It was raining hard, and she went back a step or two, and glanced at the window against which the storm was beating. She was not afraid there, in broad daylight; but a strange feeling of awe and dread began to creep over her, mingled with a firmer determination to explore that spot under the floor. She did not believe she should find anything, but she must look,—she must satisfy herself, let the consequence be what it might. She did not think of Roger, nor the will, nor Frank, but, strange to say, a thought of Jessie crossed her mind,—Jessie, the drowned woman, who seemed so near to her that she involuntarily looked over her shoulder to see if a spectre were there. Then she bent low under the beams,—went nearer to the loose plank,—had her hands upon it, and knew that it did not fit as perfectly as on that night when she first discovered it. It had been moved. Somebody had been there recently, and, trembling with excitement, Magdalen grasped the plank, and drew it up from its position, shrinking a little from the dark opening which looked so like a grave. Gradually, as she saw clearer, she could distinguish the lath and plastering, with bits of chips and shavings and sawdust, and signs that the rats lived there. Then, leaning forward, she peered down under the floor, looking to the north, looking to the east, then to the south, and lastly to the west, where, pushed back as far as possible from sight, was a little box, the cover of which was tied firmly down with a bit of white Marseilles braid, such as Magdalen was trimming her dress with a few days before in Hester Floyd’s room. She had missed about half a yard, which could not at the time be found, but she had found it now, and she grew dizzy and faint as she reached for the box, and brought it out to the daylight.
Whatever the mystery was, she had it in her hands, and she sat down upon a chair to recover her breath, and decide what she should do.
“Put it back where you found it,” was suggested to her; but she could not do that, and seemingly without an effort on her part her fingers nervously untied the hard knot, then slowly unwound the braid, which she examined to see if it was soiled, and if there was not enough for the pocket of her sack, if she decided to have one.
She thought there was, and she laid it on her lap and then opened the lid!
There were two packages inside, and both were wrapped in thick brown paper, which Magdalen removed carefully, and without the least agitation now. Her excitement had either passed or was so great that she did not heed it, and she was conscious of no emotions whatever as she sat there removing the paper wrappings from what seemed to be a letter, an old, yellow, soiled letter, directed to “Master Roger L. Irving,” in a handwriting she did not know. She did not open the letter, but she read the name and whispered it to herself, and thought by some strange accident of that morning by the river when Roger had spoken of working for her with his hands, and of her helping him in case he should lose Millbank. Why she should recall that incident she could not tell any more than she could guess that she held in her hands that which would eventually lead to just such an alternative as Roger had suggested.
She put the letter down, and took the other package and removed its wrappings and turned it to the light, uttering a cry of terror and surprise at what was written there. She must read it,—she would read it and know the worst, and she opened the worn document, which was dated back so many years, and read it through while her fingers seemed to grow big and numb, and she felt her arms prickle to her shoulders. Once she thought of paralysis, as the strange sensation went creeping through her whole system, and she was conscious of feeling that she merited some such punishment for the idle curiosity which had resulted so disastrously.
She read every word that was written on the paper, and understood it, too,—that is, understood what the dead old man had done, but not why he had done it. That was something for which she could find no excuse, no reason. Doubtless the letter directed to Roger contained the explanation, if there was one; but that was sacred to her,—that was Roger’s alone. She could not meddle with that; she would give it to him just as she had found it.
“Poor wronged Roger; it will kill him,” she moaned; “and to think that I should be the instrument of his ruin.”
She was rocking to and fro in her distress, with her hands locked together around her knees, and her head bowed in her lap. What could she do? What should she do? she asked herself, and something answered again, “Put it where you found it, and keep your own counsel.”
Surely that advice was good, and Magdalen started to follow it, when suddenly there came back to her the words, “If I believed it, I would move heaven and earth to find it.”