property all to Anne Bullard, to the astonished rage of thecongregation, which had expected the return of its dimes and quarters,no doubt, in the shape of a new altar, or perhaps an organ.
"Not a cent to keep up the mausoleum or anything," Mrs. Graves confidedto me. "And nothing to the church. All to that telephone-girl, who comesfrom no one knows where! It's enough to make her father turn over in hisgrave. It has set people talking, I can tell you."
Maggie's mental state during the days preceding the funeral was curious.She coupled the most meticulous care as to the preparations for theceremony, and a sort of loving gentleness when she decked Miss Emily'ssmall old frame for its last rites, with suspicion and hatred of MissEmily living. And this suspicion she held also against Anne Bullard.
Yet she did not want to leave the house. I do not know just what sheexpected to find. We were cleaning up preparatory to going back to thecity, and I felt that at least a part of Maggie's enthusiasm for cornerswas due to a hope of locating more concealed papers. She was ratherless than polite to the Bullard girl, who was staying on at myinvitation--because the village was now flagrantly unfriendly andsuspicious of her. And for some strange reason, the fact that MissEmily's cat followed Anne everywhere convinced Maggie that hersuspicions were justified.
"It's like this, Miss Agnes," she said one morning, leaning on thehandle of a floor brush. "She had some power over the old lady, andthat's how she got the property. And I am saying nothing, but she'sno Christian, that girl. To see her and that cat going out night afternight, both snooping along on their tiptoes--it ain't normal."
I had several visits from Martin Sprague since Miss Emily's death, andafter a time I realized that he was interested in Anne. She was quiteattractive in her mourning clothes, and there was something about her,not in feature, but in neatness and in the way her things had of, well,staying in place, that reminded me of Miss Emily herself. It was rathersurprising, too, to see the way she fitted into her new surroundings andcircumstances.
But I did not approve of Martin's attraction to her. She had volunteeredno information about herself, she apparently had no people. She wasa lady, I felt, although, with the exception of her new mourning, herclothing was shabby and her linen even coarse.
She held the key to the confession. I knew that. And I had no more hopeof getting it from her than I had from the cat. So I prepared to go backto the city, with the mystery unsolved. It seemed a pity, when I had gotso far with it. I had reconstructed a situation out of such bricks asI had, the books in the cellar, Mrs. Graves's story of the river, theconfession, possibly the note-book and the handkerchief. I had even somematerial left over in the form of the night intruder, who may or may nothave been the doctor. And then, having got so far, I had had to stop forlack of other bricks.
A day or two before I went back to the city, Maggie came to me with afolded handkerchief in her hand.
"Is that yours?" she asked.
I disclaimed it. It was not very fine, and looked rather yellow.
"S'got a name on it," Maggie volunteered. "Wright, I think it is.'Tain't hers, unless she's picked it up somewhere. It's just come out ofthe wash."
Maggie's eyes were snapping with suspicion. "There ain't any Wrightsaround here, Miss Agnes," she said. "I sh'd say she's here under a falsename. Wright's likely hers."
In tracing the mystery of the confession, I find that three apparentlydisconnected discoveries paved the way to its solution. Of these thehandkerchief came first.
I was inclined to think that in some manner the handkerchief I had foundin the book in the cellar had got into the wash. But it was where I hadplaced it for safety, in the wall-closet in the library. I brought itout and compared the two. They were unlike, save in the one regard. Thename "Wright" was clear enough on the one Maggie had found. With it as aguide, the other name was easily seen to be the same. Moreover, both hadbeen marked by the same hand.
Yet, on Anne Bullard being shown the one Maggie had found, shedisclaimed it. "Don't you think some one dropped it at the funeral?" sheasked.
But I thought, as I turned away, that she took a step toward me. When Istopped, however, and faced about, she was intent on something outsidethe window.
And so it went. I got nowhere. And now, by way of complication, I feltmy sympathy for Anne's loneliness turning to genuine interest. She wasso stoical, so repressed, and so lonely. And she was tremendouslyproud. Her pride was vaguely reminiscent of Miss Emily's. She bore herostracism almost fiercely, yet there were times when I felt her eyes onme, singularly gentle and appealing. Yet she volunteered nothing aboutherself.
I intended to finish the history of Bolivar County before I left. Idislike not finishing a book. Besides, this one fascinated me--the smugcomplacence and almost loud virtue of the author, his satisfaction inBolivar County, and his small hits at the world outside, his patronageto those not of it. And always, when I began to read, I turned to theinscription in Miss Emily's hand, the hand of the confession--and Iwondered if she had really believed it all.
So on this day I found the name Bullard in the book. It had belongedto the Reverend Samuel Thaddeus's grandmother, and he distinctly statedthat she was the last of her line. He inferred, indeed, that sincethe line was to end, it had chosen a fitting finish in his immediateprogenitor.
That night, at dinner, I said, "Anne, are there any Bullards in thisneighborhood now?"
"I have never heard of any. But I have not been here long."
"It is not a common name," I persisted.
But she received my statement in silence. She had, as I have said,rather a gift for silence.
That afternoon I was wandering about the garden snipping faded roseswith Miss Emily's garden shears, when I saw Maggie coming swiftlytoward me. When she caught my eye, she beckoned to me. "Walk quiet,Miss Agnes," she said, "and don't say I didn't warn you. She's in thelibrary."
So, feeling hatefully like a spy, I went quietly over the lawn towardthe library windows. They were long ones, to the floor, and at first Imade out nothing. Then I saw Anne. She was on her knees, following theborder of the carpet with fingers that examined it, inch by inch.
She turned, as if she felt our eyes on her, and saw us. I shall neverforget her face. She looked stricken. I turned away. There was somethingin her eyes that made me think of Miss Emily, lying among her pillowsand waiting for me to say the thing she was dreading to hear.
I sent Maggie away with a gesture. There was something in her pursedlips that threatened danger. For I felt then as if I had always knownit and only just realized I knew it, that somewhere in that room lay theanswer to all questions; lay Miss Emily's secret. And I did not wish tolearn it. It was better to go on wondering, to question and doubt anddecide and decide again. I was, I think, in a state of nervous terror bythat time, terror and apprehension.
While Miss Emily lived, I had hoped to help. But now it seemed toohatefully like accusing when she could not defend herself. And there isanother element that I am bound to acknowledge. There was an element ofjealousy of Anne Bullard. Both of us had tried to help Miss Emily. Shehad foiled my attempt in her own endeavor, a mistaken endeavor, I felt.But there was now to be no blemish on my efforts. I would no longer pryor question or watch. It was too late.
In a curious fashion, each of us wished, I think, to prove the qualityof her tenderness for the little old lady who was gone beyond all humantenderness.
So that evening, after dinner, I faced Anne in the library.
"Why not let things be as they are, Anne?" I asked. "It can do no good.Whatever it is, and I do not know, why not let things rest?"
"Some one may find it," she replied. "Some one who does not care, asI--as we care."
"Are you sure there is something?"
"She told me, near the last. I only don't know just where it is."
"And if you find it?"
"It is a letter. I shall burn it without reading. Although," she drew along breath, "I know what it contains."
"If in any way it comes into my hands," I
assured her, "I shall let youknow. And I shall not read it."
She looked thoughtful rather than grateful.
"I hardly know," she said. "I think she would want you to read it ifit came to you. It explains so much. And it was a part of her plan. Youknow, of course, that she had a plan. It was a sort of arrangement"--shehesitated--"it was a sort of pact she made with God, if you know what Imean."
That night Maggie found the letter.
I had gone upstairs, and Anne was, I think, already asleep. I heard whatsounded like distant hammering, and I went to the door. Some one wasin the library below. The light was shining out into the hall, andmy discovery of that was followed almost immediately by the