Leave Her to Heaven (40 page)

Harland was surprised at the brevity of his direct testimony. Mr. Pettingill let him speak only a little of his marriage to Ellen, of their year together before Danny's death, of the months of her pregnancy.

‘Were your relations during that whole period before your baby died pleasant or otherwise?' he asked.

Harland, remembering the months when the memory of Danny's death lay like a naked sword between them, hesitated; but of Danny he would not speak unless he must. He said:

‘Yes, normal and happy.'

‘Did those normal and happy relations continue until her death?'

‘No.'

‘Why not?'

Harland was shaken by a deep dismay. In their private conversations, the lawyer had never pushed his questions on this point, accepting Harland's evasions; and Harland wondered resentfully why the other now insisted. ,

‘Well, we were at odds,' he said slowly, groping for words.

‘Can you be more specific?'

‘Why, before the baby died, we began to occupy separate rooms, and we continued to live apart afterward.'

‘Did you never again share the same room?'

‘No, except at Bar Harbor on our last visit there.'

‘Did she or did you originate this arrangement of separate rooms?'

‘She did.'

‘By the way, did you ever discuss the question of having another baby?'

‘She told me we couldn't have any more.'

Quinton started to rise, then seemed to change his mind; and Mr. Pettingill asked: ‘This arrangement for separate rooms which she originated, did she insist on maintaining it?'

Harland filled his lungs deeply, his hands tightening on the railing of the witness box in which he stood. A grim anger filled him; and it sounded in his tone. ‘She did not,' he said hoarsely, damning Mr. Pettingill for his question.

‘Did you?'

‘Yes.'

‘Then this regime, separate rooms, living apart, was originally at her suggestion; but you persisted in it?'

‘Yes.' He spoke curtly.

‘Did she ask you to return to her room?'

‘Yes.'

‘You refused to do so?'

‘Yes.' Harland began belatedly to understand. If they were to contend that Ellen had killed herself, they must affirm that she did so because Harland no longer loved her. He had not till now appreciated what this affirmation would require of him, had not realized that he would appear in a sorry light before the crowded courtroom and the world; and for a moment he rebelled. But then, remembering that for Ruth‘s sake the truth must be told, he welcomed the ordeal, and his voice strengthened.

‘Why?' asked Mr. Pettingill.

‘I was unwilling. I no longer loved her.' He knew, seeing the racing pencils of the reporters, how contemptible his words must
sound; yet since it was for Ruth, he accepted this ignominy with a high pride.

‘I get a picture,' the lawyer suggested, 'of a situation in which Mrs. Harland wished to resume wifely relations with you and you refused.'

‘Yes, that is correct.'

‘Were others aware of this?'

‘No. We were superficially friendly.'

‘Were your servants aware of the fact that you occupied separate rooms?'

‘Yes, we told my housekeeper that Mrs. Harland's health made it necessary.'

‘How long did Mrs. Harland continue her efforts to secure a reconciliation with you?'

‘Till the day she died.'

‘Did you always refuse?'

Harland said explicitly: ‘I never gave her a flat and final refusal until that day. We had discussed it more than once. I hoped — we both hoped — that — things would somehow straighten out between us.' He remembered that day, driving from Boston to Bar Harbor, when on the bank above the inlet Ellen had been so completely lovely and enticing. ‘I thought things — my own feeling — might change,' he said.

‘Did you ever give up that hope?'

‘Yes.'

‘When?'

‘The morning before the picnic, the day she died. I told her that morning that I had decided to leave her.' He winced inwardly at his own words, at the role he thus assumed; the character of a man who by a stubborn refusal of his affection drove his wife to suicide.

‘Did she express, reproachy or distress, or despair?'

‘No, she didn't express anything.'

‘When had she known of your antagonistic feeling toward her?'

‘Months before.'

‘Months before she died?'

‘Yes. Since a few weeks after the baby died.'

‘Could she have foreseen your eventual decision?'

‘I don't know. I wasn't sure of it myself.'

‘Did you ever — half-surrender, give her any hope?'

‘No.' Harland hesitated. ‘No,' he repeated.

‘Was Mrs. Harland subject to fits of depression?'

‘No.'

‘Moody? Sullen? Tearful?'

‘No, never.'

‘Did you have quarrels?'

‘Rarely. They were unimportant.'

‘Did she ever threaten to leave you?'

‘No.'

‘Did she ever threaten to kill herself?'

‘No.'

‘Did she ever refer to the possibility of her death?'

‘Yes, several times.'

‘Any you recall?'

‘I remember her saying once that she didn't want to live to be old. And once she made me promise to sprinkle her ashes at Back of the Moon when she died. And she used to say, laughingly, that if I didn't do something or other she'd haunt me, but she was joking.'

‘Joking? In this trial, is she not in fact making good that threat? Is she not haunting you?'

But before Harland could reply, Quinton was on his feet with a furious protest; and Mr. Pettingill withdrew the question. He asked instead: ‘When she died, had you any suspicion that her death was not natural?'

‘No.'

‘Were you grieved by her death?'

‘I was sorry I'd made her unhappy that morning.'

‘Unhappy? I understood you to say a while ago that she expressed no emotion.'

‘I knew what she felt.'

Mr. Pettingill looked inquiringly at Quinton; but Quinton, his
countenance bleak and stony, made no move, and Pettingill went on: ‘After her death, a few days after, what did you do?'

‘Went away, to Europe and on around the world.'

‘Why?'

‘I never wanted to see a familiar face again.'

‘Why not?'

‘I was — I hated to think Ellen was dead.'

‘Were you in love with the present Mrs. Harland?'

‘No.'

‘When did you realize that you were in love with her?'

Harland's glance touched Ruth. ‘I'm realizing it more completely every day,' he said.

‘How long after your return to Boston did you realize your affection for her?'

‘Not till a few days before we were married.'

The clock was on the tick of the hour for noon recess. Mr. Pettingill nodded. ‘That is all,' he said.

Harland drew a deep breath, but before Judge Andrus could speak, Quinton came quickly to his feet. ‘Your Honor, we've half a minute,' he cried. ‘I'd like to put two questions.' He strode toward Harland, came face to face with him.

‘Now, Mr. Harland,' he said sharply. ‘Do you mean us to understand that when she died, your wife loved you, and that you did not love her?'

‘Yes.'

‘And you boast that your refusal to accept her pitiful efforts to be reconciled with you drove her to suicide?'

Harland wetted his dry lips. He tried to speak, cleared his throat; but before he could reply, Quinton with a gesture of scorn turned to the bench. ‘Your Honor, I'll reserve further questions,' he said.

Judge Andrus hesitated, looking at Harland; then he nodded. Court adjourned.

Harland, when he stepped down, found his knees unsteady, his vision confused. Quinton's question had made clear to him the ordeal he must now prepare to face; and he wished for any catastrophe which would make it impossible or unnecessary for him to go on. Ruth gave him one quick handclasp before they parted, and then Pettingill and Roger Pryde hurried him back to the hotel; and Mr. Pettingill when they were alone said reassuringly: ‘That was all right.'

‘It was hell!' Harland declared. ‘Did you have to put me in this position?'

Pettingill looked at him quietly. ‘Mr. Harland,' he said. ‘The State has made a strong circumstantial case on the theory that Mrs. Harland poisoned Ellen. Unless we present an alternative theory which fits the facts as well as or better than theirs, a conviction is possible. Our theory is, in plain words, that Ellen killed herself because you no longer loved her. You are the only one who can make the jury believe that. For Ruth's sake, I had to ask those questions. Frankly, I was surprised that Quinton did not prevent my doing so; but perhaps, feeling as he does toward you, he's glad to see you put in an ugly position. He'll make you look even worse this afternoon; but the more he persuades the jury that you treated Ellen badly, the more readily they'll believe that she killed herself.'

Harland nodded in reluctant acceptance of this fact. ‘I see what you mean,' he admitted. They were silent while their lunch was served, but when the waiter had left the room, as though there had been no interruption, Mr. Pettingill told him gravely:

‘Keep it in mind. Remember, Ruth is in real danger; but the more despicable you appear, the safer she becomes. And another thing. Before the jury accepts the suicide theory, they will want to know why Ellen, planning to kill herself, should try to throw the blame on Ruth. They'll ask themselves — what incredible sort of woman was she to write such a letter as that which they have heard read in court? They've been told the letter's not evidence
— I'm afraid it was a mistake to let it be read, but we won't cry over spilled milk — but they'll remember it, and half believe what it says. So we're in a position where it is necessary to discredit Ellen, Mr. Harland. Quinton will go after you hard, this afternoon, demanding the cause of your estrangement. I didn't press you on that point this morning, but he will. You've never told me. He'll hammer at you till he gets it.'

Harland swallowed a morsel of food that seemed to choke him.

‘I know.'

‘I don't normally take a case where my client — or her husband — refuses to give me his complete confidence,‘ the big man remarked. ‘I took this case because I admired Mrs. Harland and was sure of her innocence; and I respect you, sir, and I regret that you must face a hard time this afternoon. But it's inescapable. I can protect you, somewhat, with objections and interruptions; and I'll do so if you like, but — I'd rather not. We've let the jury have everything we know, so far; and that has had a good effect, I'm sure. I don't want to seem now to have anything to hide. And remember, if you must say something discreditable to Ellen, it will at least help Ruth.'

‘I'll — stand up to it somehow.'

‘Good man,' Mr. Pettingill agreed. ‘Now don't eat if you're not hungry. And on the stand — don't lose your temper. Quinton will try to make you ridiculous and contemptible. But remember that it's Ruth, not you, who is on trial. The more he succeeds in making you appear badly, the readier the jury will be to accept Ellen's death as suicide.'

When court again convened, Harland, though he tried to preserve an outward calm, was nevertheless full of a churning, fluttering sensation as though his vital organs were writhing in his body. But the ferocious attack he had expected did not come Quinton began in the modest tones.

‘Mr. Harland,' he said. ‘Let us inquire into your first marriage,
your life with the first Mrs. Harland. You met her in New Mexico?'

‘Yes.'

‘Tell the jury what sort of woman she was. I mean her appearance.'

‘She was beautiful.'

‘You found her so?'

‘Yes.' ,

‘You and she were acquainted how long before your marriage?'

‘Two weeks.'

‘Were those two weeks your courtship?'

‘We saw each other every day.'

‘Under what circumstances?'

‘We were all together at the fishing lodge.'

‘I hope you can be more specific. When did you first see her?'

Harland said, remembering: ‘Why, on the train going west.' Quinton required him to give details. There was a smile across the room when Harland admitted that Ellen had gone to sleep over a copy of his own novel. Then under the quiet questions he recited each of his encounters with Ellen; the expedition to kill a turkey, the scattering of her father's ashes, his going to meet her next morning, their moonlight walk together, the ride back from the branding, the ordeal of the canyon. Quinton kept this narrative purely factual, but when it was done, he asked:

‘And this was your courtship?'

Harland said slowly: ‘Your question gives a wrong impression. I was not — courting her. I was a bachelor, and intended to remain so. After about ten days I realized that we were — drawing together. I knew she would marry me if I asked her to.'

Quinton's tone was only mildly interested. ‘Indeed? How did that realization come to you.'

‘She had told me . . .' Harland felt a malicious satisfaction in this reply. ‘She had told me that she was engaged to you, but that she would never marry you. Later she stopped wearing your ring, and called the fact to my attention. I knew what she meant by that.'

Quinton seemed undisturbed. ‘So you suggest that the courtship was on her part?'

‘I knew she would marry me if I asked her to.'

‘Did you — do anything about that?'

‘I decided not to marry her. I preferred to continue as a bachelor.'

‘Ah? And what later caused you to change your opinion?'

‘That experience in the canyon. That threw us together — and when we were safe, I knew I loved her.'

‘Did you tell her so?'

‘Yes.'

‘What did she say?'

Harland remembered that moment completely; he perceived too that Ellen's words now assumed real significance. ‘She said: “I will never let you go.”'

‘How soon after that were you married?'

‘The second morning afterward. At her insistence.'

Quinton asked politely: ‘Were you reluctant?'

‘I was doubtful. I thought we need not hurry.'

‘Now, Mr. Harland — I don't say this critically, nor in mockery, nor to suggest that you are conceited, but simply to be sure I understand you correctly — you suggest that a beautiful young woman, engaged to another man, fell in love with you, courted you, won you, and persuaded you into a quick marriage against your better judgment. Is that a fair statement of the facts?'

Harland colored, but said doggedly: ‘Yes.'

‘I see. Now how soon afterward did you begin to regret your surrender?' Harland hesitated, and Quinton asked in a helpful tone: ‘Were you happy with her for the first month?'

‘Completely.'

‘The second? The third? The fourth?'

‘Yes.'

‘You went from New Mexico to Georgia?'

‘Yes.'

‘Where your brother was under treatment for infantile?'

‘Yes.'

‘You and your brother were alone in the world — except for Ellen?'

‘Yes.'

‘When did you leave Georgia and come north?'

‘It was almost a year after we were married.'

‘Were you still happily in love with Ellen?'

‘Yes.'

‘In June, you came north to Boston and then to your fishing lodge at Back of the Moon. Were you still happily in love with Ellen then?'

‘Yes.'

‘You loved her in June. How about July?'

‘Yes.'

‘How about August?'

Harland had guessed to what Quinton was coming; he had prepared an evasion. ‘My brother was drowned in August,' he said.

‘That saddened you?'

‘Yes.'

‘Did it affect your love for Ellen?'

For a moment, his own memories made Harland hesitate. He said, half choking: ‘It changed everything. Danny meant a lot to me.'

‘But so did she?'

‘Yes, so did she.'

‘Danny was drowned in August. Come to September. Did your love for Ellen continue in September?'

Harland felt half-stifled, as though constricting bonds were tightening about his chest; but he found an answer. ‘In a different way,' he said.

‘In what different way?'

‘We were to have a baby.'

‘Ah ! You have testified that at some time your feeling toward Mrs. Harland changed. Do I understand that it changed during her pregnancy?'

Harland hesitated. ‘Yes,' he said.

‘So!' There was satisfaction in Quinton's tone. ‘Now we come to the point. Your love for her changed during her pregnancy. Describe that change.'

‘I suppose I had loved her because she was beautiful, and because she loved me. After I knew we were to have a baby, I loved her for that reason.'

‘As the prospective mother of your child?'

‘Yes.'

‘Tenderly? Devotedly? Exclusively?'

‘Yes.'

‘Then why did you during her pregnancy begin to pay so much attention to the defendant here?'

Surprised by the question, Harland fought down a confusion like panic. ‘Ellen regularly urged me to go to see her mother and Ruth.'

‘But up till the time the baby was stillborn, in spite of your attentions to Ruth, you continued to love Ellen tenderly, devotedly, exclusively?'

‘I wasn't paying attentions to Ruth.'

‘You were seeing her often?'

‘Yes.'

‘Every day?'

‘Almost.'

‘But you didn't consider that paying her attentions?'

‘I was seeing my housekeeper, Mrs. Huston, every day, too; but I wasn't paying her attentions!'

‘I see. Yet during this period, though you went to see Ruth almost every day, you still loved Ellen tenderly, devotedly, exclusively?'

Harland said in a hoarse voice: ‘Yes.'

‘When did you cease to love her in that way?'

‘My feeling had changed during her pregnancy.'

‘During the period when you were seeing a great deal of Ruth?'

‘No, no!' Harland cried. ‘Before that!'

Quinton watched him for a moment in silence. ‘I'm afraid
we'll have to start over,' he said then. ‘Perhaps you wish to correct your testimony. You have said that till your baby was stillborn, you loved Ellen tenderly, devotedly, exclusively. Do you still so say?'

‘I said I loved her as the prospective mother of our child.'

‘But no longer tenderly, devotedly, exclusively?'

‘I didn't love anyone else, if that‘s what you mean.'

‘We're trying to find out what you mean, Mr. Harland; not what I mean. Have you been quibbling, evading a truthful reply?' Harland did not answer, and Quinton demanded: ‘Have you? Answer the question.'

‘I may have misled you.'

‘Then please lead us aright, Mr. Harland. Before you knew of your prospective paternity, you loved Ellen. Afterward, that feeling changed. What caused that change?'

Harland stared at him blindly. The change of which Quinton spoke had come in an instant, in the instant when he knew Ellen was responsible for Danny's death; but he could not bring himself to lay that crime at her door. Quinton said again, sternly now:

‘Perhaps you did not hear me. I asked you what caused that change?'

Harland felt himself half choking. ‘I — don't want to answer that question,‘ he blurted. He knew that Judge Andrus might require him to do so; but to his astonished relief Quinton seemed to yield.

‘I don't wish to press you,' he said gently. ‘Let us go on. Mr. Harland, was Ellen jealous?'

Harland foresaw the trap. ‘She had no cause to be.'

‘Was she jealous? Or is this another question you prefer not to answer?'

‘She was jealous of my work — in a laughing way.'

‘Was she jealous of the defendant?'

Harland, fighting to control his tone, said carefully: ‘Mrs. Harland — Ellen — was of a possessive nature. She had monopolized her father's life till he died, and she wished to monopolize mine.'

‘You haven't answered my question. Was she jealous of Ruth?'

‘She was jealous of everyone, of everything.'

‘Of Ruth?' Quinton insisted.

‘Of everything.'

‘Mr. Harland, may I have a plain answer. Was Ellen jealous of Ruth? Did she ever accuse you of being in love with Ruth?'

‘Yes.'

‘Ah! And was that accusation true?'

‘It was not.'

‘What was your reply to it?'

‘I told her that if she ever repeated it, I would leave her.'

‘I see.' Harland began to find something affrighting in Quinton's steady calm. ‘I assume this conversation in which she accused you of loving Ruth took place after the rift between you was obvious to you both.'

‘Yes.'

‘How long before Ellen's death?'

‘Some weeks.'

‘But outwardly, up to the time of her death, you and she preserved a normal way of life?'

‘Yes.'

‘Now, Mr. Harland, I suggest to you that an affection for Ruth, of which you were perhaps not conscious, led you to turn away from Ellen.'

‘That is not true!'

‘Did Ellen resent your seeing Ruth so often during her pregnancy?'

‘No. She used to urge me to go see Ruth.'

‘You did go?'

‘Yes.'

‘Almost every day?'

‘Frequently. Almost every day, yes.'

‘Leaving your pregnant wife at home alone?'

Harland wetted his lips. ‘Yes. She insisted on it. She did not want me with her.'

‘Isn't it possible that you did not know what she really wanted?'

‘I only know what she said.'

‘Women sometimes say one thing and mean another. Perhaps she really wanted you by her side, yearned for your love and your solicitous attendance. Women about to have babies like to have their husbands with them, do they not?'

‘Ellen didn't,' Harland wretchedly insisted.

‘And you insist that it was not your increasing affection for Ruth which led you to leave your wife so much — almost every day — during her pregnancy.'

‘It was not.'

‘Your physical and spiritual separation from Ellen had another source — which you will not state.'

‘Yes.' Harland was made bolder by the other's forbearance.

‘And, refusing her efforts at reconciliation, on the morning of the day she died you told Ellen you had decided to leave her?'

‘Yes.'

‘Did you reach that decision because she had again accused you of being in love with Ruth?'

‘No, she never repeated that accusation.'

‘But you did reach that decision — and announce it to her?'

‘Yes.'

‘What finally led you to that decision?'

Harland remembered with a sudden flashing clarity that moment when, standing at the window of their room at Bar Harbor, yearning to turn to Ellen, he had seen the seal‘s head disappear under the dark water and so remembered Danny. But this was a thing that could not be explained.

‘It came after weeks and months of thought and — suffering,' he said.

‘And you suggest that because you killed her hope of winning back your love, Ellen that day killed herself?'

‘Yes.' Harland set his jaw.

‘You were present when she died?'

‘Yes.'

‘Did you suspect the cause of her death?'

‘I thought she died of gastritis.'

‘What was the last word she spoke?'

Harland shut his eyes, for there was a whirling before them and a thundering in his ears. He said in a low tone: ‘“Poison.”'

‘Did it not occur to you that she knew she had been poisoned and was trying to tell you so.'

‘No. Doctor Seyffert had just said . . .'

‘I know. He said she was full of poison, and Ellen, her senses dimmed by the approach of death, heard the word, and in a flash of understanding knew what had been done to her, and tried to tell you, so that you could save her. Is that not true?'

‘She was just muttering, almost unconscious.'

‘But the word she muttered was “poison” — and to that word you shut your ears?' Harland could not speak, and Quinton's tone changed. ‘Now, Mr. Harland, you and Ellen were married for two years or more. Did you feel that you understood her?'

‘Yes.'

‘I show you a letter.' Quinton stepped to the counsel table, picked up Ellen's letter and returned and gave it to Harland., ‘Will you read it, please?'

Harland took the letter, looked at it with blurred eyes. ‘Aloud?' he asked huskily.

‘No, read it to yourself. Read all of it, if you don't mind.'

Harland obeyed him, his eyes following the lines, reading in a sort of wonder. This was Ellen writing, Ellen whom he had loved and to whom in many intangible ways he felt himself still married; for marriage was a thing which went deeper than ministers and laws, deeper even than death itself. He read with half his mind, the other half remembering so many moments he and Ellen had spent together, moments shared with no one, never to be shared with anyone, when the world ceased to exist for both of them, and the universe of each was the other.