“Constant you are—
... And for secrecy1
No lady closer.”
Henry IV.
“No, ‘t is slander2,
Whose edge is sharper than the sword whose tongue
Outvenoms all the worms of Nile.”
Cymbeline.
THE door was opened by Molly. “You will find Miss Eleanore in the drawing-room, sir,” she said, ushering3 me in.
Fearing I knew not what, I hurried to the room thus indicated, feeling as never before the sumptuousness4 of the magnificent hall with its antique flooring, carved woods, and bronze ornamentations:—the mockery of things for the first time forcing itself upon me. Laying my hand on the drawing-room door, I listened. All was silent. Slowly pulling it open, I lifted the heavy satin curtains hanging before me to the floor, and looked within. What a picture met my eyes!
Sitting in the light of a solitary5 gas jet, whose faint glimmering6 just served to make visible the glancing satin and stainless7 marble of the gorgeous apartment, I beheld8 Eleanore Leavenworth. Pale as the sculptured image of the Psyche9 that towered above her from the mellow10 dusk of the bow-window near which she sat, beautiful as it, and almost as immobile, she crouched11 with rigid12 hands frozen in forgotten entreaty13 before her, apparently14 insensible to sound, movement, or touch; a silent figure of despair in presence of an implacable fate.
Impressed by the scene, I stood with my hand upon the curtain, hesitating if to advance or retreat, when suddenly a sharp tremble shook her impassive frame, the rigid hands unlocked, the stony15 eyes softened16, and, springing to her feet, she uttered a cry of satisfaction, and advanced towards me.
“Miss Leavenworth!” I exclaimed, starting at the sound of my own voice.
She paused, and pressed her hands to her face, as if the world and all she had forgotten had rushed back upon her at this simple utterance17 of her name.
“What is it?” I asked.
Her hands fell heavily. “Do you not know? They—they are beginning to say that I—” she paused, and clutched her throat. “Read!” she gasped18, pointing to a newspaper lying on the floor at her feet.
I stooped and lifted what showed itself at first glance to be the Evening Telegram. It needed but a single look to inform me to what she referred. There, in startling characters, I beheld:
THE LEAVENWORTH MURDER
LATEST DEVELOPMENTS IN THE MYSTERIOUS CASE
A MEMBER OF THE MURDERED MAN’S OWN FAMILY
STRONGLY SUSPECTED OF THE CRIME
THE MOST BEAUTIFUL WOMAN IN NEW YORK UNDER A CLOUD
PAST HISTORY OF MISS ELEANORE LEAVENWORTH
I was prepared for it; had schooled myself for this very thing, you might say; and yet I could not help recoiling19. Dropping the paper from my hand, I stood before her, longing20 and yet dreading21 to look into her face.
“What does it mean?” she panted; “what, what does it mean? Is the world mad?” and her eyes, fixed22 and glassy, stared into mine as if she found it impossible to grasp the sense of this outrage23.
I shook my head. I could not reply.
“To accuse me” she murmured; “me, me!” striking her breast with her clenched24 hand, “who loved the very ground he trod upon; who would have cast my own body between him and the deadly bullet if I had only known his danger. Oh!” she cried, “it is not a slander they utter, but a dagger25 which they thrust into my heart!”
Overcome by her misery26, but determined27 not to show my compassion28 until more thoroughly29 convinced of her complete innocence30, I replied, after a pause:
“This seems to strike you with great surprise, Miss Leavenworth; were you not then able to foresee what must follow your determined reticence31 upon certain points? Did you know so little of human nature as to imagine that, situated32 as you are, you could keep silence in regard to any matter connected with this crime, without arousing the antagonism33 of the crowd, to say nothing of the suspicions of the police?”
“But—but——”
I hurriedly waved my hand. “When you defied the coroner to find any suspicious paper in your possession; when”—I forced myself to speak—“you refused to tell Mr. Gryce how you came in possession of the key—”
She drew hastily b............