Jamail Center for Legal Research
Tarlton Law Library

     "IT was all a hoax; nobody was ill; I have been imposed
upon, meanly imposed upon!" And Mrs. Belden, flushed and
panting, entered the room where I was, and proceeded to take off her
bonnet; but whilst doing so paused, and suddenly exclaimed: "What is
the matter? How you look at me! Has anything happened?"
     "Something very serious has occurred," I replied; "you have been
gone but a little while, but in that time a discovery has been made—"
I purposely paused here that the suspense might elicit from her some
betrayal; but, though she turned pale, she manifested less emotion than
I expected, and I went on—"which is likely to produce very
important consequences."
     To my surprise she burst violently into tears. "I knew it, I knew
it!" she murmured. "I always said it would be impossible to keep it
secret if I let anybody into the house; she is so restless. But I
forget," she suddenly said, with a frightened look; "you haven't told
me what the discovery was. Perhaps it isn't what I thought; perhaps—"

     I did not hesitate to interrupt her. "Mrs. Belden," I said, "I
shall not try to mitigate the blow. A woman who, in the face of the
most urgent call from law and justice, can receive into her house and
harbor there a witness of such importance as Hannah, cannot stand in
need of any great preparation for hearing that her efforts, have been
too successful, that she has accomplished her design of suppressing
valuable testimony, that law and justice are outraged, and that the
innocent woman whom this girl's evidence might have saved stands for
ever compromised in the eyes of the world, if not in those of the
officers of the law."
     Her eyes, which had never left me during this address, flashed wide
with dismay.
     "What do you mean?" she cried. "I have intended no wrong; I have
only tried to save people. I—I—But who are you? What have you
got to do with all this? What is it to you what I do or don't do? You
said you were a lawyer. Can it be you are come from Mary Leavenworth 
to see how I am fulfilling her commands, and — "
     "Mrs. Belden," I said, "it is of small importance now as to who I
am, or for what purpose I am here. But that my words may have the more
effect, I will say, that whereas I have not deceived you, either as to
my name or position, it is true that I am the friend of the Misses
Leavenworth, and that anything which is likely to affect them, is of
interest to me. When, therefore, I say that Eleanore Leavenworth is
irretrievably injured by this gill's death — "
     "Death? What do you mean? Death!"
     The burst was too natural, the tone too horror-stricken for me to
doubt for another moment as to this woman's ignorance of the true state
of affairs.

     "Yes," I repeated, "the girl you have been hiding so long and so
well is now beyond your control. Only her dead body remains, Mrs.
Belden."
     I shall never lose from my ears the shriek which she uttered, nor
the wild, "I don't believe it! I don't believe it!" with which she
dashed from the room and rushed up-stairs.
     Nor that after-scene when, in the presence of the dead, she stood
wringing her hands and protesting, amid sobs of the sincerest grief and
terror, that she knew nothing of it; that she had left the girl in the
best of spirits the night before; that it was true she had locked her
in, but this she always did when any one was in the house; and that if
she died of any sudden attack, it must have been quietly, for she had
heard no stir all night, though she had listened more than once, being
naturally anxious lest the girl should make some disturbance that would
arouse me.
     "But you were in here this morning?" said I.
     "Yes; but I didn't notice. I was in a hurry, and thought she was
asleep; so I set the things down where she could get them and came
right away, locking the door as usual."
     "It is strange she should have died this night of all others. Was
she ill yesterday?"
     "No, sir; she was even brighter than common; more lively. I never
thought of her being sick then or ever. If I had — "
     "You never thought of her being sick?" a voice here interrupted.
"Why, then, did you take such pains to give her a dose of medicine last
night?" And Q entered from the room beyond.
     "I didn't!" she protested, evidently under the supposition it was
I who had spoken. "Did I, Hannah, 

present interview, especially as each moment delayed the action which I
felt it incumbent upon us to take. So, motioning Q to depart upon his
errand, I took Mrs. Belden by the hand and endeavored to lead her from
the room. But she resisted, sitting down by the side of the bed with
the expression, "I will not leave her again; do not ask it; here is
my place, and here I will stay," while Q, obdurate for the first time,
stood staring severely upon us both, and would not move, though I urged
him again to make haste, saying that the morning was slipping away, and
that the telegram to Mr. Gryce ought to be sent.
     "Till that woman leaves the room, I don't; and unless you promise to
take my place in watching her, I don't quit the house."
     Astonished, I left her side and crossed to him.
     "You carry your suspicions too far," I whispered, "and I think
you are too rude. We have seen nothing, I am sure, to warrant us in any
such action; besides, she can do no harm here; though, as for watching
her, I promise to do that much if it will relieve your mind."
     "I don't want her watched here; take her below. I cannot leave
while she remains."
     "Are you not assuming a trifle the master?"
     "Perhaps; I don't know. If I am, it is because I have something in
my possession which excuses my conduct."
     "What is that? the letter?"
     "Yes."
     Agitated now in my turn, I held out my hand. "Let me see," I said.
     "Not while that woman remains in the room."
     Seeing him implacable, I returned to Mrs. Belden.

     "I must entreat you to come with me," said I. "This is not a
common death; we shall be obliged to have the coroner here and others.
You had better leave the room and go below."
     "I don't mind the coroner; he is a neighbor of mine; his coming
won't prevent my watching over the poor girl until he arrives."
     "Mrs. Belden," I said, "your position as the only one conscious of
the presence of this girl in your house makes it wiser for you not to
invite suspicion by lingering any longer than is necessary in the room
where her dead body lies."
     "As if my neglect of her now were the best surety of my good
intentions towards her in time past!"
     "It will not be neglect for you to go below with me at my earnest
request. You can do no good here by staying; will, in fact, be doing
harm. So listen to me or I shall be obliged to leave you in charge of
this man and go myself to inform the authorities."
     This last argument seemed to affect her, for with one look of
shuddering abhorrence at Q she rose, saying, "You have me in
your power," and then, without another word, threw her handkerchief
over the girl's face and left the room. In two minutes more I had the
letter of which Q had spoken in my hands.
     "It is the only one I could find, sir. It was in the pocket of the
dress Mrs. Belden had on last night. The other must be lying around
somewhere, but I haven't had time to find it. This will do, though, I
think. You will not ask for the other."
     Scarcely noticing at the time with what deep significance he spoke,
I opened the letter. It was the smaller of the two I had seen her draw
under her shawl the day before at the post-office, and read as follows:

         "DEAR, DEAR FRIEND:
         "I am in awful trouble. You who love me must know it. I cannot 
    explain, I can only make one prayer. Destroy what you have, to-day, 
    instantly, without question or hesitation. The consent of any one else 
    has nothing to do with it. You must obey. I am     lost if you refuse. Do 
    then what I ask, and save
                                                "ONE WHO LOVES YOU."

     It was addressed to Mrs. Belden; there was no signature or date,
only the postmark New York; but I knew the handwriting. It was Mary
Leavenworth's.
     "A damning letter!" came in the dry tones which Q seemed to think
fit to adopt on this occasion. "And a damning bit of evidence against
the one who wrote it, and the woman who received it!"
     "A terrible piece of evidence, indeed," said I, "if I did not
happen to know that this letter refers to the destruction of something
radically different from what you suspect. It alludes to some papers in
Mrs. Belden's charge; nothing else."
     "Are you sure, sir?"
     "Quite; but we will talk of this hereafter. It is time you sent
your telegram, and went for the coroner."
     "Very well, sir." And with this we parted; he to perform his role
and I mine.
     I found Mrs. Belden walking the floor below, bewailing her
situation, and uttering wild sentences as to what the neighbors would
say of her; what the minister would think; what Clara, whoever that
was, would do, and how she wished she had died before ever she had
meddled with the affair.
     Succeeding in calming her after a while, I induced her to sit down
and listen to what I had to say. "You will only injure yourself by

this display of feeling," I remarked, "besides unfitting yourself for
what you will presently be called upon to go through." And, laying
myself out to comfort the unhappy woman, I first explained the
necessities of the case, and next inquired if she had no friend upon
whom she could call in this emergency.
     To my great surprise she replied no; that while she had kind
neighbors and good friends, there was no one upon whom she could call
in a case like this, either for assistance or sympathy, and that,
unless I would take pity on her, she would have to meet it alone—" As
I have met everything," she said, "from Mr. Belden's death to the loss
of most of my little savings in a town fire last year."
     I was touched by this,—that she who, in spite of her weakness and
inconsistencies of character, possessed at least the one virtue of
sympathy with her kind, should feel any lack of friends.
Unhesitatingly, I offered to do what I could for her, providing she
would treat me with the perfect frankness which the case demanded. To
my great relief, she expressed not only her willingness, but her strong
desire, to tell all she knew. "I have had enough secrecy for my whole
life," she said. And indeed I do believe she was so thoroughly
frightened, that if a police-officer had come into the house and asked
her to reveal secrets compromising the good name of her own son, she
would have done so without cavil or question. "I feel as if I wanted
to take my stand out on the common, and, in the face of the whole
world, declare what I have done for Mary Leavenworth. But first," she
whispered, "tell me, for God's sake, how those girls are situated. I
have not dared to ask or write. The papers say a good deal about
Eleanore, but nothing about Mary; and yet Mary writes of her own peril

only, and of the danger she would be in if certain facts were known.
What is the truth? I don't want to injure them, only to take care of
myself."
     "Mrs. Belden," I said, "Eleanore Leavenworth has got into her
present difficulty by not telling all that was required of her. Mary
Leavenworth—but I cannot speak of her till I know what you have to
divulge. Her position, as well as that of her cousin, is too anomalous
for either you or me to discuss. What we want to learn from you is, how
you became connected with this affair, and what it was that Hannah knew
which caused her to leave New York and take refuge here."
     But Mrs. Belden, clasping and unclasping her hands, met my gaze with
one full of the most apprehensive doubt. "You will never believe me,"
she cried; "but I don't know what Hannah knew. I am in utter ignorance
of what she saw or heard on that fatal night; she never told, and I
never asked. She merely said that Miss Leavenworth wished me to secrete
her for a short time; and I, because I loved Mary Leavenworth and
admired her beyond any one I ever saw, weakly consented, and — "
     "Do you mean to say," I interrupted, "that after you knew of the
murder, you, at the mere expression of Miss Leavenworth's wishes,
continued to keep this girl concealed without asking her any questions
or demanding any explanations?"
     "Yes, sir; you will never believe me, but it is so. I thought that,
since Mary had sent her here, she must have her reasons; and—and—I
cannot explain it now; it all looks so differently; but I did do as I
have said."

     "But that was very strange conduct. You must have had strong reason
for obeying Mary Leavenworth so blindly."
     "Oh, sir," she gasped, "I thought I understood it all; that Mary,
the bright young creature, who had stooped from her lofty position to
make use of me and to love me, was in some way linked to the criminal,
and that it would be better for me to remain in ignorance, do as I was
bid, and trust all would come right. I did not reason about it; I only
followed my impulse. I couldn't do otherwise; it isn't my nature. When
I am requested to do anything for a person I love, I cannot refuse."
     "And you love Mary Leavenworth; a woman whom you yourself seem
to consider capable of a great crime?"
     "Oh, I didn't say that; I don't know as I thought that. She might
be in some way connected with it, without being the actual perpetrator.
She could never be that; she is too dainty."
     "Mrs. Belden," I said, "what do you know of Mary Leavenworth 
which makes even that supposition possible?"
     The white face of the woman before me flushed. "I scarcely know
what to reply," she cried. "It is a long story, and—"
     "Never mind the long story," I interrupted. "Let me hear the one
vital reason."
     "Well," said she, "it is this; that Mary was in an emergency from
which nothing but her uncle's death could release her."
     "Ah, how's that?"
     But here we were interrupted by the sound of steps on the porch,
and, looking out, I saw Q entering the 

house alone. Leaving Mrs. Belden where she was, I stepped into the hall.
     "Well," said I, "what is the matter? Haven't you found the coroner?
Isn't he at home?"
     "No, gone away; off in a buggy to look after a man that was found
some ten miles from here, lying in a ditch beside a yoke of oxen."
Then, as he saw my look of relief, for I was glad of this temporary
delay, said, with an expressive wink: "It would take a fellow a long
time to go to him—if he wasn't in a hurry—hours, I think."
     "Indeed!" I returned, amused at his manner. "Rough road?"
     "Very; no horse I could get could travel it faster than a walk."
     "Well," said I, "so much the better for us. Mrs. Belden has a long
story to tell, and — "
     "Doesn't wish to be interrupted. I understand."
     I nodded and he turned towards the door.
     "Have you telegraphed Mr. Gryce?" I asked.
     "Yes, sir."
     "Do you think he will come?"
     "Yes, sir; if he has to hobble on two sticks."
     "At what time do you look for him?"
     "You will look for him as early as three o'clock. I shall be
among the mountains, ruefully eying my broken-down team." And leisurely
donning his hat he strolled away down the street like one who has the
whole day on his hands and does not know what to do with it.
     An opportunity being thus given for Mrs. Belden's story, she at once
composed herself to the task, with the following result.