The Leavenworth Case (15 page)

I answered in the negative.

She did not seem satisfied, but waited till her friend left the room before saying more. Then, with an earnest look, inquired if I knew whether Eleanore was well.

“I fear she is not,” I returned.

“It is a great trial to me, Eleanore being away. Not,” she resumed, noting, perhaps, my incredulous look, “that I would have you think I wish to disclaim my share in bringing about the present unhappy state of things. I am willing to acknowledge I was the first to propose a separation. But it is none the easier to bear on that account.”

“It is not as hard for you as for her,” said I.

“Not as hard? Why? because she is left comparatively poor, while I am rich—is that what you would say? Ah,” she went on, without waiting for my answer, “would I could persuade Eleanore to share my riches with me! Willingly would I bestow upon her the half I have received; but I fear she could never be induced to accept so much as a dollar from me.”

“Under the circumstances it would be better for her not to.”

“Just what I thought; yet it would ease me of a great weight if she would. This fortune, suddenly thrown into my lap, sits like an incubus upon me, Mr. Raymond. When the will was read to-day which makes me possessor of so much wealth, I could not but feel that a heavy, blinding pall had settled upon me, spotted with blood and woven of horrors. Ah, how different from the feelings with which I have been accustomed to anticipate this day! For, Mr. Raymond,” she went on, with a hurried gasp, “dreadful as it seems now, I have been reared to look forward to this hour with pride, if not with actual longing. Money has been made so much of in my small world. Not that I wish in this evil time of retribution to lay blame upon any one; least of all upon my uncle; but from the day, twelve years ago, when for the first time he took us in his arms, and looking down upon our childish faces, exclaimed: ‘The light-haired one pleases me best; she shall be my heiress,’ I have been petted, cajoled, and spoiled; called little princess, and uncle’s darling, till it is only strange I retain in this prejudiced breast any of the impulses of generous womanhood; yes, though I was aware from the first that whim alone had raised this distinction between myself and cousin; a distinction which superior beauty, worth, or accomplishments could never have drawn; Eleanore being more than my equal in all these things.” Pausing, she choked back the sudden sob that rose in her throat, with an effort at self-control which was at once touching and admirable. Then, while my eyes stole to her face, murmured in a low, appealing voice: “If I have faults, you see there is some slight excuse for them; arrogance, vanity, and selfishness being considered in the gay young heiress as no more than so many assertions of a laudable dignity. Ah! ah,” she bitterly exclaimed “money alone has been the ruin of us all!” Then, with a falling of her voice: “And now it has come to me with its heritage of evil, and I—I would give it all for— But this is weakness! I have no right to afflict you with my griefs. Pray forget all I have said, Mr. Raymond, or regard my complaints as the utterances of an unhappy girl loaded down with sorrows and oppressed by the weight of many perplexities and terrors.”

“But I do not wish to forget,” I replied. “You have spoken some good words, manifested much noble emotion. Your possessions cannot but prove a blessing to you if you enter upon them with such feelings as these.”

But, with a quick gesture, she ejaculated: “Impossible! they cannot prove a blessing.” Then, as if startled at her own words, bit her lip and hastily added: “Very great wealth is never a blessing.

“And now,” said she, with a total change of manner, “I wish to address you on a subject which may strike you as ill-timed, but which, nevertheless, I must mention, if the purpose I have at heart is ever to be accomplished. My uncle, as you know, was engaged at the time of his death in writing a book on Chinese customs and prejudices. It was a work which he was anxious to see published, and naturally I desire to carry out his wishes; but, in order to do so, I find it necessary not only to interest myself in the matter now,—Mr. Harwell’s services being required, and it being my wish to dismiss that gentleman as soon as possible—but to find some one competent to supervise its completion. Now I have heard,—I have been told,—that you were the one of all others to do this; and though it is difficult if not improper for me to ask so great a favor of one who but a week ago was a perfect stranger to me, it would afford me the keenest pleasure if you would consent to look over this manuscript and tell me what remains to be done.”

The timidity with which these words were uttered proved her to be in earnest, and I could not but wonder at the strange coincidence of this request with my secret wishes; it having been a question with me for some time how I was to gain free access to this house without in any way compromising either its inmates or myself. I did not know then that Mr. Gryce had been the one to recommend me to her favor in this respect. But, whatever satisfaction I may have experienced, I felt myself in duty bound to plead my incompetence for a task so entirely out of the line of my profession, and to suggest the employment of some one better acquainted with such matters than myself. But she would not listen to me.

“Mr. Harwell has notes and memoranda in plenty,” she exclaimed, “and can give you all the information necessary. You will have no difficulty; indeed, you will not.”

“But cannot Mr. Harwell himself do all that is requisite? He seems to be a clever and diligent young man.”

But she shook her head. “He thinks he can; but I know uncle never trusted him with the composition of a single sentence.”

“But perhaps he will not be pleased,—Mr. Harwell, I mean—with the intrusion of a stranger into his work.”

She opened her eyes with astonishment. “That makes no difference,” she cried. “Mr. Harwell is in my pay, and has nothing to say about it. But he will not object. I have already consulted him, and he expresses himself as satisfied with the arrangement.”

“Very well,” said I; “then I will promise to consider the subject. I can at any rate look over the manuscript and give you my opinion of its condition.”

“Oh, thank you,” said she, with the prettiest gesture of satisfaction. “How kind you are, and what can I ever do to repay you? But would you like to see Mr. Harwell himself?” and she moved towards the door; but suddenly paused, whispering, with a short shudder of remembrance: “He is in the library; do you mind?”

Crushing down the sick qualm that arose at the mention of that spot, I replied in the negative.

“The papers are all there, and he says he can work better in his old place than anywhere else; but if you wish, I can call him down.”

But I would not listen to this, and myself led the way to the foot of the stairs.

“I have sometimes thought I would lock up that room,” she hurriedly observed; “but something restrains me. I can no more do so than I can leave this house; a power beyond myself forces me to confront all its horrors. And yet I suffer continually from terror. Sometimes, in the darkness of the night— But I will not distress you. I have already said too much; come,” and with a sudden lift of the head she mounted the stairs.

Mr. Harwell was seated, when we entered that fatal room, in the one chair of all others I expected to see unoccupied; and as I beheld his meagre figure bending where such a little while before his eyes had encountered the outstretched form of his murdered employer, I could not but marvel over the unimaginativeness of the man who, in the face of such memories, could not only appropriate that very spot for his own use, but pursue his avocations there with so much calmness and evident precision. But in another moment I discovered that the disposition of the light in the room made that one seat the only desirable one for his purpose; and instantly my wonder changed to admiration at this quiet surrender of personal feeling to the requirements of the occasion.

He looked up mechanically as we came in, but did not rise, his countenance wearing the absorbed expression which bespeaks the preoccupied mind.

“He is utterly oblivious,” Mary whispered; “that is a way of his. I doubt if he knows who or what it is that has disturbed him.” And, advancing into the room, she passed across his line of vision, as if to call attention to herself, and said: “I have brought Mr. Raymond up-stairs to see you, Mr. Harwell. He has been so kind as to accede to my wishes in regard to the completion of the manuscript now before you.”

Slowly Mr. Harwell rose, wiped his pen, and put it away; manifesting, however, a reluctance in doing so that proved this interference to be in reality anything but agreeable to him. Observing this, I did not wait for him to speak, but took up the pile of manuscript, arranged in one mass on the table, saying:

“This seems to be very clearly written; if you will excuse me, I will glance over it and thus learn something of its general character.”

He bowed, uttered a word or so of acquiescence, then, as Mary left the room, awkwardly reseated himself, and took up his pen.

Instantly the manuscript and all connected with it vanished from my thoughts; and Eleanore, her situation, and the mystery surrounding this family, returned upon me with renewed force. Looking the secretary steadily in the face, I remarked:

“I am very glad of this opportunity of seeing you a moment alone, Mr. Harwell, if only for the purpose of saying—”

“Anything in regard to the murder?”

“Yes,” I began.

“Then you must pardon me,” he respectfully but firmly replied. “It is a disagreeable subject which I cannot bear to think of, much less discuss.”

Disconcerted and, what was more, convinced of the impossibility of obtaining any information from this man, I abandoned the attempt; and, taking up the manuscript once more, endeavored to master in some small degree the nature of its contents. Succeeding beyond my hopes, I opened a short conversation with him in regard to it, and finally, coming to the conclusion I could accomplish what Miss Leavenworth desired, left him and descended again to the reception room.

When, an hour or so later, I withdrew from the house, it was with the feeling that one obstacle had been removed from my path. If I failed in what I had undertaken, it would not be from lack of opportunity of studying the inmates of this dwelling.

XVI. THE WILL OF A MILLIONAIRE

“Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie,

Which we ascribe to Heaven.”

—All’s Well that Ends Well.

THE NEXT MORNING’S
TRIBUNE
contained a synopsis of Mr. Leavenworth’s will. Its provisions were a surprise to me; for, while the bulk of his immense estate was, according to the general understanding, bequeathed to his niece, Mary, it appeared by a codicil, attached to his will some five years before, that Eleanore was not entirely forgotten, she having been made the recipient of a legacy which, if not large, was at least sufficient to support her in comfort. After listening to the various comments of my associates on the subject, I proceeded to the house of Mr. Gryce, in obedience to his request to call upon him as soon as possible after the publication of the will.

“Good-morning,” he remarked as I entered, but whether addressing me or the frowning top of the desk before which he was sitting it would be difficult to say. “Won’t you sit?” nodding with a curious back movement of his head towards a chair to his rear.

I drew up the chair to his side. “I am curious to know,” I remarked, “what you have to say about this will, and its probable effect upon the matters we have in hand.”

“What is your own idea in regard to it?”

“Well, I think upon the whole it will make but little difference in public opinion. Those who thought Eleanore guilty before will feel that they possess now greater cause than ever to doubt her innocence; while those who have hitherto hesitated to suspect her will not consider that the comparatively small amount bequeathed her would constitute an adequate motive for so great a crime.”

“You have heard men talk; what seems to be the general opinion among those you converse with?”

“That the motive of the tragedy will be found in the partiality shown in so singular a will, though how, they do not profess to know.”

Mr. Gryce suddenly became interested in one of the small drawers before him.

“And all this has not set you thinking?” said he.

“Thinking,” returned I. “I don’t know what you mean. I am sure I have done nothing but think for the last three days. I—”

“Of course—of course,” he cried. “I didn’t mean to say anything disagreeable. And so you have seen Mr. Clavering?”

“Just seen him; no more.”

“And are you going to assist Mr. Harwell in finishing Mr. Leavenworth’s book?”

“How did you learn that?”

He only smiled.

“Yes,” said I; “Miss Leavenworth has requested me to do her that little favor.”

“She is a queenly creature!” he exclaimed in a burst of enthusiasm. Then, with an instant return to his business-like tone: “You are going to have opportunities, Mr. Raymond. Now there are two things I want you to find out; first, what is the connection between these ladies and Mr. Clavering—”

“There is a connection, then?”

“Undoubtedly. And secondly, what is the cause of the unfriendly feeling which evidently exists between the cousins.”

I drew back and pondered the position offered me. A spy in a fair woman’s house! How could I reconcile it with my natural instincts as a gentleman?

“Cannot you find some one better adapted to learn these secrets for you?” I asked at length. “The part of a spy is anything but agreeable to my feelings, I assure you.”

Mr. Gryce’s brows fell.

“I will assist Mr. Harwell in his efforts to arrange Mr. Leavenworth’s manuscript for the press,” I said; “I will give Mr. Clavering an opportunity to form my acquaintance; and I will listen, if Miss Leavenworth chooses to make me her confidant in any way. But any hearkening at doors, surprises, unworthy feints or ungentlemanly subterfuges, I herewith disclaim as outside of my province; my task being to find out what I can in an open way, and yours to search into the nooks and corners of this wretched business.”