give me. But with a proud lift of her head she showed herself equal to the emergency, and her answer, given simply and with no attempt at subterfuge, restored her at once to the dignified position we all dreaded to see her lose.
“I mean to say nothing but the truth. Mr. George Gillespie has more than once honoured me by making me an offer of his hand. But I did not consider myself in a position to accept it.”
Dr. Frisbie showed her no quarter.
“And your cousin Alfred?”
“Alfred?” Her eyes no longer met those of the coroner or anyone else in that cruel crowd. “He,” she stammered proudly, “has never interfered with whatever claims his brother may have been supposed to have upon my favour.”
It was a statement to awaken turmoil in more than one of the uneasy hearts behind her. George bounded to his feet, though he quickly subsided again into his seat, ashamed of this betrayal, or fearful of the effect it might have upon his brother. Alfred, on the contrary, sat still, but the bitterness visible in his smile spoke volumes, and, seeing it, the whole crowd recognised what had long been apparent to myself, that these two brothers were rivals in the love they bore this woman, and that it was through her desire to shield the one she favoured, that she made the first false move which had drawn the attention of the police to the doubtful position held by Mr. Gillespie’s sons.
That her choice had fallen upon the man who had not interfered with his brother’s rights seemed only too probable, and I expected the coroner to force this acknowledgment from her lips, but he grew considerate all at once and inquired instead if Mr. Gillespie had been made aware of his elder son’s wishes. She replied to this by saying:
“They were no secret in the house”; and, with a look, begged him to spare her.
But this man was inexorable.
“And did he approve of the match?”
“He did.”
“Yet you failed to engage yourself?”
This she deemed already answered.
“If the younger brother had pressed his suit for your hand, do you think that under the circumstances your uncle would have sanctioned such rivalry?”
This, perhaps, she could not answer. At all events she was as silent as before.
“Miss Meredith,” proceeded her tormentor, utterly oblivious or entirely careless of the suffering he caused her, “do you know whether your uncle and his youngest son ever had any words on this subject?”
Her hands involuntarily flew out in piteous entreaty.
“Ask this question of the only person who can answer it,” she cried. “I only know that I have been treated with great respect in the house of my uncle.”
With that, the proceedings closed for the day.
XIV. A Sudden Turn
DR. FRISBIE’S point had been made. As we separated to our several destinations for the night, it was with the universally expressed conviction that this young girl, for all her beauty and attractive qualities, had been an apple of discord in her uncle’s house, and that in this fact, rather than in an impatient desire to enjoy the wealth of a man who was never close with his sons, the unnatural crime we were considering had originated.
The evidence elicited from the first witness called to the stand on the following morning tended to substantiate this conclusion.
Nellie Stryker, an old inmate of the Gillespie house, answered the coroner’s questions with great reluctance. She had been maid to Mrs. Gillespie, nurse to all the children, and a trusted servant in the house hold ever since the latter grew beyond her care. Of the attempts made upon her master’s life, the last of which had been only too successful, she knew little and that only by hearsay, but she was not quite so ignorant concerning a certain conversation which had been held one morning in Mr. Gillespie’s room between that gentleman and his youngest son. She was sitting at her needle in the adjoining dressing-closet, and, whether her presence there was unsuspected by her master or simply ignored, they both talked quite freely and she heard every word.
Urged to repeat this conversation, the good old soul showed a shamefaced reluctance which bore out her reputation for honesty and discretion. But she was not allowed to escape the examination set for her. After repeated questions and a show of extreme patience on the part of the coroner, she admitted that the topic discussed was the state of Mr. Alfred’s affections. This young gentleman, as was publicly known, had lately engaged himself to a Southern lady of great pride and high social distinction; and his present disagreement with his father arose out of his wish to break this engagement. His father had no patience with such fickleness, and their words ran high. Fin ally, Alfred threatened to follow his own wishes in the matter, whether it gave satisfaction all round or no; declaring that he had been a fool to tie himself to a girl he cared nothing about, but that he would be a still greater one if he let the mistake of a moment mar his happiness for life. But the old gentleman’s sense of honour was very keen, and he continued to urge the claims of the Southern lady, till his son impetuously blurted out:
“I thought you wanted one of us to marry Hope?”
This caused a break in the conversation.
“Do you care for Hope?” the old gentleman asked. “I thought it was well understood in this house that George, not you, was to be given the first opportunity of winning her.”
The oath with which Alfred answered was shocking to Nellie’s ears, and affected her so deeply that she heard nothing more till these words caught her attention:
“George has everything he wants; unlimited indulgence in each and every fancy, the liking of all the men, and the love of all the women. I am not so fortunate; I am neither a favourite with my mates nor the petted darling of their sisters; I like my ease, but I could give that up for Hope. She is the only woman I have ever seen capable of influencing me. I have been quite a different man since she came into the house. If that is love, it is a very strong love; such love as makes a man out of a nobody. Father, let me have this darling girl for my wife. George does not care for her,—not as I do. He would be a better fellow if he did.”
Mr. Gillespie
seemed quite upset. He loved this son as the apple of his eye, and would very possibly have been glad to see the matter so adjusted, but it did not tally with his idea of what people had a right to expect from his sons, and he told Alfred so in rather strong language.
“Can you remember that language?” asked the coroner.
She tried to make him believe, and herself too, no doubt, that her memory would not serve her to this extent; but her honesty eventually triumphed over her devotion to the family interests, and she finally admitted that the old gentleman had said:
“While I live I will not put up with rivalry of any kind between my sons. George is fond of Hope, and I long ago gave him my permission to woo and marry her. That you are the child of my heart shall not make me blind to the rights of one I loved before you ever saw the light. Were I to permit such shilly-shallying, George would have a right to reproach me with his wasted life. No; the influence which you call so great must be exerted in his behalf rather than yours. He needs it, Alfred, as much, if not more than you do. As to your present engagement, you may break it or you may keep it, but do not expect me to uphold you in any love-making with your brother’s choice till Hope has openly signified her absolute refusal of his attentions. This she is not likely to do; George has too many conspicuous attractions.”
“She has refused him once.”
“Not because her fancy was caught by his younger brother, but because she wished to see some reformation in his habits. In this she was perfectly right. George will have to change his mode of life very materially before he can be regarded as worthy of such a wife.”
“The same might be said of me; but I am no George. I am anxious to make such a change. Yet you give me no encouragement in my efforts, and even deny me the opportunity of winning her affections.”
