The Leavenworth Case

This time she seemed to be aware that some one besides myself was talking to her, for, hurriedly rising, she looked at the man with a wondering stare, before replying.

“I don’t know who you are, sir; but I can tell you this, the girl had no medicine,—took no dose; she wasn’t sick last night that I know of.”

“Yet I saw her swallow a powder.”

“Saw her!—the world is crazy, or I am—saw her swallow a powder! How could you see her do that or anything else? Hasn’t she been shut up in this room for twenty-four hours?”

“Yes; but with a window like that in the roof, it isn’t so very difficult to see into the room, madam.”

“Oh,” she cried, shrinking, “I have a spy in the house, have I? But I deserve it; I kept her imprisoned in four close walls, and never came to look at her once all night. I don’t complain; but what was it you say you saw her take? medicine? poison?”

“I didn’t say poison.”

“But you meant it. You think she has poisoned herself, and that I had a hand in it!”

“No,” I hastened to remark, “he does not think you had a hand in it. He says he saw the girl herself swallow something which he believes to have been the occasion of her death, and only asks you now where she obtained it.”

“How can I tell? I never gave her anything; didn’t know she had anything.”

Somehow, I believed her, and so felt unwilling to prolong the present interview, especially as each moment delayed the action which I felt it incumbent upon us to take. So, motioning Q to depart upon his errand, I took Mrs. Belden by the hand and endeavored to lead her from the room. But she resisted, sitting down by the side of the bed with the expression, “I will not leave her again; do not ask it; here is my place, and here I will stay,” while Q, obdurate for the first time, stood staring severely upon us both, and would not move, though I urged him again to make haste, saying that the morning was slipping away, and that the telegram to Mr. Gryce ought to be sent.

“Till that woman leaves the room, I don’t; and unless you promise to take my place in watching her, I don’t quit the house.”

Astonished, I left her side and crossed to him.

“You carry your suspicions too far,” I whispered, “and I think you are too rude. We have seen nothing, I am sure, to warrant us in any such action; besides, she can do no harm here; though, as for watching her, I promise to do that much if it will relieve your mind.”

“I don’t want her watched here; take her below. I cannot leave while she remains.”

“Are you not assuming a trifle the master?”

“Perhaps; I don’t know. If I am, it is because I have something in my possession which excuses my conduct.”

“What is that? the letter?”

“Yes.”

Agitated now in my turn, I held out my hand. “Let me see,” I said.

“Not while that woman remains in the room.”

Seeing him implacable, I returned to Mrs. Belden.

“I must entreat you to come with me,” said I. “This is not a common death; we shall be obliged to have the coroner here and others. You had better leave the room and go below.”

“I don’t mind the coroner; he is a neighbor of mine; his coming won’t prevent my watching over the poor girl until he arrives.”

“Mrs. Belden,” I said, “your position as the only one conscious of the presence of this girl in your house makes it wiser for you not to invite suspicion by lingering any longer than is necessary in the room where her dead body lies.”

“As if my neglect of her now were the best surety of my good intentions towards her in time past!”

“It will not be neglect for you to go below with me at my earnest request. You can do no good here by staying; will, in fact, be doing harm. So listen to me or I shall be obliged to leave you in charge of this man and go myself to inform the authorities.”

This last argument seemed to affect her, for with one look of shuddering abhorrence at Q she rose, saying, “You have me in your power,” and then, without another word, threw her handkerchief over the girl’s face and left the room. In two minutes more I had the letter of which Q had spoken in my hands.

“It is the only one I could find, sir. It was in the pocket of the dress Mrs. Belden had on last night. The other must be lying around somewhere, but I haven’t had time to find it. This will do, though, I think. You will not ask for the other.”

Scarcely noticing at the time with what deep significance he spoke, I opened the letter. It was the smaller of the two I had seen her draw under her shawl the day before at the post-office, and read as follows:

“DEAR, DEAR FRIEND:

“I am in awful trouble. You who love me must know it. I cannot explain, I can only make one prayer. Destroy what you have, to-day, instantly, without question or hesitation. The consent of any one else has nothing to do with it. You must obey. I am lost if you refuse. Do then what I ask, and save

“ONE WHO LOVES YOU.”

It was addressed to Mrs. Belden; there was no signature or date, only the postmark New York; but I knew the handwriting. It was Mary Leavenworth’s.

“A damning letter!” came in the dry tones which Q seemed to think fit to adopt on this occasion. “And a damning bit of evidence against the one who wrote it, and the woman who received it!”

“A terrible piece of evidence, indeed,” said I, “if I did not happen to know that this letter refers to the destruction of something radically different from what you suspect. It alludes to some papers in Mrs. Belden’s charge; nothing else.”

“Are you sure, sir?”

“Quite; but we will talk of this hereafter. It is time you sent your telegram, and went for the coroner.”

“Very well, sir.” And with this we parted; he to perform his role and I mine.

I found Mrs. Belden walking the floor below, bewailing her situation, and uttering wild sentences as to what the neighbors would say of her; what the minister would think; what Clara, whoever that was, would do, and how she wished she had died before ever she had meddled with the affair.

Succeeding in calming her after a while, I induced her to sit down and listen to what I had to say. “You will only injure yourself by this display of feeling,” I remarked, “besides unfitting yourself for what you will presently be called upon to go through.” And, laying myself out to comfort the unhappy woman, I first explained the necessities of the case, and next inquired if she had no friend upon whom she could call in this emergency.

To my great surprise she replied no; that while she had kind neighbors and good friends, there was no one upon whom she could call in a case like this, either for assistance or sympathy, and that, unless I would take pity on her, she would have to meet it alone—“As I have met everything,” she said, “from Mr. Belden’s death to the loss of most of my little savings in a town fire last year.”

I was touched by this,—that she who, in spite of her weakness and inconsistencies of character, possessed at least the one virtue of sympathy with her kind, should feel any lack of friends. Unhesitatingly, I offered to do what I could for her, providing she would treat me with the perfect frankness which the case demanded. To my great relief, she expressed not only her willingness, but her strong desire, to tell all she knew. “I have had enough secrecy for my whole life,” she said. And indeed I do believe she was so thoroughly frightened, that if a police-officer had come into the house and asked her to reveal secrets compromising the good name of her own son, she would have done so without cavil or question. “I feel as if I wanted to take my stand out on the common, and, in the face of the whole world, declare what I have done for Mary Leavenworth. But first,” she whispered, “tell me, for God’s sake, how those girls are situated. I have not dared to ask or write. The papers say a good deal about Eleanore, but nothing about Mary; and yet Mary writes of her own peril only, and of the danger she would be in if certain facts were known. What is the truth? I don’t want to injure them, only to take care of myself.”

“Mrs. Belden,” I said, “Eleanore Leavenworth has got into her present difficulty by not telling all that was required of her. Mary Leavenworth—but I cannot speak of her till I know what you have to divulge. Her position, as well as that of her cousin, is too anomalous for either you or me to discuss. What we want to learn from you is, how you became connected with this affair, and what it was that Hannah knew which caused her to leave New York and take refuge here.”

But Mrs. Belden, clasping and unclasping her hands, met my gaze with one full of the most apprehensive doubt. “You will never believe me,” she cried; “but I don’t know what Hannah knew. I am in utter ignorance of what she saw or heard on that fatal night; she never told, and I never asked. She merely said that Miss Leavenworth wished me to secrete her for a short time; and I, because I loved Mary Leavenworth and admired her beyond any one I ever saw, weakly consented, and–”

“Do you mean to say,” I interrupted, “that after you knew of the murder, you, at the mere expression of Miss Leavenworth’s wishes, continued to keep this girl concealed without asking her any questions or demanding any explanations?”

“Yes, sir; you will never believe me, but it is so. I thought that, since Mary had sent her here, she must have her reasons; and—and—I cannot explain it now; it all looks so differently; but I did do as I have said.”

“But that was very strange conduct. You must have had strong reason for obeying Mary Leavenworth so blindly.”

“Oh, sir,” she gasped, “I thought I understood it all; that Mary, the bright young creature, who had stooped from her lofty position to make use of me and to love me, was in some way linked to the criminal, and that it would be better for me to remain in ignorance, do as I was bid, and trust all would come right. I did not reason about it; I only followed my impulse. I couldn’t do otherwise; it isn’t my nature. When I am requested to do anything for a person I love, I cannot refuse.”

“And you love Mary Leavenworth; a woman whom you yourself seem to consider capable of a great crime?”

“Oh, I didn’t say that; I don’t know as I thought that. She might be in some way connected with it, without being the actual perpetrator. She could never be that; she is too dainty.”

“Mrs. Belden,” I said, “what do you know of Mary Leavenworth which makes even that supposition possible?”

The white face of the woman before me flushed. “I scarcely know what to reply,” she cried. “It is a long story, and–”

“Never mind the long story,” I interrupted. “Let me hear the one vital reason.”

“Well,” said she, “it is this; that Mary was in an emergency from which nothing but her uncle’s death could release her.”

“Ah, how’s that?”

But here we were interrupted by the sound of steps on the porch, and, looking out, I saw Q entering the house alone. Leaving Mrs. Belden where she was, I stepped into the hall.

“Well,” said I, “what is the matter? Haven’t you found the coroner? Isn’t he at home?”

“No, gone away; off in a buggy to look after a man that was found some ten miles from here, lying in a ditch beside a yoke of oxen.” Then, as he saw my look of relief, for I was glad of this temporary delay, said, with an expressive wink: “It would take a fellow a long time to go to him—if he wasn’t in a hurry—hours, I think.”

“Indeed!” I returned, amused at his manner. “Rough road?”

“Very; no horse I could get could travel it faster than a walk.”

“Well,” said I, “so much the better for us. Mrs. Belden has a long story to tell, and–”

“Doesn’t wish to be interrupted. I understand.”

I nodded and he turned towards the door.

“Have you telegraphed Mr. Gryce?” I asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you think he will come?”

“Yes, sir; if he has to hobble on two sticks.”

“At what time do you look for him?”

“You will look for him as early as three o’clock. I shall be among the mountains, ruefully eying my broken-down team.” And leisurely donning his hat he strolled away down the street like one who has the whole day on his hands and does not know what to do with it.

An opportunity being thus given for Mrs. Belden’s story, she at once composed herself to the task, with the following result.

XXXII. MRS. BELDEN’S NARRATIVE

“Cursed, destructive Avarice,Thou everlasting foe to Love and Honor.”—Trap’s Abram.“Mischief never thrivesWithout the help of Woman.”—The Same.

IT will be a year next July since I first saw Mary Leavenworth. I was living at that time a most monotonous existence. Loving what was beautiful, hating what was sordid, drawn by nature towards all that was romantic and uncommon, but doomed by my straitened position and the loneliness of my widowhood to spend my days in the weary round of plain sewing, I had begun to think that the shadow of a humdrum old age was settling down upon me, when one morning, in the full tide of my dissatisfaction, Mary Leavenworth stepped across the threshold of my door and, with one smile, changed the whole tenor of my life.

This may seem exaggeration to you, especially when I say that her errand was simply one of business, she having heard I was handy with my needle; but if you could have seen her as she appeared that day, marked the look with which she approached me, and the smile with which she left, you would pardon the folly of a romantic old woman, who beheld a fairy queen in this lovely young lady. The fact is, I was dazzled by her beauty and her charms. And when, a few days after, she came again, and crouching down on the stool at my feet, said she was so tired of the gossip and tumult down at the hotel, that it was a relief to run away and hide with some one who would let her act like the child she was, I experienced for the moment, I believe, the truest happiness of my life. Meeting her advances with all the warmth her manner invited, I found her ere long listening eagerly while I told her, almost without my own volition, the story of my past life, in the form of an amusing allegory.

The next day saw her in the same place; and the next; always with the eager, laughing eyes, and the fluttering, uneasy hands, that grasped everything they touched, and broke everything they grasped.

But the fourth day she was not there, nor the fifth, nor the sixth, and I was beginning to feel the old shadow settling back upon me, when one night, just as the dusk of twilight was merging into evening gloom, she came stealing in at the front door, and, creeping up to my side, put her hands over my eyes with such a low, ringing laugh, that I started.

“You don’t know what to make of me!” she cried, throwing aside her cloak, and revealing herself in the full splendor of evening attire. “I don’t know what to make of myself. Though it seems folly, I felt that I must run away and tell some one that a certain pair of eyes have been looking into mine, and that for the first time in my life I feel myself a woman as well as a queen.” And with a glance in which coyness struggled with pride, she gathered up her cloak around her, and laughingly cried:

“Have you had a visit from a flying sprite? Has one little ray of moonlight found its way into your prison for a wee moment, with Mary’s laugh and Mary’s snowy silk and flashing diamonds? Say!” and she patted my cheek, and smiled so bewilderingly, that even now, with all the dull horror of these after-events crowding upon me, I cannot but feel something like tears spring to my eyes at the thought of it.

“And so the Prince has come for you?” I whispered, alluding to a story I had told her the last time she had visited me; a story in which a girl, who had waited all her life in rags and degradation for the lordly knight who was to raise her from a hovel to a throne, died just as her one lover, an honest peasant-lad whom she had discarded in her pride, arrived at her door with the fortune he had spent all his days in amassing for her sake.

But at this she flushed, and drew back towards the door. “I don’t know; I am afraid not. I—I don’t think anything about that. Princes are not so easily won,” she murmured.

“What! are you going?” I said, “and alone? Let me accompany you.”

But she only shook her fairy head, and replied: “No, no; that would be spoiling the romance, indeed. I have come upon you like a sprite, and like a sprite I will go.” And, flashing like the moonbeam she was, she glided out into the night, and floated away down the street.

When she next came, I observed a feverish excitement in her manner, which assured me, even plainer than the coy sweetness displayed in our last interview, that her heart had been touched by her lover’s attentions. Indeed, she hinted as much before she left, saying in a melancholy tone, when I had ended my story in the usual happy way, with kisses and marriage, “I shall never marry!” finishing the exclamation with a long-drawn sigh, that somehow emboldened me to say, perhaps because I knew she had no mother:

“And why? What reason can there be for such rosy lips saying their possessor will never marry?”

She gave me one quick look, and then dropped her eyes. I feared I had offended her, and was feeling very humble, when she suddenly replied, in an even but low tone, “I said I should never marry, because the one man who pleases me can never be my husband.”

All the hidden romance in my nature started at once into life. “Why not? What do you mean? Tell me.”

“There is nothing to tell,” said she; “only I have been so weak as to”—she would not say, fall in love, she was a proud woman—“admire a man whom my uncle will never allow me to marry.”

And she rose as if to go; but I drew her back. “Whom your uncle will not allow you to marry!” I repeated. “Why? because he is poor?”

“No; uncle loves money, but not to such an extent as that. Besides, Mr. Clavering is not poor. He is the owner of a beautiful place in his own country–”

“Own country?” I interrupted. “Is he not an American?”

“No,” she returned; “he is an Englishman.”

I did not see why she need say that in just the way she did, but, supposing she was aggravated by some secret memory, went on to inquire: “Then what difficulty can there be? Isn’t he—” I was going to say steady, but refrained.

“He is an Englishman,” she emphasized in the same bitter tone as before. “In saying that, I say it all. Uncle will never let me marry an Englishman.”

I looked at her in amazement. Such a puerile reason as this had never entered my mind.

“He has an absolute mania on the subject,” resumed she. “I might as well ask him to allow me to drown myself as to marry an Englishman.”

A woman of truer judgment than myself would have said: “Then, if that is so, why not discard from your breast all thought of him? Why dance with him, and talk to him, and let your admiration develop into love?” But I was all romance then, and, angry at a prejudice I could neither understand nor appreciate, I said:

“But that is mere tyranny! Why should he hate the English so? And why, if he does, should you feel yourself obliged to gratify him in a whim so unreasonable?”

“Why? Shall I tell you, auntie?” she said, flushing and looking away.

“Yes,” I returned; “tell me everything.”

“Well, then, if you want to know the worst of me, as you already know the best, I hate to incur my uncle’s displeasure, because—because—I have always been brought up to regard myself as his heiress, and I know that if I were to marry contrary to his wishes, he would instantly change his mind, and leave me penniless.”

“But,” I cried, my romance a little dampened by this admission, “you tell me Mr. Clavering has enough to live upon, so you would not want; and if you love—”

Her violet eyes fairly flashed in her amazement.

“You don’t understand,” she said; “Mr. Clavering is not poor; but uncle is rich. I shall be a queen—” There she paused, trembling, and falling on my breast. “Oh, it sounds mercenary, I know, but it is the fault of my bringing up. I have been taught to worship money. I would be utterly lost without it. And yet”—her whole face softening with the light of another emotion, “I cannot say to Henry Clavering, ‘Go! my prospects are dearer to me than you!’ I cannot, oh, I cannot!”

“You love him, then?” said I, determined to get at the truth of the matter if possible.

She rose restlessly. “Isn’t that a proof of love? If you knew me, you would say it was.” And, turning, she took her stand before a picture that hung on the wall of my sitting-room.

“That looks like me,” she said.

It was one of a pair of good photographs I possessed.

“Yes,” I remarked, “that is why I prize it.”

She did not seem to hear me; she was absorbed in gazing at the exquisite face before her. “That is a winning face,” I heard her say. “Sweeter than mine. I wonder if she would ever hesitate between love and money. I do not believe she would,” her own countenance growing gloomy and sad as she said so; “she would think only of the happiness she would confer; she is not hard like me. Eleanore herself would love this girl.”

I think she had forgotten my presence, for at the mention of her cousin’s name she turned quickly round with a half suspicious look, saying lightly:

“My dear old Mamma Hubbard looks horrified. She did not know she had such a very unromantic little wretch for a listener, when she was telling all those wonderful stories of Love slaying dragons, and living in caves, and walking over burning ploughshares as if they were tufts of spring grass?”

“No,” I said, taking her with an irresistible impulse of admiring affection into my arms; “but if I had, it would have made no difference. I should still have talked about love, and of all it can do to make this weary workaday world sweet and delightful.”

“Would you? Then you do not think me such a wretch?”

What could I say? I thought her the winsomest being in the world, and frankly told her so. Instantly she brightened into her very gayest self. Not that I thought then, much less do I think now, she partially cared for my good opinion; but her nature demanded admiration, and unconsciously blossomed under it, as a flower under the sunshine.

“And you will still let me come and tell you how bad I am,—that is, if I go on being bad, as I doubtless shall to the end of the chapter? You will not turn me off?”

“I will never turn you off.”

“Not if I should do a dreadful thing? Not if I should run away with my lover some fine night, and leave uncle to discover how his affectionate partiality had been requited?”

It was lightly said, and lightly meant, for she did not even wait for my reply. But its seed sank deep into our two hearts for all that. And for the next few days I spent my time in planning how I should manage, if it should ever fall to my lot to conduct to a successful issue so enthralling a piece of business as an elopement. You may imagine, then, how delighted I was, when one evening Hannah, this unhappy girl who is now lying dead under my roof, and who was occupying the position of lady’s maid to Miss Mary Leavenworth at that time, came to my door with a note from her mistress, running thus:

“Have the loveliest story of the season ready for me tomorrow; and let the prince be as handsome as—as some one you have heard of, and the princess as foolish as your little yielding pet,

“MARY.”

Which short note could only mean that she was engaged. But the next day did not bring me my Mary, nor the next, nor the next; and beyond hearing that Mr. Leavenworth had returned from his trip I received neither word nor token. Two more days dragged by, when, just as twilight set in, she came. It had been a week since I had seen her, but it might have been a year from the change I observed in her countenance and expression. I could scarcely greet her with any show of pleasure, she was so unlike her former self.

“You are disappointed, are you not?” said she, looking at me. “You expected revelations, whispered hopes, and all manner of sweet confidences; and you see, instead, a cold, bitter woman, who for the first time in your presence feels inclined to be reserved and uncommunicative.”

“That is because you have had more to trouble than encourage you in your love,” I returned, though not without a certain shrinking, caused more by her manner than words.

She did not reply to this, but rose and paced the floor, coldly at first, but afterwards with a certain degree of excitement that proved to be the prelude to a change in her manner; for, suddenly pausing, she turned to me and said: “Mr. Clavering has left R–, Mrs. Belden.”