Room Number 3, and Other Detective Stories

Room Number 3, and Other Detective Stories Page 6

by Anna Katharine Green

  THE AMETHYST BOX

  I

  THE FLASK WHICH HELD BUT A DROP

  It was the night before the wedding. Though Sinclair, and not myself,was the happy man, I had my own causes for excitement, and, finding theheat of the billiard-room insupportable, I sought the veranda for asolitary smoke in sight of the ocean and a full moon.

  I was in a condition of rapturous, if unreasoning, delight. Thatafternoon a little hand had lingered in mine for just an instant longerthan the circumstances of the moment strictly required; and small as thefavour may seem to those who do not know Dorothy Camerden, to me, whorealised fully both her delicacy and pride, it was a sign that my long,if secret, devotion was about to be rewarded, and that at last I wasfree to cherish hopes whose alternative had once bid fair to wreck thehappiness of my life.

  I was revelling in the felicity of these anticipations, and contrastingthis hour of ardent hope with others of whose dissatisfaction and gloomI was yet mindful, when a sudden shadow fell across the broad band oflight issuing from the library window, and Sinclair stepped out.

  He had the appearance of being disturbed--very much disturbed, Ithought, for a man on the point of marrying the woman for whom heprofessed to entertain the one profound passion of his life; butremembering his frequent causes of annoyance--causes quite apart fromhis bride and her personal attributes--I kept on placidly smoking till Ifelt his hand on my shoulder, and turned to see that the moment was aserious one.

  "I have something to say to you," he whispered. "Come where we shall runless risk of being disturbed."

  "What's wrong?" I asked, facing him with curiosity, if not with alarm."I never saw you look like this before. Has the old lady taken this lastminute to----"

  "Hush!" he prayed, emphasising the word with a curt gesture not to bemistaken. "The little room over the west porch is empty just now. Followme there."

  With a sigh for the cigar I had so lately lighted, I tossed it into thebushes and sauntered in after him. I thought I understood his trouble.The prospective bride was young--a mere slip of a girl indeed--bright,beautiful, and proud, yet with odd little restraints in her manner andlanguage, due probably to her peculiar bringing up, and the surprise,not yet overcome, of finding herself, after an isolated, if notdespised, childhood, the idol of society and the recipient of generalhomage. The fault was not with her. But she had for guardian (alas! mydear girl had the same) an aunt who was a gorgon. This aunt must havebeen making herself disagreeable to the prospective bridegroom, and he,being quick to take offence--quicker than myself, it was said--hadprobably retorted in a way to make things unpleasant. As he was a guestin the house, he and all the other members of the bridal party--Mrs.Armstrong having insisted upon opening her magnificent Newport villa forthis wedding and its attendant festivities--the matter might well lookblack to him. Yet I did not feel disposed to take much interest in it,even though his case might be mine some day, with all its accompanyingdrawbacks.

  But once confronted with Sinclair in the well-lighted room above, Iperceived that I had better drop all selfish regrets and give my fullattention to what he had to say. For his eye, which had flashed with anunusual light at dinner, was clouded now; and his manner, when he stroveto speak, betrayed a nervousness I had considered foreign to his natureever since the day I had seen him rein in his horse so calmly on theextreme edge of a precipice, where a fall would have meant certaindeath, not only to himself, but also to the two riders who unwittinglywere pressing closely behind him.

  "Walter," he faltered, "something has happened--something dreadful,something unprecedented! You may think me a fool--God knows, I would beglad to be proved so!--but this thing has frightened me. I"--he pausedand pulled himself together--"I will tell you about it, then you canjudge for yourself. I am in no condition----"

  "Don't beat about the bush! Speak up! What's the matter?"

  He gave me an odd look full of gloom--a look I felt the force of, thoughI could not interpret it; then, coming closer, though there was no onewithin hearing--possibly no one any nearer than the drawing-roombelow--he whispered in my ear:

  "I have lost a little vial of the deadliest drug ever compounded--aVenetian curiosity, which I was foolish enough to take out and show theladies, because the little box which holds it is such an exquisiteexample of jeweller's work. There's death in its taste, almost in itssmell; and it's out of my hands, and----"

  "Well, I'll tell you how to fix that up," I put in with my usual frankdecision. "Order the music stopped; call everybody into thedrawing-room, and explain the dangerous nature of this toy. After which,if anything happens, it will not be your fault, but that of the personwho has so thoughtlessly appropriated it."

  His eyes, which had been resting eagerly on mine, shifted aside invisible embarrassment.

  "Impossible! It would only aggravate matters, or, rather, would notrelieve my fears at all. The person who took it knew its nature verywell, and that person----"

  "Oh, then you know who took it!" I broke in in increasing astonishment."I thought from your manner that----"

  "No," he moodily corrected, "I do not know who took it. If I did, Ishould not be here. That is, I do not know the exact person. Only----"Here he again eyed me with his former singular intentness, and,observing that I was nettled, made a fresh beginning. "When I came hereI brought with me a case of rarities chosen from my various collections.In looking over them preparatory to making a present to Gilbertine, Icame across the little box I have just mentioned. It is made of a singleamethyst, and contains--or so I was assured when I bought it--a tinyflask of old but very deadly poison. How it came to be included with theother precious and beautiful articles I had picked out for her _cadeau_I cannot say. But there it was; and conceiving that the sight of itwould please the ladies, I carried it down into the library, and in anevil hour called three or four of those about me to inspect it. This waswhile you boys were in the billiard-room, so the ladies could give theirentire attention to the little box, which is certainly worth the mostcareful scrutiny.

  "I was holding it out on the palm of my hand, where it burned with apurple light which made more than one feminine eye glitter, whensomebody inquired to what use so small and yet so rich a receptaclecould be put. The question was such a natural one I never thought ofevading it; besides, I enjoy the fearsome delight which women take inthe marvellous. Expecting no greater result than lifted eyebrows orflushed cheeks, I answered by pressing a little spring in thefiligree-work surrounding the gem. Instantly the tiniest of lids flewback, revealing a crystal flask of such minute proportions that theusual astonishment followed its disclosure.

  "'You see!' I cried, 'it was made to hold _that_!' And moving my hand toand fro under the gas jet, I caused to shine in their eyes the singledrop of yellow liquid it still held. 'Poison!' I impressively announced.'This trinket may have adorned the bosom of a Borgia or flashed from thearm of some great Venetian lady as she flourished her fan between herembittered heart and the object of her wrath or jealousy.'

  "The first sentence had come naturally, but the last was spoken atrandom, and almost unconsciously. For at the utterance of the word'poison' a quickly suppressed cry had escaped the lips of some onebehind me, which, while faint enough to elude the attention of any earless sensitive than my own, contained such an astonishing, ifinvoluntary, note of self-betrayal that my mind grew numb with horror,and I stood staring at the fearful toy which had called up such arevelation of--what? That is what I am here to ask, first of myself,then of you. For the two women pressing behind me were----"

  "Who?" I sharply demanded, partaking in some indefinable way of hisexcitement and alarm.

  "Gilbertine Murray and Dorothy Camerden!"--his prospective bride and thewoman I loved and whom he knew I loved, though I had kept my secretquite successfully from every one else!

  The look we exchanged neither of us will ever forget.

  "Describe the sound," I presently said.

  "I cannot," he replied. "I can only give you my impression of it. Y
ou,like myself, fought in more than one skirmish in the Cuban War. Did youever hear the cry made by a wounded man when the cup of cool water forwhich he has long agonised is brought suddenly before his eyes? Such asound, with all that goes to make it eloquent, did I hear from one ofthe two girls who leaned over my shoulder. Can you understand thisamazing, this unheard-of circumstance? Can you name the woman--can youname the grief capable of making either of these seemingly happy andinnocent girls hail the sight of such a doubtful panacea, with anunconscious ebullition of joy? You would clear my wedding-eve of a greatdread if you could, for if this expression of concealed misery came fromGilbertine----"

  "Do you mean," I cried in vehement protest, "that you really are indoubt as to which of these two women uttered the cry which so startledyou? That you positively cannot tell whether it was Gilbertineor--or----"

  "I cannot; as God lives, I cannot! I was too dazed, too confounded bythe unexpected circumstance, to turn at once, and when I did, it was tosee both pairs of eyes shining, and both faces dimpling with real oraffected gaiety. Indeed, if the matter had stopped there, I should havethought myself the victim of some monstrous delusion; but when, ahalf-hour later, I found this box missing from the cabinet where I hadhastily thrust it at the peremptory summons of our hostess, I knew thatI had not misunderstood the nature of the cry I had heard; that it wasindeed one of secret longing, and that the hand had simply taken whatthe heart desired. If a death occurs in this house to-night----"

  "Sinclair, you are mad!" I exclaimed with great violence. No lesser wordwould fit either the intensity of my feeling or the confused state of mymind. "Death _here_! where all are so happy! Remember your bride'singenuous face! Remember the candid expression of Dorothy's eye--hersmile, her noble ways! You exaggerate the situation. You neitherunderstand aright the simple expression of surprise you heard, nor thefeminine frolic which led these girls to carry off this romanticspecimen of Italian deviltry."

  "You are losing time," was his simple comment. "Every minute we allow topass in inaction only brings the danger nearer."

  "What! You imagine----"

  "I imagine nothing. I simply know that one of these girls has in herpossession the means of terminating life in an instant; that the girl sohaving it is not happy; and that if anything happens to-night it will bebecause we rested supine in the face of a very real and possible danger.Now, as Gilbertine has never given me reason to doubt either heraffection for myself or her satisfaction in our approaching union, Ihave allowed myself----"

  "To think that the object of your fears is Dorothy," I finished, with alaugh I vainly strove to make sarcastic.

  He did not answer, and I stood battling with a dread I could neitherconceal nor avow. For, preposterous as his idea was, reason told me thathe had some grounds for his doubt.

  Dorothy, unlike Gilbertine Murray, was not to be read at a glance, andher trouble--for she certainly had a trouble--was not one she chose toshare with any one, even with me. I had flattered myself in days gone bythat I understood it well enough, and that any lack of sincerity I mightobserve in her could be easily explained by the position of dependenceshe held toward an irascible aunt. But now that I forced myself toconsider the matter carefully, I could not but ask if the varying moodsby which I had found myself secretly harrowed had not sprung from a verydifferent cause--a cause for which my persistent love was more to blamethan the temper of her relative. The aversion she had once shown to myattentions had yielded long ago to a shy but seemingly sincereappreciation of them, and gleams of what I was fain to call real feelinghad shown themselves now and then in her softened manner, culminatingto-day in that soft pressure of my hand which had awakened my hopes andmade me forget all the doubts and caprices of a disturbing courtship.

  But, had I interpreted that strong, nervous pressure aright? Had itnecessarily meant love? Might it not have sprung from a sudden desperateresolution to accept a devotion which offered her a way out ofdifficulties especially galling to one of her gentle but lofty spirit?Her expression when she caught my look of joy had little of the demuretenderness of a maiden blushing at her first involuntary avowal. Therewas shrinking in it, but it was the shrinking of a frightened woman, notof an abashed girl; and when I strove to follow her, the gesture withwhich she waved me back had that in it which would have alarmed a moreexacting lover. Had I mistaken my darling's feelings? Was her heartstill cold, her affection unwon? Or--thought insupportable!--had shesecretly yielded to another what she had so long denied me, and----?

  "Ah!" quoth Sinclair at this juncture, "I see that I have roused you atlast." And unconsciously his tone grew lighter and his eye lost thestrained look which had made it the eye of a stranger. "You begin to seethat a question of the most serious import is before us, and that thisquestion must be answered before we separate for the night."

  "I do," said I.

  His relief was evident.

  "Then, so much is gained. The next point is, how are we to settle ourdoubts? We cannot approach either of these ladies with questions. A girlwretched enough to contemplate suicide would be especially careful toconceal both her misery and its cause. Neither can we order a search tobe made for an object so small that it can be concealed about theperson."

  "Yet this jewel must be recovered. Listen, Sinclair. I will have a talkwith Dorothy, you with Gilbertine. A kind talk, mind you! one that willsoothe, not frighten. If a secret lurks in either breast, our tendernessshould find it out. Only, as you love me, promise to show me the samefrankness I here promise to show you. Dear as Dorothy is to me, I swearto communicate to you the full result of my conversation with her,whatever the cost to myself or even to her."

  "And I will be equally fair as regards Gilbertine. But before we proceedto such extreme measures let us make sure that there is no shorter roadto the truth. Some one may have seen which of our two dear girls wentback to the library after we all came out of it. That would narrow downour inquiry, and save one of them, at least, from unnecessarydisturbance."

  It was a happy thought, and I told him so, but at the same time bade himlook in the glass and see how impossible it would be for him to venturebelow without creating an alarm which might precipitate the dread eventwe both feared.

  He replied by drawing me to his side before the mirror and pointing tomy own face. It was as pale as his own.

  Most disagreeably impressed by this self-betrayal, I coloured deeplyunder Sinclair's eye, and was but little, if any, relieved when Inoticed that he coloured under mine. For his feelings were no enigma tome. Naturally, he was glad to discover that I shared his apprehensions,since it gave him leave to hope that the blow he so dreaded was notnecessarily directed toward his own affections. Yet, being a generousfellow, he blushed to be detected in his egotism, while I--well, I ownthat at that moment I should have felt a very unmixed joy at beingassured that the foundations of my own love were secure, and that thetiny flask Sinclair had missed had not been taken by the hand of herupon whom I depended for all my earthly happiness.

  And my wedding-day was as yet a vague and distant hope, while his wasset for the morrow.

  "We must carry downstairs very different faces from these," he remarked,"or we shall be stopped before we reach the library."

  I made an effort at composure, so did he; and both being determined men,we soon found ourselves in a condition to descend among our friendswithout attracting any closer attention than was naturally due to him asprospective bridegroom and to myself as best man.

  II

  BEATON'S DREAM

  Mrs. Armstrong, our hostess, was fond of gaiety, and amusements werenever lacking. As we stepped down into the great hall we heard music inthe drawing-room, and saw that a dance was in progress.

  "That is good," observed Sinclair. "We shall run less risk of findingthe library occupied."

  "Shall I not look and see where the girls are? It would be a greatrelief to find them both among the dancers."

  "Yes," said he; "but don't allow yourself to be inveigled into joiningthem.
I could not stand the suspense."

  I nodded, and slipped toward the drawing-room. He remained in thebay-window overlooking the terrace.

  A rush of young people greeted me as soon as I showed myself. But I wasable to elude them, and catch the one full glimpse I wanted of the greatroom beyond. It was a magnificent apartment, and so brilliantly lightedthat every nook stood revealed. On a divan near the centre was a ladyconversing with two gentlemen. Her back was toward me, but I had nodifficulty in recognising Miss Murray. Some distance from her, but withher face also turned away, stood Dorothy. She was talking with anunmarried friend, and appeared quite at ease and more than usuallycheerful.

  Relieved, yet sorry that I had not succeeded in catching a glimpse oftheir faces, I hastened back to Sinclair, who was watching me withfurtive eyes from between the curtains of the window in which he hadsecreted himself. As I joined him a young man, who was to act as usher,sauntered from behind one of the great pillars forming a colonnade downthe hall, and, crossing to where the music-room door stood invitinglyopen, disappeared behind it with the air of a man perfectly contentedwith his surroundings.

  With a nervous grip Sinclair seized me by the arm.

  "Was that Beaton?" he asked.

  "Certainly; didn't you recognise him?"

  He gave me a very strange look.

  "Does the sight of him recall anything?"

  "No."

  "You were at the breakfast-table yesterday morning?"

  "I was."

  "Do you remember the dream he related for the delectation of such aswould listen?"

  Then it was my turn to go white.

  "You don't mean----" I began.

  "I thought at the time that it sounded more like a veritable adventurethan a dream; now I am sure that it was such."

  "Sinclair! You do not mean that the young girl he professed himself tohave surprised one moonlit night standing on the verge of the cliff,with arms upstretched and a distracted air, was a real person?"

  "I do. We laughed at the time; he made it seem so tragic andpreposterous. I do not feel like laughing now."

  I gazed at Sinclair in horror. The music was throbbing in our ears, andthe murmur of gay voices and swiftly-moving feet suggested nothing butjoy and hilarity. Which was the dream? This scene of seeming mirth andhappy promise, or the fancies he had conjured up to rob us both ofpeace?

  "Beaton mentioned no names," I stubbornly protested. "He did not evencall the vision he encountered a woman. It was a wraith, you remember, adream-maiden, a creature of his own imagination, born of some tragedy hehad read."

  "Beaton is a gentleman," was Sinclair's cold reply. "He did not wish toinjure, but to warn the woman for whose benefit he told his tale."

  "Warn?"

  "He doubtless reasoned in this way: If he could make this young andprobably sensitive girl realise that she had been seen and herintentions recognised, she would beware of such attempts in the future.He is a kind-hearted fellow. Did you notice which end of the table heignored when relating this dramatic episode?"

  "No."

  "If you had we might be better able to judge where his thoughts were.Probably you cannot even tell how the ladies took it?"

  "No, I never thought of looking. Good God, Sinclair, don't let us harrowup ourselves unnecessarily! I saw them both a moment ago, and nothing intheir manner showed that anything was amiss with either of them."

  For answer he drew me toward the library.

  This room was not frequented by the young people at night. There weretwo or three elderly people in the party, notably the husband and thebrother of the lady of the house, and to their use the room was more orless given up after nightfall. Sinclair wished to show me the cabinetwhere the box had been.

  There was a fire in the grate, for the evenings were now more or lesschilly. When the door had closed behind us we found that this firesupplied all the light there was in the room. Both gas jets had been putout, and the rich yet homelike room glowed with ruddy hues, interspersedwith great shadows. A solitary scene, yet an enticing one.

  Sinclair drew a deep breath. "Mr. Armstrong must have gone elsewhere toread the evening papers," he remarked.

  I replied by casting a scrutinising look into the corners. I dreadedfinding a pair of lovers hid somewhere in the many nooks made by thejutting bookcases. But I saw no one. However, at the other end of thelarge room there stood a screen near one of the many lounges, and I wason the point of approaching this place of concealment when Sinclair drewme toward a tall cabinet upon whose glass doors the firelight wasshimmering, and, pointing to a shelf far above our heads, cried:

  "No woman could reach that unaided. Gilbertine is tall, but not tallenough for that. I purposely put it high."

  I looked about for a stool. There was one just behind Sinclair. I drewhis attention to it.

  He flushed and gave it a kick, then shivered slightly and sat down in achair nearby. I knew what he was thinking. Gilbertine was taller thanDorothy. This stool might have served Gilbertine, if not Dorothy.

  I felt a great sympathy for him. After all, his case was more seriousthan mine. The Bishop was coming to marry him the next day.

  "Sinclair," said I, "the stool means nothing. Dorothy has more inchesthan you think. With this under her feet, she could reach the shelf bystanding tiptoe. Besides, there are the chairs."

  "True, true!" and he started up; "there are the chairs! I forgot thechairs. I fear my wits have gone wool-gathering. We shall have to takeothers into our confidence." Here his voice fell to a whisper. "Somehowor by some means we must find out if either of them was seen to comeinto this room."

  "Leave that to me," said I. "Remember that a word might raise suspicion,and that in a case like this----Halloa, what's that?"

  A gentle snore had come from behind the screen.

  "We are not alone," I whispered. "Some one is over there on the lounge."

  Sinclair had already bounded across the room. I pressed hurriedly behindhim, and together we rounded the screen and came upon the recumbentfigure of Mr. Armstrong, asleep on the lounge, with his paper fallenfrom his hand.

  "That accounts for the lights being turned out," grumbled Sinclair."Dutton must have done it."

  Dutton was the butler.

  I stood contemplating the sleeping figure before me.

  "He must have been lying here for some time," I muttered.

  Sinclair started.

  "Probably some little while before he slept," I pursued. "I have oftenheard that he dotes on the firelight."

  "I have a notion to wake him," suggested Sinclair.

  "It will not be necessary," said I, drawing back, as the heavy figurestirred, breathed heavily, and finally sat up.

  "I beg pardon," I now entreated, backing politely away. "We thought theroom empty."

  Mr. Armstrong, who, if slow to receive impressions, is far from lackingintelligence, eyed us with sleepy indifference for a moment, then roseponderously to his feet, and was on the instant the man of manner andunfailing courtesy we had ever found him.

  "What can I do to oblige you?" he asked, his smooth, if hesitating,tones sounding strange to our excited ears.

  I made haste to forestall Sinclair, who was racking his brains for wordswith which to propound the question he dared not put too boldly.

  "Pardon me, Mr. Armstrong, we were looking about for a small pin droppedby Miss Camerden." (How hard it was for me to use her name in thisconnection only my own heart knew.) "She was in here just now, was shenot?"

  The courteous gentleman bowed, hemmed, and smiled a very polite butunmeaning smile. Evidently he had not the remotest notion whether shehad been in or not.

  "I am sorry, but I am afraid I lost myself for a moment on that lounge,"he admitted. "The firelight always makes me sleepy. But if I can helpyou," he cried, starting forward, but almost immediately pausing againand giving us rather a curious look. "Some one was in the room. Iremember it now. It was just before the warmth and glow of the firebecame too much for me. I cannot
say that it was Miss Camerden, however.I thought it was some one of quicker movement. She made quite a rattlewith the chairs."

  I purposely did not look back at Sinclair.

  "Miss Murray?" I suggested.

  Mr. Armstrong made one of his low, old-fashioned bows. This, I doubtnot, was out of deference to the bride-to-be.

  "Does Miss Murray wear white to-night?"

  "Yes," muttered Sinclair, coming hastily forward.

  "Then it may have been she, for as I lay there deciding whether or notto yield to the agreeable somnolence I felt creeping over me, I caught aglimpse of the lady's skirt as she passed out. And that skirt waswhite--white silk I suppose you call it. It looked very pretty in thefirelight."

  Sinclair, turning on his heel, stalked in a dazed way toward the door.To cover this show of abruptness, which was quite unusual on his part,I made the effort of my life, and, remarking lightly, "She must havebeen here looking for the pin her friend has lost," I launched forthinto an impromptu dissertation on one of the subjects I knew to be dearto the heart of the bookworm before me--and kept it up, too, till I sawby his brightening eye and suddenly freed manner that he had forgottenthe insignificant episode of a minute ago, never in all probability torecall it again. Then I made another effort, and released myself withsomething like deftness from the long-drawn-out argument I sawimpending, and making for the door in my turn, glanced about forSinclair. So far as I was concerned the question as to who had taken thebox from the library was settled.

  It was now half-past eight. I made my way from room to room and fromgroup to group looking for Sinclair. At last I returned to my old postnear the library door, and was instantly rewarded by the sight of hisfigure approaching from a small side-passage in company with the butler,Dutton. His face, as he stepped into the full light of the open hall,showed discomposure, but not the extreme distress I had anticipated.Somehow, at sight of it, I found myself seeking the shadow just as hehad done a short time before, and it was in one of the recesses made bya row of bay-trees that we came face to face.

  He gave me one look, then his eyes dropped.

  "Miss Camerden has lost a pin from her hair," he impressively explainedto me. Then, turning to Dutton, he nonchalantly remarked: "It must besomewhere in this hall; perhaps you will be good enough to look for it."

  "Certainly," replied the man. "I thought she had lost something when Isaw her come out of the library a little while ago, holding her hand toher hair."

  My heart gave a leap, then sank cold and almost pulseless in my breast.In the hum to which all sounds had sunk, I heard Sinclair's voice riseagain in the question with which my own mind was full.

  "When was that? After Mr. Armstrong went into the room, or before?"

  "Oh, after he fell asleep. I had just come from putting out the gas whenI saw Miss Camerden slip in and almost immediately come out again. Iwill search for the pin very carefully, sir."

  So Mr. Armstrong had made a mistake! It was Dorothy, and not Gilbertine,whom he had seen leaving the room. I braced myself up and met Sinclair'seye.

  "Dorothy's dress is grey to-night; but Mr. Armstrong's eye may not bevery good for colours."

  "It is possible that both were in the room," was Sinclair's reply. But Icould see that he advanced this theory solely out of consideration forme; that he did not really believe it. "At all events," he went on, "wecannot prove anything this way; we must revert to our original idea. Iwonder if Gilbertine will give me the chance to speak to her."

  "You will have an easier task than I," was my half-sullen retort. "IfDorothy perceives that I wish to approach her, she has but to lift hereyes to any of the half-dozen fellows here, and the thing becomesimpossible."

  "There is to be a rehearsal of the ceremony at half-past ten. I mightget a word in then; only, this matter must be settled first. I couldnever go through the farce of standing up before you all at Gilbertine'sside, with such a doubt as this in my mind."

  "You will see her before then. Insist on a moment's talk. If sherefuses----"

  "Hush!" he here put in. "We part now to meet in this same place again atten. Do I look fit to enter among the dancers? I see a whole group ofthem coming for me."

  "You will be in another moment. Approaching matrimony has made yousober, that's all."

  It was some time before I had the opportunity, even if I had thecourage, to look Dorothy in the face. When the moment came she wasflushed with dancing and looked beautiful. Ordinarily she was a littlepale, but not even Gilbertine, with her sumptuous colouring, showed awarmer cheek than she, as, resting from the waltz, she leaned againstthe rose-tinted wall, and let her eyes for the first time rise slowly towhere I stood talking mechanically to my partner.

  Gentle eyes they were, made for appeal, and eloquent with a subduedheart language. But they were held in check by an infinite discretion.Never have I caught them quite off their guard, and to-night they werewholly unreadable. Yet she was trembling with something more than thefervour of the dance, and the little hand which had touched mine inlingering pressure a few hours before was not quiet for a moment. Icould not see it fluttering in and out of the folds of hersmoke-coloured dress without a sickening wonder if the little purple boxwhich was the cause of my horror lay somewhere concealed amid the airypuffs and ruffles that rose and fell so rapidly over her heaving breast.Could her eye rest on mine, even in this cold and perfunctory manner, ifthe drop which could separate us for ever lay concealed over her heart?She knew that I loved her. From the first hour we met in her aunt'sforbidding parlour in Thirty-sixth Street she had recognised my passion,however perfectly I had succeeded in concealing it from others.Inexperienced as she was in those days, she had noted as quickly as anysociety belle the effect produced upon me by her chill prettiness andher air of meek reserve, under which one felt the heart break; andthough she would never openly acknowledge my homage, and frowned downevery attempt on my part at lover-like speech or attention, I was assure that she rated my feelings at their real value as that she was thedearest, yet most incomprehensible, mortal my narrow world contained.When, therefore, I encountered her eyes at the end of the dance, I saidto myself:

  "She may not love me, but she knows that I love her, and, being a womanof sympathetic instincts, would never meet my eyes with so calm a lookif she were meditating an act which must infallibly plunge me intomisery."

  Yet I was not satisfied to go away without a word. So, taking the bullby the horns, I excused myself to my partner, and crossed to Dorothy'sside.

  "Will you dance the next waltz with me?" I asked.

  Her eyes fell from mine directly, and she drew back in a way thatsuggested flight.

  "I shall dance no more to-night," said she, her hand rising in itsnervous fashion to her hair.

  I made no appeal. I just watched that hand, whereupon she flushedvividly, and seemed more than ever anxious to escape. At which I spokeagain.

  "Give me a chance, Dorothy. If you will not dance, come out on theveranda and look at the ocean. It is glorious to-night. I will not keepyou long. The lights here trouble my eyes; besides, I am most anxious toask you----"

  "No, no," she vehemently objected, very much as if frightened. "I cannotleave the drawing-room--do not ask me! Seek some other partner--do,to-night."

  "You wish it?"

  "Very much."

  She was panting, eager. I felt my heart sink, and dreaded lest I shouldbetray my feelings.

  "You do not honour me, then, with your regard," I retorted, bowingceremoniously as I became assured that we were attracting moreattention than I considered desirable.

  She was silent. Her hand went again to her hair.

  I changed my tone. Quietly, but with an emphasis which moved her inspite of herself, I whispered: "If I leave you now, will you tell meto-morrow why you are so peremptory with me to-night?"

  With an eagerness which was anything but encouraging, she answered,almost gaily:

  "Yes, yes, after all this excitement is over."

  And slipping her h
and into that of a friend who was passing, she wassoon in the whirl again and dancing--she who had just assured me thatshe did not mean to dance again that night.

  III

  A SCREAM IN THE NIGHT

  I turned and, hardly conscious of my actions, stumbled from the room. Abevy of young people at once surrounded me. What I said to them I hardlyknow. I only remember that it was several minutes before I found myselfagain alone and making for the little room into which Beaton hadvanished a half-hour before. It was the one given up to card-playing.Did I expect to find him seated at one of the tables? Possibly; at allevents, I approached the doorway, and was about to enter, when a heavystep shook the threshold before me, and I found myself confronted by theadvancing figure of an elderly lady, whose portrait it is now time forme to draw. It is no pleasurable task, but one I cannot escape.

  Imagine, then, a broad, weighty woman of not much height, with a facewhose features were usually forgotten in the impression made by hergreat cheeks and falling jowls. If the small eyes rested on you, youfound them sinister and strange, but if they were turned elsewhere, youasked in what lay the power of the face, and sought in vain amid itslong wrinkles and indeterminate lines for the secret of that spiritualand bodily repulsion which the least look into this impassivecountenance was calculated to produce. She was a woman of immense means,and an oppressive consciousness of this spoke in every movement of herheavy frame, which always seemed to take up three times as much space asrightfully belonged to any human creature. Add to this that she wasseldom seen without a display of diamonds which made her broad bust looklike the bejewelled breast of some Eastern idol, and some idea may beformed of this redoubtable woman whom I have hitherto confined myself tospeaking of as _the gorgon_.

  The stare she gave me had something venomous and threatening in it.Evidently for the moment I was out of her books, and while I did notunderstand in what way I had displeased her, for we always had metamicably before, I seized upon this sign of displeasure on her part asexplanatory, perhaps, of the curtness and show of contradictory feelingson the part of her dependent niece. Yet why should the old woman frownon me? I had been told more than once that she regarded me with greatfavour. Had I unwittingly done something to displease her, or had thegame of cards she had just left gone against her, ruffling her temperand making it imperative for her to choose some object on which to venther spite? I entered the room to see. Two men and one woman stood inrather an embarrassed silence about a table on which lay some cards,which had every appearance of having been thrown down by an impatienthand. One of the men was Will Beaton, and it was he who now remarked:

  "She has just found out that the young people are enjoying themselves. Iwonder upon which of her two unfortunate nieces she will expend herill-temper to-night."

  "Oh, there's no question about that," remarked the lady who stood nearhim. "Ever since she has had a reasonable prospect of working Gilbertineoff her hands, she has devoted herself quite exclusively to herremaining burden. I hear," she impulsively continued, craning her neckto be sure that the object of her remarks was quite out of earshot,"that the south hall was blue to-day with the talk she gave DorothyCamerden. No one knows what about, for the girl evidently tries toplease her. But some women have more than their own proper share ofbile; they must expend it on some one." And she in turn threw down hercards, which up till now she had held in her hand.

  I gave Beaton a look and stepped out on the veranda. In a minute hefollowed me, and in the corner facing the ocean, where the vines clusterthe thickest, we held our conversation.

  I began it, with a directness born of my desperation.

  "Beaton," said I, "we have not known each other long, but I recognise aman when I see him, and I am disposed to be frank with you. I am introuble. My affections are engaged, deeply engaged, in a quarter where Ifind some mystery. You have helped make it." (Here a gesture escapedhim.) "I allude to the story you related the other morning of the younggirl you had seen hanging over the verge of the cliff, with everyappearance of intending to throw herself over."

  "It was as a dream I related that," he gravely remarked.

  "That I am aware of. But it was no dream to me, Beaton. I fear I knowthat young girl; I also fear that I know what drove her intocontemplating so rash an act. The conversation just held in thecard-room should enlighten you. Beaton, am I wrong?"

  The feeling I could not suppress trembled in my tones. He may have beensensitive to it, or he may have been simply good-natured. Whatever thecause, this is what he said in reply:

  "It was a dream. Remember that I insist upon its being a dream. But someof its details are very clear in my mind. When I stumbled upon thisdream-maiden in the moonlight her face was turned from me toward theocean, and I did not see her features then or afterwards. Startled bysome sound I made, she crouched, drew back, and fled to cover. Thatcover, I have good reason to believe, was this very house."

  I reached out my hand and touched him on the arm.

  "This dream-maiden was a woman?" I inquired. "One of the women now inthis house?"

  He replied reluctantly:

  "She was a young woman, and she wore a long cloak. My dream ends there.I cannot even say whether she was fair or dark."

  I recognised that he had reached the limit of his explanations, and,wringing his hand, I started for the nearest window, which proved to bethat of the music-room. I was about to enter when I saw two womencrossing to the opposite doorway, and paused with a full heart to notethem, for one was Mrs. Lansing and the other Dorothy. The aunt hadevidently come for the niece, and they were leaving the room together.Not amicably, however. Harsh words had passed, or I am no judge of thehuman countenance. Dorothy especially bore herself like one who findsdifficulty in restraining herself from some unhappy outburst, and as shedisappeared from my sight in the wake of her formidable companion myattention was again called to her hands, which she held clenched at hersides.

  I was stepping into the room when my impulse was again checked. Anotherperson was sitting there, a person I had been most anxious to see eversince my last interview with Sinclair. It was Gilbertine Murray, sittingalone in an attitude of deep, and possibly not altogether happy thought.

  I paused to study the sweet face. Truly she was a beautiful woman. I hadnever before realised how beautiful. Her rich colouring, her nobletraits, and the spirited air which gave her such marked distinction,bespoke at once an ardent nature and a pure soul.

  I did not wonder that Sinclair had succumbed to charms so pronounced anduncommon, and as I gazed longer and noted the tremulous droop of herripe lips and the far-away look of eyes which had created a great stirin the social world when they first flashed upon it, I felt that ifSinclair could see her now he would never doubt her again, despite thefact that the attitude into which she had fallen was one of greatfatigue, if not despondency.

  She held a fan in her hand, and as I stood looking at her she droppedit. As she stooped to pick it up her eyes met mine, and a startlingchange passed over her. Springing up, she held out her hands in wordlessappeal, then let them drop again as if conscious that I would not belikely to understand either herself or her mood. She was very beautiful.

  Entering the room, I approached her. Had Sinclair managed to have hislittle conversation with her? Something must have happened, for neverhad I seen her in such a state of suppressed excitement, and I had seenher many times, both here and in her aunt's house when I was visitingDorothy. Her eyes were shining, not with a brilliant, but a soft light,and the smile with which she met my advance had something in itstrangely tremulous and expectant.

  "I am glad to have a moment in which to speak to you alone," I said. "AsSinclair's oldest and closest friend, I wish to tell you how truly youcan rely both on his affection and esteem. He has an infinitely goodheart."

  She did not answer as brightly and as quickly as I expected. Somethingseemed to choke her--something which she finally mastered, though onlyby an effort which left her pale, but self-contained, and even morelovely, if
that is possible, than before.

  "Thank you," she then said, "my prospects are very happy. No one butmyself knows how happy."

  And she smiled again, but with an expression which recalled to my mindSinclair's fears.

  I bowed. Some one was calling her name; evidently our interview was tobe short.

  "I am obliged," she murmured. Then quickly: "I have not seen the moonto-night. Is it beautiful? Can you see it from this veranda?"

  But before I could answer she was surrounded and dragged off by a knotof young people, and I was left free to keep my engagement withSinclair.

  I did not find him at his post, nor could any one tell where he hadvanished.

  It was plain that his conduct was looked upon as strange, and I feltsome anxiety lest it should appear more so before the evening was over.I found him at last in his room, sitting with his head buried in hisarms. He started up as I entered.

  "Well?" he asked sharply.

  "I have learned nothing decisive."

  "Nor I."

  "I exchanged some words with both ladies and I tackled Beaton; but thematter remains just about where it was. It may have been Dorothy whotook the box and it may have been Gilbertine. But there seems to begreater reason for suspecting Dorothy. She lives a terrible life withthat aunt."

  "And Gilbertine is on the point of escaping that bondage. I know; I havethought of that. Walter, you are a generous fellow;" and for a momentSinclair looked relieved. Before I could speak, however, he was sunkagain in his old despondency. "But the doubt," he cried--"the doubt! Howcan I go through this rehearsal with such a doubt in my mind? I cannotand will not. Go, tell them I am ill, and cannot come down againto-night. God knows you will tell no untruth."

  I saw that he was quite beside himself, but ventured upon oneremonstrance.

  "It will be unwise to rouse comment," I said. "If that box was taken forthe death it holds, the one restraint most likely to act upon the younggirl who retains it will be the conventionalities of her position andthe requirements of the hour. Any break in the settled order ofthings--anything which would give her a moment by herself--mightprecipitate the dreadful event we fear. Remember, one turn of the hand,and all is lost. A drop is quickly swallowed."

  "Frightful!" he murmured, the perspiration oozing from his forehead."What a wedding-eve! And they are laughing down there. Listen to them. Ieven imagine I hear Gilbertine's voice. Is there unconsciousness in it,or just the hilarity of a distracted mind bent on self-destruction? Icannot tell; the sound conveys no meaning to me."

  "She has a sweet, true face," I said, "and she wears a very beautifulsmile to-night."

  He sprang to his feet.

  "Yes, yes--a smile that maddens me; a smile that tells me nothing,nothing! Walter, Walter, don't you see that, even if that cursed boxremains unopened, and nothing ever comes of its theft, the seeds ofdistrust are sown thick in my breast, and I must always ask: 'Was therea moment when my young bride shrank from me enough to dream of death?'That is why I cannot go through the mockery of this rehearsal."

  "Can you go through the ceremony of marriage?"

  "I must--if nothing happens to-night."

  "And then?"

  I spoke involuntarily. I was thinking not of him, but of myself. But heevidently found in my words an echo of his own thought.

  "Yes, it is the _then_," he murmured. "Well may a man quail before that_then_."

  He did go downstairs, however, and later on went through the rehearsalvery much as I had expected him to do--quietly and without any outwardshow of emotion.

  As soon as possible after this the company separated, Sinclair making mean imperceptible gesture as he went upstairs. I knew what it meant, andwas in his room as soon as the fellows who accompanied him had left himalone.

  "The danger is from now on," he cried, as soon as I had closed the doorbehind me. "I shall not undress to-night."

  "Nor I."

  "Happily we both have rooms by ourselves in this great house. I shallput out my light, and then open my door as far as need be. Not a move inthe house will escape me."

  "I will do the same."

  "Gilbertine--God be thanked!--is not alone in her room. Little Miss Laneshares it with her."

  "And Dorothy?"

  "Oh, she is under the strictest bondage night and day. She sleeps in alittle room off her aunt's. Do you know her door?"

  I shook my head.

  "I will pass down the hall and stop an instant before the two doors weare most interested in. When I pass Gilbertine's I will throw out myright hand."

  I stood on the threshold of his room and watched him. When the two doorswere well fixed in my mind, I went to my own room and prepared for myself-imposed watch. When quite ready, I put out my light. It was theneleven o'clock.

  The house was very quiet. There had been the usual bustle attending theseparation of a party of laughing, chattering girls for the night; butthis had not lasted long, for the great doings of the morrow called forbright eyes and fresh cheeks, and these can only be gained by sleep. Inthis stillness twelve o'clock struck, and the first hour of my anxiousvigil was at an end. I thought of Sinclair. He had given no token of thewatch he was keeping, but I knew he was sitting with his ear to thedoor, listening for the alarm which must come soon if it came at all.

  But would it come at all? Were we not wasting strength and a great dealof emotion on a dread which had no foundation in fact? What were we twosensible and, as a rule, practical men thinking of, that we shouldascribe to either of these dainty belles of a conventional and shallowsociety the wish to commit a deed calling for the vigour and daring ofsome wilful child of nature? It was not to be thought of in this sober,reasoning hour. We had given ourselves over to a ghastly nightmare, andwould yet awake.

  Why was I on my feet? Had I heard anything?

  Yes, a stir, a very faint stir somewhere down the hall--the slow,cautious opening of a door, then a footfall--or had I imagined thelatter? I could hear nothing now.

  Pushing open my own door, I looked cautiously out. Only the pale face ofSinclair confronted me. He was peering from the corner of an adjacentpassage-way, the moonlight at his back. Advancing, we met in silence.For the moment we seemed to be the only persons awake in the vast house.

  "I thought I heard a step," was my cautious whisper after a moment ofintense listening.

  "Where?"

  I pointed toward that portion of the house where the ladies' rooms weresituated.

  "That is not what I heard," was his murmured protest; "what I heard wasa creak in the small stairway running down at the end of the hall wheremy room is."

  "One of the servants," I ventured, and for a moment we stood irresolute.Then we both turned rigid as some sound arose in one of the far-offrooms, only to quickly relax again as that sound resolved itself into amurmur of muffled voices. Where there was talking there could be nodanger of the special event we feared. Our relief was so great we bothsmiled. Next instant his face, and, I have no doubt, my own, turned thecolour of clay, and Sinclair went reeling back against the wall.

  A scream had risen in this sleeping house--a piercing and insistentscream such as raises the hair and curdles the blood.

  IV

  WHAT SINCLAIR HAD TO TELL ME

  This scream seemed to come from the room where we had just heard voices.With a common impulse Sinclair and I both started down the hall, only tofind ourselves met by a dozen wild interrogations from behind as manyquickly opened doors. Was it fire? Had burglars got in? What was thematter? Who had uttered that dreadful shriek? Alas! that was thequestion which we of all men were most anxious to hear answered. Who?Gilbertine or Dorothy?

  Gilbertine's door was reached first. In it stood a short, slight figure,wrapped in a hastily-donned shawl. The white face looked into ours as westopped, and we recognised little Miss Lane.

  "What has happened?" she gasped. "It must have been an awful cry towaken everybody so!"

  We never thought of answering her.

  "Where is Gilber
tine?" demanded Sinclair, thrusting his hand out as ifto put her aside.

  She drew herself up with sudden dignity.

  "In bed," she replied. "It was she who told me that somebody hadshrieked. I didn't wake."

  Sinclair uttered a sigh of the greatest relief that ever burst from aman's overcharged breast.

  "Tell her we will find out what it means," he answered kindly, drawingme rapidly away.

  By this time Mr. and Mrs. Armstrong were aroused, and I could hear theslow and hesitating tones of the former in the passage behind us.

  "Let us hasten," whispered Sinclair, "Our eyes must be the first to seewhat lies behind that partly-opened door."

  I shivered. The door he had designated was Dorothy's.

  Sinclair reached it first and pushed it open. Pressing up behind him, Icast a fearful look over his shoulder. Only emptiness confronted us.Dorothy was not in the little chamber. With an impulsive gestureSinclair pointed to the bed--it had not been lain in--then to thegas--it was still burning. The communicating-room, in which Mrs. Lansingslept, was also lighted, but silent as the one in which we stood. Thislast fact struck us as the most incomprehensible of all. Mrs. Lansingwas not the woman to sleep through a disturbance. Where was she, then?And why did we not hear her strident and aggressive tones rising inangry remonstrance at our intrusion? Had she followed her niece from theroom? Should we in another minute encounter her ponderous figure in thegroup of people we could now hear hurrying toward us? I was forretreating and hunting the house over for Dorothy. But Sinclair, withtruer instinct, drew me across the threshold of this silent room.

  Well was it for us that we entered there together, for I do not know howeither of us, weakened as we were by our forebodings and all the alarmsof this unprecedented night, could have borne alone the sight thatawaited us.

  On the bed situated at the right of the doorway lay a form--awful,ghastly, and unspeakably repulsive. The head, which lay high but inertupon the pillow, was surrounded with the grey hairs of age, and theeyes, which seemed to stare into ours, were glassy with reflected lightand not with inward intelligence. This glassiness told the tale of theroom's grim silence. It was death we looked on, not the death we hadanticipated, and for which we were in a measure prepared, but one fullyas awful, and having for its victim, not Dorothy Camerden nor evenGilbertine Murray, but the heartless aunt, who had driven them both likeslaves, and who now lay facing the reward of her earthly deeds _alone_.

  As a realisation of the awful truth came upon me I stumbled against thebedpost, looking on with almost blind eyes as Sinclair bent over therapidly whitening face, whose naturally ruddy colour no one had everbefore seen disturbed. And I was still standing there when Mr. Armstrongand all the others came pouring in. Nor have I any distinct remembranceof what was said or how I came to be in the antechamber again. Allthought, all consciousness even, seemed to forsake me, and I did notreally waken to my surroundings till some one near me whispered:

  "Apoplexy!"

  Then I began to look about me and peer into the faces crowding up onevery side for the only one which could give me back my self-possession.But though there were many girlish countenances to be seen in theawestruck groups huddled in every corner, I beheld no Dorothy, and wastherefore but little astonished when in another moment I heard the crygo up:

  "Where is Dorothy? Where was she when her aunt died?"

  Alas! there was no one there to answer, and the looks of those about,which hitherto had expressed little save awe and fright, turned towonder, and more than one person left the room as if to look for her. Idid not join them. I was rooted to the place. Nor did Sinclair stir afoot, though his eye, which had been wandering restlessly over the facesabout him, now settled inquiringly on the doorway. For whom was helooking? Gilbertine or Dorothy? Gilbertine, no doubt, for he visiblybrightened as her figure presently appeared clad in a negligee, whichemphasised her height, and gave to her whole appearance a womanlysobriety unusual to it.

  She had evidently been told what had occurred, for she asked noquestions, only leaned in still horror against the doorpost, with hereyes fixed on the room within. Sinclair, advancing, held out his arm.She gave no sign of seeing it. Then he spoke. This seemed to rouse her,for she gave him a grateful look, though she did not take his arm.

  "There will be no wedding to-morrow," fell from her lips inself-communing murmur.

  Only a few minutes had passed since they had started to find Dorothy,but it seemed an age to me. My body remained in the room, but my mindwas searching the house for the girl I loved. Where was she hidden?Would she be found huddled but alive in some far-off chamber? Or wasanother and more dreadful tragedy awaiting us? I wondered that I couldnot join the search. I wondered that even Gilbertine's presence couldkeep Sinclair from doing so. Didn't he know what in all probability thismissing girl had with her? Didn't he know what I had suffered, wassuffering? Ah! what now? She is coming! I can hear them speaking to her.Gilbertine moves from the door, and a young man and woman enter withDorothy between them.

  But what a Dorothy! Years could have made no greater change in her. Shelooked and she moved like one who is done with life, yet fears the fewremaining moments left her. Instinctively we fell back before her;instinctively we followed her with our eyes as, reeling a little at thedoor, she cast a look of inconceivable shrinking, first at her own bed,then at the group of older people watching her with serious looks fromthe room beyond. As she did so I noted that she was still clad in herevening dress of grey, and that there was no more colour on cheek orlip than in the neutral tints of her gown.

  Was it our consciousness of the relief which Mrs. Lansing's death,horrible as it was, must bring to this unhappy girl, and of theinappropriateness of any display of grief on her part, which caused thesilence with which we saw her pass with forced step and dreadanticipation into the room where that image of dead virulence awaitedher? Impossible to tell. I could not read my own thoughts. How, then,the thoughts of others!

  But thoughts, if we had any, all fled when, after one slow turn of herhead towards the bed, this trembling young girl gave a choking shriek,and fell, face down, on the floor. Evidently she had not been preparedfor the look which made her aunt's still face so horrible. How could shehave been? Had it not imprinted itself upon my mind as the one revoltingvision of my life? How, then, if this young and tender-hearted girl hadbeen insensible to it! As her form struck the floor Mr. Armstrong rushedforward; I had not the right. But it was not by his arms she was lifted.Sinclair was before him, and it was with a singularly determined look Icould not understand, and which made us all fall back, that he raisedher and carried her into her own bed, where he laid her gently down.Then, as if not content with this simple attention, he hovered over herfor a moment, arranging the pillows and smoothing her dishevelled hair.When at last he left her the women rushed forward.

  "Not too many of you," was his final adjuration, as, giving me a look,he slipped out into the hall.

  I followed him immediately. He had gained the moon-lighted corridor nearhis own door, where he stood awaiting me with something in his hand. AsI approached, he drew me to the window and showed me what it was. It wasthe amethyst box, open and empty, and beside it, shining with a yellowinstead of a purple light, the little vial void of the one drop whichused to sparkle within it.

  "I found the vial in the bed with the old woman," said he. "The box Isaw glittering among Dorothy's locks before she fell. That was why Ilifted her."

  V

  THREE O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING

  As he spoke, youth with its brilliant hopes, illusions, and beliefs,passed from me, never to return in the same measure again. I stared atthe glimmering amethyst, I stared at the empty vial, and, as a fullrealisation of all his words implied seized my benumbed faculties, Ifelt the icy chill of some grisly horror moving among the roots of myhair, lifting it on my forehead and filling my whole being withshrinking and dismay.

  Sinclair, with a quick movement, replaced the tiny flask in its oldreceptacle, and then,
thrusting the whole out of sight, seized my handand wrung it.

  "I am your friend," he whispered. "Remember, under all circumstances andin every exigency, your friend."

  "What are you going to do with _those_?" I demanded, when I regainedcontrol of my speech.

  "I do not know."

  "What are you going to do with--with Dorothy?"

  He drooped his head; I could see his fingers working in the moonlight.

  "The physicians will soon be here. I heard the telephone going a fewminutes ago. When they have pronounced the old woman dead we will givethe--the lady you mention an opportunity to explain herself."

  Explain herself, she! Simple expectation. Unconsciously I shook my head.

  "It is the least we can do," he gently persisted. "Come, we must not beseen with our heads together--not yet. I am sorry that we two were foundmore or less dressed at the time of the alarm. It may cause comment."

  "She was dressed, too," I murmured, as much to myself as to him.

  "Unfortunately, yes," was the muttered reply, with which he drew off andhastened into the hall, where the now thoroughly-aroused household stoodin a great group about the excited hostess.

  Mrs. Armstrong was not the woman for an emergency. With streaming hairand tightly-clutched kimono, she was gesticulating wildly and bemoaningthe break in the festivities which this event must necessarily cause. AsSinclair approached, she turned her tirade on him, and as all stoodstill to listen and add such words of sympathy or disappointment assuggested themselves in the excitement of the moment, I had anopportunity to note that neither of the two girls most interested waswithin sight. This troubled me. Drawing up to the outside of the circle,I asked Beaton, who was nearest to me, if he knew how Miss Camerden was.

  "Better, I hear. Poor girl! it was a great shock to her."

  I ventured nothing more. The conventionality of his tone was not to bemistaken. Our conversation on the veranda was to be ignored. I did notknow whether to feel relief at this or an added distress. I was in awhirl of emotion which robbed me of all discrimination. As I realised myown condition, I concluded that my wisest move would be to withdrawmyself for a time from every eye. Accordingly, and at the risk ofoffending more than one pretty girl who still had something to sayconcerning this terrible mischance, I slid away to my room, happy toescape the murmurs and snatches of talk rising on every side. One bitterspeech, uttered by I do not know whom, rang in my ears and made allthinking unendurable. It was this:

  "Poor woman! she was angry once too often. I heard her scolding Dorothyagain after she went to her room. That is why Dorothy is so overcome.She says it was the violence of her aunt's rage which killed her--arage of which she unfortunately was the cause."

  So there were words again between these two after the door closed uponthem for the night! Was this what we heard just before that scream wentup? It would seem so. Thereupon, quite against my will, I found myselfthinking of Dorothy's changed position before the world. Only yesterdaya dependent slave; to-day, the owner of millions. Gilbertine would haveher share--a large one--but there was enough to make them both wealthy.Intolerable thought! Would that no money had been involved! I hated tothink of those diamonds and----

  Oh, anything was better than this! Dashing from my room, I joined one ofthe groups into which the single large circle had now broken up. Thehouse had been lighted from end to end, and some effort had been made ata more respectable appearance by such persons as I now saw; some evenwere fully dressed. All were engaged in discussing the one great topic.Listening and not listening, I waited for the front-door bell to ring.It sounded while one woman was saying to another:

  "The Sinclairs will now be able to take their honeymoon in their ownyacht."

  I made my way to where I could watch Sinclair while the physicians werein the room. I thought his face looked very noble. The narrowness of hisown escape, the sympathy for me which the event, so much worse thaneither of us anticipated, had wakened in his generous breast,had called out all that was best in his naturally reserved andnot-always-to-be-understood nature. A tower of strength he was to me atthat hour. I knew that mercy, and mercy only, would influence hisconduct. He would be guilty of no rash or inconsiderate act. He wouldgive this young girl a chance.

  Therefore, when the physicians had pronounced the case one of apoplexy(a conclusion most natural under the circumstances), and the excitementwhich had held together the various groups of uneasy guests had begun tosubside, it was with perfect confidence I saw him approach and addressGilbertine. She was standing fully dressed at the stair-head, where shehad stopped to hold some conversation with the retiring physicians; andthe look she gave him in return, and the way she moved off in obedienceto his command or suggestion, assured me that he was laying plans for aninterview with Dorothy. Consequently, I was quite ready to obey him whenhe finally stepped up to me and said:

  "Go below, and if you find the library empty, as I have no doubt youwill, light one gas jet, and see that the door to the conservatory isunlocked. I require a place in which to make Gilbertine comfortablewhile I have some words with her cousin."

  "But how will you be able to influence Miss Camerden to come down?"Somehow, the familiar name of Dorothy would not pass my lips. "Do youthink she will recognise your right to summon her to an interview?"

  "Yes."

  I had never seen his lip take that firm line before, yet I had alwaysknown him to be a man of great resolution.

  "But how can you reach her? She is shut up in her own room, under thecare, I am told, of Mrs. Armstrong's maid."

  "I know; but she will escape that dreadful place as soon as her feetwill carry her. I shall wait in the hall till I see her come out; then Iwill urge her to follow me, and she will do so, attended by Gilbertine."

  "And I? Do you mean me to be present at an interview so painful--nay, soserious and so threatening? It would cut short every word you hope tohear. I--cannot----"

  "I have not asked you to. It is imperative that I should see MissCamerden alone." (He could not call her Dorothy, either.) "I shall askGilbertine to accompany us, so that appearances may be preserved. I wantyou to be able to inform any one who approaches the door that you saw mego in there with Miss Murray."

  "Then I am to stay in the hall?"

  "If you will be so kind."

  The clock struck three.

  "It is very late," I exclaimed. "Why not wait till morning?"

  "And have the whole house about our ears? No. Besides, some things willnot keep an hour, a moment. I must hear what this young girl has to sayin response to my questions. Remember, I am the owner of the flaskwhose contents killed the old woman!"

  "You believe she died from swallowing that drop?"

  "Absolutely."

  I said no more, but hastened downstairs to do his bidding.

  I found the lower hall partly lighted, but none of the rooms.

  Entering the library, I lit the gas as Sinclair had requested. Then Itried the conservatory door. It was unlocked. Casting a sharp glancearound, I made sure that the lounges were all unoccupied, and that Icould safely leave Sinclair to hold his contemplated interview withoutfear of interruption. Then, dreading a premature arrival on his part, Islid quickly out, and moved down the hall to where the light of the oneburning jet failed to penetrate. "I will watch from here," thought I,and entered upon the quick pacing of the floor which my impatience andthe overwrought condition of my nerves demanded.

  But before I had turned on my steps more than half a dozen times, abrilliant ray coming from some half-open door in the rear caught my eye,and I stepped back to see if any one was sharing my watch. In doing so Icame upon the little spiral staircase which, earlier in the evening,Sinclair had heard creak under some unknown footstep. Had this footstepbeen Dorothy's, and if so, what had brought her into this remote portionof the house? Fear? Anguish? Remorse? A flying from herself or from_it_? I wished I knew just where she had been found by the two youngpersons who had brought her back into her aunt's room. No one had
volunteered the information, and I had not seen the moment when I feltmyself in a position to demand it.

  Proceeding further, I stood amazed at my own forgetfulness. The lightwhich had attracted my attention came from the room devoted to thedisplay of Miss Murray's wedding-gifts. This I should have knowninstantly, having had a hand in their arrangement. But all my facultieswere dulled that night, save such as responded to dread and horror.Before going back I paused to look at the detective whose business itwas to guard the room. He was sitting very quietly at his post, and ifhe saw me he did not look up. Strange that I had forgotten this man whenkeeping my own vigil above. I doubted if Sinclair had remembered himeither. Yet he must have been unconsciously sharing our watch from startto finish--must even have heard the cry as only a waking man could hearit. Should I ask him if this was so? No. Perhaps I had not the courageto hear his answer.

  Shortly after my return into the main hall I heard steps on the grandstaircase. Looking up, I saw the two girls descending, followed bySinclair. He had been successful, then, in inducing Dorothy to comedown. What would be the result? Could I stand the suspense of theimpending interview?

  As they stepped within the rays of the solitary gas jet alreadymentioned, I cast one quick look into Gilbertine's face, then a long oneinto Dorothy's. I could read neither. If it was horror and horror onlywhich rendered both so pale and fixed of feature, then their emotion wassimilar in character and intensity. But if in either breast the onedominant sentiment was fear--horrible, blood-curdling fear--then wasthat fear confined to Dorothy; for while Gilbertine advanced bravely,Dorothy's steps lagged, and at the point where she should have turnedinto the library, she whirled sharply about, and made as if she wouldfly back upstairs.

  But one stare from Gilbertine, one word from Sinclair, recalled her toherself, and she passed in, and the door closed upon the three. I wasleft to prevent possible intrusion, and to eat out my heart inintolerable suspense.

  VI

  DOROTHY SPEAKS

  I shall not subject you to the ordeal from which I suffered. You shallfollow my three friends into the room. According to Sinclair'sdescription, the interview proceeded thus:

  As soon as the door had closed upon them, and before either of the girlshad a chance to speak, he remarked to Gilbertine:

  "I have brought you here because I wish to express to you, in thepresence of your cousin, my sympathy for the bereavement which in aninstant has robbed you both of a lifelong guardian. I also wish to say,in the light of this sad event, that I am ready, if propriety so exacts,to postpone the ceremony which I hoped would unite our lives to-day.Your wish shall be my wish, Gilbertine; though I would suggest thatpossibly you never more needed the sympathy and protection which only ahusband can give than you do to-day."

  He told me afterward that he was so taken up with the effect of thissuggestion on Gilbertine that he forgot to look at Dorothy, though thehint he strove to convey of impending trouble was meant as much for heras for his affianced bride. In another moment he regretted this,especially when he saw that Dorothy had changed her attitude, and wasnow looking away from them both.

  "What do you say, Gilbertine?" he asked earnestly, as she sat flushingand paling before him.

  "Nothing. I have not thought--it is a question for others todecide--others who know what is right better than I. I appreciate yourconsideration," she suddenly burst out, "and should be glad to tell youat this moment what to expect. But--give me a little time--let me seeyou later--in the morning, Mr. Sinclair, after we are all somewhatrested, and when I can see you quite alone."

  Dorothy rose.

  "Shall I go?" she asked.

  Sinclair advanced, and with quiet protest touched her on the shoulder.Quietly she sank back into her seat.

  "I want to say a half-dozen words to you, Miss Camerden. Gilbertine willpardon us; it is about matters which must be settled to-night. There aredecisions to arrive at and arrangements to be made. Mrs. Armstrong hasinstructed me to question you in regard to these, as the one bestacquainted with Mrs. Lansing's affairs and general tastes. We will nottrouble Gilbertine. She has her own decisions to reach. Dear, will youlet me make you comfortable in the conservatory while I talk for fiveminutes with Dorothy?"

  He said she met this question with a look so blank and uncomprehendingthat he just lifted her and carried her in among the palms.

  "I must speak to Dorothy," he pleaded, placing her in the chair where hehad often seen her sit of her own accord. "Be a good girl; I will notkeep you here long."

  "But why cannot I go to my room? I do not understand--I amfrightened--what have you to say to Dorothy you cannot say to me?"

  She seemed so excited that for a minute, just a minute, he faltered inhis purpose. Then he took her gravely by the hand.

  "I have told you," said he. Then he kissed her softly on the forehead."Be quiet, dear, and rest. See, here are roses!"

  He plucked and flung a handful into her lap. Then he crossed back to thelibrary and shut the conservatory door behind him. I am not surprisedthat Gilbertine wondered at her peremptory bridegroom.

  When Sinclair re-entered the library, he found Dorothy standing with herhand on the knob of the door leading into the hall. Her head was bentthoughtfully forward, as though she were inwardly debating whether tostand her ground or fly. Sinclair gave her no further opportunity forhesitation. Advancing rapidly, he laid his hand gently on hers, and witha gravity which must have impressed her, quietly remarked:

  "I must ask you to stay and hear what I have to say. I wished to spareGilbertine; would that I could spare you! But circumstances forbid. Youknow and I know that your aunt did not die of apoplexy."

  She gave a violent start, and her lips parted. If the hand under hisclasp had been cold, it was now icy. He let his own slip from thecontact.

  "You know!" she echoed, trembling and pallid, her released hand flyinginstinctively to her hair.

  "Yes; you need not feel about for the little box. I took it from itshiding-place when I laid you fainting on the bed. Here it is."

  He drew it from his pocket and showed it to her. She hardly glanced atit; her eyes were fixed in terror on his face, and her lips seemed to betrying in vain to formulate some inquiry.

  He tried to be merciful.

  "I missed it many hours ago from the shelf yonder where you all saw meplace it. Had I known that you had taken it, I would have repeated toyou how deadly were the contents, and how dangerous it was to handle thevial or to let others handle it, much less to put it to the lips."

  She started, and instinctively her form rose to its full height.

  "Have you looked in that little box since you took it from my hair?" sheasked.

  "Yes."

  "Then you know it to be empty?"

  For answer he pressed the spring, and the little lid flew open.

  "It is not empty now, you see." Then more slowly and with infinitemeaning: "But the little flask is."

  She brought her hands together and faced him with a noble dignity whichat once put the interview on a different footing.

  "Where was this vial found?" she demanded.

  He found it difficult to answer. They seemed to have exchangedpositions. When he did speak it was in a low tone, and with lessconfidence than he had shown before.

  "In the bed with the old lady. I saw it there myself. Mr. Worthingtonwas with me. Nobody else knows anything about it. I wish to give you anopportunity to explain. I begin to think you can--but how, God onlyknows. The box was hidden in your hair from early evening. I saw yourhand continually fluttering toward it all the time we were dancing inthe parlour."

  She did not lose an iota of her dignity or pride.

  "You are right," she said. "I put it there as soon as I took it from thecabinet. I could think of no safer hiding-place. Yes, I took it," sheacknowledged, as she saw the flush rise to his cheek. "I took it; butwith no worse motive than the dishonest one of having for my own anobject which bewitched me. I was hardly myself when I snatched it fromthe shel
f and thrust it into my hair."

  He stared at her in amazement, her confession and her attitude socompletely contradicted each other.

  "But I had nothing to do with the vial," she went on. And with thisdeclaration her whole manner, even her voice changed, as if with theutterance of these few words she had satisfied some inner demand ofself-respect, and could now enter into the sufferings of those abouther. "This I think it right to make plain to you. I supposed the vial tobe in the box when I took it, but when I got to my room and had anopportunity to examine the deadly trinket, I found it empty, just as youfound it when you took it from my hair. Some one had taken the vial outbefore my hand had ever touched the box."

  Like a man who feels himself suddenly seized by the throat, yet whostruggles for the life slowly but inexorably leaving him, Sinclair castone heart-rending look toward the conservatory, then heavily demanded:

  "Why were you out of your room? Why did they have to look for you? _Andwho was the person who uttered that scream?_"

  She confronted him sadly, but with an earnestness he could not butrespect.

  "I was not in the room because I was troubled by my discovery. I think Ihad some idea of returning the box to the shelf from which I had takenit. At all events, I found myself on the little staircase in the rearwhen that cry rang through the house. I do not know who uttered it; Ionly know that it did not spring from my lips."

  In a rush of renewed hope he seized her by the hand.

  "It was your aunt!" he whispered. "It was she who took the vial out ofthe box; who put it to her own lips; who shrieked when she felt hervitals gripped. Had you stayed you would have known this. Can't you sayso? Don't you think so? Why do you look at me with those incredulouseyes?"

  "Because you must not believe a lie. Because you are too good a man tobe sacrificed. It was a younger throat than my aunt's which gaveutterance to that shriek. Mr. Sinclair, be advised; _do not be marriedto-morrow_!"

  Meanwhile I was pacing the hall without in a delirium of suspense. Itried hard to keep within the bounds of silence. I had turned for thefiftieth time to face that library door, when suddenly I heard a hoarsecry break from within, and saw the door fly open and Dorothy comehurrying out. She shrank when she saw me, but seemed grateful that Idid not attempt to stop her, and soon was up the stairs and out ofsight. I rushed at once into the library.

  I found Sinclair sitting before a table with his head buried in hishands. In an instant I knew that our positions were again reversed, and,without stopping to give heed to my own sensations, I approached him asnear as I dared and laid my hand on his shoulder.

  He shuddered, but did not look up, and it was minutes before he spoke.Then it all came in a rush.

  "Fool! fool that I was! And I saw that she was consumed by fright themoment it became plain that I was intent upon having some conversationwith Dorothy. Her fingers where they gripped my arm must have left marksbehind them. But I saw only womanly nervousness when a man less blindwould have detected guilt. Walter, I wish that the mere scent of thisempty flask would kill. Then I should not have to re-enter thatconservatory door--or look again in her face, or----"

  He had taken out the cursed jewel and was fingering it in a nervous waywhich went to my heart of hearts. Gently removing it from his hand, Iasked with all the calmness possible:

  "What is all this mystery? Why have your suspicions returned toGilbertine? I thought you had entirely dissociated her with this matter,and that you blamed Dorothy, and Dorothy only, for the amethyst'sloss?"

  "Dorothy had the empty box; but the vial! the vial!--that had been takenby a previous hand. Do you remember the white silk train which Mr.Armstrong saw slipping from this room? I cannot talk, Walter; my dutyleads me _there_."

  He pointed towards the conservatory. I drew back and asked if I shouldtake up my watch again outside the door.

  He shook his head.

  "It makes no difference; nothing makes any difference. But if you wantto please me, stay here."

  I at once sank into a chair. He made a great effort and advanced to theconservatory door. I studiously looked another way; my heart wasbreaking with sympathy for him.

  But in another instant I was on my feet. I could hear him rushing aboutamong the palms. Presently I heard his voice shout out the wild cry:

  "She is gone! I forgot the other door communicating with the hall."

  I crossed the floor and entered where he stood gazing down at an emptyseat and a trail of scattered roses. Never shall I forget his face. Thedimness of the spot could not hide his deep, unspeakable emotions. Tohim this flight bore but one interpretation--guilt.

  I did not advocate Sinclair's pressing the matter further that night. Isaw that he was exhausted, and that any further movement would tax himbeyond his strength. We therefore separated immediately after leavingthe library, and I found my way to my own room alone. It may seemcallous in me, but I fell asleep very soon after, and did not wake tillroused by a knock at my door. On opening it I confronted Sinclair,looking haggard and unkempt. As he entered, the first clear notes of thebreakfast-call could be heard rising from the lower hall.

  "I have not slept," he said. "I have been walking the hall all night,listening by spells at her door, and at other times giving what counselI could to the Armstrongs. God forgive me, but I have said nothing toany one of what has made this affair an awful tragedy to me! Do youthink I did wrong? I waited to give Dorothy a chance. Why should I notshow the same consideration to Gilbertine?"

  "You should." But our eyes did not meet, and neither voice expressed theleast hope.

  "I shall not go to breakfast," he now declared. "I have written thisline to Gilbertine. Will you see that she gets it?"

  For reply I held out my hand. He placed the note in it, and I wastouched to see that it was unsealed.

  "Be sure, when you give it to her, that she will have an opportunity ofreading it alone. I shall request the use of one of the littlereception-rooms this morning. Let her come there if she is so impelled.She will find a friend as well as a judge."

  I endeavoured to express sympathy, urge patience, and suggest hope. Buthe had no ear for words, though he tried to listen, poor fellow! so Isoon stopped, and he presently left the room. I immediately made myselfas presentable as a night of unprecedented emotions would allow, andwent below to do him such service as opportunity offered and theexigencies of the case permitted.

  I found the lower hall alive with eager guests and a few outsiders. Newsof the sad event was slowly making its way through the avenue, and someof the Armstrongs' nearest neighbours had left their breakfast-tables toexpress their interest and to hear the particulars. Among these stoodthe lady of the house; but Mr. Armstrong was nowhere within sight. Forhim the breakfast waited. Not wishing to be caught in any little swirlof conventional comment, I remained near the staircase waiting for someone to descend who could give me news concerning Miss Murray. For I hadsmall expectation of her braving the eyes of these strangers, anddoubted if even Dorothy would be seen at the breakfast-table. But littleMiss Lane, if small, was gifted with a great appetite. She would be sureto appear prior to the last summons, and as we were good friends, shewould listen to my questions and give me the answer I needed for thecarrying out of Sinclair's wishes. But before her light footfall washeard descending I was lured from my plans by an unexpected series ofevents. Three men came down, one after the other, followed by Mr.Armstrong, looking even more grave and ponderous than usual. Two of themwere the physicians who had been called in the night, and whom I myselfhad seen depart somewhere near three o'clock. The third I did not know,but he looked like a doctor also. Why were they here again so early? Hadanything new come to light?

  It was a question which seemed to strike others as well as myself. AsMr. Armstrong ushered them down the hall and out of the front-door manywere the curious glances which followed them, and it was with difficultythat the courteous host on his return escaped the questions anddetaining hands of some of his inquisitive guests. A pleasant word, anam
iable smile, he had for all; but I was quite certain, when I saw himdisappear into the little room he retained for his own use, that he hadtold them nothing which could in any way relieve their curiosity.

  This filled me with a vague alarm. Something must haveoccurred--something which Sinclair ought to know. I felt a greatanxiety, and was closely watching the door behind which Mr. Armstronghad vanished when it suddenly opened, and I perceived that he had beenwriting a telegram. As he gave it to one of the servants he made agesture to the man standing with extended hand by the Chinese gong, andthe summons rang out for breakfast. Instantly the hum of voices ceased,and young and old turned toward the dining-room, but the host did notenter with them. Before the younger and more active of his guests couldreach his side he had slid into the room which I have before describedas set apart for the display of Gilbertine's wedding-presents. InstantlyI lost all inclination for breakfast, and lingered about in the halluntil every one had passed me, even little Miss Lane, who had come downunperceived while I was watching Mr. Armstrong's door. Not very wellpleased with myself for having missed the one opportunity which mighthave been of service to me, I was asking myself whether I should followher, and make the best attempt I could at sociability, if not at eating,when Mr. Armstrong approached from the side hall, and, accosting me,inquired if Mr. Sinclair had come down yet.

  I assured him that I had not seen him, and did not think he meant tocome to breakfast, adding that he had been very much affected by theaffairs of the night, and had told me that he was going to shut himselfup in his room and rest.

  "I am sorry, but there is a question I must ask him immediately. It isabout a little Italian trinket which I am told he displayed to theladies yesterday afternoon."

  VII

  CONSTRAINT

  So our dreadful secret was not confined to ourselves, as we hadsupposed, but was shared, or at least suspected, by our host.

  Thankful that it was I, rather than Sinclair, who was called upon tomeet and sustain this shock, I answered with what calmness I could:

  "Yes; Sinclair mentioned the matter to me. Indeed, if you have anycuriosity on the subject, I think I can enlighten you as fully as hecan."

  Mr. Armstrong glanced up the stairs, hesitated, then drew me into hisprivate room.

  "I find myself in a very uncomfortable position," he began. "A strangeand quite unaccountable change has shown itself in the appearance ofMrs. Lansing's body during the last few hours--a change which bafflesthe physicians and raises in their minds very unfortunate conjectures.What I want to know is whether Mr. Sinclair still has in his possessionthe box which is said to hold a vial of deadly poison, or whether it haspassed into any other hand since he showed it to certain ladies in thelibrary."

  We were standing directly in the light of an eastern window. Deceptionwas impossible, even if I had felt like employing it. In Sinclair'sinterests, if not in my own, I resolved to be as true to our host as ourpositions demanded, yet, at the same time, to save Gilbertine as much aspossible from premature, if not final suspicion.

  I therefore replied: "That is a question I can answer as well asSinclair." (Happy was I to save him this cross-examination.) "While hewas showing this toy, Mrs. Armstrong came into the room and proposed astroll, which drew all of the ladies from the room and called for hisattendance as well. With no thought of the danger involved, he placedthe trinket on a high shelf in the cabinet, and went out with the rest.When he came back for it, it was gone."

  The usually ruddy aspect of my host's face deepened, and he sat down inthe great armchair which did duty before his writing-table.

  "This is dreadful!" was his comment; "entailing I do not know whatunfortunate consequences upon this household and on the unhappygirl----"

  "Girl?" I repeated.

  He turned upon me with great gravity. "Mr. Worthington, I am sorry tohave to admit it, but something strange, something not easilyexplainable, took place in this house last night. It has only just cometo light, otherwise the doctors' conclusions might have been different.You know there is a detective in the house. The presents are valuable,and I thought best to have a man here to look after them."

  I nodded; I had no breath for speech.

  "This man tells me," continued Mr. Armstrong, "that just a few minutesprevious to the time the whole household was aroused last night he hearda step in the hall overhead, then the sound of a light foot descendingthe little staircase in the servants' hall. Being anxious to find outwhat this person wanted at an hour so late, he lowered the gas, closedhis door, and listened. The steps went by his door. Satisfied that itwas a woman he heard, he pulled open the door again and looked out. Ayoung girl was standing not very far from him in a thin streak ofmoonlight. She was gazing intently at something in her hand, and thatsomething had a purple gleam to it. He is ready to swear to this. Nextmoment, frightened by some noise she heard, she fled back, and vanishedagain in the region of the little staircase. It was soon, very soon,after this that the shriek came. Now, Mr. Worthington, what am I to dowith this knowledge? I have advised this man to hold his peace till Ican make inquiries, but where am I to make them? I cannot think thatMiss Camerden----"

  The ejaculation which escaped me was involuntary. To hear her name forthe second time in this association was more than I could bear.

  "Did he say it was Miss Camerden?" I hurriedly inquired, as he looked atme in some surprise. "How should he know Miss Camerden?"

  "He described her," was the unanswerable reply. "Besides, we know thatshe was circulating in the halls at that time. I declare I have neverknown a worse business," this amiable man bemoaned. "Let me send forSinclair; he is more interested than any one else in Gilbertine'srelatives; or, stay, what if I should send for Miss Camerden herself?She should be able to tell how she came by this box."

  I subdued my own instincts, which were all for clearing Dorothy on thespot, and answered as I thought Sinclair would like me to answer.

  "It is a serious and very perplexing piece of business," said I; "but ifyou will wait a short time I do not think you will have to trouble MissCamerden. I am sure that explanations will be given. Give the lady achance," I stammered. "Imagine what her feelings would be if questionedon so delicate a topic. It would make a breach which nothing couldheal. Later, if she does not speak, it will be only right for you to askher why."

  "She did not come down this morning."

  "Naturally not."

  "If I could take counsel of my wife! But she is of too nervous atemperament. I am anxious to keep her from knowing this freshcomplication as long as possible. Do you think I can look for MissCamerden to explain herself before the doctors return, or before Mrs.Lansing's physician, for whom I have telegraphed, can arrive from NewYork?"

  "I am sure that three hours will not pass before you hear the truth.Leave me to work out the situation. I promise that if I cannot bring itabout to your satisfaction, Sinclair shall be asked to lend hisassistance. Only keep the gossips from Miss Camerden's good name. Wordscan be said in a moment that will not be forgotten in years. I trembleat such a prospect for her."

  "No one knows of her having been seen with the box," he protested; and,relieved as much by his manner as by his words, I took my leave of him,and made my way at once to the dining-room. Should I find Miss Lanethere? Yes, and what was better still, the fortunes of the day haddecreed that the place beside her should be unoccupied.

  I was on my way to that place when I was struck by the extreme quietinto which the room had fallen. It had been humming with talk when Ifirst entered, but now not a voice was raised and scarcely an eye. Inthe hurried glance I cast about the board, not a look met mine inrecognition or welcome.

  What did it mean? Had they been talking about me? Possibly; and in away, it would seem, that was not altogether flattering to my vanity.

  Unable to hide my sense of the general embarrassment which my presencehad called forth, I passed to the seat I have indicated, and let myinquiring look settle on Miss Lane. She was staring, in imitation of theothe
rs, straight into her plate; but as I saluted her with a quiet"Good-morning," she looked up and acknowledged my courtesy with a faint,almost sympathetic, smile. At once the whole tableful broke again intochatter, and I could safely put the question with which my mind wasfull.

  "How is Miss Murray?" I asked. "I do not see her here."

  "Did you expect to? Poor Gilbertine! This is not the bridal-day sheexpected." Then, with irresistible naivete, entirely in keeping with herfairy-like figure and girlish face, she added: "I think it was justhorrid in the old woman to die the night before the wedding, don't you?"

  "Indeed I do," I emphatically rejoined, humouring her in the hope oflearning what I wished to know. "Does Miss Murray still cherish theexpectation of being married to-day? No one seems to know."

  "Nor do I. I haven't seen her since the middle of the night. She didn'tcome back to her room. They say she is sobbing out her terror anddisappointment in some attic corner. Think of that for GilbertineMurray! But even that is better than----"

  The sentence trailed away into an indistinguishable murmur, the murmurinto silence. Was it because of a fresh lull in the conversation aboutus? I hardly think so, for though the talk was presently resumed, sheremained silent, not even giving the least sign of wishing to prolongthis particular topic. I finished my coffee as soon as possible andquitted the room, but not before many had preceded me. The hall wasconsequently as full as before of a gossiping crowd.

  I was on the point of bowing myself through the various groups blockingmy way to the library door, when I noticed renewed signs ofembarrassment on all the faces turned my way. Women who were clusteredabout the newel-post drew back, and some others sauntered away intoside-rooms with an appearance of suddenly wishing to go somewhere. Thiscertainly was very singular, especially as these marks of disapprovaldid not seem to be directed so much at myself as at some one behind me.Who could this some one be? Turning quickly, I cast a glance up thestaircase, before which I stood, and saw the figure of a young girldressed in black hesitating on the landing. This young girl was DorothyCamerden, and it took but a moment's contemplation of the scene for meto feel assured that it was against her this feeling of universalconstraint had been directed.

  VIII

  GILBERTINE SPEAKS

  Knowing my darling's innocence, I felt the insult shown her in my heartof hearts, and might in the heat of the moment have been betrayed intoan unwise utterance of my indignation, if at that moment I had notencountered the eye of Mr. Armstrong fixed on me from the rear hall. Inthe mingled surprise and distress he displayed, I saw that it was notfrom any indiscretion of his that this feeling against her had started.He had not betrayed the trust I had placed in him, yet the murmur hadgone about which virtually ostracised her, and instead of confrontingthe eager looks of friends, she found herself met by averted glances andcoldly turned backs, and soon by an almost empty hall.

  She flushed as she realised the effect of her presence, and cast me anagonised look which, without her expectation, perhaps, roused everyinstinct of chivalry within me. Advancing, I met her at the foot of thestairs, and with one quick word seemed to restore her to herself.

  "Be patient!" I whispered. "To-morrow they will all be around you again.Perhaps sooner. Go into the conservatory and wait."

  She gave me a grateful pressure of the hand, while I bounded upstairs,determined that nothing should stop me from finding Gilbertine, andgiving her the letter with which Sinclair had entrusted me.

  But this was more easily planned than accomplished. When I had reachedthe third floor (an unaccustomed and strange spot for me to find myselfin) I at first found no one who could tell me to which room Miss Murrayhad retired. Then, when I did come across a stray housemaid, and she,with an extraordinary stare, had pointed out the door, I found it quiteimpossible to gain any response from within, though I could hear a quickstep moving restlessly to and fro, and now and then catch the sound of asmothered sob or low cry. The wretched girl would not heed me, though Itold her who I was, and that I had a letter from Mr. Sinclair in myhand. Indeed, she presently became perfectly quiet, and let me knockagain and again, till the situation became ridiculous, and I feltobliged to draw off.

  Not that I thought of yielding. No, I would stay there till her ownfancy drove her to open the door, or till Mr. Armstrong should come upand force it. A woman upon whom so many interests depended would not beallowed to remain shut up the whole morning. Her position as a possiblebride forbade it. Guilty or innocent, she must show herself before long.As if in answer to my expectation, a figure appeared at this very momentat the other end of the hall. It was Dutton, the butler, and in his handhe held a telegram. He seemed astonished to see me there, but passed mewith a simple bow, and stopped before the door I had so unavailinglyassailed a few minutes before.

  "A telegram, miss," he shouted, as no answer was made to his knock."Mr. Armstrong asked me to bring it to you. It is from the Bishop, andcalls for an immediate reply."

  There was a stir within, but the door did not open. Meanwhile, I hadsealed and thrust forth the letter I had held concealed in my breastpocket.

  "Give her this, too," I signified, and pointed to the crack under thedoor.

  He took the letter, laid the telegram on it, and pushed them both in.Then he stood up, and eyed the unresponsive panels with the set look ofa man who does not easily yield his purpose.

  "I will wait for the answer!" he shouted through the keyhole, and,falling back, he took up his stand against the opposite wall.

  I could not keep him company there. Withdrawing into a big dormerwindow, I waited with beating heart to see if her door would open.Apparently not; yet as I still lingered I heard the lock turn, followedby the sound of a measured but hurried step. Dashing from my retreat, Ireached the main hall in time to see Miss Murray disappear toward thestaircase. This was well, and I was about to follow, when, to myastonishment, I perceived Dutton standing in the doorway she had justleft, staring down at the floor with a puzzled look.

  "She didn't pick up the letters!" he cried in amazement. "She justwalked over them. What shall I do now? It's the strangest thing I eversaw!"

  "Take them to the little boudoir over the porch," I suggested. "Mr.Sinclair is there, and if she is not on her way to join him now, shecertainly will be soon."

  Without a word Dutton caught up the letters and made for the stairs.

  Left to await the result, I found myself so worked upon that I wonderedhow much longer I should be able to endure these shifts of feeling andconstantly recurring moments of extreme suspense. To escape the tortureof my own thoughts, or, possibly, to get some idea of how Dorothy wassustaining an ordeal which was fast destroying my own self-possession, Iprepared to go downstairs. What was my astonishment, in passing thelittle boudoir on the second floor, to find its door ajar and the placeempty. Either the interview between Sinclair and Gilbertine had beenvery much curtailed, or it had not yet taken place. With a heart heavywith forebodings I no longer sought to analyse, I made my way down, andreached the lower step of the great staircase just as a half-dozengirls, rushing from different quarters of the hall, surrounded the heavyform of Mr. Armstrong coming from his own little room.

  Their questions made a small hubbub. With a good-natured gesture he putthem all back, and, raising his voice, said to the assembled crowd:

  "It has been decided by Miss Murray that, under the circumstances, itwill be wiser for her to postpone the celebration of her marriage tosome time and place less fraught with mournful suggestions. A telegramhas just been sent to the Bishop to that effect, and while we all sufferfrom this disappointment, I am sure there is no one here who will notsee the propriety of her decision."

  As he finished, Gilbertine appeared behind him. At the same moment Icaught, or thought I did, the flash of Sinclair's eye from the recessesof the room beyond; but I could not stop to make sure of this, forGilbertine's look and manner were such as to draw my full attention, andit was with a mixture of almost inexplicable emotions that I saw herthread her
way among her friends, in a state of high feeling which madeher blind to their outstretched hands and deaf to the murmur of interestand sympathy which instinctively followed her. She was making for thestairs, and whatever her thoughts, whatever the state of her mind, shemoved superbly, in her pale, yet seemingly radiant abstraction. Iwatched her, fascinated, yet when she left the last group and began tocross the small square of carpet which alone separated us, I steppeddown and aside, feeling that to meet her eye just then without knowingwhat had passed between her and Sinclair would be cruel to her andwell-nigh unbearable to myself.

  She saw the movement and seemed to hesitate an instant, then she turnedfor one brief instant in my direction, and I saw her smile. Great God!it was the smile of innocence. Fleeting as it was, the pride that was init, the sweet assertion and the joy were unmistakable. I felt likespringing to Sinclair's side in the gladness of my relief, but there wasno time; another door had opened down the hall, another person hadstepped upon the scene, and Miss Murray, as well as myself, recognisedby the hush which at once fell upon every one present that something ofstill more startling import awaited us.

  "Mr. Armstrong and ladies!" said this stranger--I knew he was a strangerby the studied formality of the former's bow--"I have made a fewinquiries since I came here a short time ago, and I find that there isone young lady in the house who ought to be able to tell me better thanany one else under what circumstances Mrs. Lansing breathed her last. Iallude to her niece, who slept in the adjoining room. Is that young ladyhere? Her name, if I remember rightly, is Camerden--Miss DorothyCamerden."

  A movement as of denial passed from group to group down the hall, and,while no one glanced toward the library and some did glance upstairs, Ifelt the dart of sudden fear--or was it hope--that Dorothy, hearing hername called, would leave the conservatory and proudly confront thespeaker in face of this whole suspicious throng. But no Dorothyappeared. On the contrary, it was Gilbertine who turned, and, with anair of authority for which no one was prepared, asked in tones vibratingwith feeling:

  "Has this gentleman the official right to question who was and who wasnot with my aunt when she died?"

  Mr. Armstrong, who showed his surprise as ingenuously as he did everyother emotion, glanced up at the light figure hovering over them fromthe staircase, and made out to answer:

  "This gentleman has every right, Miss Murray. He is the coroner of thetown, accustomed to inquire into all cases of sudden death."

  "Then," she vehemently rejoined, her pale cheeks breaking out into ascarlet flush, above which her eyes shone with an almost unearthlybrilliancy, "do not summon Dorothy Camerden. She is not the witness youwant. I am. I am the one who uttered that scream; I am the one who sawour aunt die. Dorothy cannot tell you what took place in her room and ather bedside, for Dorothy was not there; but _I_ can."

  Amazed, not as others were, at the assertion itself, but at the mannerand publicity of the utterance, I contemplated this surprising girl inever-increasing wonder. Always beautiful, always spirited and proud, shelooked at that moment as if nothing in the shape of fear, or evencontumely, could touch her. She faced the astonishment of her bestfriends with absolute fearlessness, and before the general murmur couldbreak into words, added:

  "I feel it my duty to speak thus publicly, because, by keeping silent solong, I have allowed a false impression to go about. Stunned withterror, I found it impossible to speak during that first shock. Besides,I was in a measure to blame for the catastrophe itself, and lackedcourage to own it. It was I who took the little crystal flask into myaunt's room. I had been fascinated by it from the first, fascinatedenough to long to see it closer, and to hold it in my hand. But I wasashamed of this fascination--ashamed, I mean, to have any one know thatI could be moved by such a childish impulse; so, instead of taking thebox itself, which might easily be missed, I simply abstracted the tinyvial, and, satisfied with its possession, carried it about till I got tomy room. Then, when the house was quiet and my room-mate asleep, I tookit out and looked at it, and feeling an irresistible desire to share myamusement with my cousin, I stole to her room by means of the connectingbalcony, just as I had done many times before when our aunt was in bedand asleep. But unlike any previous occasion, I found the room empty.Dorothy was not there; but as the light was burning high, I knew shewould soon be back, and so ventured to step in.

  "Instantly, I heard my aunt's voice. She was awake, and wantedsomething. She had evidently called before, for her voice was sharp withimpatience, and she used some very harsh words. When she heard me inDorothy's room, she shouted again, and, as I have always been accustomedto obey her commands, I hastened to her side, with the little vialconcealed in my hand. As she expected to see Dorothy and not me, sherose up in unreasoning anger, asking where my cousin was, and why I wasnot in bed. I attempted to answer her, but she would not listen to me,and bade me turn up the gas, which I did.

  "Then, with her eyes fixed on mine as though she knew I was trying toconceal something from her, she commanded me to rearrange her hair andmake her more comfortable. This I could not do with the tiny flask stillin my hand, so with a quick movement, which I hoped would passunobserved, I slid it behind some bottles standing on a table by thebedside, and bent to do what she required. But to attempt to escape hereyes was useless. She had seen my action, and at once began to feelabout for what I had attempted to hide from her. Coming in contact withthe tiny flask, she seized it, and, with a smile I shall never forget,held it up between us.

  "'What's this?' she cried, showing such astonishment at its minutenessand perfection of shape that it was immediately apparent she had heardnothing of the amethyst box displayed by Mr. Sinclair in the library. 'Inever saw a bottle as small as this before. What is in it, and why wereyou so afraid of my seeing it?'

  "As she spoke she attempted to wrench out the stopper. It stuck, so Iwas in hopes she would fail in the effort, but she was a woman ofuncommon strength, and presently it yielded, and I saw the vial open inher hand.

  "Aghast with terror, I caught at the table beside me, fearing to dropbefore her eyes. Instantly her look of curiosity changed to one ofsuspicion, and repeating, 'What's in it? What's in it?' she raised theflask to her nostrils, and when she found she could make out nothingfrom the smell, lowered it to her lips, with the intention, I suppose,of determining its contents by tasting them. As I caught sight of thisfatal action, and beheld the one drop, which Mr. Sinclair had said wasenough to kill a man, slip from its hiding-place of centuries into heropen throat, I felt as if the poison had entered my own veins; I couldneither speak nor move. But when, an instant later, I met the look whichspread suddenly over her face--a look of horror and hatred, accusinghorror and unspeakable hatred mingled with what I dimly felt must meandeath--an agonised cry burst from my lips, after which, panic-stricken,I flew, as if for life, back by the way I had come, to my own room. Thiswas a great mistake. I should have remained with my aunt and boldly metthe results of the tragedy which my folly had brought about. But terrorknows no law, and having once yielded to the instinct of concealment, Iknew no other course than to continue to maintain an apparent ignoranceof what had just occurred. With chattering teeth and an awful numbnessat my heart, I tore off my wrapper and slid into bed. Miss Lane had notwakened, but every one else had, and the hall was full of people. Thisterrified me still more, and for the moment I felt that I could neverown the truth and bring down upon myself all this wonder and curiosity.So I allowed a wrong impression of the event to go about, for which actof cowardice I now ask the pardon of every one here, as I have alreadyasked that of Mr. Sinclair and of our kind friend Mr. Armstrong."

  She paused, and stood for a moment confronting us all with proud eyesand flaming cheeks, then amid a hubbub which did not seem to affect herin the least, she stepped down, and approaching the man who, she hadbeen told, had a right to her full confidence, she said, loud enough forall who wished to hear her:

  "I am ready to give you whatever further information you may require.Shall I step into the
drawing-room with you?"

  He bowed, and as they disappeared from the great hall the hubbub ofvoices became tumultuous.

  Naturally I should have joined in the universal expressions of surpriseand the gossip incident to such an unexpected revelation. But I foundmyself averse to any kind of talk. Till I could meet Sinclair's eye anddiscern in it the happy clearing-up of all his doubts, I should not feelfree to be my own ordinary and sociable self again. But Sinclair showedevery evidence of wishing to keep in the background; and while this wasnatural enough, so far as people in general were concerned, I thought itodd and very unlike him not to give me an opportunity to express mycongratulations at the turn affairs had taken and the frank attitudeassumed by Gilbertine. I own I felt much disturbed by this neglect, andas the minutes passed and he failed to appear, I found my satisfactionin her explanations dwindle under the consciousness that they hadfailed, in some respects, to account for the situation; and before Iknew it I was the prey of fresh doubts, which I did my best to smother,not only for the sake of Sinclair, but because I was still too muchunder the influence of Gilbertine's imposing personality to wish tobelieve aught but what her burning words conveyed.

  She must have spoken the truth, but was it the entire truth? I hatedmyself for asking the question; hated myself for being more criticalwith her than I had been with Dorothy, who certainly had not made herown part in this tragedy as clear as one who loved her could wish. Ah,Dorothy! it was time some one told her that Gilbertine had openlyvindicated her, and that she could now come forth and face her friendswithout hesitation and without dread. Was she still in the conservatory?Doubtless. But it would be better, perhaps, for me to make sure.

  Approaching the place by the small door connecting it with the hallwayin which I stood, I took a hurried look within, and, seeing no one,stepped boldly down between the palms to the little nook where lovers ofthis quiet spot were accustomed to sit. It was empty, and so was thelibrary beyond. Coming back, I accosted Dutton, whom I foundsuperintending the removal of the potted plants which encumbered thepassages, and asked him if he knew where Miss Camerden was? He answeredwithout hesitation that she had stood in the rear hall a little whilebefore, listening to Miss Murray; that she had then gone upstairs by thespiral staircase, leaving word with him that if anybody wanted her shewould be found in the small boudoir over the porch.

  I thanked him, and was on my way to join her when Mr. Armstrong calledme. He must have kept me a half-hour in his room discussing every aspectof the affair and apologising for the necessity which he now felt ofbidding farewell to most of his guests, among whom, he was careful tostate, he did not include me. Then, when I thought this topic exhausted,he began to talk about his wife, and what this dreadful occurrence wasto her, and how he despaired of ever reconciling her to the fact that ithad been considered necessary to call in a coroner. Then he spoke ofSinclair, but with some constraint and a more careful choice of words,at which, realising that I was to reap nothing from this interview, onlysuffer strong and continued irritation at a delay which was costing methe inestimable privilege of being the first to tell Dorothy of herre-establishment in every one's good opinion, I exerted myself forrelease, and to such good purpose that I presently found myself again inthe hall, where the first person I ran against was Sinclair.

  He started, and so did I, at this unexpected encounter. Then we stoodstill, and I stared at him in amazement, for everything about the manwas changed, and--inexplicable fact!--in nothing was this change moremarked than in his attitude toward myself. Yet he tried to be friendlyand meet me on the old footing, and observed as soon as we foundourselves beyond the hearing of others:

  "You heard what Gilbertine said. There is no reason for doubting herwords. _I_ do not doubt them, and you will show yourself my friend bynot doubting them either." Then, with some impetuosity and a gleam inhis eye quite foreign to its natural expression, he pursued, with apitiful effort to speak dispassionately: "Our wedding ispostponed--indefinitely. There are reasons why this seemed best to MissMurray. To you I will say that postponed nuptials seldom culminate inmarriage. In fact, I have just released Miss Murray from all obligationsto myself."

  The stare of utter astonishment I gave him provoked the first and onlysneer I have ever seen on his face. What was I to say--what could I say,in response to such a declaration, following so immediately upon hiswarm assertion of her innocence? Nothing. With that indefinable chillbetween us, which had come I know not how, I felt tongue-tied.

  He saw my embarrassment, possibly my emotion, for he smiled somewhatbitterly, and put a step or so between us before he remarked:

  "Miss Murray has my good wishes. Out of respect to her position, I shallshow her a friend's attention while we remain in this house. That is allI have to say, Walter. You and I have held our last conversation on thissubject."

  He was gone before I had sufficiently recovered to realise that in thisconversation I had had no part, neither had it contained any explanationof the very facts which had once formed our greatest grounds fordoubt--namely, Beaton's dream; the smothered cry uttered behindSinclair's shoulder when he first made known the deadly qualities ofthe little vial; and, lastly, the strange desire acknowledged to by boththese young ladies, to touch and hold an object calculated rather torepel than to attract the normal feminine heart.

  At every previous stage of this ever-shifting drama my instinct had beento set my wits against the facts, and, if I could, puzzle out themystery. But I felt no such temptation now. My one desire was to act,and that immediately. Dorothy, for all Gilbertine's intimation to thecontrary, held in her own breast the key to the enigma. Otherwise shewould not have ventured upon the surprising and necessarily unpalatableadvice to Sinclair--an advice he seemed to have followed--not to marryGilbertine Murray at the time proposed. Nothing short of a secretacquaintanceship with facts unknown as yet to the rest of us could havenerved her to such an act.

  My one hope, then, of understanding the matter lay with her. To seek herat once in the place where I had been told she awaited me seemed theonly course to take. If any real gratitude underlay the look of trustwhich she had given me at the termination of our last interview, shewould reward my confidence by unbosoming herself to me.

  I was at the door of the boudoir immediately upon forming thisresolution. Finding it ajar, I pushed it softly open, and as softlyentered. To my astonishment the place was very dark. Not only had theshades been drawn down, but the shutters had been closed, so that itwas with difficulty I detected the slight, black-robed figure which layface down among the cushions of a lounge. She had evidently not heard myentrance, for she did not move; and, struck by her pathetic attitude, Iadvanced in a whirl of feeling, which made me forget allconventionalities, and everything else, in fact, but that I loved her,and had the utmost confidence in her power to make me happy. Laying myhand softly on her head, I tenderly whispered:

  "Look up, dear. Whatever barrier may have intervened between us hasfallen. Look up and hear how I love you."

  She thrilled as a woman only thrills when her secret soul is moved, and,rising with a certain grand movement, turned her face upon me, gloriouswith a feeling that not even the dimness of the room could hide.

  Why, then, did my brain whirl and my heart collapse?

  It was Gilbertine and not Dorothy who stood before me.

  IX

  IN THE LITTLE BOUDOIR

  Never had a suspicion crossed my mind of any such explanation of oursecret troubles. I had seen as much of one cousin as the other in myvisits to Mrs. Lansing's house, but Gilbertine being from the first dayof our acquaintance engaged to my friend Sinclair, I naturally did notpresume to study her face for any signs of interest in myself, even ifmy sudden and uncontrollable passion for Dorothy had left me the heartto do so. Yet now, in the light of her unmistakable smile, of herbeaming eyes, from which all troublous thoughts seemed to have fled forever, a thousand recollections forced themselves upon my attention,which not only made me bewail my own blindness, but which served
toexplain the peculiar attitude always maintained towards me by Dorothy,and many other things which a moment before had seemed fraught withimpenetrable mystery.

  All this in the twinkling of an eye. Meanwhile, misled by my words,Gilbertine drew back a step, and, with her face still bright with theradiance I have mentioned, murmured in low, but full-toned accents:

  "Not just yet; it is too soon. Let me simply enjoy the fact that I amfree, and that the courage to win my release came from my own suddenlyacquired trust in Mr. Sinclair's goodness. Last night"--and sheshuddered--"I saw only another way--a way the horrors of which I hardlyrealised. But God saved me from so dreadful, yea, so unnecessary acrime, and this morning----"

  It was cruel to let her go on--cruel to stand there and allow thisardent, if mistaken, nature to unfold itself so ingenuously, while I,with ear half turned toward the door, listened for the step of her whomI had never so much loved as at that moment, possibly because I had onlyjust come to understand the cause of her seeming vacillations. Myinstincts were so imperative, my duty and the obligations of my positionso unmistakable, that I made a move as Gilbertine reached this point,which caused her first to hesitate, then to stop. How should I fill upthis gap of silence? How tell her of the great, the grievous mistake shehad made? The task was one to try the courage of stouter souls thanmine. But the thought of Dorothy nerved me; perhaps also my realfriendship and commiseration for Sinclair.

  "Gilbertine," I began, "I will make no pretence of misunderstanding you.The situation is too serious, the honour which you do me too great;only, I am not free to accept that honour. The words which I utteredwere meant for your cousin Dorothy. I expected to find her in this room.I have long loved your cousin--in secrecy, I own, but honestly and withevery hope of some day making her my wife. I--I----"

  There was no need for me to finish. The warm hand turning to ice in myclasp, the wide-open blind-struck eyes, the recoil, the maiden flushrising, deepening, covering cheek and chin and forehead, then fading outagain till the whole face was white as marble and seemingly ascold--told me that the blow had gone home, and that Gilbertine Murray,the unequalled beauty, the petted darling of a society ready torecognise every charm she possessed save her ardent nature and greatheart, had reached the height of her many miseries, and that it was Iwho had placed her there.

  Overcome with pity, but conscious also of a profound respect, Iendeavoured to utter some futile words, which she at once put an end toby an appealing gesture.

  "You can say nothing," she began. "I have made an awful mistake, theworst a woman can make, I think." Then, with long pauses, as though hertongue were clogged by shame--perhaps by some deeper if less apparentfeeling: "You love Dorothy. Does Dorothy love you?"

  My answer was an honest one.

  "I have dared to hope so, despite the little opportunity she has givenme to express my feelings. She has always held me back, and that verydecidedly, or my devotion would have been apparent to everybody."

  "Oh, Dorothy!"

  Regret, sorrow, infinite tenderness, all were audible in that cry.Indeed, it seemed as if for the moment her thoughts were more taken upwith her cousin's unhappiness than with her own.

  "How I must have made her suffer! I have been a curse to those who lovedme. But I am humbled now, and very rightly."

  I began to experience a certain awe of this great nature. There wasgrandeur even in her contrition, and as I took in the expression of hercolourless features, sweet with almost an unearthly sweetness in spiteof the anguish consuming her, I suddenly realised what Sinclair's lovefor her must be. I also as suddenly realised the depth and extent of hissuffering. To call such a woman his, to lead her almost to the foot ofthe altar, and then to see her turn aside and leave him! Surely his lotwas an intolerable one, and though the interference I had unconsciouslymade in his wishes had been involuntary, I felt like cursing myself fornot having been more open in my attentions to the girl I really loved.

  Gilbertine seemed to divine my thoughts, for, pausing at the door shehad unconsciously approached, she stood with the knob in her hand, and,with averted brow, remarked gravely:

  "I am going out of your life. Before I do so, however, I should like tosay a few words in palliation of my conduct. I have never known amother. I early fell under my aunt's charge, who, detesting children,sent me away to school, where I was well enough treated, but neverloved. I was a plain child, and felt my plainness. This gave anawkwardness to my actions, and as my aunt had caused it to be distinctlyunderstood that her sole intention in sending me to the Academy was tohave me educated for a teacher, my position awakened little interest,and few hearts, if any, warmed toward me. Meanwhile, my breast wasfilled with but one thought, one absorbing wish. I longed to lovepassionately, and be passionately loved in return. Had I found amate--but I never did. I was not destined for any such happiness.

  "Years passed. I was a woman, but neither my happiness nor myself-confidence had kept pace with my growth. Girls who once passed mewith a bare nod now stopped to stare, sometimes to whisper commentsbehind my back. I did not understand this change, and withdrew more andmore into myself and the fairy-land made for me by books. Romance was mylife, and I had fallen into the dangerous habit of brooding over thepleasures and excitements which would have been mine had I been bornbeautiful and wealthy, when my aunt suddenly visited the school, saw me,and at once took me away and placed me in the most fashionable school inNew York City. From there I was launched, without any word of motherlycounsel, into the gay society you know so well. Almost with my comingout I found the world at my feet, and though my aunt showed me no love,she evinced a certain pride in my success, and cast about to procure forme a great match. Mr. Sinclair was the victim. He visited me, took me totheatres, and eventually proposed. My aunt was in ecstasies. I, who felthelpless before her will, was glad that the husband she had chosen forme was at least a gentleman, and, to all appearances, respectable in hisliving and nice in his tastes. But he was not the man I had dwelt on inmy dreams; and while I accepted him (it was not possible to do anythingelse, with my aunt controlling every action, if not every thought), Icared so little for Mr. Sinclair himself that I forgot to ask if hismany attentions were the result of any real feeling on his part, or onlysuch as he considered due to the woman he expected to make his wife.You see what girls are. How I despise myself now for this miserablefrivolity!

  "All this time I knew that I was not my aunt's only niece; that DorothyCamerden, whom I had never met, was as closely related to her as myself.True to her heartless code, my aunt had placed us in separate schools,and not till she found that I was to leave her, and that soon therewould be nobody to see that her dresses were bought with discretion, andher person attended to with something like care, did she send forDorothy. I shall never forget my first impression of her. I had beentold that I need not expect much in the way of beauty and style, butfrom my first glimpse of her dear face I saw that my soul's friend hadcome, and that, marriage or no marriage, I need never be solitary again.

  "I do not think I made as favourable an impression on my cousin as shedid on me. Dorothy was new to elaborate dressing and to all the folliesof fashionable life, and her look had more of awe than expectation init. But I gave her a hearty kiss, and in a week she was as brilliantlyequipped as myself.

  "I loved her, but, from blindness of eye or an overwhelming egotismwhich God has certainly punished, I did not consider her beautiful. ThisI must acknowledge to you, if only to complete my humiliation. I neverimagined for a moment, even after I became the daily witness of yourmany attentions to her, that it was on her account you visited the houseso often. I had been so petted and spoiled since entering society thatI thought you were kind to her simply because honour forbade you to betoo kind to me; and under this delusion _I confided my folly toDorothy_.

  "You will have many a talk with her in the future, and some day she maysucceed in proving to you that it was vanity and not badness of heartwhich led me to misunderstand your feelings. Having repressed my ownimpuls
es so long, I saw in your reticence the evidences of a likestruggle; and when, immediately upon my break with Mr. Sinclair, youentered here and said the words you did----Well, we have finished withthis subject for ever.

  "The explanations which I gave below of the part I played in my aunt'sdeath were true. I only omitted one detail, which you may consider avery important one. The fact which paralysed my hand and voice when Isaw her lift the drop of death to her lips was this: I had meant to dieby this drop myself, in Dorothy's room, and with Dorothy's arms aboutme. This was my secret--a secret which no one can blame me for keepingas long as I could, and one which I should hardly have the courage todisclose to you now if I had not already parted with it to the coroner,who would not credit my story till I had told him the whole truth."

  "Gilbertine," I urged, for I saw her fingers closing upon the knob shehad held lightly till now, "do not go till I have said this. A younggirl does not always know the demands of her own nature. The heart youhave ignored is one in a thousand. Do not let it slip from you. Godnever gives a woman such a love twice."

  "I know it," she murmured, and turned the knob.

  I thought she was gone, and let the sigh which had been labouring at mybreast have vent, when I caught one last word whispered from thethreshold:

  "Throw back the shutters and let in the light. Dorothy is coming. I amgoing now to call her."

  An hour had passed, the hour of hours for me, for in it the sun of myhappiness rose full-orbed, and Dorothy and I came to understand eachother. We were sitting hand in hand in this blessed little boudoir, whensuddenly she turned her sweet face toward me and gently remarked:

  "This seems like selfishness on our part; but Gilbertine insisted. Doyou know what she is doing now? Helping old Mrs. Cummings and holdingMrs. Barnstable's baby while her maid packs. She will work like that allday, and with a smile, too. Oh, it is a rich nature, an ideal nature. Ithink we can trust her now."

  I did not like to discuss Gilbertine, even with Dorothy, so I saidnothing. But she was too full of her theme to stop. I think she wishedto unburden her mind once and for ever of all that had disturbed it.

  "Our aunt's death," she continued, "will be a sort of emancipation forher. I don't think you, or any one out of our immediate household, canrealise the control which Aunt Hannah exerted over every one who camewithin her daily influence. It would have been the same had sheoccupied a dependent position instead of being the wealthy autocrat shewas. In her cold nature dwelt an imperiousness which no one couldwithstand. You know how her friends, some of them as rich andinfluential as herself, bowed to her will and submitted to herinterference. What, then, could you expect from two poor girls entirelydependent upon her for everything they enjoyed? Gilbertine, with all herspirit, could not face Aunt Hannah's frown, while I studied to have nowishes. Had this been otherwise, had we found a friend instead of atyrant in the woman who took us into her home, Gilbertine might havegained more control over her feelings. It was the necessity she felt ofsmothering her natural impulses, and of maintaining in the house andbefore the world an appearance of satisfaction in her position asbride-elect, which caused her to fall into such extremes of despondencyand deep despair. Her self-respect was shocked. She felt she was aliving lie, and hated herself in consequence.

  "You may think I did wrong not to tell her of your affection for myself,especially after what you whispered into my ear that night at thetheatre. I did do wrong; I see it now. She was really a stronger womanthan I thought, and we might all have been saved the horrors which havebefallen us had I acted with more firmness at that time. But I was weakand frightened. I held you back and let her go on deceiving herself,which meant deceiving Mr. Sinclair, too. I thought, when she foundherself really married and settled in her own home, she would find iteasier to forget, and that soon, perhaps very soon, all this would seemlike a troubled dream to her. And there was reason for this hope on mypart. She showed a woman's natural interest in her outfit and the plansfor her new house, but when she heard you were to be Mr. Sinclair's bestman every feminine instinct within her rebelled, and it was withdifficulty she could prevent herself from breaking out into a loud 'No!'in face of aunt and lover. From this moment on her state of mind grewdesperate. In the parlour, at the theatre, she was the brilliant girlwhom all admired and many envied; but in my little room at night shewould bury her face in my lap and talk of death, till I moved in aconstant atmosphere of dread. Yet, because she looked gay and laughed, Iturned a like face to the world and laughed also. We felt it wasexpected of us, and the very nervous tension we were under made theseebullitions easy. But I did not laugh so much after coming here. Onenight I found her out of her bed long after every one else had retiredfor the night. Next morning Mr. Beaton told a dream--I hope it was adream--but it frightened me. Then came that moment when Mr. Sinclairdisplayed the amethyst box and explained with such a nonchalant air howa drop from the little flask inside would kill a person. A toy, but sodeadly! I felt the thrill which shot like lightning through her, andmade up my mind she should never have the opportunity of touching thatbox. And that is why I stole into the library, took it down and hid itin my hair. I never thought to look inside; I did not pause to thinkthat it was the flask and not the box she wanted, and consequently feltconvinced of her safety so long as I kept the latter successfullyconcealed in my hair. You know the rest."

  Yes, I knew it. How she opened the box in her room and found it empty.How she flew to Gilbertine's room, and, finding the door unlocked,looked in, and saw Miss Lane lying there asleep, but no Gilbertine. Howher alarm grew at this, and how, forgetting that her cousin often stoleto her room by means of the connecting balcony, she had wandered overthe house in the hope of coming upon Gilbertine in one of the downstairsrooms. How her mind misgave her before she had entered the great hall,and how she turned back only to hear that awful scream go up as she wassetting foot upon the spiral stair. I had heard it all before, and couldimagine her terror and dismay; and why she found it impossible toproceed any further, but clung to the stair-rail, half alive and halfdead, till she was found there by those seeking her, and taken up to heraunt's room. But she never told me, and I do not yet know, what herthoughts or feelings were when, instead of seeing her cousinoutstretched in death on the bed they led her to, she beheld thelifeless figure of her aunt. The reserve she maintained on this pointhas always been respected by me. Let it continue to be so.

  When, therefore, she said, "You know the rest," I took her in my armsand gave her my first kiss. Then I softly released her, and by tacitconsent we each went our way for that day.

  Mine took me into the hall below, which was all alive with the hum ofdeparting guests. Beaton was among them, and as he stepped out on theporch I gave him a parting hand-clasp, and quietly whispered:

  "When all dark things are made light, you will find that there was bothmore and less to your dream than you were inclined to make out."

  He bowed, and that was the last word which ever passed between us onthis topic.

  But what chiefly impressed me in connection with this afternoon's eventswas the short talk I had with Sinclair. I fear I forced this talk, but Icould not let the dreary day settle into still drearier night withoutmaking clear to him a point which, in the new position he held towardGilbertine, if not toward myself, might seem to be involved in somedoubt. When, therefore, the opportunity came, I accosted him with thesewords:

  "It is not a very propitious time for me to intrude my personal affairsupon you, but I feel as if I should like you to know that the cloudshave been cleared away between Dorothy and myself, and that some day weexpect to marry."

  He gave me the earnest look of a man who has recovered his one friend.Then he grasped my hand warmly, saying, with something like his oldfervour:

  "You deserve all the happiness that awaits you. Mine is gone; but if Ican regain it I will. Trust me for that, Worthington."

  The coroner, who had seen much of life and human nature, managed withmuch discretion the inquest he felt bound to hold.
Mrs. Lansing wasfound to have come to her death by a meddlesome interference with one ofher niece's wedding trinkets; and, as every one acquainted with Mrs.Lansing knew her to be quite capable of such an act of malicious folly,the verdict was duly accepted, and the real heart of this tragedy closedfor ever from every human eye.

  As we were leaving Newport Sinclair stepped up to me.

  "I have reason to know," said he, "that Mrs. Lansing's bequests will bea surprise, not only to her nieces, but to the world at large. Let meadvise you to announce your engagement before reaching New York."

  I followed his advice, and in a few days understood why it had beengiven. All the vast property owned by this woman had been left toDorothy. Gilbertine had been cut off without a cent.

  We never knew Mrs. Lansing's reason for this act. Gilbertine had alwaysbeen considered her favourite, and, had the will been a late one, itwould have been generally thought that she had left her thus unprovidedfor solely in consideration of the great match which she expected her tomake. But the will was dated back several years--long before Gilbertinehad met Mr. Sinclair, long before either niece had come to live withMrs. Lansing in New York. Had it always been the latter's wish, then, toenrich the one and slight the other? It would seem so; but why shouldthe slighted one have been Gilbertine?

  The only explanation I ever heard given was the partiality which Mrs.Lansing felt for Dorothy's mother, or, rather, her lack of affection forGilbertine's. Whether or not this is the true one, the discriminationshe showed in her will put poor Gilbertine in a very unfortunateposition. At least, it would have done so if Sinclair, with anadroitness worthy of his love, had not proved to her that a break atthis time in their supposed relations would reflect most seriously uponhis disinterestedness, and thus secured for himself opportunities forurging his suit which ended, as such opportunities often do, in arenewal of their engagement. But this time with mutual love as itsbasis. This was evident to any one who saw them together. But how themagic was wrought--how this hard-to-be-won heart learned at last itstrue allegiance I did not know till later, and then it was told me byGilbertine herself.

  I had been married for some months and she for some weeks, when oneevening chance threw us together. Instantly, and as if she had waitedfor this hour, she turned upon me with the beautiful smile which hasbeen hers ever since her new happiness came to her, and said:

  "You once gave me some very good advice, Mr. Worthington; but it wasnot that which led me to realise Mr. Sinclair's affection. It was ashort conversation which passed between us on the day my aunt's will wasread. Do you remember my turning to speak to him the moment after thatword _all_ fell from the lawyer's lips?"

  "Yes, Mrs. Sinclair."

  Alas! did I not! It was one of the most poignant memories of my life.The look she gave him and the look he gave her! Indeed, I did remember.

  "It was to ask him one question--a question to which misfortune onlycould have given so much weight. Had my aunt taken him into herconfidence? Had he known that I had no place in her will? His answer wasvery simple; a single word, 'Always.' But after that do I need to saywhy I am a wife--why I am _his_ wife?"

 

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