XX. “TRUEMAN! TRUEMAN! TRUEMAN!”
“Often do the spirits Of great events stride on before the events, And in to-day already walks to-morrow.” Coleridge.
INSTANTLY a great dread seized me. What revelations might not this manbe going to make! But I subdued the feeling; and, greeting him with whatcordiality I could, settled myself to listen to his explanations.
But Trueman Harwell had no explanations to give, or so it seemed; onthe contrary, he had come to apologize for the very violent words he hadused the evening before; words which, whatever their effect upon me, henow felt bound to declare had been used without sufficient basis in factto make their utterance of the least importance.
“But you must have thought you had grounds for so tremendous anaccusation, or your act was that of a madman.”
His brow wrinkled heavily, and his eyes assumed a very gloomyexpression. “It does not follow,” he returned. “Under the pressure ofsurprise, I have known men utter convictions no better founded than minewithout running the risk of being called mad.”
“Surprise? Mr. Clavering’s face or form must, then, have been known toyou. The mere fact of seeing a strange gentleman in the hall would havebeen insufficient to cause you astonishment, Mr. Harwell.”
He uneasily fingered the back of the chair before which he stood, butmade no reply.
“Sit down,” I again urged, this time with a touch of command in myvoice. “This is a serious matter, and I intend to deal with it as itdeserves. You once said that if you knew anything which might serveto exonerate Eleanore Leavenworth from the suspicion under which shestands, you would be ready to impart it.”
“Pardon me. I said that if I had ever known anything calculated torelease her from her unhappy position, I would have spoken,” he coldlycorrected.
“Do not quibble. You know, and I know, that you are keeping somethingback; and I ask you, in her behalf, and in the cause of justice, to tellme what it is.”
“You are mistaken,” was his dogged reply. “I have reasons, perhaps, forcertain conclusions I may have drawn; but my conscience will not allowme in cold blood to give utterance to suspicions which may not onlydamage the reputation of an honest man, but place me in the unpleasantposition of an accuser without substantial foundation for myaccusations.”
“You occupy that position already,” I retorted, with equal coldness.“Nothing can make me forget that in my presence you have denounced HenryClavering as the murderer of Mr. Leavenworth. You had better explainyourself, Mr. Harwell.”
He gave me a short look, but moved around and took the chair. “You haveme at a disadvantage,” he said, in a lighter tone. “If you choose toprofit by your position, and press me to disclose the little I know, Ican only regret the necessity under which I lie, and speak.”
“Then you are deterred by conscientious scruples alone?”
“Yes, and by the meagreness of the facts at my command.”
“I will judge of the facts when I have heard them.”
He raised his eyes to mine, and I was astonished to observe a strangeeagerness in their depths; evidently his convictions were strongerthan his scruples. “Mr. Raymond,” he began, “you are a lawyer, andundoubtedly a practical man; but you may know what it is to scent dangerbefore you see it, to feel influences working in the air over andabout you, and yet be in ignorance of what it is that affects you sopowerfully, till chance reveals that an enemy has been at your side, ora friend passed your window, or the shadow of death crossed your book asyou read, or mingled with your breath as you slept?”
I shook my head, fascinated by the intensity of his gaze into some sortof response.
“Then you cannot understand me, or what I have suffered these last threeweeks.” And he drew back with an icy reserve that seemed to promise butlittle to my now thoroughly awakened curiosity.
“I beg your pardon,” I hastened to say; “but the fact of my never havingexperienced such sensations does not hinder me from comprehending theemotions of others more affected by spiritual influences than myself.”
He drew himself slowly forward. “Then you will not ridicule me if I saythat upon the eve of Mr. Leavenworth’s murder I experienced in a dreamall that afterwards occurred; saw him murdered, saw”--and he claspedhis hands before him, in an attitude inexpressibly convincing, while hisvoice sank to a horrified whisper, “saw the face of his murderer!”
I started, looked at him in amazement, a thrill as at a ghostly presencerunning through me.
“And was that----” I began.
“My reason for denouncing the man I beheld before me in the hall ofMiss Leavenworth’s house last night? It was.” And, taking out hishandkerchief, he wiped his forehead, on which the perspiration wasstanding in large drops.
“You would then intimate that the face you saw in your dream and theface you saw in the hall last night were the same?”
He gravely nodded his head.
I drew my chair nearer to his. “Tell me your dream,” said I.
“It was the night before Mr. Leavenworth’s murder. I had gone to bedfeeling especially contented with myself and the world at large; for,though my life is anything but a happy one,” and he heaved a short sigh,“some pleasant words had been said to me that day, and I was revellingin the happiness they conferred, when suddenly a chill struck my heart,and the darkness which a moment before had appeared to me as the abodeof peace thrilled to the sound of a supernatural cry, and I heard myname, ‘Trueman, Trueman, Trueman,’ repeated three times in a voice I didnot recognize, and starting from my pillow beheld at my bedside a woman.Her face was strange to me,” he solemnly proceeded, “but I can give youeach and every detail of it, as, bending above me, she stared into myeyes with a growing terror that seemed to implore help, though her lipswere quiet, and only the memory of that cry echoed in my ears.”
“Describe the face,” I interposed.
“It was a round, fair, lady’s face. Very lovely in contour, but devoidof coloring; not beautiful, but winning from its childlike look oftrust. The hair, banded upon the low, broad forehead, was brown; theeyes, which were very far apart, gray; the mouth, which was its mostcharming feature, delicate of make and very expressive. There wasa dimple in the chin, but none in the cheeks. It was a face to beremembered.”
“Go on,” said I.
“Meeting the gaze of those imploring eyes, I started up. Instantly theface and all vanished, and I became conscious, as we sometimes do indreams, of a certain movement in the hall below, and the next instantthe gliding figure of a man of imposing size entered the library.I remember experiencing a certain thrill at this, half terror, halfcuriosity, though I seemed to know, as if by intuition, what he wasgoing to do. Strange to say, I now seemed to change my personality,and to be no longer a third party watching these proceedings, but Mr.Leavenworth himself, sitting at his library table and feeling his doomcrawling upon him without capacity for speech or power of movement toavert it. Though my back was towards the man, I could feel his stealthyform traverse the passage, enter the room beyond, pass to that standwhere the pistol was, try the drawer, find it locked, turn the key,procure the pistol, weigh it in an accustomed hand, and advance again.I could feel each footstep he took as though his feet were in truth uponmy heart, and I remember staring at the table before me as if I expectedevery moment to see it run with my own blood. I can see now how theletters I had been writing danced upon the paper before me, appearingto my eyes to take the phantom shapes of persons and things long agoforgotten; crowding my last moments with regrets and dead shames, wildlongings, and unspeakable agonies, through all of which that face, theface of my former dream, mingled, pale, sweet, and searching, whilecloser and closer behind me crept that noiseless foot till I couldfeel the glaring of the assassin’s eyes across the narrow thresholdseparating me from death and hear the click of his teeth as he set hislips for the final act. Ah!” and the secretary’s livid face showed thetouch of awful horror, “what words can describe such an experience as
that? In one moment, all the agonies of hell in the heart and brain,the next a blank through which I seemed to see afar, and as if suddenlyremoved from all this, a crouching figure looking at its work withstarting eyes and pallid back-drawn lips; and seeing, recognize no facethat I had ever known, but one so handsome, so remarkable, so unique inits formation and character, that it would be as easy for me to mistakethe countenance of my father as the look and figure of the man revealedto me in my dream.”
“And this face?” said I, in a voice I failed to recognize as my own.
“Was that of him whom we saw leave Mary Leavenworth’s presence lastnight and go down the hall to the front door.”