The Greatest Works of Anna Katharine Green. Анна Грин

not that a strange piece of gratuitous information for her to give one who, but a few hours before, had accused her to the face of committing a deadly crime?”

      “What do you mean?”’ she asked, her voice suddenly sinking.

      “You will not deny that you were once, not only ready to believe her guilty, but that you actually charged her with having perpetrated this crime.”

      “Explain yourself!” she cried.

      “Miss Leavenworth, do you not remember what you said in that room upstairs, when you were alone with your cousin on the morning of the inquest, just before Mr. Gryce and myself entered your presence?”

      Her eyes did not fall, but they filled with sudden terror.

      “You heard?” she whispered.

      “I could not help it. I was just outside the door, and——”

      “What did you hear?”

      I told her.

      “And Mr. Gryce?”

      “He was at my side.”

      It seemed as if her eyes would devour my face. “Yet nothing was said when you came in?”

      “No.”

      “You, however, have never forgotten it?”

      “How could we, Miss Leavenworth?”

      Her head fell forward in her hands, and for one wild moment she seemed lost in despair. Then she roused, and desperately exclaimed:

      “And that is why you come here to-night. With that sentence written upon your heart, you invade my presence, torture me with questions——”

      “Pardon me,” I broke in; “are my questions such as you, with reasonable regard for the honor of one with whom you are accustomed to associate, should hesitate to answer? Do I derogate from my manhood in asking you how and why you came to make an accusation of so grave a nature, at a time when all the circumstances of the case were freshly before you, only to insist fully as strongly upon your cousin’s innocence when you found there was even more cause for your imputation than you had supposed?”

      She did not seem to hear me. “Oh, my cruel fate!” she murmured. “Oh, my cruel fate!”

      “Miss Leavenworth,” said I, rising, and taking my stand before her; “although there is a temporary estrangement between you and your cousin, you cannot wish to seem her enemy. Speak, then; let me at least know the name of him for whom she thus immolates herself. A hint from you——”

      But rising, with a strange look, to her feet, she interrupted me with a stern remark: “If you do not know, I cannot inform you; do not ask me, Mr. Raymond.” And she glanced at the clock for the second time.

      I took another turn.

      “Miss Leavenworth, you once asked me if a person who had committed a wrong ought necessarily to confess it; and I replied no, unless by the confession reparation could be made. Do you remember?”

      Her lips moved, but no words issued from them.

      “I begin to think,” I solemnly proceeded, following the lead of her emotion, “that confession is the only way out of this difficulty: that only by the words you can utter Eleanore can be saved from the doom that awaits her. Will you not then show yourself a true woman by responding to my earnest entreaties?”

      I seemed to have touched the right chord; for she trembled, and a look of wistfulness filled her eyes. “Oh, if I could!” she murmured.

      “And why can you not? You will never be happy till you do. Eleanore persists in silence; but that is no reason why you should emulate her example. You only make her position more doubtful by it.”

      “I know it; but I cannot help myself. Fate has too strong a hold upon me; I cannot break away.”

      “That is not true. Any one can escape from bonds imaginary as yours.”

      “No, no,” she protested; “you do not understand.”

      “I understand this: that the path of rectitude is a straight one, and that he who steps into devious byways is going astray.”

      A flicker of light, pathetic beyond description, flashed for a moment across her face; her throat rose as with one wild sob; her lips opened; she seemed yielding, when—A sharp ring at the front door-bell!

      “Oh,” she cried, sharply turning, “tell him I cannot see him; tell him——”

      “Miss Leavenworth,” said I, taking her by both hands, “never mind the door; never mind anything but this. I have asked you a question which involves the mystery of this whole affair; answer me, then, for your soul’s sake; tell me, what the unhappy circumstances were which could induce you—”

      But she tore her hands from mine. “The door!” she cried; “it will open, and—”

      Stepping into the hall, I met Thomas coming up the basement stairs. “Go back,” said I; “I will call you when you are wanted.”

      With a bow he disappeared.

      “You expect me to answer,” she exclaimed, when I re-entered, “now, in a moment? I cannot.”

      “But——”

      “Impossible!” fastening her gaze upon the front door.

      “Miss Leavenworth!”

      She shuddered.

      “I fear the time will never come, if you do not speak now.”

      “Impossible,” she reiterated.

      Another twang at the bell.

      “You hear!” said she.

      I went into the hall and called Thomas. “You may open the door now,” said I, and moved to return to her side.

      But, with a gesture of command, she pointed up-stairs. “Leave me!” and her glance passed on to Thomas, who stopped where he was.

      “I will see you again before I go,” said I, and hastened up-stairs.

      Thomas opened the door. “Is Miss Leavenworth in?” I heard a rich, tremulous voice inquire.

      “Yes, sir,” came in the butler’s most respectful and measured accents, and, leaning over the banisters I beheld, to my amazement, the form of Mr. Clavering enter the front hall and move towards the reception room.

Chapter XVIII.

       On the Stairs

       Table of Contents

      “You cannot say I did it.”

      Macbeth.

      Excited, tremulous, filled with wonder at this unlooked-for event, I paused for a moment to collect my scattered senses, when the sound of a low, monotonous voice breaking upon my ear from the direction of the library, I approached and found Mr. Harwell reading aloud from his late employer’s manuscript. It would be difficult for me to describe the effect which this simple discovery made upon me at this time. There, in that room of late death, withdrawn from the turmoil of the world, a hermit in his skeleton-lined cell, this man employed himself in reading and rereading, with passive interest, the words of the dead, while above and below, human beings agonized in doubt and shame. Listening, I heard these words:

      “By these means their native rulers will not only lose their jealous terror of our institutions, but acquire an actual curiosity in regard to them.”

      Opening the door I went in.

      “Ah! you are late, sir,” was the greeting with which he