Anna Green - The Leavenworth Case

“Well, well!” exclaimed Mr. Gryce, impatiently.

“I am going on,” said he. “I stepped out of sight, then, for a moment; but it seemed long enough for her purpose; for when I emerged, glass in hand, she was kneeling at the grate full five feet from the spot where she had been standing, and was fumbling with the waist of her dress in a way to convince me she had something concealed there which she was anxious to dispose of. I eyed her pretty closely as I handed her the glass of water, but she was gazing into the grate, and didn’t appear to notice. Drinking barely a drop, she gave it back, and in another moment was holding out her hands over the fire. ‘Oh, I am so cold!’ she cried, ‘so cold.’ And I verily believe she was. At any rate, she shivered most naturally. But there were a few dying embers in the grate, and when I saw her thrust her hand again into the folds of her dress I became distrustful of her intentions and, drawing a step nearer, looked over her shoulder, when I distinctly saw her drop something into the grate that clinked as it fell. Suspecting what it was, I was about to interfere, when she sprang to her feet, seized the scuttle of coal that was upon the hearth, and with one move emptied the whole upon the dying embers. ‘I want a fire,’ she cried, ‘a fire!’ ‘That is hardly the way to make one,’ I returned, carefully taking the coal out with my hands, piece by piece, and putting it back into the scuttle, till—”

“Till what?” I asked, seeing him and Mr. Gryce exchange a hurried look.

“Till I found this!” opening his large hand, and showing me a broken-handled key.

THIS astounding discovery made a most unhappy impression upon me. It was true, then. Eleanore the beautiful, the lovesome, was—I did not, could not finish the sentence, even in the silence of my own mind.

“You look surprised,” said Mr. Gryce, glancing curiously towards the key. “Now, I ain’t. A woman does not thrill, blush, equivocate, and faint for nothing; especially such a woman as Miss Leavenworth.”

“A woman who could do such a deed would be the last to thrill, equivocate, and faint,” I retorted. “Give me the key; let me see it.”

He complacently put it in my hand. “It is the one we want. No getting out of that.”

I returned it. “If she declares herself innocent, I will believe her.”

He stared with great amazement. “You have strong faith in the women,” he laughed. “I hope they will never disappoint you.”

I had no reply for this, and a short silence ensued, first broken by Mr. Gryce. “There is but one thing left to do,” said he. “Fobbs, you will have to request Miss Leavenworth to come down. Do not alarm her; only see that she comes. To the reception room,” he added, as the man drew off.

No sooner were we left alone than I made a move to return to Mary, but he stopped me.

“Come and see it out,” he whispered. “She will be down in a moment; see it out; you had best.”

Glancing back, I hesitated; but the prospect of beholding Eleanore again drew me, in spite of myself. Telling him to wait, I returned to Mary’s side to make my excuses.

“What is the matter—what has occurred?” she breathlessly asked.

“Nothing as yet to disturb you much. Do not be alarmed.” But my face betrayed me.

“There is something!” said she.

“Your cousin is coming down.”

“Down here?” and she shrank visibly.

“No, to the reception room.”

“I do not understand. It is all dreadful; and no one tells me anything.”

“I pray God there may be nothing to tell. Judging from your present faith in your cousin, there will not be. Take comfort, then, and be assured I will inform you if anything occurs which you ought to know.”

Giving her a look of encouragement, I left her crushed against the crimson pillows of the sofa on which she sat, and rejoined Mr. Gryce. We had scarcely entered the reception room when Eleanore Leavenworth came in.

More languid than she was an hour before, but haughty still, she slowly advanced, and, meeting my eye, gently bent her head.

“I have been summoned here,” said she, directing herself exclusively to Mr. Gryce, “by an individual whom I take to be in your employ. If so, may I request you to make your wishes known at once, as I am quite exhausted, and am in great need of rest.”

“Miss Leavenworth,” returned Mr. Gryce, rubbing his hands together and staring in quite a fatherly manner at the door-knob, “I am very sorry to trouble you, but the fact is I wish to ask you–”

But here she stopped him. “Anything in regard to the key which that man has doubtless told you he saw me drop into the ashes?”

“Yes, Miss.”

“Then I must refuse to answer any questions concerning it. I have nothing to say on the subject, unless it is this:”—giving him a look full of suffering, but full of a certain sort of courage, too—“that he was right if he told you I had the key in hiding about my person, and that I attempted to conceal it in the ashes of the grate.”

“Still, Miss–”

But she had already withdrawn to the door. “I pray you to excuse me,” said she. “No argument you could advance would make any difference in my determination; therefore it would be but a waste of energy on your part to attempt any.” And, with a flitting glance in my direction, not without its appeal, she quietly left the room.

For a moment Mr. Gryce stood gazing after her with a look of great interest, then, bowing with almost exaggerated homage, he hastily followed her out.

I had scarcely recovered from the surprise occasioned by this unexpected movement when a quick step was heard in the hall, and Mary, flushed and anxious, appeared at my side.

“What is it?” she inquired. “What has Eleanore been saying?”

“Alas!” I answered, “she has not said anything. That is the trouble, Miss Leavenworth. Your cousin preserves a reticence upon certain points very painful to witness. She ought to understand that if she persists in doing this, that–”

“That what?” There was no mistaking the deep anxiety prompting this question.

“That she cannot avoid the trouble that will ensue.”

For a moment she stood gazing at me, with great horror-stricken, incredulous eyes; then sinking back into a chair, flung her hands over her face with the cry:

“Oh, why were we ever born! Why were we allowed to live! Why did we not perish with those who gave us birth!”

In the face of anguish like this, I could not keep still.

“Dear Miss Leavenworth,” I essayed, “there is no cause for such despair as this. The future looks dark, but not impenetrable. Your cousin will listen to reason, and in explaining–”

But she, deaf to my words, had again risen to her feet, and stood before me in an attitude almost appalling.

“Some women in my position would go mad! mad! mad!”

I surveyed her with growing wonder. I thought I knew what she meant. She was conscious of having given the cue which had led to this suspicion of her cousin, and that in this way the trouble which hung over their heads was of her own making. I endeavored to soothe her, but my efforts were all unavailing. Absorbed in her own anguish, she paid but little attention to me. Satisfied at last that I could do nothing more for her, I turned to go. The movement seemed to arouse her.

“I am sorry to leave,” said I, “without having afforded you any comfort. Believe me; I am very anxious to assist you. Is there no one I can send to your side; no woman friend or relative? It is sad to leave you alone in this house at such a time.”