The Filigree Ball, Anna Katharine Green [best biographies to read TXT] 📗

been accompanied by a sly look at Jinny. Possibly warned by this that something lay back of this hitherto timid witness’ sudden volubility, one of them now spoke up.

“In what room did you say this pistol was kept?”

“In Mr. and Mrs. Jeffrey’s bedroom, sir; the room opening out of the sitting-room where Mrs. Jeffrey had kept herself shut up all day.”

“Does this bedroom of which you speak communicate with the hall as well as with the sitting room ?”

“No, sir; it is the defect of the house. Mr. and Mrs. Jeffrey often spoke of it as a great annoyance. You had to pass through the little boudoir in order to reach it.”

The juryman sank back, evidently satisfied with her replies, but we who marked the visible excitement with which the witness had answered this seemingly unimportant question, wondered what special interest surrounded that room and the pistol to warrant the heightened color with which the girl answered this new interlocutor. We were not destined to know at this time, for the coroner, when he spoke again, pursued a different subject.

“How long was this before Mr. Jeffrey came in.”

“Only a few minutes. I was terribly frightened at being left there alone and was on my way to ask one of the other girls to come up and stay with me, when I heard his key in the lock and came back. He had entered the house and was standing near the door talking to an officer, who had evidently come in with him. It was a different officer from the one who had gone away with Miss Tuttle. Mr. Jeffrey was saying, ‘What’s that? My wife hurt!’ ‘Dead, sir!’ blurted out the man. I had expected to see Mr. Jeffrey terribly shocked, but not in so awful a way. It really frightened me to see him and I turned to run, but found that I couldn’t and that I had to stand still and look whether I wanted to or not. Yet he didn’t say a word or ask a question.”

“What did he do, Loretta?”

“I can not say; he was on his knees and was white - Oh, how white! Yet he looked up when the man described how and where Mrs. Jeffrey, had been found and even turned toward me when I said something about his wife having left a message for him when she went out. This message, which I almost hesitated to give after the awful news of her death, was about the ending of some story, as you remember, and it seemed heartless to speak of it at a moment like this, but as she had told me to, I didn’t dare to disobey her. So, with the man listening to my every word, and Mr. Jeffrey looking as if he would fall to the ground before I could finish, I repeated her words to him and was surprised enough when he suddenly started upright and went flying upstairs. But I was more surprised yet when, at the top of the first flight, he stopped and, looking over the balustrade, asked in a very strange voice where Miss Tuttle was. For he seemed just then to want her more than anything else in the world and looked beaten and wild when I told him that she was already gone to Waverley Avenue. But he recovered himself before the man could draw near enough to see his face, and rushed into the sitting-room above and shut the door behind him, leaving the officer and me standing down by the front door. As I didn’t know what to say to a man like him, and he didn’t know what to say to me, the time seemed long, but it couldn’t have been very many minutes before Mr. Jeffrey came back with a slip of paper in his hand and a very much relieved look on his face. ‘The deed was premeditated,’ he cried. ‘My unfortunate wife has misunderstood my affection for her.’ And from being a very much broken-down man, he stood up straight and tall and prepared himself very quietly to go to the Moore house. That is all I can tell about the way the news was received by him.”

Were these details necessary? Many appeared to regard them as futile and uncalled for. But Coroner Z. was never known to waste time on trivialities, and if he called for these facts, those who knew him best felt certain that they were meant as a preparation for Mr. Jeffrey’s testimony, which was now called for.

XII THRUST AND PARRY

When Francis Jeffrey’s hand fell from his forehead and he turned to face the assembled people, an instinctive compassion arose in every breast at sight of his face, which, if not open in its expression, was at least surcharged with the deepest misery. In a flash the scene took on new meaning. Many remembered that less than a month before his eye had been joyous and his figure a conspicuous one among the favored sons of fortune. And now he stood in sight of a crowd, drawn together mainly by curiosity, to explain as best he might why this great happiness and hope had come to a sudden termination, and his bride of a fortnight had sought death rather than continue to live under the same roof with him.

So much for what I saw on the faces about me. What my own face revealed I can not say. I only know that I strove to preserve an impassive exterior. If I secretly held this man’s misery to be a mask hiding untold passions and the darkness of an unimaginable deed, it was not for me to disclose in this presence either my suspicions or my fears. To me, as to those about me, he apparently was a man who at some sacrifice to his pride, would, yet be able to explain whatever seemed dubious in the mysterious case in which he had become involved.

His wife’s uncle, who to all appearance shared the general curiosity as to the effect which this woeful tragedy had had upon his niece’s most interested survivor, eyed with a certain cold interest, eminently in keeping with his general character, the pallid forehead, sunken eyes and nervously trembling lip of the once “handsome Jeffrey” till that gentleman, rousing from his depression, manifested a realization of what was required of hire and turned with a bow toward the coroner.

Miss Tuttle settled into a greater rigidity. I pass over the preliminary examination of this important witness and proceed at once to the point when the coroner, holding out the two or three lines of writing which Mr. Jeffrey had declared to have been left him by his wife, asked:

“Are these words in your wife’s handwriting?”

Mr. Jeffrey replied hastily, and, with just d glance at the paper offered him:

“They are.”

The coroner pressed the slip upon him.

“Look at them carefully,” he urged. “The handwriting shows hurry and in places is scarcely legible. Are you ready to swear that these words were written by your wife and by no other?”

Mr. Jeffrey, with just a slight contraction of his brow expressive of annoyance, did as he was bid. He scanned, or appeared to scan, the small scrap of paper which he now took into his own hand.

“It is my wife’s writing,” he impatiently declared. “Written, as all can see, under great agitation of mind, but hers without any doubt.”

“Will you read aloud these words for our benefit?” asked the coroner:

It was a cruel request, causing an instinctive protest from the spectators. But no protest disturbed Coroner Z. He had his reasons, no doubt, for thus trying this witness, and when Coroner Z. had reason for anything it took more than the displeasure of the crowd to deter him.

Mr. Jeffrey, who had subdued whatever indignation he may have felt at this unmistakable proof of the coroner’s intention to have his own way with him whatever the cost to his sensitiveness or pride, obeyed the latter’s command in firmer tones than I expected.

The lines he was thus called upon to read may bear repetition:

“I find that I do not love you as I thought. I can not live knowing this to be so. Pray God you may forgive me!

VERONICA.”

 

As the last word fell with a little tremble from Mr. Jeffrey’s lips, the coroner repeated:

“You still think these words were addressed to you by your wife; that in short they contain an explanation of her death?”

“I do”

There was sharpness in the tone. Mr. Jeffrey was feeling the prick. There was agitation in it, too; an agitation he was trying hard to keep down.

“You have reason, then,” persisted the coroner, “for accepting this peculiar explanation of your wife’s death; a death which, in the judgment of most people, was of a nature to call for the strongest provocation possible.”

“My wife was not herself. My wife was in an over strained and suffering condition. For one so nervously overwrought many allowances must be made. She may have been conscious of not responding fully to my affection. That this feeling was strong enough to induce her to take her life is a source of unspeakable grief to me, but one for which you must find explanation, as I have so often said, in the terrors caused by the dread event at the Moore house, which recalled old tragedies and emphasized a most unhappy family tradition.”

The coroner paused a moment to let these words sink into the ears of the jury, then plunged immediately into what might be called the offensive part of his examination.

“Why, if your wife’s death caused you such intense grief, did you appear so relieved at receiving this by no means consoling explanation?”

At an implication so unmistakably suggestive of suspicion Mr. Jeffrey showed fire for the first time.

“Whose word have you for that? A servant’s, so newly come into my house that her very features are still strange to me. You must acknowledge that a person of such marked inexperience can hardly be thought to know me or to interpret rightly the feelings of my heart by any passing look she may have surprised upon my face.”

This attitude of defiance so suddenly assumed had an effect he little realized. Miss Tuttle stirred for the first time behind her veil, and Uncle David, from looking bored, became suddenly quite attentive. These two but mirrored the feelings of the general crowd, and mine especially.

“We do not depend on her judgment alone,” the coroner now remarked. “The change in you was apparent to many others. This we can prove to the jury if they require it.”

But no man lifting a voice from that gravely attentive body, the coroner proceeded to inquire if Mr. Jeffrey felt like volunteering any explanations on this head. Receiving no answer from him either, he dropped the suggestive line of inquiry and took up the consideration of facts. The first question he now put was:

“Where did you find the slip of paper containing these last words from your wife?”

“In a book I picked out of the book-shelf in our room upstairs. When Loretta gave me my wife’s message I knew that I should find some word from her in the novel we had just been reading. As we had been interested in but one book since our marriage, there was no possibility of my making an’ mistake as to which one she referred”

“Will you give us the name of this novel?”

“COMPENSATION.”

“And you found this book called COMPENSATION in your room upstairs?”

“Yes.”

“On the book-shelf?”

“Yes.”

“Where does this book-shelf stand?”

Mr. Jeffrey looked up as much as to say, “Why so many small questions about so simple a matter?” but answered frankly enough:

“At the right of