BOOK FOUR WHAT THE PINES WHISPERED

XXIX “I REMEMBERED THE ROOM”

MERCURY.—If thou mightst dwell among the Gods the while Lapped in voluptuous joy?

PROMETHEUS.—I would not quit This bleak ravine, these unrepentant pains.

Prometheus Unbound.

Great moments, whether of pain, surprise, or terror, awaken in the startled breast very different emotions from those we are led to anticipate from the agitation caused by lesser experiences. As Carmel disclosed her features to the court, my one absorbing thought was: Would she look at me? Could I hope for a glance of her eye? Did I wish it? My question was answered before Mr. Moffat had regained his place and turned to address the court.

As her gaze passed from her brother’s face, it travelled slowly and with growing hesitation over the countenances of those near her, on and on past the judge, past the jury, until they reached the spot where I sat. There they seemed to falter, and the beating of my heart became so loud that I instinctively shrank away from my neighbour. By so doing, I drew her eye, which fell full upon mine for one overwhelming minute; then she shrank and looked away, but not before the colour had risen in a flood to her cheek.

The hope which had sprung to life under her first beautiful aspect, vanished in despair at sight of this flush. For it was not one of joy, or surprise, or even of unconscious sympathy. It was the banner of a deep, unendurable shame. Versed in her every expression, I could not mistake the language of her dismayed soul, at this, the most critical instant of her life. She had hoped to find me absent; she was overwhelmed to find me there. Could she, with a look, have transported me a thousand miles from this scene of personal humiliation and unknown, unimaginable outcome, she would have bestowed that look and ignored the consequences.

Nor was I behind her in the reckless passion of the moment. Could I, by means of a wish, have been transported those thousand miles, I should even now have been far from a spot where, in the face of a curious crowd, busy in associating us together, I must submit to the terror of hearing her speak and betray herself to these watchful lawyers, and to the just and impartial mind of the presiding judge.

But the days of magic had passed. I could not escape the spot; I could not escape her eye. The ordeal to which she was thus committed, I must share. As she advanced step by step upon her uncertain road, it would be my unhappy fate to advance with her, in terror of the same pitfalls, with our faces set towards the same precipice—slipping, fainting, experiencing agonies together. She knew my secret, and I, alas! knew hers. So I interpreted this intolerable, overwhelming blush.

Recoiling from the prospect, I buried my face in my hands, and so missed the surprising sight of this young girl, still in her teens, conquering a dismay which might well unnerve one of established years and untold experiences. In a few minutes, as I was afterward told by my friends, her features had settled into a strange placidity, undisturbed by the levelled gaze of a hundred eyes. Her whole attention was concentrated on her brother, and wavered only, when the duties of the occasion demanded a recognition of the various gentlemen concerned in the trial.

Mr. Moffat prefaced his examination by the following words:

“May it please your Honour, I wish to ask the indulgence of the court in my examination of this witness. She is just recovering from a long and dangerous illness; and while I shall endeavour to keep within the rules of examination, I shall be grateful for any consideration which may be shown her by your Honour and by the counsel on the other side.”

Mr. Fox at once rose. He had by this time recovered from his astonishment at seeing before him, and in a fair state of health, the young girl whom he had every reason to believe to be still in a condition of partial forgetfulness at Lakewood, and under the care of a woman entirely in his confidence and under his express orders. He had also mastered his chagrin at the triumph which her presence here, and under these dramatic circumstances, had given his adversary. Moved, perhaps, by Miss Cumberland’s beauty, which he saw for the first time—or, perhaps, by the spectacle of this beauty devoting its first hours of health to an attempt to save a brother, of whose precarious position before the law she had been ignorant up to this time—or more possibly yet, by a fear that it might be bad tactics to show harshness to so interesting a personality before she had uttered a word of testimony, he expressed in warmer tones than usual, his deep desire to extend every possible indulgence.

Mr. Moffat bowed his acknowledgments, and waited for his witness to take the oath, which she did with a simple grace which touched all hearts, even that of her constrained and unreconciled brother. Compelled by the silence and my own bounding pulses to look at her in my own despite, I caught the sweet and elevated look with which she laid her hand on the Book, and asked myself if her presence here was not a self-accusation, which would bring satisfaction to nobody—which would sink her and hers into an ignominy worse than the conviction of the brother whom she was supposedly there to save.

Tortured by this fear, I awaited events in indescribable agitation.

The cool voice of Mr. Moffat broke in upon my gloom. Carmel had reseated herself, after taking the oath, and the customary question could be heard:

“Your name, if you please.”

“Carmel Cumberland.”

“Do you recognise the prisoner, Miss Cumberland?”

“Yes; he is my brother.”

A thrill ran through the room. The lingering tone, the tender accent, told. Some of the feeling she thus expressed seemed to pass into every heart which contemplated the two. From this moment on, he was looked upon with less harshness; people showed a disposition to discern innocence, where, perhaps, they had secretly desired, until now, to discover guilt.

“Miss Cumberland, will you be good enough to tell us where you were, at or near the hour of ten, on the evening of your sister’s death?”

“I was in the club-house—in the house you call The Whispering Pines.”

At this astounding reply, unexpected by every one present save myself and the unhappy prisoner, incredulity, seasoned with amazement, marked every countenance. Carmel Cumberland in the club-house that night—she who had been found at a late hour, in her own home, injured and unconscious! It was not to be believed—or it would not have been, if Arthur with less self-control than he had hitherto maintained, had not shown by his morose air and the silent drooping of his head that he accepted this statement, wild and improbable as it seemed. Mr. Fox, whose mind without doubt had been engaged in a debate from the first, as to the desirability of challenging the testimony of this young girl, whose faculties had so lately recovered from a condition of great shock and avowed forgetfulness that no word as yet had come to him of her restored health, started to arise at her words; but noting the prisoner’s attitude, he hastily reseated himself, realising, perhaps, that evidence of which he had never dreamed lay at the bottom of the client’s manner and the counsel’s complacency. If so, then his own air of mingled disbelief and compassionate forbearance might strike the jury unfavourably; while, on the contrary, if his doubts were sound, and the witness were confounding the fancies of her late delirium with the actual incidents of this fatal night, then would he gain rather than lose by allowing her to proceed until her testimony fell of its own weight, or succumbed before the fire of his cross-examination.

Modifying his manner, he steadied himself for either exigency, and, in steadying himself, steadied his colleagues also.

Mr. Moffat, who saw everything, smiled slightly as he spoke encouragingly to his witness, and propounded his next question:

“Miss Cumberland, was your sister with you when you went to the club-house?”

“No; we went separately”

“How? Will you explain?”

“I drove there. I don’t know how Adelaide went.”

“You drove there?”

“Yes. I had Arthur harness up his horse for me and I drove there.”

A moment of silence; then a slow awakening—on the part of judge, jury, and prosecution—to the fact that the case was taking a turn for which they were ill-prepared. To Mr. Moffat, it was a moment of intense self-congratulation, and something of the gratification he felt crept into his voice as he said:

“Miss Cumberland, will you describe this horse?”

“It was a grey horse. It has a large black spot on its left shoulder.”

“To what vehicle was it attached?”

“To a cutter—my brother’s cutter.”

“Was that brother with you? Did he accompany you in your ride to The Whispering Pines?”

“No, I went quite alone.”

Entrancement had now seized upon every mind. Even if her testimony were not true, but merely the wanderings of a mind not fully restored, the interest of it was intense. Mr. Fox, glancing at the jury, saw there would be small use in questioning at this time the mental capacity of the witness. This was a story which all wished to hear. Perhaps he wished to hear it, too.

Mr. Moffat rose to more than his accustomed height. The light which sometimes visited his face when feeling, or a sense of power, was strongest in him, shone from his eye and irradiated his whole aspect as he inquired tellingly:

“And how did you return? With whom, and by what means, did you regain your own house?”

The answer came, with simple directness:

“In the same way I went. I drove back in my brother’s cutter and being all alone just as before, I put the horse away myself, and went into my empty home and up to Adelaide’s room, where I lost consciousness.”

The excitement, which had been seething, broke out as she ceased; but the judge did not need to use his gavel, or the officers of the court exert their authority. At Mr. Moffat’s lifted hand, the turmoil ceased as if by magic.

“Miss Cumberland, do you often ride out alone on nights like that?”

“I never did before. I would not have dared to do it then, if I had not taken a certain precaution.”

“And what was this precaution?”

“I wore an old coat of my brother’s over my dress, and one of his hats on my head.”

It was out—the fact for the suppression of which I had suffered arrest without a word; because of which Arthur had gone even further, and submitted to trial with the same constancy. Instinctively, his eyes and mine met, and, at that moment, there was established between us an understanding that was in strong contrast to the surrounding turmoil, which now exceeded all limits, as the highly wrought up spectators realised that these statements, if corroborated, destroyed one of the strongest points which had been made by the prosecution. This caused a stay in the proceedings until order was partially restored, and the judge’s voice could be heard in a warning that the court-room would be cleared of all spectators if this break of decorum was repeated.

Meanwhile, my own mind had been busy. I had watched Arthur; I had watched Mr. Moffat. The discouragement of the former, the ill-concealed elation of the latter, proved the folly of any hope, on my part, that Carmel would be spared a full explanation of what I would have given worlds to leave in the darkness and ignorance of the present moment. To save Arthur, unwilling as he was, she was to be allowed to consummate the sacrifice which the real generosity of her heart drove her into making. Before these doors opened again and sent forth the crowd now pulsating under a preamble of whose terrible sequel none as yet dreamed, I should have to hear those sweet lips give utterance to the revelation which would consign her to opprobrium, and break, not only my heart, but her brother’s.

Was there no way to stop it? The district attorney gave no evidence of suspecting any issue of this sort, nor did the friendly and humane judge. Only the scheming Moffat knew to what all this was tending, and Moffat could not be trusted. The case was his and he would gain it if he could. Tender and obliging as he was in his treatment of the witness, there was iron under the velvet of his glove. This was his reputation; and this I must now see exemplified before me, without the power to stop it. The consideration with which he approached his subject did not deceive me.

“Miss Cumberland, will you now give the jury the full particulars of that evening’s occurrences, as witnessed by yourself. Begin your relation, if you please, with an account of the last meal you had together.”

Carmel hesitated. Her youth—her conscience, perhaps—shrank in manifest distress from this inquisition.

“Ask me a question,” she prayed. “I do not know how to begin.”

“Very well. Who were seated at the dinner-table that night?”

“My sister, my brother, Mr. Ranelagh, and myself.”

“Did anything uncommon happen during the meal?”

“Yes, my sister ordered wine, and had our glasses all filled. She never drank wine herself, but she had her glass filled also. Then she dismissed Helen, the waitress; and when the girl was gone, she rose and held up her glass, and invited us to do the same. ‘We will drink to my coming marriage,’ said she; but when we had done this, she turned upon Arthur, with bitter words about his habits, and, declaring that another bottle of wine should never be opened again in the house, unclosed her fingers and let her glass drop on the table where it broke. Arthur then let his fall, and I mine. We all three let our glasses fall and break.”

“And Mr. Ranelagh?”

“He did not let his fall. He set it down on the cloth. He had not drank from it.”

Clear, perfectly clear—tallying with what we had heard from other sources. As this fact forced itself in upon the minds of the jury, new light shone in every eye and each and all waited eagerly for the next question.

It came with a quiet, if not insinuating, intonation.

“Miss Cumberland, where were you looking when you let your glass fall?”

My heart gave a bound. I remembered that moment well. So did she, as could be seen from the tremulous flush and the determination with which she forced herself to speak.

“At Mr. Ranelagh,” she answered, finally.

“Not at your brother?”

“No.”

“And at whom was Mr. Ranelagh looking?”

“At—at me.”

“Not at your sister?”

“No.”

“Was anything said?”

“Not then. With the dropping of the glasses, we all drew back from the table, and walked towards a little room where we sometimes sat before going into the library. Arthur went first, and Mr. Ranelagh and I followed, Adelaide coming last. We—we went this way into the little room and—what other question do you wish to ask?” she finished, with a burning blush.

Mr. Moffat was equal to the appeal.

“Did anything happen? Did Mr. Ranelagh speak to you or you to him, or did your sister Adelaide speak?”

“No one spoke; but Mr. Ranelagh put a little slip of paper into my hand—a—a note. As he did this, my brother looked round. I don’t know whether he saw the note or not; but his eye caught mine, and I may have blushed. Next moment he was looking past me; and presently he had flung himself out of the room, and I heard him going upstairs. Adelaide had joined me by this time, and Mr. Ranelagh turned to speak to her, and—and I went over to the book-shelves to read my note.”

“And did you read it then?”

“No, I was afraid. I waited till Mr. Ranelagh was gone; then I went up to my room and read it. It was not a—a note to be glad of. I mean, proud of. I’m afraid I was a little glad of it at first. I was a wicked girl.”

Mr. Moffat glanced at Mr. Fox; but that gentleman, passing over this artless expression of feeling, as unworthy an objection, he went steadily on:

“Miss Cumberland, before you tell us about this note, will you be good enough to inform us whether any words passed between you and your sister before you went upstairs?”

“Oh, yes; we talked. We all three talked, but it was about indifferent matters. The servants were going to a ball, and we spoke of that. Mr. Ranelagh did not stay long. Very soon he remarked that he had a busy evening before him, and took his leave. I was not in the room with them when he did this. I was in the adjoining one, but I heard his remark and saw him go. I did not wait to talk to Adelaide.”

“Now, about the note?”

“I read it as soon as I reached my room. Then I sat still for a long time.”

“Miss Cumberland, pardon my request, but will you tell us what was in that note?”

She lifted her patient eyes, and looked straight at her brother. He did not meet her gaze; but the dull flush which lit up the dead-white of his cheek showed how he suffered under this ordeal. At me she never glanced; this was the only mercy shown me that dreadful morning. I grew to be thankful for it as she went on.

“I do not remember the words,” she said, finally, as her eyes fell again to her lap. “But I remember its meaning. It was an invitation for me to leave town with him that very evening and be married at some place he mentioned. He said it would be the best way to—to end—matters.”

This brought Mr. Fox to his feet. For all his self-command, he had been perceptibly growing more and more nervous as the examination proceeded; and he found himself still in the dark as to his opponent’s purpose and the character of the revelations he had to fear. Turning to the judge, he cried:

“This testimony is irrelevant and incompetent, and I ask to have it stricken out.”

Mr. Moffat’s voice, as he arose to answer this, was like honey poured upon gall.

“It is neither irrelevant nor incompetent, and, if it were, the objection comes too late. My friend should have objected to the question.”

“The whole course of counsel has been very unusual,” began Mr. Fox.

“Yes, but so is the case. I beg your Honour to believe that, in some of its features, this case is not only unusual, but almost without a precedent. That it may be lightly understood, and justice shown my client, a full knowledge of the whole family’s experiences during those fatal hours is not only desirable, but absolutely essential. I beg, therefore, that my witness may be allowed to proceed and tell her story in all its details. Nothing will be introduced which will not ultimately be seen to have a direct bearing upon the attitude of my client towards the crime for which he stands here arraigned.”

“The motion is denied,” declared the judge.

Mr. Fox sat down, to the universal relief of all but the two persons most interested—Arthur and myself.

Mr. Moffat, generous enough or discreet enough to take no note of his opponent’s discomfiture, lifted a paper from the table and held it towards the witness.

“Do you recognise these lines?” he asked, placing the remnants of my half-burned communication in her hands.

She started at sight of them. Evidently she had never expected to see them again.

“Yes,” she answered, after a moment. “This is a portion of the note I have mentioned.”

“You recognise it as such?”

“I do.”

Her eyes lingered on the scrap, and followed it as it was passed back and marked as an exhibit.

Mr. Moffat recalled her to the matter in hand.

“What did you do next, Miss Cumberland?”

“I answered the note.”

“May I ask to what effect?”

“I refused Mr. Ranelagh’s request. I said that I could not do what he asked, and told him to wait till the next day, and he would see how I felt towards him and towards Adelaide. That was all. I could not write much. I was suffering greatly.”

“Suffering in mind, or suffering in body?”

“Suffering in my mind. I was terrified, but that feeling did not last very long. Soon I grew happy, happier than I had been in weeks, happier than I had ever been in all my life before. I found that I loved Adelaide better than I did myself. This made everything easy, even the sending of the answer I have told you about to Mr. Ranelagh.”

“Miss Cumberland, how did you get this answer to Mr. Ranelagh?”

“By means of a gentleman who was going away on the very train I had been asked to leave on. He was a guest next door, and I carried the note in to him.”

“Did you do this openly?”

“No. I’m afraid not; I slipped out by the side door, in as careful a way as I could.”

“Did this attempt at secrecy succeed? Were you able to go and come without meeting any one?”

“No. Adelaide was at the head of the stairs when I came back, standing there, very stiff and quiet.”

“Did she speak to you?”

“No. She just looked at me; but it wasn’t a common look. I shall never forget it.”

“And what did you do then?”

“I went to my room.”

“Miss Cumberland, did you sec anybody else when you came in at this time?”

“Yes, our maid Helen. She was just laying down a bunch of keys on the table in the lower hall. I stopped and looked at the keys. I had recognised them as the ones I had seen in Mr. Ranelagh’s hands many times. He had gone, yet there were his keys. One of them unlocked the club-house. I noticed it among the others, but I didn’t touch it then. Helen was still in the hall, and I ran straight upstairs, where I met my sister, as I have just told you.”

“Miss Cumberland, continue the story. What did you do after re-entering your room?”

“I don’t know what I did first. I was very excited—elated one minute, deeply wretched and very frightened the next. I must have sat down; for I was shaking very much, and felt a little sick. The sight of that key had brought up pictures of the club-house; and I thought and thought how quiet it was, and how far away and—how cold it was too, and how secret. I would go there for what I had to do; there! And then I saw in my fancy one of its rooms, with the moon in it, and—but I soon shut my eyes to that. I heard Arthur moving about his room, and this made me start up and go out into the hall again.”

During all this Mr. Fox had sat by, understanding his right to object to the witness’s mixed statements of fact and of feelings, and quite confident that his objections would be sustained. But he had determined long since that he would not interrupt the witness in her relation. The air of patience he assumed was sufficiently indicative of his displeasure, and he confined himself to this. Mr. Moffat understood, and testified his appreciation by a slight bow.

Carmel, who saw nothing, resumed her story.

“Arthur’s room is near, and Adelaide’s far off; but I went to Adelaide’s first. Her door was shut and when I went to open it I found it locked. Calling her name, I said that I was tired and would be glad to say good night. She did not answer at once. When she did, her voice was strange, though what she said was very simple. I was to please myself; she was going to retire, too. And then she tried to say good night, but she only half said it, like one who is choked with tears or some other dreadful emotion. I cannot tell you how this made me feel—but you don’t care for that. You want to know what I did—what Adelaide did. I will tell you, but I cannot hurry. Every act of the evening was so crowded with purpose; all meant so much. I can see the end, but the steps leading to it are not so clear.”

“Take your time, Miss Cumberland; we have no wish to hurry you.”

“I can go on now. The next thing I did was to knock at Arthur’s door. I heard him getting ready to go out, and I wanted to speak to him before he went. When he heard me, he opened the door and let me in. He began at once on his grievances, but I could not listen to them. I wanted him to harness the grey mare for me and leave it standing in the stable. I explained the request by saying that it was necessary for me to see a certain friend of mine immediately, and that no one would notice me in the cutter under the bear-skins. He didn’t approve, but I persuaded him. I even persuaded him to wait till Zadok was gone, so that Adelaide would know nothing about it. He looked glum, but he promised.

“He was going away when I heard Adelaide’s steps in the adjoining room. This frightened me. The partition is very thin between these two rooms, and I was afraid she had heard me ask Arthur for the grey mare and cutter. I could hear her rattling the bottles in the medicine cabinet hanging on this very wall. Looking back at Arthur, I asked him how long Adelaide had been there. He said, ‘For some time.’ This sent me flying from the room. I would join her, and find out if she had heard. But I was too late. As I stepped into the hall I saw her disappearing round the corner leading to her own room. This convinced me that she had heard nothing, and, light of heart once more, I went back to my own room, where I collected such little articles as I needed for the expedition before me.

“I had hardly done this when I heard the servants on the walk outside, then Arthur going down. The impulse to see and speak to him again was irresistible. I flew after him and caught him in the lower hall. ‘Arthur,’ I cried, ‘look at me, look at me well, and then—kiss me!’ And he did kiss me—I’m glad when I think of it, though he did say, next minute: ‘What is the matter with you? What are you going to do? To meet that villain?’

“I looked straight into his face. I waited till I saw I had his whole attention; then I said, as slowly and emphatically as I could: ‘If you mean Elwood—no! I shall never meet him again, except in Adelaide’s presence. He will not want to meet me. You may be at ease about that. To-morrow all will be well, and Adelaide very happy,’

“He shrugged his shoulders, and reached for his coat and hat. As he was putting them on, I said, ‘Don’t forget to harness up Jenny.’ Jenny is the grey mare. ‘And leave off the bells,’ I urged. ‘I don’t want Adelaide to hear me go out.’

“He swung about at this. ‘You and Adelaide are not very good friends it seems.’ ‘As good as you and she are,’ I answered. Then I flung my arms about him. ‘Don’t go down street to-night,’ I prayed. ‘Stay home for this one night. Stay in the house with Adelaide; stay till I come home.’ He stared, and I saw his colour change. Then he flung me off, but not rudely. ‘Why don’t you stay?’ he asked. Then he laughed, and added, ‘I’ll go harness the mare.’

“‘The key’s in the kitchen,’ I said. ‘I’ll go get it for you. I heard Zadok bring it in.’ He did not answer, and I went for the key. I found two on the nail, and I brought them both; but I only handed him one, the key to the stable-door. ‘Which way are you going?’ I asked, as he looked at the key, then back towards the kitchen. ‘The short way, of course,’ ‘Then here’s the key to the Fulton grounds,’

“As he took the key, I prayed again, ‘Don’t do what’s in your mind, Arthur. Don’t drink to-night. He only laughed, and I said my last word: ‘If you do, it will be for the last time. You’ll never drink again after to-morrow.’

“He made no answer to this, and I went slowly upstairs. Everything was quiet—quiet as death—in the whole house. If Adelaide had heard us, she made no sign. Going to my own room, I waited until I heard Arthur come out of the stable and go away by the door in the rear wall. Then I stole out again. I carried a small bag with me, but no coat or hat.

“Pausing and listening again and again, I crept downstairs and halted at the table under the rack. The keys were still there. Putting them in my bag, I searched the rack for one of my brother’s warm coats. But I took none I saw. I remembered an old one which Adelaide had put away in the closet under the stairs. Getting this, I put it on, and, finding a hat there too, I took that also; and when I had pulled it over my forehead and drawn up the collar of the coat, I was quite unrecognisable. I was going out, when I remembered there would be no light in the club-house. I had put a box of matches in my bag while I was upstairs, but I needed a candle. Slipping back, I took a candlestick and candle from the dining-room mantel, and finding that the bag would not hold them, thrust them into the pocket of the coat I wore, and quickly left the house. Jenny was in the stable, all harnessed; and hesitating no longer, I got in among the bear-skins and drove swiftly away.”

There was a moment’s silence. Carmel had paused, and was sitting with her hand on her heart, looking past judge, past jury, upon the lonely and desolate scene in which she at this moment moved and suffered. An inexpressible fatality had entered into her tones, always rich and resonant with feeling. No one who listened could fail to share the dread by which she was moved.

District Attorney Fox fumbled with his papers, and endeavoured to maintain his equanimity and show an indifference which his stern but fascinated glances at the youthful witness amply belied. He was biding his time, but biding it in decided perturbation of mind. Neither he nor any one else, unless it were Moffat, could tell whither this tale tended. While she held the straight course which had probably been laid out for her, he failed to object; but he could not prevent the subtle influence of her voice, her manner, and her supreme beauty on the entranced jury. Nevertheless, his pencil was busy; he was still sufficiently master of himself for that.

Mr. Moffat, quite aware of the effect which was being produced on every side, but equally careful to make no show of it, put in a commonplace question at this point, possibly to rouse the witness from her own abstraction, possibly to restore the judicial tone of the inquiry.

“How did you leave the stable-door?”

“Open.”

“Can you tell us what time it was when you started?”

“No. I did not look. Time meant nothing to me. I drove as fast as I could, straight down the hill, and out towards The Whispering Pines. I had seen Adelaide in her window as I went flying by the house, but not a soul on the road, nor a sign of life, near or far. The whistle of a train blew as I stopped in the thicket near the club-house door. If it was the express train, you can tell—”

“Never mind the if” said Mr. Moffat. “It is enough that you heard the whistle. Go on with what you did.”

“I tied up my horse; then I went into the house. I had used Mr. Ranelagh’s key to open the door and for some reason I took it out of the lock when I got in, and put the whole bunch back into my satchel. But I did not lock the door. Then I lit my candle and then—I went upstairs.”

Fainter and fainter the words fell, and slower and slower heaved the youthful breast under her heavily pressing palm. Mr. Moffat made a sign across the court-room, and I saw Dr. Carpenter get up and move nearer to the witness stand. But she stood in no need of his help. In an instant her cheek flushed; the eye I watched with such intensity of wonder that apprehension unconsciously left me, rose, glowed, and fixed itself at last—not on the judge, not on the prisoner, not even on that prisoner’s counsel—but on me; and as the soft light filled my soul and awoke awe, where it had hitherto awakened passion, she quietly said:

“There is a room upstairs, in the club-house, where I have often been with Adelaide. It has a fireplace in it, and I had seen a box there, half filled with wood the day before. This is the room I went to, and here I built a fire. When it was quite bright, I took out something I had brought in my satchel, and thrust it into the flame. Then I got up and walked away. I—I did not feel very strong, and sank on my knees when I got to the couch, and buried my face in my arms. But I felt better when I came back to the fire again, and very brave till I caught a glimpse of my face in the mirror over the mantelpiece. That—that unnerved me, and I think I screamed. Some one screamed, and I think it was I. I know my hands went out—I saw them in the glass; then they fell straight down at my side, and I looked and looked at myself till I saw all the terror go out of my face, and when it was quite calm again, I stooped down and pulled out the little tongs I had been heating in the fire, and laid them quick—quick, before I could be sorry again—right across my cheek, and then—”

Uproar in the court. If she had screamed when she said she did, so some one cried out loudly now. I think that pitiful person was myself. They say I had been standing straight up in my place for the last two minutes.

XXX “CHOOSE”

Romeo and Juliet

“I have not finished,” were the first words we heard, when order was restored, and we were all in a condition to listen again.

“I had to relate what you have just heard, that you might understand what happened next. I was not used to pain, and I could never have kept on pressing those irons to my cheek if I had not had the strength given me by my own reflection in the glass. When I thought the burn was quite deep enough, I tore the tongs away, and was lifting them to the other cheek when I saw the door behind me open, inch by inch, as though pushed by hesitating touches.

“Instantly, I forgot my pain, almost my purpose, watching that door. I saw it slowly swing to its full width, and disclose my sister standing in the gap, with a look and in an attitude which terrified me more than the fire had done. Dropping the tongs, I turned and faced her, covering my cheek instinctively with my hand.

“I saw her eyes run over my elaborate dinner dress—my little hand-bag, and the candle burning in a room made warm with a fire on the hearth. This, before she spoke a single word. Then, with a deep labouring breath, she looked me in the eye again, with the simple question:

“‘And where is he?’”

Carmel’s head had drooped at this, but she raised it almost instantly. Mine did not rise so readily.

“‘Do you mean Elwood?’ I asked. ‘You know!’ said she. ‘The veil is down between us, Carmel; we will speak plainly now. I saw him give you the letter. I heard you ask Arthur to harness up the horse. I have demeaned myself to follow you, and we will have no subterfuges now. You expect him here?’

“‘No,’ I cried. ‘I am not so bad as that, Adelaide—nor is he. Here is the note. You will see by it what he expects, and at what place I should have joined him, if I had been the selfish creature you think,’ I had the note hidden in my breast. I took it out, and held it towards her. I did not feel the burn at all, but I kept it covered. She glanced down at the words; and I felt like falling at her feet, she looked so miserable. I am told that I must keep to fact, and must not express my feelings, or those of others. I will try to remember this; but it is hard for a sister, relating such a frightful scene.

“She glanced down at the paper and let it drop, almost immediately, from her hand, ‘I cannot read his words!’ she cried; ‘I do not need to; we both know which of us he loves best. You cannot say that it is I, his engaged wife.’ I was silent, and her face took on an awful pallor. ‘Carmel,’ said she, ‘do you know what this man’s love has been to me? You are a child, a warm-hearted and passionate child; but you do not know a woman’s heart. Certainly, you do not know mine. I doubt if any one does—even he. Cares have warped my life. I do not quarrel with these cares; I only say that they have robbed me of what makes girlhood lovely. Duty is a stern task-master; and sternness, coming early into one’s life, hardens its edges, but does not sap passion from the soul or devotion from the heart. I was ready for joy when it came, but I was no longer capable of bestowing it. I thought I was, but I soon saw my mistake. You showed it to me—you with your beauty, your freshness, your warm and untried heart. I have no charms to rival these; I have only love, such love as you cannot dream of at your age. And this is no longer desirable to him!’

“You see that I remember every word she spoke. They burned more fiercely than the iron. That did not burn at all, just then. I was cold instead—bitterly, awfully cold. My very heart seemed frozen, and the silence was dreadful. But I could not speak, I could not answer her.

“‘You have everything,’ she now went on. ‘Why did you rob me of my one happiness? And you have robbed me. I have seen your smile when his head turned your way. It was the smile which runs before a promise. I know it; I have had that smile in my heart a long, long time—but it never reached my lips. Carmel, do you know why I am here?’ I shook my head. Was it her teeth that were chattering or mine? ‘I am here to end it all,’ said she. ‘With my hope gone, my heart laid waste, life has no prospect for me. I believe in God, and I know that my act is sinful; but I can no more live than can a tree stricken at the root. To-morrow he will not need to write notes; he can come and comfort you in our home. But never let him look at me. As we are sisters, and I almost a mother to you, shut my face away from his eyes—or I shall rise in my casket and the tangle of our lives will be renewed.’

“I tell you this—I bare my sister’s broken heart to you, giving you her very words, sacred as they are to me and—and to others, who are present, and must listen to all I say—because it is right that you should understand her frenzy, and know all that passed between us in that awful hour.”

This was irregular, highly irregular—but District Attorney Fox sat on, unmoved. Possibly he feared to prejudice the jury; possibly he recognised the danger of an interruption now, not only to the continuity of her testimony, but to the witness herself; or—what is just as likely—possibly he cherished a hope that, in giving her a free rein and allowing her to tell her story thus artlessly, she would herself supply the clew he needed to reconstruct his case on the new lines upon which it was being slowly forced by these unexpected revelations. Whatever the cause, he let these expressions of feeling pass.

At a gesture from Mr. Moffat, Carmel proceeded:

“I tottered at this threat; and she, a mother to me from my cradle, started instinctively to catch me; but the feeling left her before she had taken two steps, and she stopped still. ‘Drop your hand,’ she cried. ‘I want to see your whole face while I ask you one last question. I could not read the note. Why did you come here? I dropped my hand, and she stood staring; then she uttered a cry and ran quickly towards me. ‘What is it?’ she cried. ‘What has happened to you? Is it the shadow or—’

“I caught her by the hand. I could speak now. ‘Adelaide,’ said I, ‘you are not the only one to love to the point of hurt. I love you. Let this little scar be witness,’ Then, as her eyes opened and she staggered, I caught her to my breast and hid my face on her shoulder. ‘You say that to-morrow I shall be free to receive notes. He will not wish to write them, tomorrow. The beauty he liked is gone. If it weighed overmuch with him, then you and I are on a plane again—or I am on an inferior one. Your joy will be sweeter for this break!’

“She started, raised my head from her shoulder, looked at me and shuddered—but no longer with hate. ‘Carmel!’ she whispered, ‘the story—the story I read you of Francis the First and—’

“‘Yes,’ I agreed, ‘that made me think,’ Her knees bent under her; she sank at my feet, but her eyes never left my face. ‘And—and Elwood?’ ‘He knows nothing. I did not make up my mind till to-night. Adelaide, it had to be. I hadn’t the strength to—to leave you all, or—or to say no, if he ever asked me to my face what he asked me in that note,’

“And then I tried to lift her; but she was kissing my feet, kissing my dress, sobbing out her life on my hands. Oh, I was happy! My future looked very simple to me. But my cheek began to burn, and instinctively I put up my hand. This brought her to her feet. ‘You are suffering,’ she cried. ‘You must go home, at once, at once, while I telephone to Dr. Carpenter,’ ‘We will go together,’ I said. ‘We can telephone from there.’ But at this, the awful look came back into her face, and seeing her forget my hurt, I forgot it, too, in dread of what she would say when she found strength to speak.

“It was worse than anything I had imagined; she refused absolutely to go back home. ‘Carmel,’ said she, ‘I have done injustice to your youth. You love him, too—not like a child but a woman. The tangle is worse than I thought; your heart is caught in it, as well as mine, and you shall have your chance. My death will give it to you.’ I shook my head, pointing to my cheek. She shook hers, and quietly, calmly said, ‘You have never looked so beautiful. Should we go back together and take up the old life, the struggle which has undermined my conscience and my whole existence would only begin again. I cannot face that ordeal, Carmel. The morning light would bring me daily torture, the evening dusk a night of blasting dreams. We three cannot live in this world together. I am the least loved and so I should be the one to die. I am determined, Carmel. Life, with me, has come to this.’

“I tried to dissuade her. I urged every plea, even that of my own sacrifice. But she was no more her natural self. She had taken up the note and read it during my entreaties, and my words fell on deaf ears. ‘Why, these words have killed me,’ she cried crumpling the note in her hand. ‘What will a little poison do? It can only finish what he has begun.’

“Poison! I remembered how I had heard her pushing about bottles in the medicine cabinet, and felt my legs grow weak and my head swim. ‘You will not!’ I cried, watching her hand, in terror of seeing it rise to her breast. ‘You are crazed to-night; to-morrow you will feel differently.’

“But the fixed set look of her bleak face gave me no hope. ‘I shall never feel differently. If I do not end it to-night, I shall do so soon. When a heart like mine goes down, it goes down forever,’ I could only shudder. I did not know what to do, or which way to turn. She stood between me and the door, and her presence was terrible. ‘When I came here,’ she said, ‘I brought a bottle of cordial with me and three glasses. I brought a little phial of poison too, once ordered for sickness. I expected to find Elwood here. If I had, I meant to drop the poison into one glass, and then fill them all up with the cordial. We should have drunk, each one of us his glass, and one of us would have fallen. I did not care which, you or Elwood or myself. But he is not here, and the cast of the die is between us two, unless you wish a certainty, Carmel,—in which case I will pour out but one glass and drink that myself.’

“She was in a fever, now, and desperate. Death was in the room; I felt it in my lifted hair, and in her strangely drawn face. If I screamed, who would hear me? I never thought of the telephone, and I doubt if she would have let me use it then. The power she had always exerted over me was very strong in her at this moment; and not till afterwards did it cross my mind that I had never asked her how she got to the house, or whether we were as much alone in the building as I believed.

“‘Shall I drink alone?’ she repeated, and I cried out ‘No’; at which her hand went to her breast, as I had so long expected, and I saw the glitter of a little phial as she drew it forth.

“‘Oh, Adelaide!’ I began; but she heeded me no more than the dead.

“On leaving home, she had put on a long coat with pockets and this coat was still on her, and the pockets gaping. Thrusting her other hand into one of these, she drew out a little flask covered with wicker, and set it on a stand beside her. Then she pulled out two small glasses, and set them down also, and then she turned her back. I could hear the drop, drop of the liquor; and, dark as the room was, it seemed to turn darker, till I put out my hands like one groping in a sudden night. But everything cleared before me when she turned around again. Features set like hers force themselves to be seen.

“She advanced, a glass in either hand. As she came, the floor swayed, and the walls seemed to bow together; but they did not sway her. Step by step, she drew near, and when she reached my side she smiled in my face once. Then she said: ‘Choose aright, dear heart. Leave the poisoned one for me.’

“Fascinated, I stared at one glass, then at the other. Had either of her hands trembled, I should have grasped at the glass it held; but not a tremor shook those icy fingers, nor did her eyes wander to the right hand or to the left. ‘Adelaide!’ I shrieked out. ‘Toss them behind you. Let us live—live!’ But she only reiterated that awful word: ‘Choose!’ and I dare not hesitate longer, lest I lose my chance to save her. Groping, I touched a glass—I never knew which one—and drawing it from her fingers, I lifted it to my mouth. Instantly her other hand rose. ‘I don’t know which is which, myself,’ she said, and drank. That made me drink, also.

“The two glasses sent out a clicking sound as we set them back on the stand. Then we waited, looking at each other. ‘Which?’ her lips seemed to say. ‘Which?’ In another moment we knew. ‘Your choice was the right one,’ said she, and she sank back into a chair. ‘Don’t leave me!’ she called out, for I was about to run shrieking out into the night. ‘I—I am happy now that it is all settled; but I do not want to die alone. Oh, how hot I am!’ And leaping up, she flung off her coat, and went gasping about the room for air. When she sank down again, it was on the lounge; and again I tried to fly for help, and again she would not let me. Suddenly she started up, and I saw a great change in her. The heavy, leaden look was gone; tenderness had come back to her eyes, and a human anxious expression to her whole face. ‘I have been mad!’ she cried. ‘Carmel, Carmel, what have I done to you, my more than sister—my child, my child!’

“I tried to soothe her—to keep down my awful fear and soothe her. But the nearness of death had calmed her poor heart into its old love and habitual thoughtfulness. She was terrified at my position. She recalled our mother, and the oath she had taken at that mother’s death-bed to protect me and care for me and my brother. ‘And I have failed to do either,’ she cried. ‘Arthur, I have alienated, and you I am leaving to unknown trouble and danger,’

“She was not to be comforted. I saw her life ebbing and could do nothing. She clung to me while she called up all her powers, and made plans for me and showed me a way of escape. I was to burn the note, fling two of the glasses from the window and leave the other and the deadly phial near her hand. This, before I left the room. Then I was to call up the police and say there was something wrong at the club-house, but I was not to give my name or ever acknowledge I was there. ‘Nothing can save trouble,’ she said, ‘but that trouble must not come near you. Swear that you will heed my words—swear that you will do what I say,’

“I swore. All that she asked I promised. I was almost dying, too; and had the light gone out and the rafters of the house fallen in and buried us both, it would have been better. But the light burned on, and the life in her eyes faded out, and the hands grasping mine relaxed. I heard one little gasp; then a low prayer: ‘Tell Arthur never—never—again to—’ Then—silence!”

Sobs—cries—veiled faces—then silence in the courtroom, too. It was broken but by one sound, a heartrending sigh from the prisoner. But nobody looked at him, and thank God!—nobody looked at me. Every eye was on the face of this young girl, whose story bore such an impress of truth, and yet was so contradictory of all former evidence. What revelations were yet to follow. It would seem that she was speaking of her sister’s death.

But her sister had not died that way; her sister had been strangled. Could this dainty creature, with beauty scarred and yet powerfully triumphant, be the victim of an hallucination as to the cause of that scar and the awesome circumstances which attended its infliction? Or, harder still to believe, were these soul-compelling tones, these evidences of grief, this pathetic yielding to the rights of the law in face of the heart’s natural shrinking from disclosures sacred as they were tragic—were these the medium by which she sought to mislead justice and to conceal truth?

Even I, with my memory of her looks as she faltered down the staircase on that memorable night—pale, staring, her left hand to her cheek and rocking from side to side in pain or terror—could not but ask if this heart-rending story did not involve a still more terrible sequel. I searched her face, and racked my very soul, in my effort to discern what lay beneath this angelic surface—beneath this recital which if it were true and the whole truth, would call not only for the devotion of a lifetime, but a respect transcending love and elevating it to worship.

But, in her cold and quiet features, I could detect nothing beyond the melancholy of grief; and the suspense from which all suffered, kept me also on the rack, until at a question from Mr. Moffat she spoke again, and we heard her say:

“Yes, she died that way, with her hands in mine. There was no one else by; we were quite alone.”

That settled it, and for a moment the revulsion of feeling threatened to throw the court into tumult. But one thing restrained them. Not the look of astonishment on her face, not the startled uplift of Arthur’s head, not the quiet complacency which in an instant replaced the defeated aspect of the district attorney; but the gesture and attitude of Mr. Moffat, the man who had put her on the stand, and who now from the very force of his personality, kept the storm in abeyance, and by his own composure, forced back attention to his witness and to his own confidence in his case. This result reached, he turned again towards Carmel, with renewed respect in his manner and a marked softening in his aspect and voice.

“Can you fix the hour of this occurrence?” he asked. “In any way can you locate the time?”

“No; for I did not move at once. I felt tied to that couch; I am very young, and I had never seen death before. When I did get up, I hobbled like an old woman and almost went distracted; but came to myself as I saw the note on the floor—the note I was told to burn. Lifting it, I moved towards the fireplace, but got a fright on the way, and stopped in the middle of the floor and looked back. I thought I had heard my sister speak!

“But the fancy passed as I saw how still she lay, and I went on, after a while, and threw the note into the one small flame which was all that was left of the fire. I saw it caught by a draught from the door behind me, and go flaming up the chimney.

“Some of my trouble seemed to go with it, but a great one yet remained. I didn’t know how I could ever turn around again and see my sister lying there behind me, with her face fixed in death, for which I was, in a way, responsible. I was abjectly frightened, and knelt there a long time, praying and shuddering, before I could rise again to my feet and move about as I had to, since God had not stricken me and I must live my life and do what my sister had bidden me. Courage—such courage as I had had—was all gone from me now; and while I knew there was something else for me to do before I left the room, I could not remember what it was, and stood hesitating, dreading to lift my eyes and yet feeling that I ought to, if only to aid my memory by a look at my sister’s face.

“Suddenly I did look up, but it did not aid my memory; and, realising that I could never think with that lifeless figure before me, I lifted a pillow from the window-seat near by and covered her face. I must have done more; I must have covered the whole lounge with pillows and cushions; for, presently my mind cleared again, and I recollected that it was something about the poison. I was to put the phial in her hand—or was I to throw it from the window? Something was to be thrown from the window—it must be the phial. But I couldn’t lift the window, so having found the phial standing on the table beside the little flask, I carried it into the closet where there was a window opening inward, and I dropped it out of that, and thought I had done all. But when I came back and saw Adelaide’s coat lying in a heap where she had thrown it, I recalled that she had said something about this but what, I didn’t know. So I lifted it and put it in the closet—why, I cannot say. Then I set my mind on going home.

“But there was something to do first—something not in that room. It was a long time before it came to me; then the sight of the empty hall recalled it. The door by which Adelaide had come in had never been closed, and as I went towards it I remembered the telephone, and that I was to call up the police. Lifting the candle, I went creeping towards the front hall. Adelaide had commanded me, or I could never have accomplished this task. I had to open a door; and when it swung to behind me and latched, I turned around and looked at it, as if I never expected it to open again. I almost think I fainted, if one can faint standing, for when I knew anything, after the appalling latching of that door, I was in quite another part of the room and the candle which I still held, looked to my dazed eyes shorter than when I started with it from the place where my sister lay.

“I was wasting time. The thought drove me to the table. I caught up the receiver and when central answered, I said something about The Whispering Pines and wanting help. This is all I remember about that.

“Some time afterward—I don’t know when—I was stumbling down the stairs on my way out. I had gone to—to the room again for my little bag; for the keys were in it, and I dared not leave them. But I didn’t stay a minute, and I cast but one glance at the lounge. What happened afterward is like a dream to me. I found the horse; the horse found the road; and some time later I reached home. As I came within sight of the house I grew suddenly strong again. The open stable door reminded me of my duty, and driving in, I quickly unharnessed Jenny and put her away. Then I dragged the cutter into place, and hung up the harness. Lastly, I locked the door and carried the key with me into the house and hung it up on its usual nail in the kitchen. I had obeyed Adelaide, and now I would go to my room. That is what she would wish; but I don’t know whether I did this or not. My mind was full of Adelaide till confusion came—then darkness—and then a perfect blank.”

She had finished; she had done as she had been asked; she had told the story of that evening as she knew it, from the family dinner till her return home after midnight—and the mystery of Adelaide’s death was as great as ever. Did she realise this? Had I wronged this lovely, tempestuous nature by suspicions which this story put to blush? I was happy to think so—madly, unreasonably happy. Whatever happened, whatever the future threatening Arthur or myself, it was rapture to be restored to right thinking as regards this captivating and youthful spirit, who had suffered and must suffer always—and all through me, who thought it a pleasant pastime to play with hearts, and awoke to find I was playing with souls, and those of the two noblest women I had ever known!

The cutting in of some half dozen questions from Mr. Moffat, which I scarcely heard and which did not at all affect the status of the case as it now stood, served to cool down the emotional element, which had almost superseded the judicial, in more minds than those of the jury; and having thus prepared his witness for an examination at other and less careful hands, he testified his satisfaction at her replies, and turned her over to the prosecution, with the time-worn phrase:

“Mr. District Attorney, the witness is yours.”

Mr. Fox at once arose; the moment was ripe for conquest. He put his most vital question first:

“In all this interview with your sister, did you remark any discoloration on her throat?”

The witness’s lips opened; surprise spoke from her every feature. “Discoloration?” she repeated. “I do not know what you mean.”

“Any marks darker than the rest of her skin on her throat or neck?”

“No. Adelaide had a spotless skin. It looked like marble as she lay there. No, I saw no marks.”

“Miss Cumberland, have you heard or read a full account of this trial?”

She was trembling, now. Was it from fear of the truth, or under that terror of the unknown embodied in this question.

“I do not know,” said she. “What I heard was from my nurse and Mr. Moffat. I read very little, and that was only about the first days of the trial and the swearing in of jurors. This is the first time I have heard any mention made of marks, and I do not understand yet what you allude to.”

District Attorney Fox cast at Mr. Moffat an eloquent glance, which that gentleman bore unmoved; then turning back to the witness, he addressed her in milder and more considerate tones than were usually heard from him in cross-examination, and asked: “Did you hold your sister’s hands all the time she lay dying, as you thought, on the lounge?”

“Yes, yes.”

“And did not see her raise them once?”

“No, no.”

“How was it when you let go of them? Where did they fall then?”

“On her breast. I laid them down softly and crossed them. I did not leave her till I had done this and closed her eyes.”

“And what did you do then?”

“I went for the note, to burn it.”

“Miss Cumberland, in your direct examination, you said that you stopped still as you crossed the floor at the time, thinking that your sister called, and that you looked back at her to see.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Were her hands crossed then?”

“Yes, sir, just the same.”

“And afterward, when you came from the fire after waiting some little time for courage?”

“Yes, yes. There were no signs of movement. Oh, she was dead—quite dead.”

“No statements, Miss Cumberland. She looked the same, and you saw no change in the position of her hands?”

“None; they were just as I left them.”

“Miss Cumberland, you have told us how, immediately after taking the poison, she staggered about the room, and sank first on a chair and then on the lounge. Were you watching her then?”

“Oh, yes—every moment.”

“Her hands as well as her face?”

“I don’t know about her hands. I should have observed it if she had done anything strange with them.”

“Can you say she did not clutch or grip her throat during any of this time?”

“Yes, yes. I couldn’t have forgotten it, if she had done that. I remember every move she made so well. She didn’t do that.”

Mr. Fox’s eye stole towards the jury. To a man, they were alert, anxious for the next question, and serious, as the arbitrators of a man’s life ought to be.

Satisfied, he put the question: “When, after telephoning, you returned to the room where your sister lay, you glanced at the lounge?”

“Yes, I could not help it.”

“Was it in the same condition as when you left—the pillows, I mean?”

“I—I think so. I cannot say; I only half looked; I was terrified by it.”

“Can you say they had not been disturbed?”

“No. I can say nothing. But what does—”

“Only the answer, Miss Cumberland. Can you tell us how those pillows were arranged?”

“I’m afraid not. I threw them down quickly, madly, just as I collected them. I only know that I put the window cushion down first. The rest fell anyhow; but they quite covered her—quite.”

“Hands and face?”

“Her whole body.”

“And did they cover her quite when you came back?”

“They must have—Wait—wait! I know I have no right to say that, but I cannot swear that I saw any change.”

“Can you swear that there was no change—that the pillows and the window cushion lay just as they did when you left the room?”

She did not answer. Horror seemed to have seized hold of her. Her eyes, fixed on the attorney’s face, wavered and, had they followed their natural impulse, would have turned towards her brother, but her fear—possibly her love—was her counsellor and she brought them back to Mr. Fox. Resolutely, but with a shuddering insight of the importance of her reply, she answered with that one weighty monosyllable which can crush so many hopes, and even wreck a life:

“No.”

At the next moment she was in Dr. Carpenter’s arms. Her strength had given way for the time, and the court was hastily adjourned, to give her opportunity for rest and recuperation.

XXXI “WERE HER HANDS CROSSED THEN?”

Macbeth.

I shall say nothing about myself at this juncture. That will come later. I have something of quite different purport to relate.

When I left the court-room with the other witnesses, I noticed a man standing near the district attorney. He was a very plain man—with no especial claims to attention, that I could see, yet I looked at him longer than I did at any one else, and turned and looked at him again as I passed through the doorway.

Afterward I heard that he was Sweetwater, the detective from New York who had had so much to do in unearthing the testimony against Arthur,—testimony which in the light of this morning’s revelations, had taken on quite a new aspect, as he was doubtless the first to acknowledge. It was the curious blending of professional disappointment and a personal and characteristic appreciation of the surprising situation, which made me observe him, I suppose. Certainly my heart and mind were full enough not to waste looks on a commonplace stranger unless there had been some such overpowering reason.

I left him still talking to Mr. Fox, and later received this account of the interview which followed between them and Dr. Perry.

“Is this girl telling the truth?” asked District Attorney Fox, as soon as the three were closeted and each could speak his own mind. “Doctor, what do you think?”

“I do not question her veracity in the least. A woman who for purely moral reasons could defy pain and risk the loss of a beauty universally acknowledged as transcendent, would never stoop to falsehood even in her desire to save a brother’s life. I have every confidence in her. Fox, and I think you may safely have the same.”

“You believe that she burnt herself—intentionally?”

“I wouldn’t disbelieve it—you may think me sentimental; I knew and loved her father—for any fortune you might name.”

“Say that you never knew her father; say that you had no more interest in the girl or the case, than the jurors have? What then—-?

“I should believe her for humanity’s sake; for the sake of the happiness it gives one to find something true and strong in this sordid work-a-day world—a jewel in a dust-heap. Oh, I’m a sentimentalist, I acknowledge.”

Mr. Fox turned to Sweetwater. “And you?”

“Mr. Fox, have you those tongs?”

“Yes, I forgot; they were brought to my office, with the other exhibits. I attached no importance to them, and you will probably find them just where I thrust them into the box marked ‘Cumb.’”

They were in the district attorney’s office, and Sweetwater at once rose and brought forward the tongs.

“There is my answer,” he said pointing significantly at one of the legs.

The district attorney turned pale, and motioned Sweetwater to carry them back. He sat silent for a moment, and then showed that he was a man.

“Miss Cumberland has my respect,” said he.

Sweetwater came back to his place.

Dr. Perry waited.

Finally Mr. Fox turned to him and put the anticipated question:

“You are satisfied with your autopsy? Miss Cumberland’s death was due to strangulation and not to the poison she took?”

“That was what I swore to, and what I should have to swear to again if you placed me back on the stand. The poison, taken with her great excitement, robbed her of consciousness, but there was too little of it, or it was too old and weakened to cause death. She would probably have revived, in time; possibly did revive. But the clutch of those fingers was fatal; she could not survive it. It costs me more than you can ever understand to say this, but questions like yours must be answered. I should not be an honest man otherwise.”

Sweetwater made a movement. Mr. Fox turned and looked at him critically.

“Speak out,” said he.

But Sweetwater had nothing to say.

Neither had Dr. Perry. The oppression of an unsolved problem, involving lives of whose value each formed a different estimate, was upon them all; possibly heaviest upon the district attorney, the most serious portion of whose work lay still before him.

To the relief of all, Carmel was physically stronger than we expected when she came to retake the stand in the afternoon. But she had lost a little of her courage. Her expectation of clearing her brother at a word had left her, and with it the excitation of hope. Yet she made a noble picture as she sat there, meeting, without a blush, but with an air of sweet humility impossible to describe, the curious, all-devouring glances of the multitude, some of them anxious to repeat the experience of the morning; some of them new to the court, to her, and the cause for which she stood.

Mr. Fox kept nobody waiting. With a gentleness such as he seldom showed to any witness for the defence, he resumed his cross-examination by propounding the following question:

“Miss Cumberland, in your account of the final interview you had with your sister, you alluded to a story you had once read together. Will you tell us the name of this story?”

“It was called ‘A Legend of Francis the First.’ It was not a novel, but a little tale she found in some old magazine. It had a great effect upon us; I have never forgotten it.”

“Can you relate this tale to us in a few words?”

“I will try. It was very simple; it merely told how a young girl marred her beauty to escape the attentions of the great king, and what respect he always showed her after that, even calling her sister.”

Was the thrill in her voice or in my own heart, or in the story—emphasised as it was by her undeniable attempt upon her own beauty? As that last word fell so softly, yet with such tender suggestion, a sensation of sympathy passed between us for the first time; and I knew, from the purity of her look and the fearlessness of this covert appeal to one she could not address openly, that the doubts I had cherished of her up to this very moment were an outrage and that were it possible or seemly, I should be bowed down in the dust at her feet—in reality, as I was in spirit.

Others may have shared my feeling; for the glances which flew from her face to mine were laden with an appreciation of the situation, which for the moment drove the prisoner from the minds of all, and centred attention on this tragedy of souls, bared in so cruel a way to the curiosity of the crowd. I could not bear it. The triumph of my heart battled with the shame of my fault, and I might have been tempted into some act of manifest imprudence, if Mr. Fox had not cut my misery short by recalling attention to the witness, with a question of the most vital importance.

“While you were holding your sister’s hands in what you supposed to be her final moments, did you observe whether or not she still wore on her finger the curious ring given her by Mr. Ranelagh, and known as her engagement ring?”

“Yes—I not only saw it, but felt it. It was the only one she wore on her left hand.”

The district attorney paused. This was an admission unexpected, perhaps, by himself, which it was desirable to have sink into the minds of the jury. The ring had not been removed by Adelaide herself; it was still on her finger as the last hour drew nigh. An awful fact, if established—telling seriously against Arthur. Involuntarily I glanced his way. He was looking at me. The mutual glance struck fire. What I thought, he thought—but possibly with a difference. The moment was surcharged with emotion for all but the witness herself. She was calm; perhaps she did not understand the significance of the occasion.

Mr. Fox pressed his advantage.

“And when you rose from the lounge and crossed your sister’s hands?”

“It was still there; I put that hand uppermost.”

“And left the ring on?”

“Oh, yes—oh, yes.” Her whole attitude and face were full of protest.

“So that, to the best of your belief, it was still on your sister’s finger when you left the room?”

“Certainly, sir, certainly.”

There was alarm in her tone now, she was beginning to see that her testimony was not as entirely helpful to Arthur as she had been led to expect. In her helplessness, she cast a glance of entreaty at her brother’s counsel. But he was busily occupied with pencil and paper, and she received no encouragement unless it was from his studiously composed manner and general air of unconcern. She did not know—nor did I know then—what uneasiness such an air may cover.

Mr. Fox had followed her glances, and perhaps understood his adversary better than she did; for he drew himself up with an appearance of satisfaction as he asked very quietly:

“What material did you use in lighting the fire on the club-house hearth?”

“Wood from the box, and a little kindling I found there.”

“How large was this kindling?”

“Not very large; some few stray pieces of finer wood I picked out from she rest.”

“And how did you light these?”

“With some scraps of paper I brought in my bag?”

“Oh—you brought scraps?”

“Yes. I had seen the box, seen the wood, but knew the wood would not kindle without paper. So I brought some.”

“Did the fire light quickly?”

“Not very quickly.”

“You had trouble with it?”

“Yes, sir. But I made it burn at last.”

“Are you in the habit of kindling fires in your own home?”

“Yes, on the hearth.”

“You understand them?”

“I have always found it a very simple matter, if you have paper and enough kindling.”

“And the draught is good.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Wasn’t the draught good at the club-house?”

“Not at first.”

“Oh—not at first. When did you see a change?”

“When the note I was trying to burn flew up the chimney.”

“I see. Was that after or before the door opened?”

“After.”

“Did the opening of this door alter the temperature of the room?”

“I cannot say; I felt neither heat nor cold at any time.”

“Didn’t you feel the icy cold when you opened the dressing-closet window to throw out the phial?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Wouldn’t you remember if you had?”

“I cannot say.”

“Can you say whether you noticed any especial chill in the hall when you went out to telephone?”

“My teeth were chattering but—”

“Had they chattered before?”

“They may have. I only noticed it then; but—”

“The facts, Miss Cumberland. Your teeth chattered while you were passing through the hall. Did this keep up after you entered the room where you found the telephone?”

“I don’t remember; I was almost insensible.”

“You don’t remember that they did?”

“No, sir.”

“But you do remember having shut the door behind you?”

“Yes.”

An open window in the hall! That was what he was trying to prove—open at this time. From the expression of such faces of the jury as I could see, I think he had proved it. The next point he made was in the same line. Had she, in all the time she was in the building, heard any noises she could not account for?

“Yes, many times.”

“Can you describe these noises?”

“No; they were of all kinds. The pines sighed continually; I knew it was the pines, but I had to listen. Once I heard a rushing sound—it was when the pines stopped swaying for an instant—but I don’t know what it was. It was all very dreadful.”

“Was this rushing sound such as a window might make on being opened?”

“Possibly. I didn’t think of it at the time, but it might have been.”

“From what direction did it come?”

“Back of me, for I turned my head about.”

“Where were you at the time?”

“At the hearth. It was before Adelaide came in.”

“A near sound, or a far?”

“Far, but I cannot locate it—indeed, I cannot. I forgot it in a moment.”

“But you remember it now?”

“Yes.”

“And cannot you remember now any other noises than those you speak of? That time you stepped into the hall—when your teeth chattered, you know—did you hear nothing then but the sighing of the pines?”

She looked startled. Her hands went up and one of them clutched at her throat, then they fell, and slowly—carefully—like one feeling his way—she answered:

“I had forgotten. I did hear something—a sound in one of the doorways. It was very faint—a sigh—a—a—I don’t know what. It conveyed nothing to me then, and not much now. But you asked, and I have answered.”

“You have done right, Miss Cumberland. The jury ought to know these facts. Was it a human sigh?”

“It wasn’t the sigh of the pines.”

“And you heard it in one of the doorways? Which doorway?”

“The one opposite the room in which I left my sister.”

“The doorway to the large hall?”

“Yes, sir.”

Oh, the sinister memories! The moments which I myself had spent there—after this time of her passing through the hall, thank God!—but not long after. And some one had been there before me! Was it Arthur? I hardly had the courage to interrogate his face, but when I did, I, like every one else who looked that way, met nothing but the quietude of a fully composed man. There was nothing to be learned from him now; the hour for self-betrayal was past. I began to have a hideous doubt.

Carmel being innocent, who could be guilty but he. I knew of no one. The misery under which I had suffered was only lightened, not removed. We were still to see evil days. The prosecution would prove its case, and—But there was Mr. Moffat. I must not reckon without Moffat. He had sprung one surprise. Was he not capable of springing another? Relieved, I fixed my mind again upon the proceedings. What was Mr. Fox asking her now?

“Miss Cumberland, are you ready to swear that you did not hear a step at that time?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Or see a face?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That you only heard a sigh?”

“A sigh, or something like one.”

“Which made you stop—”

“No, I did not stop.”

“You went right on?”

“Immediately.”

“Entering the telephone room?”

“Yes.”

“The door of which you shut?”

“Yes.”

“Intentionally?”

“No, not intentionally.”

“Did you shut that door yourself?”

“I do not know. I must have but I—”

“Never mind explanations. You do not know whether you shut it, or whether some one else shut it?”

“I do not.”

The words fell weightily. They seemed to strike every heart.

“Miss Cumberland, you have said that you telephoned for the police.”

“I telephoned to central.”

“For help?”

“Yes, for help.”

“You were some minutes doing this, you say?”

“I have reason to think so, but I don’t know definitely. The candle seemed shorter when I went out than when I came in.”

“Are you sure you telephoned for help?”

“Help was what I wanted—help for my sister. I do not remember my words.”

“And then you left the building?”

“After going for my little bag.”

“Did you see any one then?”

“No, sir.”

“Hear any one?”

“No, sir.”

“Did you see your sister again?”

“I have said that I just glanced at the couch.”

“Were the pillows there?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Just as you had left them?”

“I have said that I could not tell.”

“Wouldn’t you know if they had been disturbed?”

“No, sir—not from the look I gave them.”

“Then they might have been disturbed—might even have been rearranged—-without your knowing it?”

“They might.”

“Miss Cumberland, when you left the building, did you leave it alone?”

“I did.”

“Was the moon shining?”

“No, it was snowing.”

“Did the moon shine when you went to throw the phial out of the window?”

“Yes, very brightly.”

“Bright enough for you to see the links?”

“I didn’t look at the links.”

“Where were you looking?”

“Behind me.”

“When you threw the phial out?”

“Yes.”

“What was there behind you?”

“A dead sister.” Oh, the indescribable tone!

“Nothing else?”

“No.”

“Forgive me, Miss Cumberland, I do not want to trouble you, but was there not something or some one in the adjoining room besides your dead sister, to make you look back?”

“I saw no one. But I looked back—I do not know why.”

“And didn’t you turn at all?”

“I do not think so.”

“You threw the phial out without looking?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know you threw it out?”

“I felt it slip from my hand.”

“Where?”

“Over the window ledge. I had pulled the window open before I turned my head. I had only to feel for the sill. When I touched its edge, I opened my fingers.”

Triumph for the defence. Cross-examination on this point had only served to elucidate a mysterious fact. The position of the phial, caught in the vines, was accounted for in a very natural manner.

Mr. Fox shifted his inquiries.

“You have said that you wore a hat and coat of your brother’s in coming to the club-house? Did you keep these articles on?”

“No; I left them in the lower hall.”

“Where in the lower hall?”

“On the rack there.”

“Was your candle lit?”

“Not then, sir.”

“Yet you found the rack?”

“I felt for it. I knew where it was.”

“When did you light the candle?”

“After I hung up the coat.”

“And when you came down? Did you have the candle then?”

“Yes, for a while. But I didn’t have any light when I went for the coat and hat. I remember feeling all along the wall. I don’t know what I did with the candlestick or the candle. I had them on the stairs; I didn’t have them when I put on the coat and hat.”

I knew what she did with them. She flung them out of her hand upon the marble floor. Should I ever forget the darkness swallowing up that face of mental horror and physical suffering.

“Miss Cumberland, you are sure about having telephoned for help, and that you mentioned The Whispering Pines in doing so?”

“Quite sure.” Oh, what weariness was creeping into her voice!

“Then, of course, you left the door unlocked when you went out of the building?”

“No—no, I didn’t. I had the key and I locked it. But I didn’t realise this till I went to untie my horse; then I found the keys in my hand. But I didn’t go back.”

“Do you mean that you didn’t know you locked the door?”

“I don’t remember whether I knew or not at the time. I do remember being surprised and a little frightened when I saw the keys. But I didn’t go back.”

“Yet you had telephoned for the police?”

“Yes.”

“And then locked them out?”

“I didn’t care—I didn’t care.”

An infinite number of questions followed. The poor child was near fainting, but bore up wonderfully notwithstanding, contradicting herself but seldom; and then only from lack of understanding the question, or from sheer fatigue. Mr. Fox was considerate, and Mr. Moffat interrupted but seldom. All could see that this noble-hearted girl, this heroine of all hearts was trying to tell the truth, and sympathy was with her, even that of the prosecution. But certain facts had to be brought out, among them the blowing off of her hat on that hurried drive home through the ever thickening snow-storm—a fact easily accounted for, when one considered the thick coils of hair over which it had been drawn.

The circumstances connected with her arrival at the house were all carefully sifted, but nothing new came up, nor was her credibility as a witness shaken. The prosecution had lost much by this witness, but it had also gained. No doubt now remained that the ring was still on the victim’s hand when she succumbed to the effects of the poison; and the possibility of another presence in the house during the fateful interview just recorded, had been strengthened, rather than lessened, by Carmel’ s hesitating admissions. And so the question hung poised, and I was expecting to see her dismissed from the stand, when the district attorney settled himself again into his accustomed attitude of inquiry, and launched this new question:

“When you went into the stable to unharness your horse, what did you do with the little bag you carried?”

“I took it out of the cutter.”

“What, then?”

“Set it down somewhere.”

“Was there anything in the bag?”

“Not now. I had left the tongs at the club-house, and the paper I had burned. I took nothing else.”

“How about the candlestick?”

“That I carried in one of the pockets of my coat. That I left, too.”

“Was that all you carried in your pockets?”

“Yes—the candlestick and the candle. The candlestick on one side and the candle on the other.”

“And these you did not have on your return?”

“No, I left both.”

“So that your pockets were empty—entirely empty—when you drove into your own gate?”

“Yes, sir, so far as I know. I never looked into them.”

“And felt nothing there?”

“No, sir.”

“Took nothing out?”

“No, sir.”

“Then or when you unharnessed your horse, or afterward, as you passed back to the house?”

“No, sir.”

“What path did you take in returning to the house?”

“There is only one.”

“Did you walk straight through it?”

“As straight as I could. It was snowing heavily, and I was dizzy and felt strange, I may have zigzagged a little.”

“Did you zigzag enough to go back of the stable?”

“Oh, no.”

“You are sure that you did not wander in back of the stable?”

“As sure as I can be of anything.”

“Miss Cumberland, I have but a few more questions to ask. Will you look at this portion of a broken bottle?”

“I see it, sir.”

“Will you take it in your hand and examine it carefully?”

She reached out her hand; it was trembling visibly and her face expressed a deep distress, but she took the piece of broken bottle and looked at it before passing it back.

“Miss Cumberland, did you ever see that bit of broken glass before?”

She shook her head. Then she cast a quick look at her brother, and seemed to gain an instantaneous courage.

“No,” said she. “I may have seen a whole bottle like that, at some time in the club-house, but I have no memory of this broken end—none at all.”

“I am obliged to you, Miss Cumberland. I will trouble you no more to-day.”

Then he threw up his head and smiled a slow, sarcastic smile at Mr. Moffat.

XXXII AND I HAD SAID NOTHING!

Othello.

I had always loved her; that I knew even in the hour of my darkest suspicion—but now I felt free to worship her. As the thought penetrated my whole being, it made the night gladsome. Whatever awaited her, whatever awaited Arthur, whatever awaited me, she had regenerated me. A change took place that night in my whole nature, in my aspect of life and my view of women. One fact rode triumphant above all other considerations and possible distresses. Fate—I was more inclined now to call it Providence—had shown me the heart of a great and true woman; and I was free to expend all my best impulses in honouring her and loving her, whether she ever looked my way again, received or even acknowledged a homage growing out of such wrong as I had done her and her unfortunate sister. It set a star in my firmament. It turned down all the ill-written and besmirched leaves in my book of life and opened up a new page on which her name, written in letters of gold, demanded clean work in the future and a record which should not shame the aura surrounding that pure name. Sorrow for the past, dread of the future—both were lost in the glad rebound of my distracted soul. The night was dedicated to joy, and to joy alone.

The next day being Sunday, I had ample time for the reaction bound to follow hours of such exaltation. I had no wish for company. I even denied myself to Clifton. The sight of a human face was more than I could bear unless it were the one face; and that I could not hope for. But the desire to see her, to hear from her—if only to learn how she had endured the bitter ordeal of the day before—soon became unbearable. I must know this much at any cost to her feelings or to mine.

After many a struggle with myself, I called up Dr. Carpenter on the telephone. From him I learned that she was physically prostrated, but still clear in mind and satisfied of her brother’s innocence. This latter statement might mean anything; but imparted by him to me, it seemed to be capable of but one interpretation. I must be prepared for whatever distrust of myself this confidence carried with it.

This was intolerable. I had to speak; I had to inquire if she had yet heard the real reason why I was the first to be arrested.

A decided “No,” cut short that agony. I could breathe again and proffer a humble request.

“Doctor, I cannot approach her; I cannot even write,—it would seem too presumptuous. But tell her, as you find the opportunity, how I honour her. Do not let her remain under the impression that I am not capable of truly feeling what she has borne and must still bear.”

“I will do what I can,” was his reply, and he mercifully cut short the conversation.

This was the event of the morning.

In the afternoon I sat in my window thinking. My powers of reasoning had returned, and the insoluble problem of Adelaide’s murder occupied my whole mind. With Carmel innocent, who was there left to suspect? Not Arthur. His fingers were as guiltless as my own of those marks on her throat. Of this I was convinced, difficult as it made my future. My mind refused to see guilt in a man who could meet my eye with just the look he gave me on leaving the courtroom, at the conclusion of his sister’s triumphant examination. It was a momentary glance, but I read it, I am sure, quite truthfully.

“You are the man,” it said; but not in the old, bitter, and revengeful way voiced by his tongue before we came together in the one effort to save Carmel from what, in our short-sightedness and misunderstanding of her character, we had looked upon as the worst of humiliations and the most desperate of perils. There was sadness in his conviction and an honest man’s regret—which, if noted by those about us—was far more dangerous to my good name than the loudest of denunciations or the most acrimonious of assaults. It put me in the worst of positions. But one chance remained for me now.

The secret man of guilt might yet come to light; but how or through whose agency, I found myself unable to conceive. I had neither the wit nor the experience to untangle this confused web. Should I find the law in shape to deal with it? A few days would show. With the termination of Arthur’s trial, the story of my future would begin. Meanwhile, I must have patience and such strength as could be got from the present.

And so the afternoon passed.

With the coming on of night, my mood changed. I wanted air, movement. The closeness of my rooms had become unbearable. As soon as the lamps were lit in the street, I started out and I went—toward the cemetery.