XX
"WHAT DO YOU KNOW?"
I was glad of that half-hour. I, too, wanted a free moment in which tothink and examine the small scrap of paper I had picked up from thiscellar floor. In the casual glance I had given it, it had seemed tooffer me a fresh clue, quite capable of replacing the old one; and I didnot change my mind on a second examination; the shape, the hue, the fewwords written on it, even the musty smell pervading it, all going toprove it to be the one possible link which could reunite the chain whosecontinuity I had believed to be gone for ever.
Rejoicing in my good luck, yet conscious of still moving in verytroubled waters, I cast a glance in the direction of Mrs. Carew's house,from the door of the bungalow whence I had seen Mrs. Ocumpaugh depart,and asked myself why Mrs. Carew, of all persons in the vicinity, hadbeen the only one to hang back from this scene of excitement. It wasnot like her to hide herself at such a crisis (how invariably she hadfollowed me in each, and every visit I had paid here!), and though Iremembered all her reasons for pre-occupation, her absence under thepresent conditions bore an aspect of guilt which sent my mind working ina direction which was not entirely new to me, but which I had not as yetresolutely faced.
Guilt! The word recalled that other and similar one uttered by Mr.Rathbone in that adventure which had impressed me as so unreal, andstill held its place in my mind as something I had dreamed.
He was looking up when he said it, up the hill, up toward Mrs. Carew'shouse. He had struck his own breast, but he had looked up, not down; andthough I had naturally associated the word he had used with himself--andMiss Graham, with a womanly intuition, had supplied me with anexplanation of the same which was neither far-fetched nor unnatural, yetall through this day of startling vicissitudes and unimaginableinterviews, faint doubts, bidden and unbidden, had visited my mind,which at this moment culminated in what I might call the irresistiblequestion as to whether he might not have had in mind some one nearer anddearer than himself when he uttered that accusing word.
Her position, as I saw it now, did not make this supposition toomonstrous for belief; that is, if she secretly loved this man who didnot dare, or was too burdened with responsibility, to woo her. And whocan penetrate a woman's mind? To give him--possibly without hisknowledge--what every one who knew him declared him to stand in specialneed of--money and relief from too exacting work--might have seemedmotive enough to one of her warm and impulsive temperament, foreliminating the child she cared for, but not as she cared for him. Itwas hard to think it; it would be harder yet to act upon it; but thelonger I stood there brooding, the more I felt my conviction grow thatfrom her and from her alone, we should yet obtain definite traces of themissing child, if only Mrs. Ocumpaugh would uphold me in the attempt.
But would Mrs. Ocumpaugh do this? I own that I had my doubts. Somehidden cause or instinct which I had not been able to reach, though Ihad plunged deep into the most galling secrets of her life, seemed tostand in the way of her full acceptance of the injury I believed her tohave received from Mrs. Carew; or rather, in the way of her publicacknowledgment of it. Though she would fain have this upturning of thebungalow cellar pass for an act of frenzy, I could not quite bringmyself to look upon it as such since taking a final observation of itscondition.
Though her professed purpose had been to seek the body of her child, thespades had not gone deeper than their length. It had been harrowing, notdigging, she had ordered, and harrowing meant nothing more than anobliteration of the footprints which I had menaced her with comparingwith those of Mrs. Carew. Why this show of consideration to one shemight call friend, but who could hold no comparison in her mind with thesafety or recovery of the child which, if not hers, was the belovedobject of her husband's heart and only too deeply cherished by herself?Did she fear her charming neighbor? Was the bond between them founded onsomething besides love, and did she apprehend that a discovery of Mrs.Carew's connection with Gwendolen's disappearance would only precipitateher own disgrace and open up to public recognition the falserelationship she held toward the little heiress? Hard questions these,but ones which must soon be faced and answered; for wretched as was Mrs.Ocumpaugh's position and truly as I sympathized with her misery, I wasnone the less resolved to force such acknowledgments from her as wouldallow me to approach Mrs. Carew with a definite accusation such as eventhat daring spirit could not withstand.
Thus resolved, and resisting all temptation to hazard an interview withthe latter lady before I had seen Mrs. Ocumpaugh again, I made my way upslowly through the grounds and entered by the side door just as my watchtold me that the half-hour of my waiting was over.
Miss Porter was in the upper hall, but turned aside at my approach witha meaning gesture in the direction of the boudoir. I thought that hereyes looked red; certainly she was trembling very much; and with thispoor preparation for an interview before which the strongest and mostexperienced man might quail, I advanced for the second time that morningto the door behind which the distracted mother awaited me.
If I knocked I do not remember it. I rather think she opened the doorfor me herself upon hearing my step in the hall. At all events we weresoon standing again face to face, and the battle of our two wills--forit would be nothing less now--had begun.
She was the first to speak. Braving my inquiring look with eyes in whosedepths determination struggled with growing despair, she asked meperemptorily, almost wildly:
"Have you told any one? Do you mean to publish my shame to the world? Isee decision in your face. Does it mean that? Tell me! Does it meanthat?"
"No, madam; far be it from me to harbor such an intention unless drivento it by the greatest necessity. Your secret is your own; my only reasonfor betraying my knowledge of it was the hope I cherished of itsaffording us some clue to the identity of Gwendolen's abductor. It hasnot done so yet, may never do so; then let us leave that topic andreturn to the clue offered by the carrying of that child into thelong-closed room back of the bungalow. Mrs. Ocumpaugh, intentionally orunintentionally, the proof upon which I relied for settling the identityof the person so carrying her has been destroyed."
With a flush which her seemingly bloodless condition made perfectlystartling, she drew back, breaking into wild disclaimers:
"I know--I fear--I was too wild--too eager. I thought only of what mightlie under that floor."
"In a half-foot of earth, madam? The spades did not enter any deeper."
With a sudden access of courage, born possibly of her despair, shesought neither to attempt denial nor palliate the fact.
"And if this was my intention--though I don't acknowledge it--you mustrecognize my reason. I do not believe--you can not make me believe--thatGwendolen was carried into that room by Mrs. Carew. But I could see thatyou believed it, and to save her the shame of such an accusation and allthat might follow from it, I--oh, Mr. Trevitt, you do not think thispossible! Do you know so little of the impulses of a mind, bewilderedas mine has been by intolerable suffering?"
"I can understand madness, and I am willing to think that you were madjust then--especially as no harm has been done and I can still accuseMrs. Carew of a visit to that room, with the proof in my hand."
"What do you mean?" The steady voice was faltering, but I could not saywith what emotion--hope for herself--doubt of me--fear for her friend;it might have been any of these; it might have been all. "Was there afootprint left, then? You say proof. Do you mean proof? A detective doesnot use that word lightly."
"You may be sure that I would not," I returned. Then in answer to theappeal of her whole attitude and expression: "No, there were nofootprints left; but I came upon something else which I have sufficienttemerity to believe will answer the same purpose. Remember that myobject is first to convince you and afterward Mrs. Carew, that it willbe useless for her to deny that she has been in that room. Once that isunderstood, the rest will come easy; for we know the child was there,and it is not a place she could have found alone."
"The proof!" She had no strength for more than tha
t "The proof! Mr.Trevitt, the proof!"
I put my hand in my pocket, then drew it out again empty, making haste,however, to say:
"Mrs. Ocumpaugh, I do not want to distress you, but I must ask you a fewquestions first. Do you know the secret of that strangely divided room?"
"Only in a general way. Mr. Ocumpaugh has never told me."
"You have not seen the written account of it?"
"No."
"Nor given into Mrs. Carew's hand such an account?"
"No."
Mrs. Carew's duplicity was assuming definite proportions.
"Yet there is such an account and I have listened to a reading of it."
"You?"
"Yes, madam. Mrs. Carew read it to me last night in her own house. Shetold me it came to her from your hands. You see she is not alwaysparticular in her statements."
A lift of the hand, whether in deprecation or appeal I could not say,was all the answer this received. I saw that I must speak with theutmost directness.
"This account was in the shape of a letter on several sheets of paper.These sheets were very old, and were torn as well as discolored. I hadthem in my hand and noticed that a piece was lacking from one of them.Mrs. Ocumpaugh, are you ready to repeat that Mrs. Carew did not receivethis old letter from you or obtain it in any way you know of from thehouse we are now in?"
"I had rather not be forced to contradict Mrs. Carew," was the lowreply; "but in justice to you I must acknowledge that I hear of thisletter for the first time. God grant--but what can any old letter haveto do with the agonizing question before us? I am not strong, Mr.Trevitt--I am suffering--do not confuse and burden me, I pray--"
"Pardon, I am not saying one unnecessary word. These old sheets--asecret from the family--did not come from this house. Whence, then, didthey come into Mrs. Carew's possession? I see you have forestalled myanswer; and if you will now glance at this end of paper, picked up by mein your presence from the cellar floor across which we both know thather footsteps have passed, you will see that it is a proof capable ofconvicting her of the fact."
I held out the scrap I now took from my pocket.
Mrs. Ocumpaugh's hand refused to take it or her eyes to consult it.
Nevertheless I still held it out.
"Pray read the few words you will find there," I urged. "They are inexplanation of the document itself, but they will serve to convince youthat the letter to which they were attached, and which is now in Mrs.Carew's hands, came from that decaying room."
"No, no!" The gesture which accompanied this exclamation was more thanone of refusal, it was that of repulse. "I can not see--I do not needto--I am convinced."
"Pardon me, but that is not enough, Mrs. Ocumpaugh. I want you to becertain. Let me read these words. The story they prefaced is unknown toyou; let it remain so; all I need to tell you about it is this: that itwas written by Mr. Ocumpaugh's father--he who raised this partition andwho is the undoubted author of these lines. Remember that they headedthe letter:
"'_Perish with the room whose ceiling oozes blood! If in time to comeany man reads these lines, he will know why I pulled down the encirclingwall built by my father, and why I raised a new one across this end ofthe pavilion._'"
Mrs. Ocumpaugh's eyes opened wide in horror.
"Blood!" she repeated. "A ceiling oozing blood!"
"An old superstition, Mrs. Ocumpaugh, quite unworthy your attention atthis moment. Do not let your mind dwell upon that portion of what I haveread, but on the word 'room.' 'Perish with the room!' We know what roomwas meant; there can be but one. I have myself seen the desk from whichthese sheets were undoubtedly taken--and for them to be in the hand ofa certain person argues--" Mrs. Ocumpaugh's hand went up in dissuasion,but I relentlessly finished--"that she has been in that room! Are youmore than convinced of this now? Are you sure?"
She did not need to make reply; eyes and attitude spoke for her. But itwas the look and attitude of despair, not hope. Evidently she had thevery greatest reason to fear Mrs. Carew, who possibly had her hard sideas well as her charming one.
To ease the situation, I spoke what was in both our minds.
"I see that you are sure. That makes my duty very plain, Mrs. Ocumpaugh.My next visit must be upon Mrs. Carew."
The spirit which, from the beginning of this later interview, hadinfused fresh strength into her feeble frame, seemed to forsake her atthis simple declaration; her whole form drooped, and the eyes, which hadrested on mine, turned in their old way to the river.
I took advantage of this circumstance.
"Some one who knows you well, who knows the child well, dropped thewrong shoe into the river."
A murmur, nothing more, from Mrs. Ocumpaugh's set lips.
"Could it--I do not say that it was--I don't see any reason why itshould be--but could it have been Mrs. Carew?"
Not a sound this time, not a sound.
"She was down at the dock that night. Did you know it?"
A gesture, but whether of assent or dissent I could not tell.
"We know of no other person who was there but the men employed."
"_What do you know?_"
With all her restraint gone--a suffering and despairing woman, Mrs.Ocumpaugh was on her knees, grasping my arm with both hands.
"Quit this torture! tell me that you know it all and leave meto--to--die!"
"Madam!"
I was confounded; and as I looked at her face, strained back in wildappeal, I was more than confounded, I was terrified.
"Madam, what does this mean? Are you--you--"
"Lock the door!" she cried; "no one must come in here now. I have saidso much that I must say more. Listen and be my friend; oh, be myfriend! _Those were my footsteps you saw in the bungalow. It was I whocarried Gwendolen into that secret hole._"