Witch or wife (The Cartaret affair)

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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA,

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Chapter I My Fellow-traveler On The 7: 30 Express

The 7: 30 morning train from New York draws up at the suburb of Clifton on time. But two passengers alight, and one of these chances to be myself, plain John Peters. It is a pleasant change from the air of the city, and as I stretch my limbs upon the station platform I look with satisfaction upon the trees clad in their rich autumnal foliage, and draw huge draughts of the frosty air into my lungs. A carriage is to meet me here, but as I fail to see any signs of a vehicle, I am forced to believe it has not yet arrived; so I walk up and down to keep the blood circulating, for the car has been uncomfortably warm.

The odor of a prime Havana drifts across my olfactories, and draws my attention toward my fellow-passenger, who seems to be waiting for some conveyance as well as myself, and is also tramping up and down at one end of the station platform.

THE CARTARET /IFFAIR

He is a medium-sized gentleman, quietly but neatly dressed, and with a face darkened by exposure to tropical suns. I am fond of studying physiognomy, and before I have glanced at this party twice it is a settled thing in my mind that he has seen a great deal of the world. It may be that he is an adventurer of some sort, or a wealthy “globe-trotter; ’’ but at all events he has studied life under many a foreign sky.

My speculations are interrupted by the appearance of an old family coach drawn by a splendid pair of bays, with an ancient darky on the box whom I recognize as Uncle Jethro, who has been in the service of the Cartaret family from boyhood, growing up side by side with old Marse Luther, to whom he is devoted as a slave.

Stepping over to get my bag, when I look around again the dark-faced traveler is speaking with Uncle Jethro, who obsequiously opens the carriage-door for him, somewhat to my surprise. Then, he is bound for the quaint Cartaret mansion, as well as myself — perhaps some friend of young Tom, whom he has met on his travels.

One can indulge in all manner of speculation without worrying over a matter, and I had this affair settled in my mind while watching my fellow-passenger enter the vehicle.

Uncle Jethro has his orders, and he looks about him for the other passenger; whereupon I step up,

MY FELLOIV-TRAVELER greet him by name, and announce my readiness to accompany him, if he will toss my bag up in front, which he does in a solemn manner that gives me a chill, for the old darky has always seemed a jovial soul.

“I trust you do not object to my smoking, with the glass down,” remarks a quiet voice, and I find myself face to face with the bronzed gentleman whose mission seems to correspond in a degree with my own.

“Not at all," I immediately reply, being a smoker myself, with a decided sympathy for the yearning after a soothing weed.

The bays need no urging, but start off along the road, and I settle back to enjoy the bracing morning air. My companion eyes me curiously, and doubtless is puzzled to make out what my exact status in society may be. I can admjre him for one thing — he knows how to keep a still tongue in his head, for, finding that I do not open up a conversation, he ventures to make no remark.

We pass through the town of Clifton, already throbbing with activity, and reach the suburbs of the place.

I have been here before, and am in a measure familiar with my surroundings. While driving through the main street of the town, I notice that in many places men are gathered in knots, and seem to be talking seriously; but as the election season is near at hand, I can lay this suppressed excitement to that cause, though I wonder why more than one among them points toward the well-known Cartaret carriage, and I feel the gaze of the whole knot fastened upon my face, for my companion has drawn his hat down over his eyes as though studiously avoiding inspection.

Beyond the town we come to quite a long hill, the slope of which is just steep enough to cause the bays to fall into a walk. Thus we pass the smithy of the old blacksmith, who ceases to scatter the sparks with his sledge, and coming to the door, looks after us in a way that rather arouses my curiosity. Surely, strangers are no novelty in Clifton — why should we excite so much attention?

Who can account for the vagaries of the human mind? Somehow I seem to connect this curiosity of the townspeople with the solemn air of our black driver, and a peculiar heaviness falls upon my spirits.

Can anything have happened to my old college chum, Tom Cartaret? I had a letter from him only a few days before, and fancied at the time he must be brooding over something, but accepted his invitation to come up to see him, spend a few days at the house, and then go off for a week’s gunning up in Pike County, Pennsylvania, and— well, here I am, on deck at the time I appointed.

MY FELLOIV- TRAyELER 1 1

A thought strikes me, and I lean forward.

“I say, Uncle Jethro, did my gun and traps arrive yesterday?” I ask, and am surprised at the look on his ebony face as he turns in his seat to answer me.

“’Deed they did, Marse John — I kerried ^em to de house myself.”

“How is young Mr. Cartaret?”

“Marse Tom? he as well as could be ’spected.”

“And his wife?” I continue, determined to discover the cause of the darky’s lugubrious aspect.

“She berry well, I reckons.”

“I suppose the old gentleman is enjoying his usual good health, uncle?”

While I speak, I realize that my companion has raised his head to survey the darky; and yet the circumstance hardly makes any impression on my mind, for, to my astonishment, the solemn look leaves Jethro’s countenance, to be succeeded by one of actual horror.

“Gorry! Marse John, ’pears like you don’t know,” he groans, and my interest awakens with a jump.

“Then, suppose you enlighten me, uncle.”

“Marse Luther’s done dead!”

At that a genuine shock as of electricity passes through my system — it is so entirely unexpected.

I confess that the first thought I have is a selfish one, since my plans for a week of sport with

Tom must now be given up; but I put it away with a feeling of shame, and try to think of my friend in his sudden bereavement.

So far as I know, Tom Cartaret has always lived in harmony with his father, and when a man loses his sole remaining parent, he is certainly to be pitied.

“When did this happen, uncle?” I continue, for in his letter Tom has spoken of all being in their usual good health.

“Last night, Marse John.”

“It was sudden?”

“Berry. Dese things always am.”

“What was his disease, uncle?”

“Dar was none, unless it am of de mind. De ole marse hab been murdered, or else he done commit susancide,” returns the negro, in an awed tone of voice, looking, not at me, but toward my fellow-passenger, who continues to smoke quietly, as though perfectly deaf.

“Good heavens! this is terrible! Poor Tom!” I exclaim, as I picture my friend in his sore distress. “Tell me something about it, uncle. In what way did he meet his death?"

“Dey found de marse dead early dis mawnin’ — you kin hyar all about it when we gits dar. I don’t know nuffin’ — Pse only a pore ole ignorant nigger, but I done growed up wid de ole marse, an’ I reckon Pd a laid down an’ died for him ef

MY FELLOlV-TRAyELER he ask me;” and as the black man turns his attention to his horses, for we are now at the top of the rise, I catch the glisten of a tear rolling down his cheek, and feel a sort of dumb pity for the poor fellow who has lost so good a friend.

We drive on, and I find much to ponder over. My profession is that of a lawyer; and although young in years, I can without egotism say that I have done well in my calling, giving promise that, with years of study and application, I may win both fame and fortune, both of which await the right kind of a man at the New York bar.

My mind being well equipped for wrestling with such matters, it is natural that I should take more interest in the case than most persons. Until I learn the particulars of the sad tragedy, however, I do not feel as though I dare form any opinion of its merits, and occupy myself in vague speculations while the carriage rumbles along the shaded pike, with Uncle Jethro paying strict attention to the horses, although, furtively watching, I discover him several times wiping his eyes with his sleeve.

Thus we draw near the Cartaret homestead, and I nerve myself for the sad meeting with dear old Tom, when I had expected such a joyful occasion. Pondering upon the strange turn taken in fortune’s wheel, I wonder what fate has brought me here, of all mornings in the calendar year.

THE CHRT^RET AFFAIR

Can it be that I am needed — that my presence may be a source of strength to Tom in his hour of distress?

Murder or suicide — both ugly words in the eye of the law — which would it prove to be? Was there a dark cause back of the deed? Must this quiet home be overrun with prying minions of the law; the country coroner, with his curious jury, probing into family secrets; the old detective searching for clues in the most unheard-of and cob-webbed corners; the bustling newspaper reporter, eager to supply facts for his sensational sheet, and if they are denied him, just as ready to manufacture them, without regard to common decency?

Heaven forbid! And yet it is the common fate that overtakes a household, no matter how secluded and retired its members may have been, where death has entered in a suspicious manner. I know more than a little about such things, as my business brings me in contact with all manner of people seeking advice.

We are by this time at the gate, which is open, and Uncle Jethro drives straight in. It is only now I remember I have a companion in the carriage, and the thought strikes me that he must be a singular man indeed to hear such shocking news without commenting on it. As I turn to look at him again, I find that he is leaning out of

MY FELLOlV-TRAyELER the window and surveying the scenery along the drive.

"A noble property, this Cartaret estate. Strange that trouble is no respecter of persons,” he says. I am not sure whether he addresses me or mutters to himself; but before I can think of replying I see Tom Cartaret under the trees near by, and stopping the carriage, jump out.

Tom is looking badly — deuced pale, and not a little worried, as though the terrible event of the morning has unstrung his nerves. As I advance toward him, I notice that he seems to look beyond me, toward the carriage, and that there is a certain uneasiness in his manner. Turning my head, I discover that my compagnon de voyage has changed his seat, and it is upon him that Tom Cartaret gazes as might a bird at the serpent that has charmed it. The vehicle rolls on, the dark-faced man waves his hand courteously, and I find myself alone with Tom.

Chapter II Tom Cartaret, Benedict

In days gone by, Tom Cartaret and I have seen a good deal of each other. First, we were roommates and chums at Yale — ^and that means lifelong friendship. Then, both of us weire fond of sport, so that each year we had taken our outing in company, generally up in Maine or the Adirondacks; and around the camp-fire the bonds formed at college were doubly cemented, for there is nothing, I am of the opinion, that draws two congenial souls together into closer union than to spend weeks in company off in the wilderness.

Under these circumstances, it can be seen and readily understood that Tom’s trouble is mine also — he is as dear to me as ever a brother could be. When I take his hand I endeavor to make him understand this in the expressive pressure — words are so feeble at a time like this, so cold when one desires to extend sympathy — a glance from the eye, the clasp of a warm hand, how much more they contain than the best of phrases !

Still, I feel as though I must say something.

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TOM CARTARET AND MYSELF,— Page 15.

TOM C/tRTARBT, BENEDICT

Tom and I are used to being confidential, though I have felt lately as though our pleasant bachelor friendship must have come to an end when he married.

"This is a terrible thing Uncle Jethro has been telling me, Tom. I never had such a shock in my life," I manage to say.

"John, it is something awful! Words can^t describe my condition of mind. And to think that my last words with nim were bitter ones ! I shall never forgive myself — never!" and he groans dismally.

I am interested, of course — my legal training has taught me to pick up the points in a case and apply them as might a skillful detective.

"If you had hot words with him, Tom, do you believe that was reason for your father to take his own life?"

At that he turns upon me sadly.

"Where did you get that notion, John? — from Uncle Jethro, I suppose. You may as well dismiss it at once from your mind. Father was in his sound senses, and no man detested the idea of suicide worse. He did not take his own life."

His earnestness is convincing, and I feel something of a shudder pass over me. In one breath Tom artlessly deplores the fact that on the previous night he and his father had quarreled, and TAe Cartaret Affair 2 i8

THE CAkTARET AFFAIR in the next declares it his firm belief that murder has been done.

I shiver, because I am aware of the fact that a detective on the case is bound to put two and two in a line whenever they harmonize, and surely here is evidence of a theory that must be looked into.

Of course, I do not hint at such a thing to Tom — there will be time enough for that later on, if necessary.

I ask him to tell me all he knows of the sad occurrence; for when one is in a state of mind bordering on distraction, it is often a relief to the feelings to talk, and I really believe my friend will be better if he can engage in conversation.

"Briefly, then, John, my evidence is this: I left father at a quarter to twelve, sitting in his chair in the library. Our dispute had been bitter, but we had shaken hands at the end of it, and parted in something like a friendly way. I retired at once, but could not sleep for perhaps half an hour, because my mind was disturbed by what had passed. When I arose this morning it was just growing light, and my head throbbed wildly, for I had passed a restless night. I had just finished dressing when I heard sounds of great confusion below — a succession of shrieks from Chloe, our old servant. With that I ran hastily down-stairs, and came upon the old aunty in the

TOM CARTA RET, BENEDICT, hall. She was crying in a sort of hysterical manner, and as I took hold of her wrist to draw her hand from her face, she gave a shriek. ‘He’s done dead — he’s lyin’ in de room all covered wid blood! De good Lor’ help us!’ she cried. With that I threw her from me, and guessing who she meant, sprang to the library door and entered. It was a sight, John, I shall never forget to my dying day. My father sat bolt upright in his chair, his eyes staring and glassy, a look of horror upon his face, as though his fate had come upon him suddenly, but had paralyzed him with fear. A weapon had been plunged straight into his heart — I believe he must have died without another breath.

He presses his hands fiercely against his throbbing temples; I can see his eyes are red, as though little sleep had come to them during the preceding night. It is natural for Tom to feel terribly over the tragic fate of his father, and yet somehow it impresses me that he is not the man I knew so well to-day. Perhaps the bitter memory of that last quarrel with the parent who is no more, crushes him — I know something causes him to turn his eyes away from my gaze, to appear nervous, and very unlike his usual self.

Presently he recovers, and goes on with assumed calmness:

"When I reached a condition that I could think,

I found both of the servants sobbing beside me. I hurried Jethover to old Doctor Craig, who soon joined me. Acting on his advice, I sent word in to police headquarters in New York, and they wired back that they would send a man out at once to look into the matter. Doctor Craig said this ought to be done — I was so broken down that I couldn’t think for myself.”

"It was right, Tom. If your father has been brutally murdered, justice demands that the truth be discovered and the guilty one punished."

To my surprise, he shivers and lets his head fall.

‘T suppose that is right," he says, wearily, "but it will not bring father to life. I have never been in favor of earthly vengeance, you know.”

"Good heavens! man; this is simple justice. Would you let the fiend who took your father’s life go free, to boast of the deed, and perhaps repeat it on the first occasion? You owe it to his memory that you hunt the assassin down and place the rope around his neck."

"Let us talk of something else, John — I am not myself just now."

Poor fellow! he does look fagged out; and yet I can hardly lay his strange actions to this cause alone. As I have known Tom so long, I believe I can reasonably gauge his character, and I have always understood him to be rather inclined to-

TOM CARTARET, BENEDICT ward a Quixotic disposition. If any person hurt a friend or spoke against one he loved, he would be up in arms instantly.

Hence I cannot understand his present meek disposition, when it would have been natural, under the circumstances, for him to be terribly anxious for the apprehension of the villain who has murdered his father.

Tom does not seem himself — secretly, I am obliged to confess that a great change has come over him since his marriage.

I have not met his wife. It is partly for that I have consented to remain a few days at his home ere starting on our hunting trip. Tom married abroad somewhere, and his letters gave me the idea that he was head over heels in love with his charming Madge. I had only hoped she was worthy of Tom Cartaret, for I believed him to be the best fellow alive.

This reminds me.

“Where is your wife, Tom?" I ask.

“I believe she is still asleep. She seldom gets up before seven or half-past, and this morning she appears to be sleeping unusually heavy,” he replies, looking in the direction of the house, seen through the crimson-garbed trees.

Tom, whom I used to believe the acme of frankness, will not l^ok me in the eye — he feels the shock strangely.

THE CART/1RET AFFAIR

“It will be a terrible blow to her,” I remark.

“Yes, indeed. I would that I could save her from it, but that is impossible,” he mutters.

“Everyone will soon know of it — the country coroner must come and pry into all your family matters. Poor Tom! I feel for you.”

“I know it, John. I have foreseen this from the start, but it is inevitable,” with a twitching at his lips that bespeaks nervousness.

“Come,” he says, arousing with an effort, “let us go to the house. You will want to see for yourself the terrible sight. I have not allowed a thing to be moved. Besides, he may want to see me.”

"To whom do you refer?”

“The detective they sent up.”

An idea flashes into my mind.

“Good heavens! is that quiet, dark-faced man who came with me, a detective?”

“I presume so — he is a stranger to me.”

I remember his actions, and can well believe it to be so; and yet he was so gentlemanly and quiet, and so entirely different from the fussy, important officers I had come in contact with in the city, that I am somewhat surprised. All the same, I mentally decide in my own mind that this party is a deep one, well calculated to dis cover what truth lies hidden under the mysteiious death of old Luther Cartaret.

TOM C/tRT/iRET, BENEDICT

Side by side we walk toward the house. Tom is unusually silent, and knowing that his thoughts must be connected with the sad event that has descended so suddenly upon his house, I do not break in upon his reverie.

Once or twice I find myself wishing I had remained in New York, or gone elsewhere for my vacation, but my better self spurns this idea as unworthy of my manhood. Tom Cartaret is my dearest friend, and Tom is in deep trouble, so that he really needs my assistance. Looking at it in that light, my coming seems to be in the light of a fortunate fate.

We reach the house. All is silent about it, and well this may be, since under that roof lies the victim of a secret crime. Stirred as I have never been in connection with any event in the past, I prepare to follow my friend into the house of mourning. I feel for Tom in his sudden bereavement, and besides, there is a peculiar sense of wonder with regard to his actions that worries me. As yet, I have not had time to analyze it, but this must soon come, when I can sit down and with a steady hand draw aside the curtain that conceals the facts.

Tom walks firmly along the hall. Not a soul do we meet. The dining-room lies at the end, and the library half-way down. Beyond this is a little sleeping apartment used by the old gentle-

THE CHRTHRET AFFAIR man of late years. At the library door Tom stops, laying his hand upon the knob. He turns his head to speak to me, and I am again impressed with the singular whiteness of his usually ruddy face.

Tom Cartaret, benedict, is not the same man I knew as a bachelor — that is quite evident. But perhaps I am unjust; the present cruel circumstances must account in a great measure for his looks. When a man has his nerves badly shattered, as Tom’s must naturally be, he is hardly accountable for peculiar looks or actions.

I let it pass — it is so easy to find excuses for friendship.

“Prepare yourself for a terrible sight, John. It will be a shock," he says, quietly, and yet I can see he is about to enter the room with the greatest reluctance himself.

“I am ready — lead the way, Tom."

With that he pushes open the door, which is ajar, and we enter the library, to look upon the victim of the mysterious crime.

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FINDING THE BODY OF TOM’S FATHER.-Page 25.

Chapter III

Although neither a doctor nor a soldier by profession, I have always flattered myself upon the possession of strong nerves. In more than one instance during my life this fact has been tested to my satisfaction^ and under the circumstances, I enter the library prepared. Nevertheless, I am conscious of a strange, shuddering thrill passing through my frame when I catch my first glimpse of that grim figure seated in the easy-chair, his head fallen back, the open, glazed eyes staring at vacancy, the hands clutching the arms of his chair, as if in sudden agony, and a dark stain on the rug covering the hard-wood floor terribly' suggestive of crime.

It is a spectacle I shall never eradicate from my mind — those sightless, staring eyes will haunt me at times all my life. I feel it, I know it, and yet do not shrink away — indeed, after that one shudder, the scene no longer has any terror for me. I have experienced all the horror, and could now even assist to lay the body out, if it were necessary.

THE C/tRTARET AFFAIR

There is a sort of horrible fascination in the sight, and I have to make an effort to tear my gaze away. Tom stands near me, but his eyes are fastened upon the end of the room, as though something there claims his attention.

"That is a spectacle for a son to remember!" he says, in a bitter tone.

"Tom, my friend, you must arouse yourself ; throw off this singular incubus that seems to be weighing you down; be a man."

With that he turns a haggard face upon me, and the look in his eyes tells more plainly than words the state of his mind.

"Would to God I could, John! but I feel as though I would be better off if I were lying there beside my father."

I am mystified at these words, and eye him suspiciously, fearing that Tom may be going out of his mind. No doubt he takes the quarrel with his father grievously to heart, since death has forever placed a reconciliation out of his power. Remorse is merciless indeed when it tugs at the human heart, as many a wretched son or daughter has learned to their sorrow when bending over the loved form whose lips of clay will never again utter a mortal sound.

From my heart I pity this friend of mine. Knowing him so well, with his usual bright, sunny nature, I wonder what mockery of fate this is that deprives him of a father just after his first quarrel with that parent.

An awful thought comes unbidden into my mind, but I banish it instantly. Who would dare suspect Tom of such a stupendous crime? and yet men have before now, in a fit of sudden passion, committed deeds of which in their sane moments they would have been horrified at even the thought. If Tom Cartaret did this foul thing, he must have been crazy when he made himself a parricide.

What can I say to cheer him up? I feel powerless to utter words of sympathy, and he does not seem to arouse himself even with the natural idea of hunting down the slayer of his father.

While I stand thus bewildered, groping in a fog, as it were, I hear the library door creak on its hinges, and catch the rustle of a dress. Turning my head, I see an apparition — as lovely a woman as my eyes have ever beheld, with bonny brown hair, the softest of eyes, and a form that Hebe might have envied.

This is Madge — Tom Cartaret^ s wife. She has taken a step or two into the library, with a smile on her face for Tom, then seeing he is not alone, and noticing his strange looks, she stands there, the smile frozen on her face, so to speak.

In the silence that ensues for nearly half a minute, I gaze entranced at this charming picture.

and mentally forgive Tom for throwing up the sponge in the arena of bachelordom. With such a witch to cast a spell over one, who would not surrender?

Madge is dressed in a morning robe of some light, creamy texture, and my eyes are at once attracted to a spot near the hem — a dark patch of a brownish hue — such a color as a splash of blood might make when dry.

Great heavens! what a shock goes through my system at sight of this stain, which is evidently unknown to the lovely wearer — but pshaw! I would as soon think of suspecting myself as this sweet creature.

My attention is at once taken up with Tom, who at sight of his wife seems greatly excited.

He endeavors to get between the ghastly form reclining in the chair and Madge, and in this succeeds, but forgets the pier-glass at the end of the room.

I can see her give a horrified glance into that, and know she has looked upon all. She takes one step forward, her hands are raised toward her husband in a pleading way; her lips move tremulously, and I catch the words:

"Tom — husband — in mercy’s name ! tell me this is a dream. Oh, my God! can it be possible that he is dead? — and — you — ”