III
A CRY IN THE NIGHT
“Help!”
The loud cry of a single word was not repeated, but repetition was unnecessary, for the sound rang through the old Van Norman house, and carried its message of fear and horror to all, awake or sleeping, within its walls.
It was about half-past eleven that same night, and Cicely Dupuy, still fully dressed, flew from her bedroom out into the hall.
Seeing a light downstairs, and hearing the servants’ bells, one after another, as if rung by a frantic hand, she hesitated a moment only, and then ran downstairs.
In the lower hall Schuyler Carleton, with a dazed expression on his white, drawn face, was uncertainly pushing various electric buttons which, in turn, flashed lights on or off, or rang bells in distant parts of the house.
For a moment Cicely stared straight at the man. Their eyes met, their gaze seemed to concentrate, and they stood motionless, as if spellbound.
This crisis was broken in upon by Marie, Madeleine’s French maid, who came running downstairs in a hastily donned negligée.
“Mon Dieu!” she cried. “Ou est Mademoiselle?”
With a start, Carleton turned from Cicely, and still with that dazed look on his face, he motioned Marie toward the wide doorway of the library. The girl took a step toward the threshold, and then, with a shriek, paused, and ventured no further.
Cicely, as if impelled by an unseen force, slowly turned and followed Marie’s movements, and as the girl screamed, Cicely grasped her tightly by the arm, and the two stood staring in at the library door.
What they saw was Madeleine Van Norman, seated in a chair at the library table. Her right arm was on the table, and her head, which had fallen to one side, was supported by her right shoulder. Her eyes were partly closed, and her lips were parted, and the position of the rigid figure left no need for further evidence that this was not a natural sleep.
But further evidence there was. Miss Van Norman still wore her yellow satin gown, but the beautiful embroidered bodice was stained a dull red, and a crimson stream was even then spreading its way down the shimmering breadths of the trailing skirt.
On the table, near the outstretched white hand, lay a Venetian dagger. This dagger was well known to the onlookers. It had lain on the library table for many years, and though ostensibly for the purpose of a paper-cutter, it was rarely used as such. Its edges were too sharp to cut paper satisfactorily, and, moreover, it was a wicked-looking affair, and many people had shuddered as they touched it. It had a history, too, and Richard Van Norman used to tell his guests of dark deeds in which the dagger had taken part while it was still in Italy.
Madeleine herself had had a horror of the weapon, though she had often admitted the fascination of its marvellous workmanship, and had said upon several occasions that the thing fairly hypnotized her, and some day she should kill herself or somebody else with it.
From an instinctive sense of duty, Marie started forward, as if to help her mistress, then with a convulsive shudder she screamed again and clasped her hands before her eyes to shut out the awful sight.
Cicely, too, moved slowly toward the silent figure, then turned and again gazed steadfastly at Schuyler Carleton.
There must have been interrogation in her eyes,forthe man pointed toward the table, and Cicely looked again, to notice there a bit of paper with writing on it.
She made no motion toward it, but the expression on her face changed to one of bewildered surprise. Before she had time to speak, however, the other people of the house all at once began to gather in the hall.
Mrs. Markham came first, and though when she saw Madeleine she turned very white and seemed about to faint, she bravely went at once toward the girl, and gently tried to raise the fallen head.
She felt a firm grasp on her shoulder, and turned to see Miss Morton, with a stern, set face, at her side.
“Don’t touch her,” said Miss Morton, in a whisper. “Telephone for a doctor quickly.”
“But she’s dead,” declared Mrs. Markham, at the same time bursting into violent sobs.
“We do not know; we hope not,” went on Miss Morton, and without another word she led Mrs. Markham to a sofa, and sat her down rather suddenly, and then went herself straight to the telephone.
As she reached it she paused only to inquire the name of the family physician.
Harris, the butler, with difficulty articulated the name of Doctor Hills and his telephone number, and without further inquiry Miss Morton called for him.
“Is this Doctor Hills?” she said when her call was answered. “Yes; this is the Van Norman house. Come here at once. . . . No matter; you must come at once—it is very important—a matter of life and death. . . . I am Miss Morton. I am in charge here. Yes, come immediately! Good-by.”
Miss Morton hung up the receiver and turned to the frightened group of servants.
“You can do nothing,” she said, “and you may as well return to your rooms. Harris may stay, and one of the parlor maids.”
Miss Morton had an imperious air, and instinctively the servants obeyed her.
But Cicely Dupuy was not so ready to accept the dictum of a stranger. She stepped forward and, facing Miss Morton, said quietly, “Mrs. Markham is housekeeper, as well as Miss Van Norman’s chaperon. The servants are accustomed to take their orders from her.”
Miss Morton returned Cicely’s direct gaze. “You see Mrs. Markham,” she said, pointing to the sofa, where that lady had entirely collapsed, and, with her head in a pillow, was shaking with convulsive sobs. “She is for the moment quite incapable of giving orders. As the oldest person present, and as a life-long friend of Mr. Richard Van Norman, I shall take the liberty of directing affairs in the present crisis.” Then, in a softer tone and with a glance toward Madeleine, Miss Morton continued, “I trust in view of the awfulness of the occasion you will give me your sympathy and co-operation, that we may work in harmony.”
Cicely gave Miss Morton a curious glance that might have meant almost anything, but with a slight inclination of her head she said only, “Yes, madam.”
Then Kitty French and Molly Gardner came downstairs and stood trembling on the threshold.
“What is it?” whispered Kitty. “What’s the matter with Madeleine?”
“Something dreadful has happened,” said Miss Morton, meeting them at the door. “I have telephoned for Doctor Hills and he will be here soon. Until then we can do nothing.”
“But we can try to help Maddy,” exclaimed Kitty, starting toward the still figure by the table. “Oh, is she hurt? I thought she had fainted!”
As the two girls saw the dread sight, Miss Gardner fainted herself, and Miss Morton bade Marie, who stood shivering in the hall, take care of her.
Relieved at having something to do, Marie shook the girl and dashed water in her face until she regained consciousness, the others, meanwhile, paying little attention.
Schuyler Carleton stood leaning against the doorpost, his eyes fixed on Madeleine’s tragic figure, while Kitty French, who had dropped into a chair, sat with her hands tightly clasped, also gazing at the sad picture.
Although it seemed hours to those who awaited him, it was but a few moments before the doctor came.
Doctor Hills was a clean-cut, alert-looking young man, and his quick eyes seemed to take in every detail of the scene at a glance.
He went straight to the girl at the table and bent over her. Only the briefest examination was necessary before he said gently, “She is quite dead. She has been stabbed with this dagger. It entered a large blood vessel just over her heart, and she bled to death. Who killed her?”
Even as he spoke his eye fell on the written paper which lay on the table. With one of his habitually quick gestures he snatched it up and read it to himself, while a look of great surprise dawned on his face. Immediately he read it aloud:
I am wholly miserable, and unless the clouds lift I must end my life. I love S., but he does not love me.
I am wholly miserable, and unless the clouds lift I must end my life. I love S., but he does not love me.
After he finished reading, Doctor Hills stood staring at the paper, and looked utterly perplexed.
“I should have said it was not a suicide,” he declared, “but this message seems to indicate that it is. Is this written in Miss Van Norman’s hand?”
Miss Morton, who stood at the doctor’s side, took the paper and scrutinized it.
“It is,” she said. “Yes, certainly that is Miss Van Norman’s writing. I had a letter from her only a few days ago, and I recognize it perfectly.”
“Let me see it,” said Mrs. Markham, in a determined, though rather timid way. “I am more familiar with Madeleine’s writing than a stranger can possibly be.”
Miss Morton handed the paper to the housekeeper without a word, while the doctor, waiting, wondered why these two women seemed so out of sympathy with each other.
“Yes, it is surely Madeleine’s writing,” agreed Mrs. Markham, her glasses dropping off as her eyes filled with tears.
“Then I suppose she killed herself, poor girl,” said the doctor. “She must have been desperate, indeed, for it was a strong blow that drove the steel in so deeply. Who first discovered her here?”
“I did,” said Schuyler Carleton, stepping forward. His face was almost as white as the dead girl’s, and he was scarcely able to make his voice heard. “I came in with a latch-key, and found her here, just as you see her now.”
As Carleton spoke Cicely Dupuy stared at him with that curious expression that seemed to show something more than grief and horror. Her emotional bewilderment was not surprising in view of the awful situation, but her look was a strange one, and for some reason it greatly disconcerted the man.
None of this escaped the notice of Doctor Hills. Looking straight at Carleton, but with a kindly expression replacing the stern look on his face, he went on:
“And when you came in, was Miss Van Norman just as we see her now?”
“Practically,” said Carleton. “I couldn’t believe her dead. And I tried to rouse her. Then I saw the dagger on the floor at her feet——”
“On the floor?” interrupted Doctor Hills.
“Yes,” replied Carleton, whose agitation was increasing, and who had sunk into a chair because of sheer inability to stand. “It was on the floor at her feet—right at her feet. I picked it up, and there was blood on it—there is blood on it—and I laid it on the table. And then I saw the paper—the paper that says she killed herself. And then—and then I turned on the lights and rang the servants’ bells, and Cicely—Miss Dupuy—came, and the others, and—that’s all.”
Schuyler Carleton had with difficulty concluded his narration, and he sat clenching his hands and biting his lips as if at the very limit of his powers of endurance.
Doctor Hills again glanced round the assembly in that quick way of his, and said:
“Did any of you have reason to think Miss Van Norman had any thought of taking her own life?”
For a moment no one spoke, and then Kitty French, who, in a despairing, miserable way, was huddled in the depths of a great arm-chair, said:
“I have heard Madeleine say that some time she would kill herself with that horrid old dagger. I wish I had stolen it and buried it long ago!”
Doctor Hills turned to Mrs. Markham. “Did you have any reason to fear this?” he inquired.
“No,” she replied; “and I do not think Madeleine meant she would voluntarily use that dagger. She only meant she had a superstitious dread of the thing.”
“Do you understand her reference to her own unhappiness in this bit of writing?” went on the doctor.
“Yes, I think I do,” said Mrs. Markham in a low voice.
“That is enough for the present,” said the doctor, as if to interrupt further confidences. “Although it is difficult to believe a stab of that nature could be self-inflicted, it is possible, and this communication seems to leave no room for doubt. Now, the law of New Jersey requires that in case of a death not by natural means the county physician shall be summoned, and further proceedings are entirely at his discretion. I shall therefore be obliged to send for Doctor Leonard before disturbing the body in any way. He will probably not arrive in less than an hour or so, and I would advise that you ladies retire. You can of course do nothing to help, and as I shall remain in charge, you may as well get what rest you can during the night.”
“I thank you for your consideration, Doctor Hills,” said Mrs. Markham, who seemed to have recovered her calmness, “but I prefer to stay here. I could not rest after this awful shock, and I cannot stay away from Madeleine.”
Kitty French and Molly Gardner, who, clasped in each other’s arms, were shivering with excitement and grief, begged to be allowed to stay, too, but Doctor Hills peremptorily ordered them to go to their rooms. Cicely Dupuy was allowed to stay, as in her position of social secretary she might know much of Madeleine’s private affairs. For the same reason Marie was detained, while Doctor Hills asked her a few questions.
Schuyler Carleton sat rigidly in his chair, as immovable as a statue. This man puzzled Doctor Hills. And yet it was surely shock enough almost to unhinge a man’s brain thus to find his intended bride the night before his wedding.
But Carleton seemed absorbed in emotions other than those of grief. Though his face was impassive, his eyes darted about the room looking at one after another of the shocked and terrified group, returning always to the still figure at the table, and as quickly turning his gaze away, as if the sight were unbearable, as indeed it was.
He seemed like a man stunned with the awfulness of the tragedy, and yet conscious of a care, a responsibility, which he could not shake off.
If, inadvertently, his eyes met those of Miss Dupuy, he shifted his gaze immediately. If by chance he encountered Mrs. Markham’s sad glance, he turned away, unable to bear it. In a word, he was like a man at the limit of his endurance, and seemed veritably on the verge of collapse.
IV
SUICIDE OR ——?
Miss Morton, also, seemed to have distracting thoughts. She sat down on the sofa beside Mrs. Markham, then she jumped up suddenly and started for the door, only to turn about and resume her seat on the sofa. Here she sat for a few moments apparently in deep thought. Then she rose, and slowly stalked from the room and went upstairs.
After a few moments, Marie, the French maid, also rose and silently left the room.
Having concluded it was a case for the county physician, Doctor Hills apparently considered that his personal responsibility was at an end, and he sat quietly awaiting the coming of his colleague.
After a time, Miss Morton returned, and again took her seat on the sofa. She looked excited and a little flurried, but strove to appear calm.
It was a dreadful hour. Only rarely any one spoke, and though glances sometimes shot from the eyes of one to the eyes of another, each felt his gaze oftenest impelled toward that dread, beautiful figure by the table.
At last Schuyler Carleton, with an evident effort, said suddenly, “Oughtn’t we to send for Tom Willard?”
Mrs. Markham gave a start. “Of course we must,” she said. “Poor Tom! He must be told. Who will tell him?”
“I will,” volunteered Miss Morton, and Doctor Hills looked up, amazed at her calm tone. This woman puzzled him, and he could not understand her continued attempts at authority in a household where she was a comparative stranger. And yet might it not be merely a kind consideration for those who were nearer and dearer to the principals of this awful tragedy?
But even as he thought this over, Miss Morton had gone to the telephone, her heavy silk gown rustling as she crossed the room, and her every movement assertive of her own importance.
Calling up the Mapleton Inn, she succeeded, after several attempts, in rousing some of its occupants, and finally was in communication with young Willard himself. She did not tell him of the tragedy, but only asked him to come over to the house at once, as something serious had happened, and returned to her seat with a murmured observation that Tom would arrive as soon as possible.
Again the little group lapsed into silence. Cicely Dupuy was very nervous, and kept picking at her handkerchief, quite unconscious that she was ruining its delicate lace edge.
Doctor Hills glanced furtively from one to another. Many things puzzled him, but most of all he was at a loss to understand the suicide of this beautiful girl on the very eve of her wedding.
At last Tom Willard came.
Miss Morton met him at the door, and took him into the drawing-room before he could turn toward the library.
Schuyler Carleton’s frantic touches on various electric buttons had turned on all the lights in the drawing-room. As no one had noticed this, the great apartment had remained illuminated as if for a festivity, and the soft, bright lights fell on the floral bower and the elaborate decorations that had been arranged for the wedding day.
“What is it?” asked Tom, his own face white with an impending sense of dread as he looked into Miss Morton’s eyes.
As gently as possible, but in her own straightforward and inevitably somewhat abrupt way, Miss Morton told him.
“I want to warn you,” she said, “to prepare for a shock, and I think it kinder to tell you the truth at once. Your cousin Madeleine—Miss Van Norman—has taken her own life.”
“What?” Tom almost shouted the word, and his face showed an absolutely uncomprehending amazement.
“She killed herself to-night,” Miss Morton went on, whose efforts were now directed toward making the young man understand, rather than towards sparing his feelings.
But Tom could not seem to grasp it. “What do you mean?” he said, catching her by both arms. “Madeleine? Killed herself?”
“Yes,” said Miss Morton, shaken out of her own calm by Tom’s excited voice. “In the library, after we had all gone to bed, she stabbed herself with that horrible paper-cutter thing. Did you know she was unhappy?”
“Unhappy? No; why should she be? To-morrow was to have been her wedding day!”
“To-day,” corrected Miss Morton. “It is already the day on which our dear Madeleine was to have become a bride. And instead——” Glancing around the brilliant room and at the bridal bower, Miss Morton’s composure gave way entirely, and she sobbed hysterically. At this Cicely Dupuy came across from the library. Putting her arm around Miss Morton, she led the sobbing woman away, and without a word to Tom Willard gave him a glance which seemed to say that he must look out for himself, for her duty was to attend Miss Morton.
As the two women left the drawing-room Tom followed them. He walked slowly, and stared about as if uncertain where to go. He paused a moment midway in the room, and, stooping, picked up some small object from the carpet, which he put in his waistcoat pocket.
A moment more and he had crossed the hall and stood at the library door, gazing at the scene which had already shocked and saddened the others.
With a groan, as of utter anguish, Tom involuntarily put up one hand before his eyes.
Then, pulling himself together with an effort, he seemed to dash away a tear, and walked into the room, saying almost harshly, “What does it mean?”
Doctor Hills rose to meet him, and by way of a brief explanation he put into Tom’s hand the paper he had found on the table. Tom read the written message, and looked more stupefied than ever. With a sudden gesture he turned towards Schuyler Carleton and said in a low voice, “but youdidlove her, didn’t you?”
“I did,” replied Carleton simply.
“Why should she have thought you didn’t?” went on Tom, looking at the paper, and seeming to soliloquize rather than to address his question to any one else.
As this was the first time that the “S.” in Madeleine’s note had been openly assumed to stand for Schuyler Carleton, there was a stir of excitement all round the room.
“I don’t know,” said Carleton, but a dull, red flush spread over his white face and his voice trembled.
“You don’t know!” said Tom, in cutting tones. “Man, youmustknow.”
But no reply was made, and, dropping into a chair, Tom buried his face in both hands and remained thus for a long time.
Tom Willard was a large, stout man, and possessed of the genial and merry demeanor which so often accompanies avoirdupois. Save for his occasional, though really rare, bursts of temper, Tom was always in joking and laughing mood.
To see him thus in an agonized, speechless despair deeply affected Mrs. Markham. Tom had always been a favorite with her, and not even Madeleine had regretted more than she the estrangement between Richard Van Norman and his nephew. And even as Mrs. Markham looked at the bowed head of the great strong man she suddenly bethought herself for the first time that Tom was now heir to the Van Norman fortune.
She wondered if he had himself yet realized it; and then she scolded herself for letting such thoughts intrude so unfittingly soon. And yet she well knew that it would not be in ordinary human nature long to ignore the fact of such a sudden change of fortunes. As she looked at Tom her glance strayed toward Mr. Carleton, and then the thought struck her that what Tom had gained this man had lost. For had Madeleine lived the Van Norman money would have been, in a way, at the disposal of her husband. The girl’s death then would make Tom a rich man, while Schuyler Carleton would remain poor. He had always been poor, or at least far from wealthy, and more than one gossip was of the opinion that he had wooed Miss Van Norman not entirely because of disinterested love for her.
While Mrs. Markham was busy with these fast-following thoughts a voice in the doorway made her look up.
A quiet, unimportant-looking man stood there, and was respectfully addressing Doctor Hills.
“I’m Hunt, sir,” he said, “a plain-clothes man from headquarters.”
The three men in the room gave a start of surprise, and each turned an inquiring look at the newcomer.
“Who sent you? And what for?” asked Doctor Hills.
“I’ve been here all night, sir. I’m on guard in the present room upstairs.”
“I engaged him,” said Mrs. Markham. “Madeleine’s presents are very valuable, and although the jewels are still in the bank, the silver and other things upstairs are worth a large amount, and I thought best to have this man remain here during the night.”
“A very wise precaution, Mrs. Markham,” said Doctor Hills; “and why did you leave your post, my man?”
“The butler told me of what had happened, and I wondered if I might be of any service down here. I left the butler in charge of the room while I came down to inquire.”
“Very thoughtful of you,” said Doctor Hills, with a nod of appreciation; “and while I hardly think so, we may have use for you before the night is over. I am expecting Doctor Leonard, the county physician, and until he comes I can do nothing. I am sure the room above is sufficiently guarded for the time being, so suppose you sit down here a few minutes and wait.”
Mr. Hunt chose to take a seat in the hall, just outside the library door, and thus added one more solemn presence to the quietly waiting group.
And now Doctor Hills had occasion to add another puzzling condition to those that had already confronted him.
Almost every one in the room was curiously affected by the appearance of this detective, or plain-clothes man, as he was called.
Schuyler Carleton gave a start, and his pale face became whiter yet.
Cicely Dupuy looked at him, and then turning her glance toward Mr. Hunt, whom she could see through the doorway, she favored the latter with a stare of such venomous hatred that Doctor Hills with difficulty repressed an exclamation.
Cicely’s big blue eyes roved from Hunt to Carleton and back again, and her little hands clenched as with a firm resolve of some sort in her mind; she seemed to brace herself for action.
Her hovering glances annoyed Carleton; he grew nervous and at last stared straight at her, when her own eyes dropped, and she blushed rosy red.
But this side-play was observed by no one but Doctor Hills, for the others were evidently absorbed in serious thoughts of their own concerning the advent of Mr. Hunt.
Tom Willard stared at him in a sort of perplexity; but Tom’s good-natured face had worn that perplexed look ever since he had heard the awful news. He seemed unable to understand, or even to grasp the facts so clearly visible before him.
But Miss Morton was more disturbed than any one else. She looked at Hunt, and an expression of fear came into her eyes. She fidgeted about, she felt in her pocket, she changed her seat twice, and she repeatedly asked Doctor Hills if he thought Doctor Leonard would arrive soon.
Doctor Leonard did not live in Mapleton, but motored over from his home in a nearby village. He was a stranger to all those awaiting him in the Van Norman house, with the exception of Doctor Hills. Unlike that pleasant-mannered young man, Doctor Leonard was middle aged, of a crusty disposition and curt speech.
When he came, Doctor Hills presented him to the ladies, and before he had time to introduce the two men, Doctor Leonard said crossly, “Put the women out. I cannot conduct this affair with petticoats and hysterics around me.”
Though not meant to reach the ears of the ladies, the speech was fairly audible, and with a trace of indignation Miss Morton arose and left the room. Mrs. Markham followed her, and Cicely went also.
Doctor Leonard closed the library doors, and, turning to Doctor Hills, asked for a concise statement of what had happened.
In his straightforward manner Doctor Hills gave him a brief outline of the case, including all the necessary details.
“And yet,” he concluded, “even in the face of that written message, I cannot think it a suicide.”
“Of course it’s a suicide,” declared Doctor Leonard in his blustering way; “there is no question whatever. That written confession which you all declare to be in her handwriting is ample proof that the girl killed herself. Of course you had to send for me—the stupid old laws of New Jersey make it imperative that I shall be dragged out many miles away from my home for every death that isn’t in conventional death-bed fashion; but there is no suspicion of foul play here. The poor girl chose to kill herself, and she has done so with the means which she found near at hand. I will write the burial certificate and leave it with you. There is no occasion for the coroner.”
“Thank God for that!” exclaimed Schuyler Carleton, in a fervent tone.
“Amen,” said Tom. “It’s dreadful enough to think of poor Maddy as she is, but had it been any one else who——”
Unheeding the ejaculations of the two men, Doctor Hills said earnestly, “But, Doctor, if it had not been for the written paper, would you have called it suicide?”
“That has nothing to do with the case,” declared Doctor Leonard testily. “The paper is there, and is authentic. No sane man could doubt that it is a suicide after that.”
“But, Doctor Leonard, it would seem impossible for a woman to stab herself at that angle, and with such an astonishing degree of force; also to pull the dagger from the wound, cast it on the floor, and then to place her arm in that particular position on the table.”
“Why do you say in that particular position?”
“Because the position of her right arm is as if thrown there carelessly, and not as if flung there in a death agony.”
“You are imaginative, Doctor Hills. The facts may not seem possible, but since they are the facts you must admit that they are possible.”
“Very well, Doctor Leonard, I accept your decision, and I relinquish all professional responsibility in the matter.”
“You may do so. There is no occasion for mystery or question. It is a sad affair, indeed, but no crime is indicated beyond that of self-destruction. The written confession hints at the motive for the deed, but that is outside my jurisdiction. Who is the man in the hall? I fancied him a detective.”
“He is; that is, he is a man from headquarters who is here to watch over the bridal gifts. He came down-stairs thinking we might require his services in another way.”
“Send him back to his post. There is no work for detectives, just because a young girl chose to end her unhappy life.”
Doctor Hills opened the library door and directed Hunt to return to his place in the present room.
Doctor Leonard, still with his harsh and disagreeable manner, advised Willard and Carleton to go to their homes, saying he and Doctor Hills would remain in charge of the library for the rest of the night.
Doctor Hills found the women in the drawing-room, awaiting such message as Doctor Leonard might have for them. Doctor Hills told them all that Doctor Leonard had said, and advised them to retire, as the next day would be indeed a difficult and sorrowful one.
V
A CASE FOR THE CORONER
It was characteristic of Miss Morton that she went straight to her own room and shut the door. Mrs. Markham, on the other hand, went to the room occupied by Kitty French. Molly Gardner was there, too, and the two girls, robed in kimonas, were sitting, white-faced and tearful-eyed, waiting for some further news from the room whence they had been banished.
Mrs. Markham told them what Doctor Leonard had said, but Kitty French broke out impetuously, “Madeleine never killed herself, never! I know she always said that about the dagger, but she never really meant it, and any way she never would have done it the night before her wedding. I tell you she didn’t do it! It was some horrid burglar who came in to steal her presents, who killed her.”
“I would almost rather it had been so, Kitty dear,” said Mrs. Markham, gently stroking the brow of the excited girl; “but it could not have been, for we have very strong locks and bolts against burglars, and Harris is very careful in his precautions for our safety.”
“I don’t care! Maddyneverkilled herself. She wouldn’t do it, I know her too well. Oh, dear! now there won’t be any wedding at all! Isn’t it dreadful to think of that decorated room, and the bower we planned for the bride!”
At these thoughts Kitty’s tears began to flow afresh, and Molly, who was already limp from weeping, joined her.
“There, there,” said Mrs. Markham, gently patting Molly’s shoulder. “Don’t cry so, dearie. It can’t do any good, and you’ll just make yourself ill.”
“But I don’t understand,” said Molly, as she mopped her eyes with her wet ball of a handkerchief; “whydid she kill herself?”
“I don’t know,” said Mrs. Markham, but her expression seemed to betoken a sad suspicion.
“She didn’t kill herself,” reiterated Kitty. “I stick tothat, but if she did, I know why.”
This feminine absence of logic was unremarked by her hearers, who both said, “Why?”
“Because Schuyler didn’t love her enough,” said Kitty earnestly. “She just worshipped him, and he used to care more for her, but lately he hasn’t.”
“How do you know?” asked Molly.
“Oh, Madeleine didn’t tell me,” returned Kitty. “I just gathered it. I’ve been here ’most a week—you know I came several days before you did, Molly—and I’ve noticed her a lot. Oh, I don’t mean I spied on her, or anything horrid. Only, I couldn’t help seeing that she wished Mr. Carleton would be more attentive.”
“Why, I thought he was awfully attentive,” said Molly.
“Oh, attentive, yes. I don’t exactly mean that. But therewassomething lacking,—don’t you think so, Mrs. Markham?”
“Yes, Kitty, I do think so. In fact, I know that Mr. Carleton didn’t give Madeleine the heart-whole affection that she gave him. But I hoped it would all turn out right, and I surely never dreamed it was such a serious matter as to bring Madeleine to this. But she was a reserved, proud nature, and if she thought Mr. Carleton had ceased to love her, I know she would far rather die than marry him.”
“But she could have refused to marry him,” cried Molly. “She didn’t have to kill herself to get rid of him.”
“She didn’t kill herself,” stubbornly repeated Kitty, but Mrs. Markham said:
“You don’t understand Maddy’s nature, Molly; she must have had some sudden and positive proof of Mr. Carleton’s lack of true affection for her to drive her to this step. But once convinced that he did not care for her, I know her absolute despair would impel her to the desperate deed.”
“Why didn’t he love her?” said Molly, who could see no reason why any man shouldn’t love the magnificent Madeleine.
“I think,” said Kitty slowly, “there was somebody else.”
“How did you know that?” exclaimed Mrs. Markham sharply, as if she had detected Kitty in some wrongdoing.
“I don’t know it, but I can’t help thinking so. Madeleine has sometimes asked me if I didn’t think most men preferred gentle, timid dispositions to a strong, capable nature like her own. Of course she didn’t express it just like that, but she hinted at it so wistfully, that I told her no, she was the splendidest, most adorable woman in the whole world. I meant it, too, but at the same time I do think men ’most always love the soft, tractable kind of girls, that are not so imperious and awe-inspiring as Maddy was.”
Surely Kitty ought to know, for she was the most delicious type of soft, tractable femininity.
Her round, dimpled face was positively peachy, and her curling tendrils of goldy hair clustered round a low white brow, above appealing violet eyes. A man might admire the haughty Madeleine, but he would caressingly love bewitching little Kitty, and would involuntarily feel a sense of protection toward her, because of the shy trustfulness in her glance.
This was not entirely ingenuous, for wise little Kitty quite understood her own charm, but it was natural, and in no way forced; and she was quite content that her lines had fallen in her own pleasant places, and she left the magnificent Madeleines of the world to pursue their own rôles. But she had admired and loved Maddy Van Norman, and just because of their differing natures, had understood why Schuyler Carleton’s affection was tempered with a certain sense of inferiority.
“You know,” she went on, as if thinking aloud, “everybody was a little afraid of magnificent Maddy. She was so superb, so regal. You couldn’t imagine yourselfcuddlingher!”
“I should say not!” exclaimed Molly. “I could only imagine salaaming to her, or deferentially kissing her hand.”
“Yes, that’s what I mean. Well, Mr. Carleton got tired of that stilted kind of an attitude,—or, at least, she thought he did. I don’t know, I’m sure, but she was possessed with a notion that he cared for some other girl,—some one of the clinging rosebud sort.”
“Do you know this?” asked Mrs. Markham; “I mean, do you know that Maddy thought this?”
“Yes, I know it,” asserted Kitty, with a wag of her wise little head. “I tried to persuade her that no clinging rosebud could rival a tall, proud lily, but she thoroughly believed there was some one else.”
“But Mr. Carleton was to marry her,” said Mrs. Markham. “I can’t believe he would do that if he loved another.”
“That’s what bothered Maddy,” said Kitty; “she knew how honorable Mr. Carleton had always been, and she said that as he was engaged to her, he would think it his duty to marry her, even though his heart belonged to some one else.”
“Oh, pshaw!” said Molly. “If he was going to marry her, and didn’t love her, it was because of her fortune. Probably his rosebud girl hasn’t a cent.”
“Don’t talk like that,” said Kitty, shuddering. “Somehow it seems disloyal to both of them.”
“But it is all true,” said Mrs. Markham sadly. “Madeleine has never been of a confidential nature, but I know that she had the idea Kitty tells of, and I fear it was true. And I may be disloyal, or even unjust, but I can’t help thinking Schuyler was attracted by Maddy’s money. He is proud and ambitious, and he would be quite in his element as the head of a fine establishment, with plenty of money to spend on it.”
“Well, he’ll never have it now,” said Molly, and as this brought back the realization of the awful event that had happened, both girls burst into crying again.
Mrs. Markham, herself with overwrought nerves, found she could do nothing to comfort the girls, so left them and went to commune with her grief in her own room.
Meantime the two doctors alone in the library were still in discussion.
“Well, what do you want?” inquired Doctor Leonard angrily. “Do you want to imply, and with no evidence whatever, that the girl died by some hand other than her own? Do you want to involve the family in the expense and unpleasant publicity of a coroner’s inquest, when there is not only no reason for such a proceeding, but there is every reason against it?”
“I want nothing but to get at the truth,” rejoined Doctor Hills, a little ruffled himself. “I hold that a young woman, unless endowed with unusual strength, or possibly under stress of intense passion, could not inflict upon herself a blow strong enough to drive that dagger to the hilt in her own breast, pull it forth again, and cast it on the floor, and after that place her arm in the position it now occupies.”
Doctor Leonard looked thoughtful. “I agree with you,” he said slowly; “that is, I agree that it does not seem as if a woman could do that. But, my dear Doctor Hills, Miss Van Norman did do that. We know she did, from her own written confession, and also by the theory of elimination. What elsecouldhave happened? Have you any suggestion to advance?”
Doctor Hills was somewhat taken aback at Doctor Leonard’s suddenness. Up to this moment the county physician had stoutly maintained that the case was a suicide beyond any question, and then, turning, he had put the question to the younger doctor in such a way that Doctor Hills was not quite ready with an answer.
“No,” he said hesitatingly; “I have no theory to advance, and, moreover, I do not consider this an occasion for theories. But we must ascertain the facts. I state it as a fact that a woman could not stab herself as Miss Van Norman is stabbed, withdraw the dagger, and then place her right arm on the table in the position you see it.”
“And I assert that you are stating what is not a fact, but merely your own opinion.”
Doctor Hills looked disconcerted at this. His companion was an older and far more experienced man than himself, and not only did Doctor Hills have no desire to antagonize him, but he wished to show him the deference that was justly his due.
“You are right,” he said frankly; “it is merely my own opinion. But now will you give me yours, based, not on the written paper, but the position and general effect of the body of Miss Van Norman?”
Put thus on his mettle, Doctor Leonard looked carefully at the dead girl, whose pose was so natural and graceful that she might have been merely sitting there, resting.
He gazed long and intently, and then said, slowly:
“I see your point, Doctor Hills. It was a vigorous blow, suddenly and forcefully given. It could scarcely have been done, had the subject been a frail, slight woman. But Miss Van Norman was of a strong, even athletic build, and her whole physical make-up indicates strength and force of muscle. Your observation as to her apparently natural position is all right so far as it goes; but I have observed more carefully still, and I notice her evident physical strength, which was doubtless greatly aided by her stress of mental passion, and I aver that a woman of her physique could have driven the blow, removed the weapon, and, perhaps even then unconscious, have thrown her arm on the table as we now see it.”
“I thank you, Doctor Leonard,” said young Hills, “for your patience with me. You are doubtless right, and I frankly admit you have made out a clear case. Miss Van Norman was, indeed, a strong woman. I have been the family physician for several years, and I know her robust constitution. Knowing this, and appreciating your superior judgment as to the possibility of the deed, I am forced to admit your opinion is the true one. And yet——”
“Besides, Doctor Hills,” went on Doctor Leonard, as the younger man hesitated, “we cannot, wemustnot, ignore the written paper. Why should we do so? Those who know, tell us Miss Van Norman wrote it. It is, therefore, her dying statement. Dare we disregard her last message, written in explanation of her otherwise inexplicable act? We may wonder at this suicide, we may shudder at it; but we may not doubt that it is a suicide. That paper is not merely evidence,—it is testimony, it is incontrovertible proof.”
Doctor Leonard ceased speaking, and sat silent because he had nothing more to say.
Doctor Hills also sat silent, because, try as he might, he could not feel convinced that the older physician was right. It was absurd, he well knew, but every time he glanced at the relaxed pose of that white right arm on the table, he felt more than ever sure that it had lain there just so when the dagger entered the girl’s breast.
As the two men sat there, almost as motionless as the other still figure, both saw the knob of the door turn.
They had closed the double doors leading to the hall, on the arrival of Doctor Leonard, and now the knob of one of them was slowly and noiselessly turning round.
A glance of recognition passed between them, but neither spoke or moved.
A moment later, the knob having turned completely round, the door began to open very slowly.
Owing to the position of the two men, it was necessary for the door to be opened far enough to admit the intruder’s head before they could be seen, and the doctors waited breathlessly to see who it might be who desired to come stealthily to the library that night.
Doctor Hills, whose thoughts worked quickly, had already assumed it was Mrs. Markham, coming to gaze once more on her beloved mistress; but Doctor Leonard formulated no supposition and merely waited to see.
At the edge of the door appeared first a yellow pompadour, followed by the wide-open blue eyes of Cicely Dupuy. Seeing the two men, she came no further into the room, but gave a sort of gasp, and pulled the door quickly shut again. In the still house, the two listeners could hear her footsteps crossing the hall, and ascending the stairs.
“Curious, that,” murmured Doctor Hills. “If she wanted to look once more on Miss Van Norman’s face, why so stealthy about it? And if she didn’t want that, whatdidshe want?”
“I don’t know,” rejoined Doctor Leonard; “but I see nothing suspicious about it. Doubtless, she did come for a last glance alone at Miss Van Norman, but, seeing us here, didn’t care to enter.”
“But she gave a strange little shuddering gasp, as if frightened.”
“Natural excitement at the strange and awful conditions now present.”
“Yes, no doubt.” Doctor Hills spoke a bit impatiently. The phlegmatic attitude of his colleague jarred on his own overwrought nerves, and he rose and walked about the room, now and then stopping to scrutinize anew the victim of the cruel dagger.
At last he stood still, across the table from her, but looking at Doctor Leonard.
“I have no suggestion to make,” he said slowly. “I have no theory to offer, but I am firmly convinced that Madeleine Van Norman did not strike the blow that took away her life. Perhaps this is more a feeling or an intuition than a logical conviction, but——” He hesitated and looked intently at the dead girl, as if trying to force the secret from her.
With a sudden start he took a step forward, and as he spoke his voice rang with excitement.
“Doctor Leonard,” he said, in a quick, concise voice, “will you look carefully at that dagger?”
“Yes,” said the older man, impressed by the other’s sudden intensity; and, stepping forward, he scrutinized the dagger as it lay on the table, without, however, touching it.
“There is blood on the handle,” went on Doctor Hills.
“Yes, several stains, now dried.”
“And do you see any blood on the right hand of Miss Van Norman?”
Startled at the implication, Doctor Leonard bent to examine the cold white hand. Not a trace of blood was on it. Instinctively he looked at the girl’s left hand, only to find that also immaculately white.
Doctor Leonard stood upright and pulled himself together.
“I was wrong, Doctor Hills,” he said, with a nod which in him betokened an unspoken apology. “It is a case for the coroner.”