The House of the Whispering Pines (40 page)

"I will do what I can," was his reply, and he mercifully cut short the
conversation.

This was the event of the morning.

In the afternoon I sat in my window thinking. My powers of reasoning had
returned, and the insoluble problem of Adelaide's murder occupied my
whole mind. With Carmel innocent, who was there left to suspect? Not
Arthur. His fingers were as guiltless as my own of those marks on her
throat. Of this I was convinced, difficult as it made my future. My mind
refused to see guilt in a man who could meet my eye with just the look he
gave me on leaving the courtroom, at the conclusion of his sister's
triumphant examination. It was a momentary glance, but I read it, I am
sure, quite truthfully.

"You are the man," it said; but not in the old, bitter, and revengeful
way voiced by his tongue before we came together in the one effort to
save Carmel from what, in our short-sightedness and misunderstanding of
her character, we had looked upon as the worst of humiliations and the
most desperate of perils. There was sadness in his conviction and an
honest man's regret—which, if noted by those about us—was far more
dangerous to my good name than the loudest of denunciations or the most
acrimonious of assaults. It put me in the worst of positions. But one
chance remained for me now.

The secret man of guilt might yet come to light; but how or through whose
agency, I found myself unable to conceive. I had neither the wit nor the
experience to untangle this confused web. Should I find the law in shape
to deal with it? A few days would show. With the termination of Arthur's
trial, the story of my future would begin. Meanwhile, I must have
patience and such strength as could be got from the present.

And so the afternoon passed.

With the coming on of night, my mood changed. I wanted air, movement. The
closeness of my rooms had become unbearable. As soon as the lamps were
lit in the street, I started out and I went—toward the cemetery.

I had no motive in choosing this direction for my walk. The road was an
open one, and I should neither avoid people nor escape the chilly blast
blowing directly in my face from the northeast. Whim, or shall I not say,
true feeling, carried me there though I was quite conscious, all the
time, of a strong desire to see Ella Fulton and learn from her the
condition of affairs—whether she was at peace, or in utter disgrace,
with her parents.

It was a cold night, as I have said, and there were but few people in the
streets. On the boulevard I met nobody. As I neared the cemetery, I
passed one man; otherwise I was, to all appearance, alone on this remote
avenue. The effect was sinister, or my mood made it so; yet I did not
hasten my steps; the hours till midnight had to be lived through in some
way, and why not in this? No companion would have been welcome, and had
the solitude been less perfect, I should have murmured at the prospect of
intrusion.

The cemetery gates were shut. This I had expected, but I did not need to
enter the grounds to have a view of Adelaide's grave. The Cumberland lot
occupied a knoll in close proximity to the fence, and my only intention
had been to pass this spot and cast one look within, in memory of
Adelaide. To reach the place, however, I had to turn a corner, and on
doing so I saw good reason, as I thought, for not carrying out my
intention at this especial time.

Some man—I could not recognise him from where I stood—had forestalled
me. Though the night was a dark one, sufficient light shone from the
scattered lamps on the opposite side of the way for me to discern his
intent figure, crouching against the iron bars and gazing, with an
intentness which made him entirely oblivious of my presence, at the very
plot—and on the very grave—which had been the end of my own pilgrimage.
So motionless he stood, and so motionless I myself became at this
unexpected and significant sight, that I presently imagined I could hear
his sighs in the dread quiet into which the whole scene had sunk.

Grief, deeper than mine, spoke in those labouring breaths. Adelaide was
mourned by some one as I, for all my remorse, could never mourn her.

And I did not know the man
.

Was not this strange enough to rouse my wonder?

I thought so, and was on the point of satisfying this wonder by a quick
advance upon this stranger, when there happened an uncanny thing, which
held me in check from sheer astonishment. I was so placed, in reference
to one of the street lamps I have already mentioned, that my shadow fell
before me plainly along the snow. This had not attracted my attention
until, at the point of moving, I cast my eyes down and saw two shadows
where only one should be.

As I had heard no one behind me, and had supposed myself entirely alone
with the man absorbed in contemplation of Adelaide's grave, I experienced
a curious sensation which, without being fear, held me still for a
moment, with my eyes on this second shadow. It did not move, any more
than mine did. This was significant, and I turned.

A man stood at my back—not looking at me but at the fellow in front of
us. A quiet "hush!" sounded in my ear, and again I stood still. But only
for an instant.

The man at the fence—aroused by my movement, perhaps—had turned, and,
seeing our two figures, started to fly in the opposite direction.
Instinctively I darted forward in pursuit, but was soon passed by the man
behind me. This caused me to slacken; for I had recognised this latter,
as he flew by, as Sweetwater, the detective, and knew that he would do
this work better than myself.

But I reckoned without my host. He went only as far as the spot where the
man had been standing. When, in my astonishment, I advanced upon him
there, he wheeled about quite naturally in my direction and, accosting me
by name, remarked, in his genial off-hand manner:

"There is no need for us to tire our legs in a chase after that man. I
know him well enough."

"And who—" I began.

A quizzical smile answered me. The light was now in our faces, and I had
a perfect view of his. Its expression quite disarmed me; but I knew, as
well as if he had spoken, that I should receive no other reply to my
half-formed question.

"Are you going back into town?" he asked, as I paused and looked down at
the umbrella swinging in his hand. I was sure that he had not held this
umbrella when he started by me on the run. "If so, will you allow me to
walk beside you for a little way?"

I could not refuse him; besides, I was not sure that I wanted to. Homely
as any man I had ever seen, there was a magnetic quality in his voice and
manner that affected even one so fastidious as myself. I felt that I had
rather talk to him, at that moment, than to any other person I knew. Of
course, curiosity had something to do with it, and that community of
interest which is the strongest bond that can link two people together.

"You are quite welcome," said I; and again cast my eye at the umbrella.

"You are wondering where I got this," he remarked, looking down at it in
his turn. "I found it leaning against the fence. It gives me all the clue
I need to our fleet-footed friend. Mr. Ranelagh, will you credit me with
good intentions if I ask a question or two which you may or may not be
willing to answer?"

"You may ask what you will," said I. "I have nothing to conceal, since
hearing Miss Cumberland's explanation of her presence at The
Whispering Pines."

"Ah!"

The ejaculation was eloquent. So was the silence which followed it.
Without good reason, perhaps, I felt the strain upon my heart loosen a
little. Was it possible that I should find a friend in this man?

"The question I am going to ask," he continued presently, "is one which
you may consider unpardonable. Let me first express an opinion. You have
not told all that you know of that evening's doings."

This called for no reply and I made none.

"I can understand your reticence, if your knowledge included the fact of
Miss Cumberland's heroic act and her sister's manner of death at the
club-house."

"But it did not," I asserted, with deliberate emphasis. "I knew nothing
of either. My arrival happened later. Miss Cumberland's testimony gave me
my first enlightenment on these points. But I did know that the two
sisters were there together, for I had a glimpse of the younger as she
was leaving the house."

"You had. And are willing to state it now?"

"Assuredly. But any testimony of that kind is for the defence, and your
interests are all with the prosecution. Mr. Moffat is the man who should
talk to me."

"Does he know it?"

"Yes."

"Who told him?"

"I did."

"You?"

"Yes, it was my duty."

"You are interested then in seeing young Cumberland freed?"

"I must be; he is innocent."

The man at my side turned, shot at me one glance which I met quite
calmly, then, regulating his step by mine, moved on silently for a
moment—thinking, as it appeared to me, some very serious thoughts. It
was not until we had traversed a whole block in this way that he finally
put his question. Whether it was the one he had first had in mind, I
cannot say.

"Mr. Ranelagh, will you tell me why, when you found yourself in such a
dire extremity as to be arrested for this crime, on evidence as startling
as to call for all and every possible testimony to your innocence, you
preserved silence in regard to a fact which you must have then felt would
have secured you a most invaluable witness? I can understand why Mr.
Cumberland has been loth to speak of his younger sister's presence in the
club-house on that night; but his reason was not your reason. Yet you
have been as hard to move on this point as he."

Then it was I regretted my thoughtless promise to be candid with this
man. To answer were impossible, yet silence has its confidences, too. In
my dilemma, I turned towards him and just then we stepped within the
glare of an electric light pouring from some open doorway. I caught his
eye, and was astonished at the change which took place in him.

"Don't answer," he muttered, volubly. "It isn't necessary. I understand
the situation, now, and you shall never regret that you met Caleb
Sweetwater on your walk this evening. Will you trust me, sir? A detective
who loves his profession is no gabbler. Your secret is as safe with me as
if you had buried it in the grave."

And I had said nothing!

He started to go, then he stopped suddenly and observed, with one of his
wise smiles:

"I once spent several minutes in Miss Carmel Cumberland's room, and I saw
a cabinet there which I found it very hard to understand. But its meaning
came to me later. I could not rest till it did."

At the next moment he was half way around a corner, and in another,
out of sight.

This was the evening's event.

O if you rear this house against this house,
It will the wofulest division prove
That ever fell upon this cursed earth.

Prometheus Unbound
.

In my first glance around the court-room the next morning, I sought first
for Carmel and then for the detective Sweetwater. Neither was visible.
But this was not true of Ella. She had come in on her father's arm,
closely followed by the erect figure of her domineering mother. As I
scrutinised the latter's bearing, I seemed to penetrate the mystery of
her nature. Whatever humiliation she may have felt at the public
revelation of her daughter's weakness, it had been absorbed by her love
for that daughter, or had been forced, through the agency of her
indomitable will, to become a ministrant to her pride which was
unassailable. She had accepted the position exacted from her by the
situation, and she looked for no loss of prestige, either on her
daughter's or her own account. Such was the language of her eyes; and it
was a language which should have assured Ella that she had a better
friend in her mother than she had ever dreamed of. The entrance of the
defendant cut short my contemplation of any mere spectator. The change
in him was so marked that I was conscious of it before I really saw him.
Every eye had reflected it, and it was no surprise to me when I noted the
relieved, almost cheerful aspect of his countenance as he took his place
and met his counsel's greeting with a smile—the first, I believe, which
had been seen on his face since his sister's death. That counsel I had
already noted. He was cheerful also, but with a restrained cheerfulness.
His task was not yet over, and the grimness of Mr. Fox, and the
non-committal aspect of the jurymen, proved that it was not to be made
too easy for him.

The crier announced the opening of the court, and the defence proceeded
by the calling of Ella Fulton to the witness stand.

I need not linger over her testimony. It was very short and contained but
one surprise. She had stated under direct examination that she had waited
and watched for Arthur's return that whole night, and was positive that
he had not passed through their grounds again after that first time in
the early evening. This was just what I had expected from her. But the
prosecution remembered the snowfall, and in her cross-examination on this
point, she acknowledged that it was very thick, much too thick for her to
see her own gate distinctly; but added, that this only made her surer of
the fact she had stated; for finding that she could not see, she had
dressed herself for the storm and gone out into the driveway to watch
there, and had so watched until the town clock struck three.

This did not help the prosecution. Sympathy could not fail to be with
this young and tremulous girl, heroic in her love, if weak in other
respects, and when on her departure from the stand, she cast one
deprecatory glance at the man for whom she had thus sacrificed her pride,
and, meeting his eye fixed upon her with anything but ingratitude,
flushed and faltered till she with difficulty found her way, the
sentiments of the onlookers became so apparent that the judge's gavel was
called into requisition before order could be restored and the next
witness summoned to testify.