The Anna Katharine Green Mystery Megapack

by Anna Katharine Green

  She was standing before him, a white and terrible figure.

  “Nothing,” came from her set lips, in a low and even tone; but she laid one hand upon the drawer he had half shut and with the other pointed to the door.

  He shrank from her, appalled perhaps at his work; perhaps at her recognition of it.

  “Don’t,” he feebly protested, shaking with terror, or was it with a hideous anxiety? “There is poison in that drawer; do not open it.”

  “Go for my sister,” was the imperious command. “I have no use for you here, but for her I have.”

  “You won’t open that drawer,” he prayed, as he retreated before her eyes in frightened jerks and breathless pauses.

  “I tell you I do not need you,” she repeated, her hand still on the drawer, her form rigid, her face blue-white and drawn.

  “I—I will bring Emma,” he faltered, and shambled across the threshold, throwing back upon her a look she may have noted and may not, but which if she had understood, would certainly have made her pause. “I will go for Emma,” he said again, closing the door behind him with a touch which seemed to make even that senseless wood fall away from him. Then he listened—listened instead of going for the gentle sister whose presence might have calmed the turbulent spirit he had just left. And as he listened his face gradually took on a satisfied look, till, at a certain sound from within, he allowed his hands the luxury of a final congratulatory rub, and then gliding from the place, went below.

  Emma was standing in the parlor window, fixed in dismay at the sight of Frank’s going by without word or look; but Huckins did not stop to give her the message with which he had been entrusted. Instead of that he passed into the kitchen, and not till he had crossed the floor and shambled out into the open air of the garden did he venture to turn and say to the watching Doris:

  “I am afraid Miss Hermione is not quite well.”

  XXVII

  THE HAND OF HUCKINS.

  Frank exhausted his courage in passing Hermione’s door. When he heard the cry she gave, he stopped for a moment, then rushed hastily on, not knowing whither, and not caring, so long as he never saw the street or the house or the poplars again.

  He intended, as much as he intended anything, to take the train for New York, but when he came sufficiently to himself to think of the hour, he found that he was in a wood quite remote from the station, and that both the morning and noon trains had long since passed.

  It was not much of a disappointment. He was in that stage of misery in which everything seems blurred, and life and its duties too unreal for contemplation. He did not wish to act or even to think. The great solitude about him was more endurable than the sight of human faces, but I doubt if he would have been other than solitary anywhere, or seen aught but her countenance in any place where he might have been.

  And what made this the more torturing to him was the fact that he always saw her with an accusing look on her face. Never with bowed forehead or in an attitude of shame, but with the straightforward aspect of one utterly grieved where she had expected consideration and forbearance. This he knew to be a freak of his fancy, for had he not her words to prove she had merited his condemnation? But fancy or not, it followed him, softening unconsciously his thought of her, though it never for an instant weakened his resolve not to see her again or exchange another word with one whose conscience was laden with so heavy a crime.

  The wood in which he found himself wandering skirted the town towards the west, so that when, in the afternoon, hunger and weariness drove him back to the abodes of men, he had but to follow the beaten track which ran through it, to come out at the other end of the village from that by which he had entered.

  The place where he emerged was near a dark pool at the base of the hill on which was perched the Baptist church.

  As he saw this pool and caught a sight of the steeple towering above him in the summer sky, he felt himself grow suddenly frantic. Here she had stood with Emma, halting between life and death. Here she had been seized by her first temptation, and had been saved from it only to fall into another one immeasurably greater and more damning. Horrible, loathsome pool! why had it not swallowed her? Would it not have been better that it had? He dared to think so, and bent above its dismal depths with a fascination which in another moment made him recoil and dash away in horror towards the open spaces of the high-road.

  Edgar had just come in from his round of visits when Frank appeared before him. Having supposed him to be in New York, he uttered a loud exclamation. Whereupon Frank exclaimed:

  “I could not go. I seemed to be chained to this place. I have been wandering all day in the woods.” And he sank into a chair exhausted, caring little whether Edgar noted or not his weary and dishevelled appearance.

  “You look ill,” observed the Doctor; “or perhaps you have not eaten; let me get you a cup of coffee.”

  Frank looked up but made no further sign.

  “You will stay with me tonight,” suggested Edgar.

  “I am chained,” repeated Frank, and that was all.

  With a look of sincerest compassion the Doctor quietly left the room. He had his own griefs, but he could master them; beside, the angel of hope was already whispering sweet messages to his secret soul. But Frank’s trouble was beyond alleviation, and it crushed him as his own had never done, possibly because in this case his pride was powerless to sustain him. When he came back, he found Frank seated at the desk poring over the fatal letter. He had found the key of the drawer lying where he had left it, and, using it under a sudden impulse, had opened the drawer and taken out the sheets he had vowed never to touch again.

  Edgar paused when he saw the other’s bended head and absorbed air, and though he was both annoyed and perplexed he said nothing, but set down the tray he had brought very near to Frank’s elbow.

  The young lawyer neither turned nor gave it any attention.

  Edgar, with the wonted patience of a physician, sat down and waited for his friend to move. He would not interrupt him, but would simply be in readiness to hand the coffee when Frank turned. But he never handed him that cup of coffee, for suddenly, Frank, with a wild air and eyes fixed in a dazed stare upon the paper, started to his feet, and uttering a cry, began turning over the two or three sheets he was reading, as if he had made some almost incomprehensible discovery.

  “Edgar, Edgar,” he hurriedly gasped, “read these over for me; I cannot see the words; there is something different here; we have made a mistake! Oh, what has happened! my head is all in a whirl.”

  He sank back in his chair. Edgar, rushing forward, seized the half dozen sheets offered him and glanced eagerly over them.

  “I see no difference,” he cried; but as he went on, driven by Frank’s expectant eye, he gave a surprised start also, and turning back the pages, read them again and again, crying at last:

  “We must have overlooked one of these sheets. We read her letter without this page. What a mischance! for with these words left in it is no longer a confession we have before us, but a narrative. Frank, Frank, we have wronged the girl. She has no crime to bemoan, only a misery to relate.”

  “Read it aloud,” broke from Frank’s lips. “Let me hear it from your mouth. How could we have overlooked such a page? Oh, my poor girl! my poor girl!”

  Edgar, beginning back a page or two from the one which had before escaped their attention, read as follows. The portion marked by brackets is the one that was new to both their eyes:

  “But before the doctor appeared that morning father had called me for the third and last time to his side.

  “‘I wish to see my eldest daughter alone,’ he declared, as Emma lingered and Doris hovered about the open door. They at once went out. ‘Now shut the door,’ said he, as their footsteps were heard descending the stairs.

  “I did as I was bid, though I felt as if I were shutting myself in with some horrid doom.

  “‘Now come in front of me,’ he commanded. ‘I want to look at you; I have just fiv
e minutes left in which to do it.’

  “‘Five minutes!’ I repeated hoarsely, creeping round with tottering and yet more tottering steps to where he pointed.

  “‘Yes; the poison has done its work at last. At eight o’clock I shall be dead.’

  “‘Poison!’ I shrieked, but in so choked a tone the word sounded like a smothered whisper.

  “But he was alarmed by it for all that.

  “‘Do not tell the world,’ he cried. ‘It is enough that you know it. Are you pleased that you have driven your father to self-destruction? Will it make your life in this house, in which you have vowed to remain, any happier? I told you that your sin should be on your head, and it will be. For, listen to me: now in this last dreadful hour, I command you, heartless and disobedient one, to keep that vow. By this awful death, by the despair which has driven me to it, beware of leaving these doors. In your anger you swore to remain within these walls; in your remorse see that you keep that oath. Not for love, not for hatred, dare to cross the threshold, or I will denounce you in the grave where I shall be gone, and my curse shall be upon you.’

  “He had risen in his passion as he uttered these words, but he sank back as he finished, and I thought he was dead.

  “Terrified, crushed, I sank upon my knees, having no words with which to plead for the mercy for which I now longed. The next minute a horrible groan burst upon my ear.

  “‘It eats—it burns into my vitals. The suffering has come—the suffering which I have often noted with unconcern in the animals upon which I had tested it. I cannot bear it; I had rather live. Get me the antidote; there, there in the long, narrow drawer in the cabinet by the wall! Not there, not there!’ he shrieked, as I stumbled over the floor, which seemed to rise in waves beneath my feet. ‘The other cabinet, the other drawer; you are where the poison is.’

  “I halted; weights seemed to be upon my feet; I could not move. He was writhing in agony on the floor; he no longer seemed to know where I stood.

  “‘The antidote!’ he moaned, ‘the antidote!’ I burst the bonds which held me, and leaving open the drawer which I had half pulled out in my eagerness to relieve him, I rushed across the room to the cabinet he had pointed out.

  “‘The long drawer,’ he murmured, ‘the one like the other. Pull it hard; it is not locked!’

  “I tried to do as he commanded, but my hand slid helplessly from drawer to drawer. I could hardly see. He moaned and shrieked again.

  “‘The long one, I say, the long one!’

  “As he spoke my hand touched it.

  “‘I have it,’ I panted forth.

  “‘Open it—the drawer,’ he cried. ‘Bring me what is in it.’

  “I reached out my hand; heaven and earth seemed to stand still; red lights danced before my eyes; I drew out the drawer.

  “‘Quick, quick, the powder!’ he moaned; ‘fetch it!’

  “I was staring at him, but my hand groped in the drawer. I felt a little packet of powder; I took it and crossed the room. As soon as I was near him he stretched out his hand and grasped it. I saw him empty it into his mouth; at the same instant his eyes fixed themselves in horror on the drawer I had left open behind me, the drawer in which the poison was kept.

  “‘Curse you for a —’ He never said what. With this broken imprecation upon his lips, he sank back upon the floor, dead.”

  “God, what a difference!” cried Edgar. But Frank, trembling from head to foot, reached out and took the sheets, and laying them on the desk before him, buried his face in them. When he looked up again, Edgar, for all his own relief, was startled by the change in him.

  “Her vindication comes late,” said he, “but I will go at once and explain—”

  “Wait; let us first understand how we both were led to make such a mistake. Could the leaves have stuck together?”

  There were no signs of this having happened. Yet who could say that this was not the real explanation of the whole matter? The most curious feature of the occurrence was that just the missing of that one sheet should have so altered the sense of what they read. They did not know then or ever that this very fact had struck Huckins also in his stolen reading of the same, and that it had been his hand which had abstracted it and then again restored it when he thought the mutilated manuscript had done its work. They never knew this, as I say, but they thought the chance which had occurred to them a very strange one, and tried to lay it to their agitation at the time, or to any cause but the real one.

  The riddle proving insolvable, they abandoned it, and Frank again rose. But Edgar drawing his attention to the few additional sheets which he had never read, he sat down again in eagerness to peruse them. Let us read them with him, for in them we shall find the Hermione of today, not the angry and imperious woman upon whom her father revenged himself by a death calculated to blot the sun from her skies and happiness from her heart forever.

  “When Emma came to the room she discovered me kneeling, rigid and horror-stricken, above my father’s outstretched form. She says that I met her eyes with mine, but that there was no look of life within them. Indeed, I was hardly alive, and have no remembrance of how I was taken from that room or what happened in the house for hours. When I did rouse, Emma was beside me. Her look was one of grief but not of horror, and I saw she had no idea of what had passed between my father and myself during the last few days. Dr. Dudgeon had told her that our father had died of heart-disease, and she believed him, and thought my terror was due to the suddenness of his end and the fact that I was alone with him at the time.

  “She therefore smiled with a certain faint encouragement when I opened my eyes upon her face, but pushed me back with gentle hand when I tried to rise, saying:

  “‘All is well with father, Hermione—so think only of yourself just now; I do not think you are able to get up.’

  “I was only too happy not to make the effort. If only my eyes had never opened! If only I had sunk from unconsciousness into the perfect peace of death! But even that idea made me quake. He was there, and I had such a horror of him, that it seemed for a moment that I would rather live forever than to encounter him again, even in a world where the secrets of all hearts lie open.

  “‘Did not father forgive you?’ murmured Emma, marking perhaps the expression of my face.

  “I smiled a bitter smile.

  “‘Do not ever let us talk about father,’ I prayed. ‘He has condemned me to this house, and that will make me remember him sufficiently without words.’

  “She rose horror-stricken.

  “‘O Hermione!’ she murmured; ‘O Hermione!’ and hid her face in her hands and wept.

  “But I lay silent, tearless.

  “When the funeral procession passed out of the house without us, the people stared. But no thought of there being anything back of this seeming disrespect, save the caprice of two very whimsical girls, seemed to strike the mind of any one. The paper which had held the antidote I had long ago picked up from the laboratory floor; while the open drawer with the packet in it marked Poison had doubtless been shut by Doris on her first entrance into the room after his death. For I not only found it closed, but I never heard any one speak of it, or of any peculiar symptoms attending my father’s death.

  “But the arrow was in my heart for all that, and for weeks my life was little more than a nightmare. All the pride which had upheld me was gone. I felt myself a crushed woman. The pall which my father had thrown over me in his self-inflicted death, hung heavy and stifling about me. I breathed, but it seemed to be in gasps, and when exhausted nature gave way and I slept, it was to live over again in dreams those last fearful moments of his life, and hear, with even more distinctness than in my waking hours, the words of the final curse with which he sank to the floor.

  “I had not deserved it—that I felt; but I suffered all the same, and suffered all the more that I could take no confidant into my troubles. Emma, with her broken life, had had disappointments enough without this revelation of a father’s vind
ictiveness, and though it might have eased me for the moment to hear her words of sympathy, I knew that I should find it harder to face her day by day, if this ghost of horror once rose between us. No; the anguish was mine, and must be borne by me alone. So I crushed it down into my heart and was silent.

  “Meantime the command which had been laid upon me by my father, never to leave the house, was weaving a chain about me I soon found it impossible to break. Had I immediately upon his death defied his will and rushed frenziedly out of the gate, I might have grown to feel it easy to walk the streets again in the face of a curse which should never have been laid upon me. But the custom of obeying his dying mandate soon got its hold upon me, and I could not overcome it. At the very thought of crossing the threshold I would tremble; and though when I looked at Emma heroically sharing my fate without knowing the reasons for my persistency, I would dream for a moment of breaking the spell those dying lips had laid upon me, I always found myself drawing back in terror, almost as if I had been caught by fleshless fingers.

  “And so the weeks passed and we settled into the monotonous existence of an uninterrupted seclusion. What had been the expression of my self-will, became now a species of expiation. For though I had not deserved the awful burden which had been imposed upon me of a father’s death and curse, I had deserved punishment, and this I now saw, and this I now endeavored to meet, with something like the meekness of repentance. I accepted my doom, and tried not to dwell so much upon my provocations as upon the temper with which I met them, and the hardness with which I strove to triumph over my disappointments. And in doing this I became less hard, preparing my heart, though I did not know it, for that new seed of love which fate was about to drop into it.