VII. MARY LEAVENWORTH
“For this relief much thanks.” Hamlet.
HAVE you ever observed the effect of the sunlight bursting suddenly uponthe earth from behind a mass of heavily surcharged clouds? If so,you can have some idea of the sensation produced in that room by theentrance of these two beautiful ladies. Possessed of a loveliness whichwould have been conspicuous in all places and under all circumstances,Mary, at least, if not her less striking, though by no means lessinteresting cousin, could never have entered any assemblage withoutdrawing to herself the wondering attention of all present. But, heraldedas here, by the most fearful of tragedies, what could you expect froma collection of men such as I have already described, but overmasteringwonder and incredulous admiration? Nothing, perhaps, and yet at thefirst murmuring sound of amazement and satisfaction, I felt my soulrecoil in disgust.
Making haste to seat my now trembling companion in the most retired spotI could find, I looked around for her cousin. But Eleanore Leavenworth,weak as she had appeared in the interview above, showed at this momentneither hesitation nor embarrassment. Advancing upon the arm of thedetective, whose suddenly assumed air of persuasion in the presence ofthe jury was anything but reassuring, she stood for an instant gazingcalmly upon the scene before her. Then bowing to the coroner with agrace and condescension which seemed at once to place him on the footingof a politely endured intruder in this home of elegance, she took theseat which her own servants hastened to procure for her, with an easeand dignity that rather recalled the triumphs of the drawing-roomthan the self-consciousness of a scene such as that in which we foundourselves. Palpable acting, though this was, it was not without itseffect. Instantly the murmurs ceased, the obtrusive glances fell,and something like a forced respect made itself visible upon thecountenances of all present. Even I, impressed as I had been by her verydifferent demeanor in the room above, experienced a sensation of relief;and was more than startled when, upon turning to the lady at my side, Ibeheld her eyes riveted upon her cousin with an inquiry in their depthsthat was anything but encouraging. Fearful of the effect this look mighthave upon those about us, I hastily seized her hand which, clenched andunconscious, hung over the edge of her chair, and was about to beseechher to have care, when her name, called in a slow, impressive way by thecoroner, roused her from her abstraction. Hurriedly withdrawing her gazefrom her cousin, she lifted her face to the jury, and I saw a gleampass over it which brought back my early fancy of the pythoness. Butit passed, and it was with an expression of great modesty she settledherself to respond to the demand of the coroner and answer the first fewopening inquiries.
But what can express the anxiety of that moment to me? Gentle as she nowappeared, she was capable of great wrath, as I knew. Was she going toreiterate her suspicions here? Did she hate as well as mistrust hercousin? Would she dare assert in this presence, and before the world,what she found it so easy to utter in the privacy of her own roomand the hearing of the one person concerned? Did she wish to? Her owncountenance gave me no clue to her intentions, and, in my anxiety,I turned once more to look at Eleanore. But she, in a dread andapprehension I could easily understand, had recoiled at the firstintimation that her cousin was to speak, and now sat with her facecovered from sight, by hands blanched to an almost deathly whiteness.
The testimony of Mary Leavenworth was short. After some few questions,mostly referring to her position in the house and her connection withits deceased master, she was asked to relate what she knew of the murderitself, and of its discovery by her cousin and the servants.
Lifting up a brow that seemed never to have known till now the shadow ofcare or trouble, and a voice that, whilst low and womanly, rang like abell through the room, she replied:
“You ask me, gentlemen, a question which I cannot answer of my ownpersonal knowledge. I know nothing of this murder, nor of its discovery,save what has come to me through the lips of others.”
My heart gave a bound of relief, and I saw Eleanore Leavenworth’s handsdrop from her brow like stone, while a flickering gleam as of hope fledover her face, and then died away like sunlight leaving marble.
“For, strange as it may seem to you,” Mary earnestly continued, theshadow of a past horror revisiting her countenance, “I did not enterthe room where my uncle lay. I did not even think of doing so; my onlyimpulse was to fly from what was so horrible and heartrending. ButEleanore went in, and she can tell you----”
“We will question Miss Eleanore Leavenworth later,” interrupted thecoroner, but very gently for him. Evidently the grace and elegance ofthis beautiful woman were making their impression. “What we want to knowis what _you_ saw. You say you cannot tell us of anything that passed inthe room at the time of the discovery?”
“No, sir.”
“Only what occurred in the hall?”
“Nothing occurred in the hall,” she innocently remarked.
“Did not the servants pass in from the hall, and your cousin come outthere after her revival from her fainting fit?”
Mary Leavenworth’s violet eyes opened wonderingly.
“Yes, sir; but that was nothing.”
“You remember, however, her coming into the hall?”
“Yes, sir.”
“With a paper in her hand?”
“Paper?” and she wheeled suddenly and looked at her cousin. “Did youhave a paper, Eleanore?”
The moment was intense. Eleanore Leavenworth, who at the first mentionof the word paper had started perceptibly, rose to her feet at thisnaive appeal, and opening her lips, seemed about to speak, when thecoroner, with a strict sense of what was regular, lifted his hand withdecision, and said:
“You need not ask your cousin, Miss; but let us hear what you have tosay yourself.”
Immediately, Eleanore Leavenworth sank back, a pink spot breaking out oneither cheek; while a slight murmur testified to the disappointmentof those in the room, who were more anxious to have their curiositygratified than the forms of law adhered to.
Satisfied with having done his duty, and disposed to be easy with socharming a witness, the coroner repeated his question. “Tell us, if youplease, if you saw any such thing in her hand?”
“I? Oh, no, no; I saw nothing.”
Being now questioned in relation to the events of the previous night,she had no new light to throw upon the subject. She acknowledged heruncle to have been a little reserved at dinner, but no more so than atprevious times when annoyed by some business anxiety.
Asked if she had seen her uncle again that evening, she said no, thatshe had been detained in her room. That the sight of him, sitting in hisseat at the head of the table, was the very last remembrance she had ofhim.
There was something so touching, so forlorn, and yet so unobtrusive, inthis simple recollection of hers, that a look of sympathy passed slowlyaround the room.
I even detected Mr. Gryce softening towards the inkstand. But EleanoreLeavenworth sat unmoved.
“Was your uncle on ill terms with any one?” was now asked. “Had hevaluable papers or secret sums of money in his possession?”
To all these inquiries she returned an equal negative.
“Has your uncle met any stranger lately, or received any importantletter during the last few weeks, which might seem in any way to throwlight upon this mystery?”
There was the slightest perceptible hesitation in her voice, as shereplied: “No, not to my knowledge; I don’t know of any such.” But here,stealing a side glance at Eleanore, she evidently saw something thatreassured her, for she hastened to add:
“I believe I may go further than that, and meet your question with apositive no. My uncle was in the habit of confiding in me, and I shouldhave known if anything of importance to him had occurred.”
Questioned in regard to Hannah, she gave that person the best ofcharacters; knew of nothing which could have led either to her strangedisappearance, or to her connection with crime. Could not say whethershe kept any company, or had any visitors; only knew
that no one withany such pretensions came to the house. Finally, when asked when shehad last seen the pistol which Mr. Leavenworth always kept in his standdrawer, she returned, not since the day he bought it; Eleanore, and notherself, having the charge of her uncle’s apartments.
It was the only thing she had said which, even to a mind freighted likemine, would seem to point to any private doubt or secret suspicion; andthis, uttered in the careless manner in which it was, would have passedwithout comment if Eleanore herself had not directed at that moment avery much aroused and inquiring look upon the speaker.
But it was time for the inquisitive juror to make himself heard again.Edging to the brink of the chair, he drew in his breath, with a vagueawe of Mary’s beauty, almost ludicrous to see, and asked if she hadproperly considered what she had just said.
“I hope, sir, I consider all I am called upon to say at such a time asthis,” was her earnest reply.
The little juror drew back, and I looked to see her examinationterminate, when suddenly his ponderous colleague of the watch-chain,catching the young lady’s eye, inquired:
“Miss Leavenworth, did your uncle ever make a will?”
Instantly every man in the room was in arms, and even she could notprevent the slow blush of injured pride from springing to her cheek. Buther answer was given firmly, and without any show of resentment.
“Yes, sir,” she returned simply.
“More than one?”
“I never heard of but one.”
“Are you acquainted with the contents of that will?”
“I am. He made no secret of his intentions to any one.”
The juryman lifted his eye-glass and looked at her. Her grace was littleto him, or her beauty or her elegance. “Perhaps, then, you can tell mewho is the one most likely to be benefited by his death?”
The brutality of this question was too marked to pass unchallenged.Not a man in that room, myself included, but frowned with suddendisapprobation. But Mary Leavenworth, drawing herself up, looked herinterlocutor calmly in the face, and restrained herself to say:
“I know who would be the greatest losers by it. The children he took tohis bosom in their helplessness and sorrow; the young girls he enshrinedwith the halo of his love and protection, when love and protection werewhat their immaturity most demanded; the women who looked to him forguidance when childhood and youth were passed--these, sir, these arethe ones to whom his death is a loss, in comparison to which all otherswhich may hereafter befall them must ever seem trivial and unimportant.”
It was a noble reply to the basest of insinuations, and the juryman drewback rebuked; but here another of them, one who had not spoken before,but whose appearance was not only superior to the rest, but also almostimposing in its gravity, leaned from his seat and in a solemn voicesaid:
“Miss Leavenworth, the human mind cannot help forming impressions.Now have you, with or without reason, felt at any time conscious ofa suspicion pointing towards any one person as the murderer of youruncle?”
It was a frightful moment. To me and to one other, I am sure it wasnot only frightful, but agonizing. Would her courage fail? would herdetermination to shield her cousin remain firm in the face of duty andat the call of probity? I dared not hope it.
But Mary Leavenworth, rising to her feet, looked judge and jury calmlyin the face, and, without raising her voice, giving it an indescribablyclear and sharp intonation, replied:
“No; I have neither suspicion nor reason for any. The assassin of myuncle is not only entirely unknown to, but completely unsuspected by,me.”
It was like the removal of a stifling pressure. Amid a universaloutgoing of the breath, Mary Leavenworth stood aside and Eleanore wascalled in her place.