XXIX. THE MISSING WITNESS
“I fled and cried out death.” --Milton.
“MR. RAYMOND!”
The voice was low and searching; it reached me in my dreams, waked me,and caused me to look up. Morning had begun to break, and by its light Isaw, standing in the open door leading into the dining-room, the forlornfigure of the tramp who had been admitted into the house the nightbefore. Angry and perplexed, I was about to bid her be gone, when, to mygreat surprise, she pulled out a red handkerchief from her pocket, and Irecognized Q.
“Read that,” said he, hastily advancing and putting a slip of paper intomy hand. And, without another word or look, left the room, closing thedoor behind him.
Rising in considerable agitation, I took it to the window, and by therapidly increasing light, succeeded in making out the rudely scrawledlines as follows:
“She is here; I have seen her; in the room marked with a cross in theaccompanying plan. Wait till eight o’clock, then go up. I will contrivesome means of getting Mrs. B---- out of the house.”
Sketched below this was the following plan of the upper floor:
Hannah, then, was in the small back room over the dining-room, and I hadnot been deceived in thinking I had heard steps overhead, the eveningbefore. Greatly relieved, and yet at the same time much moved at thenear prospect of being brought face to face with one who we had everyreason to believe was acquainted with the dreadful secret involved inthe Leavenworth murder, I lay down once more, and endeavored to catchanother hour’s rest. But I soon gave up the effort in despair, andcontented myself with listening to the sounds of awakening life whichnow began to make themselves heard in the house and neighborhood.
As Q had closed the door after him, I could only faintly hear Mrs.Belden when she came down-stairs. But the short, surprised exclamationwhich she uttered upon reaching the kitchen and finding the tramp goneand the back-door wide open, came plainly enough to my ears, and for amoment I was not sure but that Q had made a mistake in thus leaving sounceremoniously. But he had not studied Mrs. Belden’s character in vain.As she came, in the course of her preparations for breakfast, into theroom adjoining mine, I could hear her murmur to herself:
“Poor thing! She has lived so long in the fields and at the roadside,she finds it unnatural to be cooped up in the house all night.”
The trial of that breakfast! The effort to eat and appear unconcerned,to chat and make no mistake,--May I never be called upon to go throughsuch another! But at last it was over, and I was left free to awaitin my own room the time for the dreaded though much-to-be-desiredinterview. Slowly the minutes passed; eight o’clock struck, when, justas the last vibration ceased, there came a loud knock at the backdoor,and a little boy burst into the kitchen, crying at the top of his voice:“Papa’s got a fit! Oh, Mrs. Belden! papa’s got a fit; do come!”
Rising, as was natural, I hastened towards the kitchen, meeting Mrs.Belden’s anxious face in the doorway.
“A poor wood-chopper down the street has fallen in a fit,” she said.“Will you please watch over the house while I see what I can do for him?I won’t be absent any longer than I can help.”
And almost without waiting for my reply, she caught up a shawl, threwit over her head, and followed the urchin, who was in a state of greatexcitement, out into the street.
Instantly the silence of death seemed to fill the house, and a dread thegreatest I had ever experienced settled upon me. To leave the kitchen,go up those stairs, and confront that girl seemed for the moment beyondmy power; but, once on the stair, I found myself relieved from theespecial dread which had overwhelmed me, and possessed, instead, of asort of combative curiosity that led me to throw open the door whichI saw at the top with a certain fierceness new to my nature, and notaltogether suitable, perhaps, to the occasion.
I found myself in a large bedroom, evidently the one occupied by Mrs.Belden the night before. Barely stopping to note certain evidences ofher having passed a restless night, I passed on to the door leading intothe room marked with a cross in the plan drawn for me by Q. It was arough affair, made of pine boards rudely painted. Pausing before it, Ilistened. All was still. Raising the latch, I endeavored to enter. Thedoor was locked. Pausing again, I bent my ear to the keyhole. Not asound came from within; the grave itself could not have been stiller.Awe-struck and irresolute, I looked about me and questioned what I hadbest do. Suddenly I remembered that, in the plan Q had given me, I hadseen intimation of another door leading into this same room from the oneon the opposite side of the hall. Going hastily around to it, I triedit with my hand. But it was as fast as the other. Convinced at last thatnothing was left me but force, I spoke for the first time, and, callingthe girl by name, commanded her to open the door. Receiving no response,I said aloud with an accent of severity:
“Hannah Chester, you are discovered; if you do not open the door, weshall be obliged to break it down; save us the trouble, then, and openimmediately.”
Still no reply.
Going back a step, I threw my whole weight against the door. It creakedominously, but still resisted.
Stopping only long enough to be sure no movement had taken place within,I pressed against it once more, this time with all my strength, when itflew from its hinges, and I fell forward into a room so stifling, chill,and dark that I paused for a moment to collect my scattered sensesbefore venturing to look around me. It was well I did so. In anothermoment, the pallor and fixity of the pretty Irish face staring upon mefrom amidst the tumbled clothes of a bed, drawn up against the wall atmy side, struck me with so deathlike a chill that, had it not been forthat one instant of preparation, I should have been seriously dismayed.As it was, I could not prevent a feeling of sickly apprehension fromseizing me as I turned towards the silent figure stretched so near, andobserved with what marble-like repose it lay beneath the patchwork quiltdrawn across it, asking myself if sleep could be indeed so like deathin its appearance. For that it was a sleeping woman I beheld, I did notseriously doubt. There were too many evidences of careless life in theroom for any other inference. The clothes, left just as she had steppedfrom them in a circle on the floor; the liberal plate of food placedin waiting for her on the chair by the door, --food amongst which Irecognized, even in this casual glance, the same dish which we had hadfor breakfast --all and everything in the room spoke of robust life andreckless belief in the morrow.
And yet so white was the brow turned up to the bare beams of theunfinished wall above her, so glassy the look of the half-opened eyes,so motionless the arm lying half under, half over, the edge of thecoverlid that it was impossible not to shrink from contact with acreature so sunk in unconsciousness. But contact seemed to be necessary;any cry which I could raise at that moment would be ineffectual enoughto pierce those dull ears. Nerving myself, therefore, I stooped andlifted the hand which lay with its telltale scar mockingly uppermost,intending to speak, call, do something, anything, to arouse her. But atthe first touch of her hand on mine an unspeakable horror thrilled me.It was not only icy cold, but stiff. Dropping it in my agitation, Istarted back and again surveyed the face. Great God! when did life everlook like that? What sleep ever wore such pallid hues, such accusingfixedness? Bending once more I listened at the lips. Not a breath, nor astir. Shocked to the core of my being, I made one final effort. Tearingdown the clothes, I laid my hand upon her heart. It was pulseless asstone.