Yes.”
It was a blow.
Shame, horror, and anguish were in every line of her white face.
“And all because of that key!” she murmured.
“Key?
How did you know anything about a key?”
“Why,” she cried, flushing painfully; “I cannot say; didn’t you tell me?”
“No,” I returned.
“The papers, then?”
“The papers have never mentioned it.”
She grew more and more agitated.
“I thought every one knew.
No, I did not, either,” she avowed, in a sudden burst of shame and penitence. “I knew it was a secret; but—oh, Mr. Raymond, it was Eleanore herself who told me.”
“Eleanore?”
“Yes, that last evening she was here; we were together in the drawing-room.”
“What did she tell?”
“That the key to the library had been seen in her possession.”
I could scarcely conceal my incredulity.
Eleanore, conscious of the suspicion with which her cousin regarded her, inform that cousin of a fact calculated to add weight to that suspicion?
I could not believe this.
“But you knew it?” Mary went on. “I have revealed nothing I ought to have kept secret?”
“No,” said I; “and, Miss Leavenworth, it is this thing which makes your cousin’s position absolutely dangerous.
It is a fact that, left unexplained, must ever link her name with infamy; a bit of circumstantial evidence no sophistry can smother, and no denial obliterate.
Only her hitherto spotless reputation, and the efforts of one who, notwithstanding appearances, believes in her innocence, keeps her so long from the clutch of the officers of justice.
That key, and the silence preserved by her in regard to it, is sinking her slowly into a pit from which the utmost endeavors of her best friends will soon be inadequate to extricate her.”
“And you tell me this—”
“That you may have pity on the poor girl, who will not have pity on herself, and by the explanation of a few circumstances, which cannot be mysteries to you, assist in bringing her from under the dreadful shadow that threatens to overwhelm her.”
“And would you insinuate, sir,” she cried, turning upon me with a look of great anger, “that I know any more than you do of this matter? that I possess any knowledge which I have not already made public concerning the dreadful tragedy which has transformed our home into a desert, our existence into a lasting horror?
Has the blight of suspicion fallen upon me, too; and have you come to accuse me in my own house—”
“Miss Leavenworth,” I entreated; “calm yourself.
I accuse you of nothing.
I only desire you to enlighten me as to your cousin’s probable motive for this criminating silence.
You cannot be ignorant of it.
You are her cousin, almost her sister, have been at all events her daily companion for years, and must know for whom or for what she seals her lips, and conceals facts which, if known, would direct suspicion to the real criminal—that is, if you really believe what you have hitherto stated, that your cousin is an innocent woman.”
She not making any answer to this, I rose and confronted her.
“Miss Leavenworth, do you believe your cousin guiltless of this crime, or not?”
“Guiltless?
Eleanore?
Oh! my God; if all the world were only as innocent as she!”
“Then,” said I, “you must likewise believe that if she refrains from speaking in regard to matters which to ordinary observers ought to be explained, she does it only from motives of kindness towards one less guiltless than herself.”
“What?
No, no; I do not say that.
What made you think of any such explanation?”
“The action itself.
With one of Eleanore’s character, such conduct as hers admits of no other construction.
Either she is mad, or she is shielding another at the expense of herself.”
Mary’s lip, which had trembled, slowly steadied itself.
“And whom have you settled upon, as the person for whom Eleanore thus sacrifices herself?”
“Ah,” said I, “there is where I seek assistance from you.
With your knowledge of her history—”