The House of the Whispering Pines (24 page)

With this new shock of Carmel's inability to explain her own part in
this tragedy and thus release my testimony and make me a man again in my
own eyes, I lost the sustaining power which had previously held me up. I
became apathetic; no longer counting the hours, and thankful when they
passed. Arthur had not been arrested; but he understood—or allowed
others to see that he understood, the reason for the surveillance under
which he was now strictly kept; and, though he showed less patience than
myself under the shameful suspicion which this betokened, he did not
break out into open conflict with the authorities, nor did he protest
his innocence, or take any other stand than the one he had assumed from
the first.

All this gave me much food for thought, but I declined to think. I had
made up my mind from the moment I realised Carmel's condition, that there
was nothing for me to do till after the inquest. The public investigation
which this would involve, would show the trend of popular opinion, and
thus enlighten me as to my duty. Meanwhile, I would keep to the old lines
and do the best I could for myself without revealing the fact of Carmel's
near interest in a matter she was in no better condition to discuss now
than when in a state of complete unconsciousness.

Of that inquest, which was held in due course, I shall not say much. Only
one new fact was elicited by its means, and that of interest solely as
making clear how there came to be evidences of poison in Adelaide's
stomach, without the quantity being great enough for more than a
temporary disturbance.

Maggie, the second girl, had something to say about this when the phial
which had held the poison was handed about for inspection. She had
handled that phial many times on the shelf where it was kept. Once she
had dropped it, and the cork coming out, some of the contents had
escaped. Frightened at the mishap, she had filled the phial up with
water, and put it, thus diluted, back on the shelf. No one had noticed
the difference, and she had forgotten all about the matter until now.
From her description, there must have been very little of the dangerous
drug left in the phial; and the conclusions of Dr. Perry's autopsy
received a confirmation which ended, after a mass of testimony tending
rather to confuse than enlighten, the jury, in the non-committal verdict:

Death by strangulation at the hands of some person unknown.

I had expected this. The evidence, pointing as it did in two opposing
directions, presented a problem which a coroner's jury could hardly be
expected to solve. What followed, showed that not only they but the
police authorities as well, acknowledged the dilemma. I was allowed one
sweet half hour of freedom, then I was detained to await the action of
the grand jury, and so was Arthur.

When I was informed of this latter fact, I made a solemn vow to myself.
It was this: If it falls to my lot to be indicted for this murderous
offence, I will continue to keep my own counsel, as I have already done,
in face of lesser provocation and at less dangerous risk. But, if I
escape and a true bill should be found against Arthur, then will I follow
my better instinct, and reveal what I have hitherto kept concealed, even
if the torment of the betrayal drive me to self-destruction afterwards.
For I no longer cherished the smallest doubt, that to Carmel's sudden
rage and to that alone, the death of Adelaide was due.

My reason for this change from troubled to absolute conviction can be
easily explained. It dated from the inquest, and will best appear in the
relation of an interview I held with my attorney, Charles Clifton, very
soon after my second incarceration.

We had discussed the situation till there seemed to be nothing left to
discuss. I understood him, and he thought he understood me. He believed
Arthur guilty, and credited me with the same convictions. Thus only could
he explain my inconceivable reticence on certain points he was very well
assured I could make clear if I would. That he was not the only man who
had drawn these same conclusions from my attitude both before and during
the inquest, troubled me greatly and deeply disturbed my conscience, but
I could indulge in no protests—or, rather would indulge in no
protests—as yet. There was an unsolved doubt connected with some facts
which had come out at the inquest—or perhaps, I should call it a
circumstance not as yet fully explained—which disturbed me more than did
my conscience, and upon this circumstance I must have light before I let
my counsel leave me.

I introduced the topic thus:

"You remember the detached sentences taken down by the nurse during the
period of Carmel's unconsciousness. They were regarded as senseless
ravings, and such they doubtless were; but there was one of them which
attracted my attention, and of which I should like an explanation. I wish
I had that woman's little book here; I should like to read for myself
those wandering utterances."

"You can," was the unexpected and welcome reply. "I took them all down in
shorthand as they fell from Dr. Perry's lips. I have not had time since
to transcribe them, but I can read some of them to you, if you will give
me an idea as to which ones you want."

"Read the first—what she said on the day of the funeral. I do not think
the rest matter very much."

Clifton took a paper from his pocket, and, after only a short delay, read
out these words:

"
December the fifth
: Her sister's name, uttered many times and with
greatly varied expression—now in reproach, now in terror, now in what
seemed to me in tones of wild pleading and even despair. This continued
at intervals all through the day.

"At three P.M., just as people were gathering for the funeral, the quick,
glad cry: 'I smell flowers, sweet, sweet flowers!'"

Alas! she did.

"At three-forty P.M., as the services neared their close, a violent
change took place in her appearance, and she uttered in shrill tones
those astonishing words which horrified all below and made us feel that
she had a clairvoyant knowledge of the closing of the casket, then
taking place:

"'Break it open! Break it open! and see if her heart is there!'"

"Pause there," I said; "that is what I mean. It was not the only time she
uttered that cry. If you will glance further down, you will come across a
second exclamation of the like character."

"Yes; here it is. It was while the ubiquitous Sweetwater was mousing
about the room."

"Read the very words he heard. I have a reason, Clifton. Humour me for
this once."

"Certainly—no trouble. She cried, this time: 'Break it open! Break the
glass and look in. Her heart should be there—her heart—her heart!"
Horrible! but you insisted, Ranelagh."

"I thought I heard that word glass," I muttered, more to myself than to
him. Then, with a choking fear of giving away my thought, but unable to
resist the opportunity of settling my own fears, I asked: "Was there
glass in the casket lid?"

"No; there never is."

"But she may have thought there was," I suggested hastily. "I'm much
obliged to you, Clifton. I had to hear those sentences again. Morbidness,
no doubt; the experience of the last three weeks would affect a
stronger-minded man than myself." Then before he could reply: "What do
you think the nurse meant by a violent change in her patient?"

"Why, she roused up, I suppose—moved, or made some wild or
feverish gesture."

"That is what I should like to know. I may seem foolish and unnecessarily
exacting about trifles; but I would give a great deal to learn precisely
where she looked, and what she did at the moment she uttered those wild
words. Is the detective Sweetwater still in town?"

"I believe so. Came up for the inquest but goes back to-night."

"See him, Clifton. Ask him to relate this scene. He was present, you
know. Get him to talk about it. You can, and without rousing his
suspicion, keen as they all say he is. And when he talks, listen and
remember what he says. But don't ask questions. Do this for me, Clifton.
Some day I may be able to explain my request, but not now."

"I'm at your service," he replied; but he looked hurt at being thus set
to work in the dark, and I dared say nothing to ease the situation. I did
not dare even to prolong the conversation on this subject, or on any
other subject. In consequence, he departed speedily, and I spent the
afternoon wondering whether he would return before the day ended, or
leave me to the endurance of a night of suspense. I was spared this final
distress. He came in again towards evening, and this was what he told me:

"I have seen Sweetwater, and was more fortunate in my interview than I
expected. He talked freely, and in the course of the conversation,
described the very occurrence in which you are so interested. Carmel had
been lying quietly previous to this outbreak, but suddenly started into
feverish life and, raising herself up in her bed, pointed straight before
her and uttered the words we have so often repeated. That's all there was
to it, and I don't see for my part, what you have gained by a repetition
of the same, or why you lay so much stress upon her gesture. What she
said was the thing, though even that is immaterial from a legal point of
view—which is the only view of any importance to you or to me, at this
juncture."

"You're a true friend to me," I answered, "and never more so than in this
instance. Forgive me that I cannot show my appreciation of your goodness,
or thank you properly for your performance of an uncongenial task. I am
sunk deep in trouble. I'm not myself and cannot be till I know what
action will be taken by the grand jury."

If he replied, I have no remembrance of it; neither do I recall his
leave-taking. But I was presently aware that I was alone and could think
out my hideous thought, undisturbed.

Carmel had pointed straight before her, shouting out: "Break in
the glass!"

I knew her room; I had been taken in there once by Adelaide, as a
sequence to a long conversation about Carmel, shortly after her first
return from school. Adelaide wished to show me the cabinet in the wall,
the cabinet at which Carmel undoubtedly pointed, if her bed stood as it
had stood then. It was not quite full, at that time. It did not contain
Adelaide's heart among the other broken toys which Carmel had destroyed
with her own hand or foot, in her moments of frenzied passion—the
canary, that would not pick from her hand, the hat she hated, the bowl
which held only bread and milk when she wanted meat or cake. Adelaide
had kept them all, locked behind glass and in full view of the child's
eyes night and day, that the shame of those past destructive moments
might guard her from their repetition and help her to understand her
temper and herself. I had always thought it cruel of Adelaide, one of
the evidences of the flint-like streak which ran through her otherwise
generous and upright nature. But its awful prophecy was what affected me
most now; for destruction had fallen on something more tender than aught
that cabinet held.

Adelaide's heart! And Carmel acknowledged it—acknowledged that it
should be there, with what else she had trampled upon and crushed in her
white heat of rage. I could not doubt her guilt, after this. Whatever
peace her forgetfulness had brought—whatever innocent longing after
Adelaide—the wild cry of those first few hours, ere yet the impressions
of her awful experience had succumbed to disease, revealed her secret and
showed the workings of her conscience. It had not been understood; it had
passed as an awesome episode. But for me, since hearing of it, she stood
evermore convicted out of her own mouth—that lovely mouth which angels
might kiss in her hours of joyous serenity; but from whose caress friends
would fly, when the passion reigned in her heart and she must break,
crush, kill, or go mad.

Forget the world around you. Meantime friendship
Shall keep strict vigils for you, anxious, active,
Only be manageable when that friendship
Points you the road to full accomplishment.

Coleridge
.

"I don't care a rush what you do to me. If you are so besotted by your
prejudices that you refuse to see the nose before your face; if you don't
believe your own officer who swore he saw Ranelagh's hands upon my
sister's throat, then this world is all a jumble and it makes very little
difference to me whether I'm alive or dead."

When these words of Arthur Cumberland were repeated to me, I echoed them
in my inmost soul. I, too, cared very little whether I lived or died.

The grand jury reeled off its cases and finally took up ours. To the last
I hoped—sincerely I think—that I should be the man to suffer
indictment. But I hoped in vain. A true bill was brought against Arthur,
and his trial was set for the eighteenth of January.

The first use I made of my liberty was to visit Adelaide's grave. In
that sacred place I could best review my past and gather strength for
the future. The future! Was it under my control? Did Arthur's fate hang
upon my word? I believed so. But had I strength to speak that word? I
had expected to; I had seen my duty clearly enough before the sitting of
the grand jury. But now that Arthur was indicted—now that it was an
accepted fact that he would have to stand trial instead of myself, I was
conscious of such a recoil from my contemplated action that I lost all
confidence in myself and my stoical adherence to what I considered the
claims of justice.

Standing in the cemetery grounds with my eyes upon the snow-covered mound
beneath which lay the doubly injured Adelaide, I had it out with myself,
for good and all.

I trusted Arthur; I distrusted Carmel. But she had claims to
consideration, which he lacked. She was a woman. Her fall would mean
infinitely more to her than any disgrace to him. Even he had seemed to
recognise this. Miserable and half-hearted as his life had been, he had
shown himself man enough not to implicate his young sister in the crime
laid to his charge. What then was I that I should presume to disregard
his lead in the difficult maze in which we were both lost. Yet, because
of the self-restraint he manifested, he had my sympathy and when I left
the cemetery and took my mournful way back into town, it was with the
secret resolution to stand his friend if I saw the case really going
against him. Till then, I would consider the helpless girl, tongue-tied
by her condition, and injured enough already by my misplaced love and its
direful consequences.