"No; I left them in the lower hall."
"Where in the lower hall?"
"On the rack there."
"Was your candle lit?"
"Not then, sir."
"Yet you found the rack?"
"I felt for it. I knew where it was."
"When did you light the candle?"
"After I hung up the coat."
"And when you came down? Did you have the candle then?"
"Yes, for a while. But I didn't have any light when I went for the coat and hat. I remember feeling all along the wall. I don't know what I did with the candlestick or the candle. I had them on the stairs; I didn't have them when I put on the coat and hat."
I knew what she did with them. She flung them out of her hand upon the marble floor. Should I ever forget the darkness swallowing up that face of mental horror and physical suffering.
"Miss Cumberland, you are sure about having telephoned for help, and that you mentioned The Whispering Pines in doing so?"
"Quite sure." Oh, what weariness was creeping into her voice!
"Then, of course, you left the door unlocked when you went out of the building?"
"No—no, I didn't. I had the key and I locked it. But I didn't realise this till I went to untie my horse; then I found the keys in my hand. But I didn't go back."
"Do you mean that you didn't know you locked the door?"
"I don't remember whether I knew or not at the time. I do remember being surprised and a little frightened when I saw the keys. But I didn't go back."
"Yet you had telephoned for the police?"
"Yes."
"And then locked them out?"
"I didn't care—I didn't care."
An infinite number of questions followed. The poor child was near fainting, but bore up wonderfully notwithstanding, contradicting herself but seldom; and then only from lack of understanding the question, or from sheer fatigue. Mr. Fox was considerate, and Mr. Moffat interrupted but seldom. All could see that this noble-hearted girl, this heroine of all hearts was trying to tell the truth, and sympathy was with her, even that of the prosecution. But certain facts had to be brought out, among them the blowing off of her hat on that hurried drive home through the ever thickening snow-storm—a fact easily accounted for, when one considered the thick coils of hair over which it had been drawn.
The circumstances connected with her arrival at the house were all carefully sifted, but nothing new came up, nor was her credibility as a witness shaken. The prosecution had lost much by this witness, but it had also gained. No doubt now remained that the ring was still on the victim's hand when she succumbed to the effects of the poison; and the possibility of another presence in the house during the fateful interview just recorded, had been strengthened, rather than lessened, by Carmel' s hesitating admissions. And so the question hung poised, and I was expecting to see her dismissed from the stand, when the district attorney settled himself again into his accustomed attitude of inquiry, and launched this new question:
"When you went into the stable to unharness your horse, what did you do with the little bag you carried?"
"I took it out of the cutter."
"What, then?"
"Set it down somewhere."
"Was there anything in the bag?"
"Not now. I had left the tongs at the club-house, and the paper I had burned. I took nothing else."
"How about the candlestick?"
"That I carried in one of the pockets of my coat. That I left, too."
"Was that all you carried in your pockets?"
"Yes—the candlestick and the candle. The candlestick on one side and the candle on the other."
"And these you did not have on your return?"
"No, I left both."
"So that your pockets were empty—entirely empty—when you drove into your own gate?"
"Yes, sir, so far as I know. I never looked into them."
"And felt nothing there?"
"No, sir."
"Took nothing out?"
"No, sir."
"Then or when you unharnessed your horse, or afterward, as you passed back to the house?"
"No, sir."
"What path did you take in returning to the house?"
"There is only one."
"Did you walk straight through it?"
"As straight as I could. It was snowing heavily, and I was dizzy and felt strange, I may have zigzagged a little."
"Did you zigzag enough to go back of the stable?"
"Oh, no."
"You are sure that you did not wander in back of the stable?"
"As sure as I can be of anything."
"Miss Cumberland, I have but a few more questions to ask. Will you look at this portion of a broken bottle?"
"I see it, sir."
"Will you take it in your hand and examine it carefully?"
She reached out her hand; it was trembling visibly and her face expressed a deep distress, but she took the piece of broken bottle and looked at it before passing it back.
"Miss Cumberland, did you ever see that bit of broken glass before?"
She shook her head. Then she cast a quick look at her brother, and seemed to gain an instantaneous courage.
"No," said she. "I may have seen a whole bottle like that, at some time in the club-house, but I have no memory of this broken end—none at all."
"I am obliged to you, Miss Cumberland. I will trouble you no more to-day."
Then he threw up his head and smiled a slow, sarcastic smile at
Mr. Moffat.
XXXII
AND I HAD SAID NOTHING!
I had always loved her; that I knew even in the hour of my darkest suspicion—but now I felt free to worship her. As the thought penetrated my whole being, it made the night gladsome. Whatever awaited her, whatever awaited Arthur, whatever awaited me, she had regenerated me. A change took place that night in my whole nature, in my aspect of life and my view of women. One fact rode triumphant above all other considerations and possible distresses. Fate—I was more inclined now to call it Providence—had shown me the heart of a great and true woman; and I was free to expend all my best impulses in honouring her and loving her, whether she ever looked my way again, received or even acknowledged a homage growing out of such wrong as I had done her and her unfortunate sister. It set a star in my firmament. It turned down all the ill-written and besmirched leaves in my book of life and opened up a new page on which her name, written in letters of gold, demanded clean work in the future and a record which should not shame the aura surrounding that pure name. Sorrow for the past, dread of the future—both were lost in the glad rebound of my distracted soul. The night was dedicated to joy, and to joy alone.
The next day being Sunday, I had ample time for the reaction bound to follow hours of such exaltation. I had no wish for company. I even denied myself to Clifton. The sight of a human face was more than I could bear unless it were the one face; and that I could not hope for. But the desire to see her, to hear from her—if only to learn how she had endured the bitter ordeal of the day before—soon became unbearable. I must know this much at any cost to her feelings or to mine.
After many a struggle with myself, I called up Dr. Carpenter on the telephone. From him I learned that she was physically prostrated, but still clear in mind and satisfied of her brother's innocence. This latter statement might mean anything; but imparted by him to me, it seemed to be capable of but one interpretation. I must be prepared for whatever distrust of myself this confidence carried with it.
This was intolerable. I had to speak; I had to inquire if she had yet heard the real reason why I was the first to be arrested.
A decided "No," cut short that agony. I could breathe again and proffer a humble request.
"Doctor, I cannot approach her; I cannot even write,—it would seem too presumptuous. But tell her, as you find the opportunity, how I honour her. Do not let her remain under the impression that I am not capable of truly feeling what she has borne and must still bear."