XXVIII
Wealthy was the next witness summoned, and her appearance on the stand caused a flutter of excitement to pass from end to end of the well packed room. All knew that from her, if from anybody, enlightenment must come as to what had taken place in the few fatal hours which had elapsed after Clarke’s departure from the room. Would she respond to our hopes? Would she respond to mine? Or would she leave the veil half raised from sheer inability to lift it higher?
Conscious that the blood was leaving my cheeks and fearful that she could not hold the attention of the crowd from myself, I sought for relief in the face of Edgar. He must know her whole story. Also whom it threatened. Would I be able to read in his lip and eye, ordinarily so expressive, what we had to expect?
No. He was giving nothing away. He was not even looking with anything like attention at anybody; not even my way as I had half expected. The mobile lip was straight; the eye, usually sparkling with intelligence, fixed to the point of glassiness.
I took in that look well; the time might come when I should find it wise to recall it.
Wealthy is a good-looking woman, with that kind of comeliness which speaks of a warm heart and motherly instincts. Seen in the home, whether at work or at rest, she was the embodiment of all that insured comfort and ease to those under her care. She was more than a servant, more than nurse, and as such was regarded with favor by every one in the house, even by my poor unappreciated self.
In public and before the eyes of this mixed assemblage she showed the same pleasing characteristics. I began to breathe more easily. Surely she might be trusted not to be swayed sufficiently by malice, either to evade or color the truth. For all her love for Edgar, she will be true to herself. She cannot help it with that face and demeanor.
The Coroner showed her every consideration. This was but due to the grief she so resolutely endeavored to keep under. All through the opening questions and answers which were mainly corroborative of much that had gone before, he let her sometimes garrulous replies pass without comment, though the spectators frequently evinced impatience in their anxiety to reach the point upon which the real mystery hung.
It came at last and was welcomed by a long drawn breath from many an overburdened breast.
“Mr. Clarke has said that on leaving Mr. Bartholomew’s room for the last time that night, he saw the two envelopes about which so much has been said still lying on the little stand drawn up by the bedside. Were they there when you went into the room?”
“Yes, sir; I noticed them immediately. The stand is very near the door by which I usually enter, and it was a matter of habit with me to take a look at my patient before busying myself with making my final preparations for the night. As I did this, I observed some documents lying there and as it was never his custom to leave business papers lying about I asked him if he would not like to have me put them away for him. But he answered no, not to bother, for there was something he wanted me to get for him which would take me down into Miss Orpha’s room, and as it was growing late I had better go at once. ‘Mind you,’ he said, ‘she is but a girl and may not remember where she has put it; but, if so, she must look for it and you are not to come back until she has found it, if you have to stay an hour.’
“As the thing he wanted was a little white silk shawl which had been her mother’s, and as the dear child did not know exactly in which of two or three chests she had hidden it, it did take time to find it, and it was with a heart panting with anxiety that I finally started to go back, knowing what a hard evening he had had and how often the doctor had told us that he was to be kept quiet and above all never to be left very long alone. But I was more frightened yet when I got about halfway upstairs, for, for the first time since I have lived in the house, though I have been up and down that flight hundreds of times, I felt the Presence—”
“You may cut that out,” came kindly but peremptorily from the Coroner, probably to the immense disappointment of half the people there.
The Presence on that night!
I myself felt a superstitious thrill at the thought, though I had laughed a dozen times at this old wives’ tale.
“Tell your story straight,” admonished the Coroner.
“I will, sir. I mean to, sir. I only wanted to explain how I came to stumble in rushing up those stairs and yet how quick I was to stop when I heard something on reaching the top which frightened me more than any foolish fancy. This was the sound of a click in the hall towards the front. Some one was turning the key in Mr. Bartholomew’s door—the one nearest the street. As this door is only used on occasion it startled me. Besides, who would do such a thing? There was no one in the hall, for I ran quickly the length of it to see. So it must have been done from the inside and by whom then but by Mr. Bartholomew himself. But I had left him in bed! Here was a coil; and strong as I am I found myself catching at the banisters for support, for I did not understand his locking the door when he was in the room alone. However, he may have had his reasons, and rather ashamed of my agitation I was hurrying back to the other door when I heard a click there, and realized that the doors were being unlocked and not locked;—that he was expecting me and was making the way open for me to come in. Had I arrived a few minutes sooner I should not have been able to enter. It gave me a turn. My sick master shut up there alone! Locked in by himself! I had never known him to do such a thing all the time he was ill, and I had to quiet myself a bit before I dared go in. When I did, he was lying in bed looking very white but peaceful enough; more peaceful indeed than he had at any time that day. ‘Is that you, Wealthy?’ he asked. ‘Where is the little shawl? Give it to me.’ I handed it to him and he laid it, folded as it was, against his cheek. I felt troubled, I hardly knew why and stood looking at him. He smiled and glancing at the little pile of documents lying on the stand told me that I could put them away now. ‘Here is the key,’ he said; I took it from his hand after seeing him draw it from under the pillow. I had often used it for him. Unlocking the drawer which was set into the head-board of his bed where it jutted into the alcove, I reached for the papers and locked them up in the drawer and handed him back the key. ‘Thank you,’ he said and turned his face from the light. It was the signal for me to drop the curtain hanging at that side of the bed. This I did—”
“One moment. In handling the papers you speak of did you notice them particularly?”
“Not very, sir. I remember that the top one was in a dark brown envelope and bulky.”
“Which side was up?”
“The flap side.”
“Sealed?”
“No, open; that is loose, not fastened down.”
“You noticed that?”
“I couldn’t help it. It was right under my eyes.”
“Did you notice anything else? That there was a second envelope in the pile similar to the one on top.”
“I cannot say that I did. The papers were all bunched, you see, and I just lifted them quickly and put them in the drawer.”
“Why quickly?”
“Mr. Bartholomew was looking at me, sir.”
“Then you did not note that there was another envelope in that pile, just like the top one, only empty?”
“I did not, sir.”
“Very good. You may go on now. You dropped the curtain. What did you do next?”
“I prepared his soothing medicine.” Her voice fell and an expression of great trouble crossed her countenance. “I always had this ready in case he should grow restless in the night.”
“A soothing medicine! Where was that kept?”
“With the rest of the medicines in the cabinet built into the small passage-way leading to the upper door.”
“And you went there for the soothing medicine. At about what time?”
“Not far from eleven o’clock, sir: I remember thinking as I passed by the mantel-clock how displeased Dr. Cameron would be if he knew that Mr. Bartholomew’s light was not yet out.”
“Go on; what about the medicine? Did you give it to him every night?”
“Not every night, but frequently. I always had it ready.”
“Will you step down a minute? I want to ask Dr. Cameron a few questions about this soothing medicine.”
The interruption was welcome; we all needed a moment’s respite. Dr. Cameron was again sworn. He had given his testimony at length earlier in the day but it had been mainly in reference to a very different sort of medicine, and it was of this simpler and supposedly very innocent mixture that the Coroner wished to learn a few facts.
Dr. Cameron was very frank with his replies. Told just what it was; what the dose consisted of and how harmless it was when given according to directions. “I have never known,” he added, “of Mrs. Starr ever making any mistake in preparing or administering it. The other medicine of which I have already given a detailed account I have always prepared myself.”
“It is of that other medicine taken in connection with this one of which I wish to ask. Say the two were mixed what would be the result?”
“The powerful one would act, whatever it was mixed with.”
“How about the color? Would one affect the other?”
“If plenty of water were used, the change in color would hardly be perceptible.”
“Thank you, doctor; we can release you now.”
The doctor stepped down, whereupon a recess was called, to the disappointment and evident chagrin of a great many.