The House of the Whispering Pines (39 page)

"Was this rushing sound such as a window might make on being opened?"

"Possibly. I didn't think of it at the time, but it might have been."

"From what direction did it come?"

"Back of me, for I turned my head about."

"Where were you at the time?"

"At the hearth. It was before Adelaide came in."

"A near sound, or a far?"

"Far, but I cannot locate it—indeed, I cannot. I forgot it in a moment."

"But you remember it now?"

"Yes."

"And cannot you remember
now
any other noises than those you speak of?
That time you stepped into the hall—when your teeth chattered, you
know—did you hear nothing then but the sighing of the pines?"

She looked startled. Her hands went up and one of them clutched at her
throat, then they fell, and slowly—carefully—like one feeling his
way—she answered:

"I had forgotten. I did hear something—a sound in one of the doorways.
It was very faint—a sigh—a—a—I don't know what. It conveyed nothing
to me then, and not much now. But you asked, and I have answered."

"You have done right, Miss Cumberland. The jury ought to know these
facts. Was it a human sigh?"

"It wasn't the sigh of the pines."

"And you heard it in one of the doorways? Which doorway?"

"The one opposite the room in which I left my sister."

"The doorway to the large hall?"

"Yes, sir."

Oh, the sinister memories! The moments which I myself had spent
there—after this time of her passing through the hall, thank God!—but
not long after. And some one had been there before me! Was it Arthur? I
hardly had the courage to interrogate his face, but when I did, I, like
every one else who looked that way, met nothing but the quietude of a
fully composed man. There was nothing to be learned from him now; the
hour for self-betrayal was past. I began to have a hideous doubt.

Carmel being innocent, who could be guilty but he. I knew of no one.
The misery under which I had suffered was only lightened, not removed.
We were still to see evil days. The prosecution would prove its case,
and—But there was Mr. Moffat. I must not reckon without Moffat. He
had sprung one surprise. Was he not capable of springing another?
Relieved, I fixed my mind again upon the proceedings. What was Mr. Fox
asking her now?

"Miss Cumberland, are you ready to swear that you did not hear a step at
that time?"

"Yes, sir."

"Or see a face?"

"Yes, sir."

"That you only heard a sigh?"

"A sigh, or something like one."

"Which made you stop—"

"No, I did not stop."

"You went right on?"

"Immediately."

"Entering the telephone room?"

"Yes."

"The door of which you shut?"

"Yes."

"Intentionally?"

"No, not intentionally."

"Did you shut that door yourself?"

"I do not know. I must have but I—"

"Never mind explanations. You do not know whether you shut it, or whether
some one else shut it?"

"I do not."

The words fell weightily. They seemed to strike every heart.

"Miss Cumberland, you have said that you telephoned for the police."

"I telephoned to central."

"For help?"

"Yes, for help."

"You were some minutes doing this, you say?"

"I have reason to think so, but I don't know definitely. The candle
seemed shorter when I went out than when I came in."

"Are you sure you telephoned for help?"

"Help was what I wanted—help for my sister. I do not remember my
words."

"And then you left the building?"

"After going for my little bag."

"Did you see any one then?"

"No, sir."

"Hear any one?"

"No, sir."

"Did you see your sister again?"

"I have said that I just glanced at the couch."

"Were the pillows there?"

"Yes, sir."

"Just as you had left them?"

"I have said that I could not tell."

"Wouldn't you know if they had been disturbed?"

"No, sir—not from the look I gave them."

"Then they might have been disturbed—might even have been
rearranged—without your knowing it?"

"They might."

"Miss Cumberland, when you left the building, did you leave it alone?"

"I did."

"Was the moon shining?"

"No, it was snowing."

"Did the moon shine when you went to throw the phial out of the window?"

"Yes, very brightly."

"Bright enough for you to see the links?"

"I didn't look at the links."

"Where were you looking?"

"Behind me."

"When you threw the phial out?"

"Yes."

"What was there behind you?"

"A dead sister." Oh, the indescribable tone!

"Nothing else?"

"No."

"Forgive me, Miss Cumberland, I do not want to trouble you, but was there
not something or some one in the adjoining room besides your dead sister,
to make you look back?"

"I saw no one. But I looked back—I do not know why."

"And didn't you turn at all?"

"I do not think so."

"You threw the phial out without looking?"

"Yes."

"How do you know you threw it out?"

"I felt it slip from my hand."

"Where?"

"Over the window ledge. I had pulled the window open before I turned my
head. I had only to feel for the sill. When I touched its edge, I opened
my fingers."

Triumph for the defence. Cross-examination on this point had only served
to elucidate a mysterious fact. The position of the phial, caught in the
vines, was accounted for in a very natural manner.

Mr. Fox shifted his inquiries.

"You have said that you wore a hat and coat of your brother's in coming
to the club-house? Did you keep these articles on?"

"No; I left them in the lower hall."

"Where in the lower hall?"

"On the rack there."

"Was your candle lit?"

"Not then, sir."

"Yet you found the rack?"

"I felt for it. I knew where it was."

"When did you light the candle?"

"After I hung up the coat."

"And when you came down? Did you have the candle then?"

"Yes, for a while. But I didn't have any light when I went for the coat
and hat. I remember feeling all along the wall. I don't know what I did
with the candlestick or the candle. I had them on the stairs; I didn't
have them when I put on the coat and hat."

I knew what she did with them. She flung them out of her hand upon the
marble floor. Should I ever forget the darkness swallowing up that face
of mental horror and physical suffering.

"Miss Cumberland, you are sure about having telephoned for help, and that
you mentioned The Whispering Pines in doing so?"

"Quite sure." Oh, what weariness was creeping into her voice!

"Then, of course, you left the door unlocked when you went out of the
building?"

"No—no, I didn't. I had the key and I locked it. But I didn't realise
this till I went to untie my horse; then I found the keys in my hand. But
I didn't go back."

"Do you mean that you didn't know you locked the door?"

"I don't remember whether I knew or not at the time. I do remember
being surprised and a little frightened when I saw the keys. But I
didn't go back."

"Yet you had telephoned for the police?"

"Yes."

"And then locked them out?"

"I didn't care—I didn't care."

An infinite number of questions followed. The poor child was near
fainting, but bore up wonderfully notwithstanding, contradicting herself
but seldom; and then only from lack of understanding the question, or
from sheer fatigue. Mr. Fox was considerate, and Mr. Moffat interrupted
but seldom. All could see that this noble-hearted girl, this heroine of
all hearts was trying to tell the truth, and sympathy was with her, even
that of the prosecution. But certain facts had to be brought out, among
them the blowing off of her hat on that hurried drive home through the
ever thickening snow-storm—a fact easily accounted for, when one
considered the thick coils of hair over which it had been drawn.

The circumstances connected with her arrival at the house were all
carefully sifted, but nothing new came up, nor was her credibility as a
witness shaken. The prosecution had lost much by this witness, but it had
also gained. No doubt now remained that the ring was still on the
victim's hand when she succumbed to the effects of the poison; and the
possibility of another presence in the house during the fateful interview
just recorded, had been strengthened, rather than lessened, by Carmel' s
hesitating admissions. And so the question hung poised, and I was
expecting to see her dismissed from the stand, when the district
attorney settled himself again into his accustomed attitude of inquiry,
and launched this new question:

"When you went into the stable to unharness your horse, what did you do
with the little bag you carried?"

"I took it out of the cutter."

"What, then?"

"Set it down somewhere."

"Was there anything in the bag?"

"Not now. I had left the tongs at the club-house, and the paper I had
burned. I took nothing else."

"How about the candlestick?"

"That I carried in one of the pockets of my coat. That I left, too."

"Was that all you carried in your pockets?"

"Yes—the candlestick and the candle. The candlestick on one side and the
candle on the other."

"And these you did not have on your return?"

"No, I left both."

"So that your pockets were empty—entirely empty—when you drove into
your own gate?"

"Yes, sir, so far as I know. I never looked into them."

"And felt nothing there?"

"No, sir."

"Took nothing out?"

"No, sir."

"Then or when you unharnessed your horse, or afterward, as you passed
back to the house?"

"No, sir."

"What path did you take in returning to the house?"

"There is only one."

"Did you walk straight through it?"

"As straight as I could. It was snowing heavily, and I was dizzy and felt
strange, I may have zigzagged a little."

"Did you zigzag enough to go back of the stable?"

"Oh, no."

"You are sure that you did not wander in back of the stable?"

"As sure as I can be of anything."

"Miss Cumberland, I have but a few more questions to ask. Will you look
at this portion of a broken bottle?"

"I see it, sir."

"Will you take it in your hand and examine it carefully?"

She reached out her hand; it was trembling visibly and her face expressed
a deep distress, but she took the piece of broken bottle and looked at it
before passing it back.

"Miss Cumberland, did you ever see that bit of broken glass before?"

She shook her head. Then she cast a quick look at her brother, and seemed
to gain an instantaneous courage.

"No," said she. "I may have seen a whole bottle like that, at some time
in the club-house, but I have no memory of this broken end—none at all."

"I am obliged to you, Miss Cumberland. I will trouble you no more
to-day."

Then he threw up his head and smiled a slow, sarcastic smile at
Mr. Moffat.

O my soul's joy!
If after every tempest come such calms
May the winds blow till they have wakened death!

Othello
.

I had always loved her; that I knew even in the hour of my darkest
suspicion—but now I felt free to worship her. As the thought penetrated
my whole being, it made the night gladsome. Whatever awaited her,
whatever awaited Arthur, whatever awaited me, she had regenerated me. A
change took place that night in my whole nature, in my aspect of life and
my view of women. One fact rode triumphant above all other considerations
and possible distresses. Fate—I was more inclined now to call it
Providence—had shown me the heart of a great and true woman; and I was
free to expend all my best impulses in honouring her and loving her,
whether she ever looked my way again, received or even acknowledged a
homage growing out of such wrong as I had done her and her unfortunate
sister. It set a star in my firmament. It turned down all the ill-written
and besmirched leaves in my book of life and opened up a new page on
which her name, written in letters of gold, demanded clean work in the
future and a record which should not shame the aura surrounding that pure
name. Sorrow for the past, dread of the future—both were lost in the
glad rebound of my distracted soul. The night was dedicated to joy, and
to joy alone.

The next day being Sunday, I had ample time for the reaction bound to
follow hours of such exaltation. I had no wish for company. I even denied
myself to Clifton. The sight of a human face was more than I could bear
unless it were the one face; and that I could not hope for. But the
desire to see her, to hear from her—if only to learn how she had endured
the bitter ordeal of the day before—soon became unbearable. I must know
this much at any cost to her feelings or to mine.

After many a struggle with myself, I called up Dr. Carpenter on the
telephone. From him I learned that she was physically prostrated, but
still clear in mind and satisfied of her brother's innocence. This latter
statement might mean anything; but imparted by him to me, it seemed to be
capable of but one interpretation. I must be prepared for whatever
distrust of myself this confidence carried with it.

This was intolerable. I had to speak; I had to inquire if she had yet
heard the real reason why I was the first to be arrested.

A decided "No," cut short that agony. I could breathe again and proffer a
humble request.

"Doctor, I cannot approach her; I cannot even write,—it would seem too
presumptuous. But tell her, as you find the opportunity, how I honour
her. Do not let her remain under the impression that I am not capable of
truly feeling what she has borne and must still bear."