"I tell you this—I bare my sister's broken heart to you, giving you her very words, sacred as they are to me and—and to others, who are present, and must listen to all I say—because it is right that you should understand her frenzy, and know all that passed between us in that awful hour."
This was irregular, highly irregular—but District Attorney Fox sat on, unmoved. Possibly he feared to prejudice the jury; possibly he recognised the danger of an interruption now, not only to the continuity of her testimony, but to the witness herself; or—what is just as likely—possibly he cherished a hope that, in giving her a free rein and allowing her to tell her story thus artlessly, she would herself supply the clew he needed to reconstruct his case on the new lines upon which it was being slowly forced by these unexpected revelations. Whatever the cause, he let these expressions of feeling pass.
At a gesture from Mr. Moffat, Carmel proceeded:
"I tottered at this threat; and she, a mother to me from my cradle, started instinctively to catch me; but the feeling left her before she had taken two steps, and she stopped still. 'Drop your hand,' she cried. 'I want to see your whole face while I ask you one last question. I could not read the note. Why did you come here? I dropped my hand, and she stood staring; then she uttered a cry and ran quickly towards me. 'What is it?' she cried. 'What has happened to you? Is it the shadow or—'
"I caught her by the hand. I could speak now. 'Adelaide,' said I, 'you are not the only one to love to the point of hurt. I love you. Let this little scar be witness,' Then, as her eyes opened and she staggered, I caught her to my breast and hid my face on her shoulder. 'You say that to-morrow I shall be free to receive notes. He will not wish to write them, tomorrow. The beauty he liked is gone. If it weighed overmuch with him, then you and I are on a plane again—or I am on an inferior one. Your joy will be sweeter for this break!'
"She started, raised my head from her shoulder, looked at me and shuddered—but no longer with hate. 'Carmel!' she whispered, 'the story—the story I read you of Francis the First and—'
"'Yes,' I agreed, 'that made me think,' Her knees bent under her; she sank at my feet, but her eyes never left my face. 'And—and Elwood?' 'He knows nothing. I did not make up my mind till to-night. Adelaide, it had to be. I hadn't the strength to—to leave you all, or—or to say no, if he ever asked me to my face what he asked me in that note,'
"And then I tried to lift her; but she was kissing my feet, kissing my dress, sobbing out her life on my hands. Oh, I was happy! My future looked very simple to me. But my cheek began to burn, and instinctively I put up my hand. This brought her to her feet. 'You are suffering,' she cried. 'You must go home, at once, at once, while I telephone to Dr. Carpenter,' 'We will go together,' I said. 'We can telephone from there.' But at this, the awful look came back into her face, and seeing her forget my hurt, I forgot it, too, in dread of what she would say when she found strength to speak.
"It was worse than anything I had imagined; she refused absolutely to go back home. 'Carmel,' said she, 'I have done injustice to your youth. You love him, too—not like a child but a woman. The tangle is worse than I thought; your heart is caught in it, as well as mine, and you shall have your chance. My death will give it to you.' I shook my head, pointing to my cheek. She shook hers, and quietly, calmly said, 'You have never looked so beautiful. Should we go back together and take up the old life, the struggle which has undermined my conscience and my whole existence would only begin again. I cannot face that ordeal, Carmel. The morning light would bring me daily torture, the evening dusk a night of blasting dreams. We three cannot live in this world together. I am the least loved and so I should be the one to die. I am determined, Carmel. Life, with me, has come to this.'
"I tried to dissuade her. I urged every plea, even that of my own sacrifice. But she was no more her natural self. She had taken up the note and read it during my entreaties, and my words fell on deaf ears. 'Why, these words have killed me,' she cried crumpling the note in her hand. 'What will a little poison do? It can only finish what he has begun.'
"Poison! I remembered how I had heard her pushing about bottles in the medicine cabinet, and felt my legs grow weak and my head swim. 'You will not!' I cried, watching her hand, in terror of seeing it rise to her breast. 'You are crazed to-night; to-morrow you will feel differently.'
"But the fixed set look of her bleak face gave me no hope. 'I shall never feel differently. If I do not end it to-night, I shall do so soon. When a heart like mine goes down, it goes down forever,' I could only shudder. I did not know what to do, or which way to turn. She stood between me and the door, and her presence was terrible. 'When I came here,' she said, 'I brought a bottle of cordial with me and three glasses. I brought a little phial of poison too, once ordered for sickness. I expected to find Elwood here. If I had, I meant to drop the poison into one glass, and then fill them all up with the cordial. We should have drunk, each one of us his glass, and one of us would have fallen. I did not care which, you or Elwood or myself. But he is not here, and the cast of the die is between us two, unless you wish a certainty, Carmel,—in which case I will pour out but one glass and drink that myself.'
"She was in a fever, now, and desperate. Death was in the room; I felt it in my lifted hair, and in her strangely drawn face. If I screamed, who would hear me? I never thought of the telephone, and I doubt if she would have let me use it then. The power she had always exerted over me was very strong in her at this moment; and not till afterwards did it cross my mind that I had never asked her how she got to the house, or whether we were as much alone in the building as I believed.
"'Shall I drink alone?' she repeated, and I cried out 'No'; at which her hand went to her breast, as I had so long expected, and I saw the glitter of a little phial as she drew it forth.
"'Oh, Adelaide!' I began; but she heeded me no more than the dead.
"On leaving home, she had put on a long coat with pockets and this coat was still on her, and the pockets gaping. Thrusting her other hand into one of these, she drew out a little flask covered with wicker, and set it on a stand beside her. Then she pulled out two small glasses, and set them down also, and then she turned her back. I could hear the drop, drop of the liquor; and, dark as the room was, it seemed to turn darker, till I put out my hands like one groping in a sudden night. But everything cleared before me when she turned around again. Features set like hers force themselves to be seen.
"She advanced, a glass in either hand. As she came, the floor swayed, and the walls seemed to bow together; but they did not sway her. Step by step, she drew near, and when she reached my side she smiled in my face once. Then she said: 'Choose aright, dear heart. Leave the poisoned one for me.'
"Fascinated, I stared at one glass, then at the other. Had either of her hands trembled, I should have grasped at the glass it held; but not a tremor shook those icy fingers, nor did her eyes wander to the right hand or to the left. 'Adelaide!' I shrieked out. 'Toss them behind you. Let us live—live!' But she only reiterated that awful word: 'Choose!' and I dare not hesitate longer, lest I lose my chance to save her. Groping, I touched a glass—I never knew which one—and drawing it from her fingers, I lifted it to my mouth. Instantly her other hand rose. 'I don't know which is which, myself,' she said, and drank. That made me drink, also.