Agatha Webb (29 page)

With such feelings, what should she say to these men; how conduct
herself under questions which would be much more searching now
than before? She could not even decide in her own mind. She must
let impulse have its way.

Happily, she took the right stand at first. She did not endeavour
to make any corrections in her former testimony, only
acknowledging that the flower whose presence on the scene of death
had been such a mystery, had fallen from her hair at the ball and
that she had seen Frederick pick it up and put it in his
buttonhole. Beyond this, and the inferences it afterward awakened
in her mind, she would not go, though many present, and among them
Frederick, felt confident that her attitude had been one of
suspicion from the first, and that it was to follow him rather
than to supply the wants of the old man, Zabel, she had left the
ball and found her way to Agatha Webb's cottage.

Meanwhile Sweetwater had been witness to a series of pantomimic
actions that interested him more than Amabel's conduct under this
final examination. Frederick, who had evidently some request to
make or direction to give, had sent a written line to the coroner,
who, on reading it, had passed it over to Knapp, who a few minutes
later was to be seen in conference with Agnes Halliday. As a
result, the latter rose and left the room, followed by the
detective. She was gone a half-hour, then simultaneously with her
reappearance, Sweetwater saw Knapp hand a bundle of letters to the
coroner, who, upon opening them, chose out several which he
proceeded to read to the jury. They were the letters referred to
by Frederick as having been given to him by his mother. The first
was dated thirty-five years previously and was in the handwriting
of Agatha herself. It was directed to James Zabel, and was read
amid a profound hush.

DEAR JAMES:

You are too presumptuous. When I let you carry me away from John
in that maddening reel last night, I did not mean you to draw the
inference you did. That you did draw it argues a touch of vanity
in a man who is not alone in the field where he imagines himself
victor. John, who is humbler, sees some merit in—well, in
Frederick Snow, let us say. So do I, but merit does not always
win, any more than presumption. When we meet, let it be as
friends, but as friends only. A girl cannot be driven into love.
To ride on your big mare, Judith, is bliss enough for my twenty
years. Why don't you find it so too? I think I hear you say you
do, but only when she stops at a certain gate on Portchester
highway. Folly! there are other roads and other gates, though if I
should see you enter one—There! my pen is galloping away with me
faster than Judith ever did, and it is time I drew rein. Present
my regards to John—But no; then he would know I had written you a
letter, and that might hurt him. How could he guess it was only a
scolding letter, such as it would grieve him to receive, and that
it does not count for anything! Were it to Frederick Snow, now—
There! some horses are so hard to pull up—and so are some pens. I
will come to a standstill, but not before your door.

Respectfully your neighbour,

AGATHA GILCHRIST.

DEAR JAMES:

I know I have a temper, a wicked temper, and now you know it too.
When it is roused, I forget love, gratitude, and everything else
that should restrain me, and utter words I am myself astonished
at. But I do not get roused often, and when all is over I am not
averse to apologising or even to begging forgiveness. My father
says my temper will undo me, but I am much more afraid of my heart
than I am of my temper. For instance, here I am writing to you
again just because I raised my riding-whip and said—But you know
what I said, and I am not fond of recalling the words, for I
cannot do so without seeing your look of surprise and contrasting
it with that of Philemon's. Yours had judgment in it, while
Philemon's held only indulgence. Yet I liked yours best, or should
have liked it best if it were not for the insufferable pride which
is a part of my being. Temper such as mine OUGHT to surprise you,
yet would I be Agatha Gilchrist without it? I very much fear not.
And not being Agatha Gilchrist, should I have your love? Again I
fear not. James, forgive me. When I am happier, when I know my own
heart, I will have less provocation. Then, if that heart turns
your way, you will find a great and bountiful serenity where now
there are lowering and thunderous tempests. Philemon said last
night that he would be content to have my fierce word o' mornings,
if only I would give him one drop out of the honey of my better
nature when the sun went down and twilight brought reflection and
love. But I did not like him any the better for saying this. YOU
would not halve the day so. The cup with which you would refresh
yourself must hold no bitterness. Will it not have to be
proffered, then, by other hands than those of

AGATHA GILCHRIST?

MR. PHILEMON WEBB.

Respected Sir:

You are persistent. I am willing to tell YOU, though I shall never
confide so much to another, that it will take a stronger nature
than yours, and one that loves me less, to hold me faithful and
make me the happy, devoted wife which I must be if I would not be
a demon. I cannot, I dare not, marry where I am not held in a
passionate, self-forgetful subjection. I am too proud, too
sensitive, too little mistress of myself when angry or aroused.
If, like some strong women, I loved what was weaker than myself,
and could be controlled by goodness and unlimited kindness, I
might venture to risk living at the side of the most indulgent and
upright man I know. But I am not of that kind. Strength only can
command my admiration or subdue my pride. I must fear where I
love, and own for husband him who has first shown himself my
master.

So do not fret any more for me, for you, less than any man I know,
will ever claim my obedience or command my love. Not that I will
not yield my heart to you, but that I cannot; and, knowing that I
cannot, feel it honest to say so before any more of your fine,
young manhood is wasted. Go your ways, then, Philemon, and leave
me to the rougher paths my feet were made to tread. I like you now
and feel something like a tender regard for your goodness, but if
you persist in a courtship which only my father is inclined to
smile upon, you will call up an antagonism that can lead to
nothing but evil, for the serpent that lies coiled in my breast
has deadly fangs, and is to be feared, as you should know who have
more than once seen me angry.

Do not blame John or James Zabel, or Frederick Snow, or even
Samuel Barton for this. It would be the same if none of these men
existed. I was not made to triumph over a kindly nature, but to
yield the haughtiest heart in all this county to the gentle but
firm control of its natural master. Do you want to know who that
master is? I cannot tell you, for I have not yet named him to
myself.

DEAR JAMES:

I am going away. I am going to leave Portchester for several
months. I am going to see the world. I did not tell you this last
night for fear of weakening under your entreaties, or should I say
commands? Lately I have felt myself weakening more than once, and
I want to know what it means. Absence will teach me, absence and
the sight of new faces. Do you quarrel with this necessity? Do you
think I should know my mind without any such test? Alas! James, it
is not a simple mind and it baffles me at times. Let us then give
it a chance. If the glow and glamour of elegant city life can make
me forget certain snatches of talk at our old gate, or that night
when you drew my hand through your arm and softly kissed my
fingertips, then I am no mate for you, whose love, however
critical, has never wavered, but has made itself felt, even in
rebuke, as the strongest, sweetest thing that has entered my
turbulent life. Because I would be worthy of you, I submit to a
separation which will either be a permanent one or the last that
will ever take place between you and me. John will not bear this
as well as you, yet he does not love me as well, possibly because
to him I am simply a superior being, while to you I am a loving
but imperfect woman who wishes to do right but can only do so
under the highest guidance.

DEAR JOHN:

I feel that I owe you a letter because you have been so patient.
You may show it to James if you like, but I mean it for you as an
old and dear friend who will one day dance at my wedding.

I am living in a whirl of enjoyment. I am seeing and tasting of
pleasures I have only dreamed about till now. From a farmhouse
kitchen to Mrs. Andrews's drawing-room is a lively change for a
girl who loves dress and show only less than daily intercourse
with famous men and brilliant women. But I am bearing it nobly and
have developed tastes I did not know I possessed; expensive
tastes, John, which I fear may unfit me for the humble life of a
Portchester matron. Can you imagine me dressed in rich brocade,
sitting in the midst of Washington's choicest citizens and
exchanging sallies with senators and judges? You may find it hard,
yet so it is, and no one seems to think I am out of place, nor do
I feel so, only—do not tell James—there are movements in my
heart at times which make me shut my eyes when the lights are
brightest, and dream, if but for an instant, of home and the
tumble-down gateway where I have so often leaned when someone (you
know who it is now, John, and I shall not hurt you too deeply by
mentioning him) was saying good-night and calling down the
blessings of Heaven upon a head not worthy to receive them.

Does this argue my speedy return? Perhaps. Yet I do not know.
There are fond hearts here also, and a life in this country's
centre would be a great life for me if only I could forget the
touch of a certain restraining hand which has great power over me
even as a memory. For the sake of that touch shall I give up the
grandeur and charm of this broad life? Answer, John. You know him
and me well enough now to say.

DEAR JOHN:

I do not understand your letter. You speak in affectionate terms
of everybody, yet you beg me to wait and not be in a hurry to
return. Why? Do you not realise that such words only make me the
more anxious to see old Portchester again? If there is anything
amiss at home, or if James is learning to do without me—but you
do not say that; you only intimate that perhaps I will be better
able to make up my mind later than now, and hint of great things
to come if I will only hold my affections in check a little
longer. This is all very ambiguous and demands a fuller
explanation. So write to me once more, John, or I shall sever
every engagement I have made here and return.

DEAR JOHN:

Your letter is plain enough this time. James read the letter I
wrote you about my pleasure in the life here and was displeased at
it. He thinks I am growing worldly and losing that simplicity
which he has always looked upon as my most attractive
characteristic. So! so! Well, James is right; I am becoming less
the country girl and more the woman of the world every day I
remain here. That means I am becoming less worthy of him. So—But
whatever else I have to say on this topic must be said to him. For
this you will pardon me like the good brother you are. I cannot
help my preference. He is nearer my own age; besides, we were made
for each other.

DEAR JAMES:

I am not worldly; I am not carried away by the pleasures and
satisfactions of this place,—at least not to the point of
forgetting what is dearer and better. I have seen Washington, I
have seen gay life; I like it, but I LOVE Portchester.
Consequently I am going to return to Portchester, and that very
soon. Indeed I cannot stay away much longer, and if you are glad
of this, and if you wish to be convinced that a girl who has been
wearing brocade and jewels can content herself quite gaily again
with calico, come up to the dear old gate a week from now and you
will have the opportunity. Do you object to flowers? I may wear a
flower in my hair.

Your wayward but ever-constant

AGATHA.

DEAR JAMES:

Why must I write? Why am I not content with the memory of last
night? When one's cup is quite full, a cup that has been so long
in filling,—must some few drops escape just to show that a great
joy like mine is not satisfied to be simply quiescent? I have
suffered so long from uncertainty, have tried you and tried myself
with so tedious an indecision, that, now I know no other man can
ever move my heart as you have done, the ecstasy of it makes me
over-demonstrative. I want to tell you that I love you; that I do
not simply accept your love, but give you back in fullest measure
all the devotion you have heaped upon me in spite of my many
faults and failings. You took me to your heart last night, and
seemed satisfied; but it does not satisfy me that I just let you
do it without telling you that I am proud and happy to be the
chosen one of your heart, and that as I saw your smile and the
proud passion which lit up your face, I felt how much sweeter was
the dear domestic bliss you promised me than the more brilliant
but colder life of a statesman's wife in Washington.

I missed the flower from my hair when I went back to my room last
night. Did you take it, dear? If so, do not cherish it. I hate to
think of anything withering on your breast. My love is deathless,
James, and owns no such symbol as that. But perhaps you are not
thinking of my love, but of my faults. If so, let the flower
remain where you have put it; and when you gaze on it say, "Thus
is it with the defects of my darling; once in full bloom, now a
withered remembrance. When I gathered her they began to fade." O
James, I feel as if I never could feel anger again.