Her own sister

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Chapter I

In Sydney the dramatic season was just drawing to a close. Some few amusements still dragged on a somewhat struggling and precarious existence, but they too were beginning to pall upon the most determined lovers of gayety, when something so startling occurred that the whole city was galvanized into new life and interest.

The chief attraction at the theater most patronized that year by the fashionable world, and always celebrated — most justly — for its successful catering for the public taste, had been the debut of two pretty sisters, daughters of a clergyman whose sudden death had left them nearly destitute. Their daring choice of a histrionic career in lieu of following more beaten tracks was considered a proof that parsons* daughters were not exempt from the proverbial wildness attributed to parsons* sons; and, while the new departure shocked some, it impressed all. Even had the young ladies not possessed decided talent, curiosity would have rendered their first appearance a success; as it was, their good looks and cleverness combined procured them quite an ovation. Nor was the furor short-lived. They played through the whole season to crowded houses, and were to leave Sydney on a tour only while the votaries of pleasure recruited their jaded health and spirits at different country places or quiet sea-side resorts.

The sisters had always acted together in the same play, and were excellent foils one to the other; Elaine Warring-

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ton, the elder, being tall and slim, and her voice and features perfectly adapted to any part that required S3 r mpathetic rendering; while the younger, Ada, was petite , with the brightest possible eyes and a laugh that rang through the huge theater like the tones of a silver bell.

It was only natural that they should have many admirers; and, owing to the fact that some former acquaintances — people holding influential positions in the town — • had taken them up, and still invited them to their houses, the attentions they received were more serious and less dangerous than those usually offered to pretty actresses unprotected by either a father's or a husband's care. Indeed much indignation had been felt by the chaperons in the place — and by some of the chaperoned too — when Gerald Weare, the son of the wealthiest ship-owner in Sydney, plainly and pointedly evinced his admiration for one of them. The question that for a long time agitated society was which of the two sisters Gerald Weare had fallen in love with, for they were always together, and consequently it was difficult to determine; one day, however, curiosity was satisfied by his assertion that he had proposed to and been accepted by Ada Warrington.

The excitement caused by this announcement had scarcely died away— had not, in fact, completed its allotted nine days of wonderment — when there came so tragic an end to the romance that every trivial feeling of envy or surprise was merged in a general thrill of horror.

Ada— pretty, riante, light-hearted Ada— whose dramatic triumphs had been crowned by that last and best proof of her social success, was found lying on the ground late one night in the public gardens, her soft white garments wet with a crimson stream that trickled slowly from her breast, while a pale half-moon shone upon her upturned face and gleaming golden hair.

She was dead — had been dead for an hour or more, the doctors said, shot through the heart; and the pistol which

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liad done tlie cruel deed lay only a few yards away, as though the murderer had cast it from him, mastered by an overwhelming abhorrence of the tool he had employed. This incautious act, committed as it seemed in defiance of even the commonest instincts of self-preservation, appeared to make the discovery of his identity only a matter of time. With such a clew the police could surely command success!

The inquest, held on the following morning, attracted an excited crowd; and, as fact after fact was elicited, each serving to point the finger of suspicion to one whom it seemed most terrible, most unnatural to suspect, the interest became so strained, so intense that scarcely a sound was heard in the closely packed room.

Mr. Gerald Weare was the first whose evidence was taken. He was a tall young man, about twenty-three years of age, decidedly good-looking in spite of his extreme pallor, with dark hair and mustache, and large dark expressive eyes that just then spoke only of sorrow, finely chiseled features, and a sensitive mouth that trembled convulsively as he stood up to say what he knew. That was little enough.

On the night before he had been engaged at a dinner-party, and did not get away till late. He had arranged to drive his fiancee home; but, though he had arrived before the time appointed, she had already left the theater.

“ How did you account for that?” asked the coroner, sharply.

Mr.. Weare shrugged his shoulders a little impatiently.

44 1 supposed it to have been the result of some discrepancy between our watches.”

44 And did you not golo her house to discover if your supposition was correct?” was the coroner’s next query.

44 Certainly not!” answered Mr. Weare, with some warmth. 44 It was past eleven o’clock, and too late to intrude upon the privacy of any ladies living alone. ”

44 When did you speak to her last?” — hurriedly, feeling the rebuke that had just been administered.

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“I spoke to her last ”— hesitatingly, and with a per ceptible tremor in his pleasant voice — “ in the afternoon, at rehearsal.”

“ And you parted with her on good terms?”

“ On the best of terms. She had promised to marry me within the month. ”

There was such a sorrowful bitterness in his reply that the coroner felt it would be useless cruelty to press his inquiries further. The contrast to him between the glowing hopes of the day before and the gloomy knowledge he at that moment possessed was painful enough without being brought home more closely. Only one other question was deemed necessary.

“Do you know whose this is?” — holding out a small pistol for inspection so suddenly and so close to him that the young man shrunk back with almost a womanly cry of pain, while several near him shuddered in sympathetic horror — for was it not the weapon that had robbed him of his promised wife?

A delicate young girl who had been on the verge of tears since the proceedings began went into hysterics, and had to be carried out of court. When the excitement had subsided, the question was repeated, and Mr. Weare, having recovered himself in the interim, was able to give a composed reply.

“ It is a Derringer. I have seen dozens like it. ”

One of the jurymen here objected that the answer was not a direct one to the question; but the objection was waived as unimportant.

One of the men employed at the theater then deposed to having seen the two Misses Warrington leave together, and that about half an hour later Mr. Weare drove up, passed into the theater without speaking, but, as he came out again, asked him if Miss Ada Warrington had left. On hearing that she had departed with her sister, he sent away

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his brougham, and expressed the intention of walking home.

The manager of the theater said that the two Misses Warrington had been engaged by him four or five months before. They were very quiet and reserved.

On being asked if they had had any admirers whom it had been found necessary to discourage, he hesitated a moment.

44 You see, sir, their position was a very unusual one,” he answered slowly at last. 44 Every one knew who they were, they acted under their own name, and had swell friends to back them up. I don't say they hadn't bouquets and verses sent to them anonymously, but I don't think they had any disagreeable adventure until — until — "

44 Until when?" the coroner interposed, keenly.

44 It is about a month ago," continued the manager, 44 since Miss Elaine came to me in a great rage, and nearly threw up her engagement. Some one, she said, had followed them home, spoken to them in spite of their persistent coldness, and would have continued his impertinence had not a policeman fortunately come up and freed them from the annoyance. She was just furious when I told her that things of that sort must be expected in the profession which she and her sister had adopted, and wanted to cancel their engagements on the spot, till I suggested a remedy."

44 What was that?” asked the coroner, with a half smile.

44 1 recommended her to buy a pistol, and use it if necessary."

44 And she did that?"

There was a breathless silence in the room, during which the coroner once more lifted the pistol from the table in front of him. Before, however, he had time to frame a question the witness broke out impetuously —

44 Yes, it was a Derringer; but there are hundreds of

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them, and — Let me have it in my hand. Merciful Heaven, it is the same! I know it by the dent upon the silver stock. The first time she fired it off she was frightened by the explosion and let the pistol drop. ”

“ And never took it in her hand again ?” said the coroner quickly, anxious to dispel at once the painful impression caused by the last words.

The manager remained silent.

44 Did she ever fire it again?”

44 Before a week had passed she was as good a shot as I who taught her. She had a capital eye and wonderful nerve for a woman. ”

44 Ah, that was at a target or mark of some sort! Is it your belief that she would have raised it against — against her unwelcome admirer, for instance?”

“ I — I don't know. It is impossible to say.”

44 Did she ever say what she would do if such a contingency occurred?”

44 I asked her once whether she thought she could use it if occasion offered, and she said — ”

44 What did she say?”

‘ 4 It is scarcely fair to answer when, as must be expected in such a case, the lightest words are apt to bear a deadlv significance.”

44 To withhold any knowledge you possess will do no good, and is a punishable offense,” the coroner reminded liifn coldly.

She said, 4 1 should use it without compunction were I so insulted again, and aim at the heart.' ”

A shiver of repulsion seemed to pass simultaneously through the occupants of the room, as though they were of one body as well as of one mind. Every one remembered where the dead girl had received her hurt, and scarcely one doubted now but that her sister had fired the fatal shot. The manager of the theater was motioned to stand down.

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Mrs. Bay, the landlady of the house where the two girls had lodged, was then called.

The coroner's first question to her seemed to have no reference to what he had just heard.

“ The two Misses Warrington have occupied your rooms since their father died, I believe?" he began; and the garrulous tongue of the landlady, never difficult to unloose, needed no further stimulus. It was evident that she at least was not unwilling to disclose all she knew.

The sisters had been most desirable lodgers, had given very little trouble and received no visitors, though they went out a great deal to big parties, she believed. They had lots of lovers, no doubt; but none ever came to the house. Miss Elaine was especially particular in that respect, though she had often heard Miss Ada laugh at her about it, and call her a prude. Several times gentlemen had called, but had been denied. Mr. Weare had been admitted only during the last week, from which she had surmised that he and one of the young ladies were going to make a match of it.

“ Bid you also guess which of them it was?" put in the coroner, quietly.

“No; that I could never make out. The young ladies always went about together; and even when Mr. Weare accompanied them they never separated. He often sent flowers and books or music, but they were pretty equally divided, as I happen to know, for, tidying up their room, I couldn't help seeing the bits of paper that had come with them, and sometimes it would be Miss Warrington's name upon them, and sometimes Miss Ada's. "

“ And the young ladies were on good terms always, never had a serious disagreement, though I suppose they had words sometimes — "

Mrs. Bay broke in hastily on the coroner's gently interrogative remark —

“ They were not a bit like that; Miss Elaine, though she was a bit proud and particular, was always good to her sister; and Miss Ada was so good-tempered and cheery, nothing could put her out. They never had a quarrel while they were with me — leastways not to my knowledge — until last Friday evening, and that must have been something more than ordinary, for they did not speak to each other again after that, except when they were actually obliged, though I am sure they were dying to make it up. Miss Elaine went about looking so sad, I expect the tears were pretty near her eyes at times; and Miss Ada felt it too, I'm sure, for all she'd go singing about the house, and toss her pretty head when her sister spoke to her."

44 And you've no idea what caused this estrangement?" asked the coroner.

“No," Mrs. Day replied; “I knew high words had passed between them by their manner. I was out that night, but Martha — that's the girl — said she heard one of them crying, and then Miss Ada went across the landing to her room, and stamped her foot in a regular passion, and called out to her sister, 4 You're jealous — that's what it is — jealous because he preferred me to you — ' "

The coroner put up his hand to stay the current of her speech.

44 Martha shall give her own evidence by and by. At what time did Miss Warrington come back last night?"

44 About a quarter to twelve. She was looking dreadfully white and tired, and I told her she ought to go to bed at once; but, when she heard that Miss Ada had not come in, she said she'd wait up, and that I might go; then before I'd got half-way upstairs, she called me down again, and said she'd walk a little way up the street to see if she could see her coming. It struck twelve as she went out. Then, after I'd waited a good bit, she came back looking whiter and more ghost-like than ever, and begged me to go with her toward the theater to see if we could meet Miss Ada. I went with her through the gardens, as she fancied

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she’d most likely come through there, though it was the longest way; and I thought it odd. But she proved right enough, poor dear, for we had not got far before we saw the crowd; and then I knew something had happened, and so did Miss Elaine, for she caught hold of my arm and would not go on till I said it might be Miss Ada was hurt, and we’d better see. Then she came with me, and I called out for them to make way — for I felt certain somehow it was Miss Ada; and, when the poor young lady saw her sister lying there dead, she just gave a little moan, and fainted in my arms. We got a carriage that was passing and took her home; and directly she came to she asked to go to her sister, and has been by her bedside ever since — not shedding a tear, only watching her so sorrowful-like it would break your heart to see her. I made her drink a cup of tea this morning, and that’s all as has passed her lips; she seemed stunned like.”

“ That will do,” said the coroner, abruptly; and, when the landlady had been ushered out, showing evident unwillingness to go, he summoned the next witness.

This was Martha, Mrs. Day’s maid of all work. She confirmed all that her mistress had said. The two Misses Warrington were the nicest young ladies she had ever had anything to do with, and very fond of each other — indeed Miss Elaine was more like a mother than a sister to Miss Ada. They had had only one quarrel, and that was on Friday night. She was quite certain it was Friday, for that was the evening on which Mrs. Day always went to see her sister, who lived at the other end of the town.

“ Did you know what the quarrel was about?” inquired the coroner.

No, Martha did not know; but she could guess. It was about some young man, of course. Why? Why, because that was what girls always quarreled about; and she supposed young ladies were females as well as the “ likes ” of her.

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A smile flitted across the coroner's grave face.

“ You are evidently well acquainted with the weaknesses of your sex. Now tell me — did you overhear anything on that night to make you think you had guessed right?"

“ I heard only one thing, and that was something Miss Ada said. She said quite fierce-like, ‘ You're jealous because he likes me better nor you.' " Then, triumphantly — “ I knew it was about Mr. Weare."

“Were you up last night when Miss Warrington came in?"

“ Not I. If you were on your two feet all day, you'd be glad enough to get to bed directly your work was over."

“I'm sure I should, Martha," was the pleasant reply. “ And now will you go to Miss Warrington and tell her that we should like to speak to her in about half an hour?"

The girl assented cheerfully and withdrew, satisfied that she had not allowed herself to be browbeaten or intimidated by her interrogator, as some of the neighboring servants who had seen something of police-courts had predicted she would be.

The testimony of the doctor was taken, and other witnesses were called to prove that the pistol found near the murdered girl had belonged to Elaine Warrington and had been carried by her constantly since she had obtained it, and that the two girls had been on bad terms with each other during the last week, though both had tried to conceal it.

Nothing more important was elicited, and the faces of the spectators wore an expression of awed expectancy as, the last witness dismissed, the coroner, in a voice that he himself felt to be unusually solemn, called out the name of “ Miss Warrington."

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Chapter II

A low murmur of sympathetic emotion ran through the room as the door opened and Elaine Warrington entered. Some of those present had never seen her before; others, as they eagerly followed the evidence against her, had forgotten her youth and loveliness, and were impressed by them anew. For a moment at least every man and woman in the room believed her to be innocent.

She came in slowly, yet with no hesitation or apparent dread of the ordeal before her — indeed she seemed scarcely to have grasped the idea that she would have to face so many people, for her dress — a rough black serge — was that in which she had walked home on the previous night, and her bright hair was pushed back from her face and gathered into a knot behind, evidently more to keep it from troubling her than with any thought of self -adornment. The large gray eyes had a haggard and weary look, and seemed larger and more beautiful than ever by reason of the deep blue circles round them, caused by the long anxious night, during which she had neither slept nor wept.

Yet never had she looked so lovely as now, in her disordered dress, and utterly careless with respect to the impression she might make. . No wonder a sudden reaction of feeling set in as she stood there so utterly alone, her slim figure, in its dark garb, clearly defined against the pale-colored wall, the small white hands clasped loosely in front of her, half hidden in the folds of her thick gown!

An elderly gentleman who had taken deep interest in the proceedings started forward eagerly and-- offered her his chair.

She thanked him sweetly, if somewhat absently, but did not sit down. She stood behind it, resting her fingers on

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the back rail; and to some of the spectators it seemed as though she were already in the prisoner's dock, standing on her trial. What would be her defense?

The coroner put his first question.

“ Miss Warrington, can you tell me the date of your sister's engagement to Mr. Weare?"

She looked at him for the first time, and then slowly surveyed the jury, almost as though challenging the man's right to speak to her and her obligation to reply in presence 6f so many people. The question was repeated with an emphasis which she could not disregard.

“ Last Friday, I believe. It was then my sister told me."

If her loveliness had already touched the hearts of those present, the sound of her voice completed the charm. It was low and sweet, yet so clear that it was audible at the furthest end of the room. As it rose and fell there was something exquisitely tuneful and caressingly tender in its cadence. Even the coroner, a man not overburdened with either sentimental feeling or culture, felt its power, and waited till the last echo had died away before he put his next question —

“ And it came upon you as a surprise?"

“ You did not know that he thought of proposing to her?"

“ N-o " — still with evident hesitation; and then, with a gleam of defiance — “ How should I?"

“ Of course not. His attentions were, I believe, so equally divided that no one seems to have known for whom they were especially intended. Perhaps you yourself were also in the dark?"

The blood rushed to the girl's face, and something rising in her throat prevented an immediate rejoinder;, then she said, with simple dignity ignoring the wound to her modesty and pride —

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ec I never thought about it, nor did Ada, till — till he spoke.”

“You disapproved of the match?”

“ That would have been rather a senseless thing on my part, don’t you think,” she returned, evasively, “ seeing that I had no power to prevent it? Besides, Mr. Weare was rich and well connected; it was more for his friends to object than for me. ”

The reply, reasonable as it was, told against her. Its premeditation was too apparent.

There was a perceptible change in the coroner’s manner as he continued his examination.

“ Then what was the cause of your quarrel on Friday night?”

The girl started nervously and bit her lip.

“ Was it about Mr. Weare?”

No reply; but throughout the small hurriedly formed court silence was taken to mean assent.

“ I decline to tell you anything of a conversation that was strictly private,” she said at last, with an effort.

“ I must warn you, in your own interests. Miss Warrington, that this silence is ill-judged, and may be misunderstood,” said the coroner, severely.

“ I am not afraid of what people may think or say. Anything I can tell you connected with my sister’s death I will certainly not withhold, but the conversation referred to occurred a week ago, and has nothing to do with it. ”

Elaine’s manner was calm, firm, almost defiant.

“ That you should allow us to judge,” suggested the cproner; but, when the girl maintained an obstinate silence, either from courtesy or from pity he refrained from pressing the question.

“ This pistol is said to be yours,” he observed, changing the subject abruptly, and touching the weapon as he spoke.

She stretched out her hand for it.

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' “ Yes, it is mine/" she assented, after a very slight inspection. “ Where did you find it?”

“ Near the place where your sister was found dead last night.”

The girl stared at him helplessly, the pallor of her face rendered yet more noticeable by the crimson of her parted lips and her dark be-ringed eyes.

There was intense excitement, and the coroner could not resist a dramatic denouement He might defeat the end in view by placing her on her guard, but the odds with a nervous overwrought woman were in favor of a venture.

“There is no doubt,” he declared, gravely, “that it was the instrument which caused your sister's death.”

“ Oh, no — no — no!”

She had fallen upon her knees, and sobbed rather than spoke the words in a paroxysm of horror — or was it fear? Her head was buried in her hands, so no one could see the expression of her face, for all present in the room were straining forward with a curiosity that overpowered every instinct of humanity and pity.

The elderly gentleman who had offered her a chair on her first entrance came nearer to her, unnoticed in the general movement.

“You lost it— mislaid it,” he said, in a low voice, as though speaking to himself, yet intending the remark for her.

“ I must have left it at the theater last night!” she gasped, in a whisper, answering him perhaps— or was it merely a prompt adoption of his suggestion?

“ I beg your pardon— may I request you to speak a little louder?” said the coroner.

More composed now, the girl repeated what she had just said, but without uncovering her face. Had she guessed to what all these questions were leading, what was the terrible suspicion that was gradually growing and establishing itself in men's minds?

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ie Yet you had carried it habitually for nearly a month? How came you to forget it?”

She raised her head and met his eyes with an effort.

“ My sister was anxious to leave, and, in hurrying, I must have overlooked it. * '

“ Yet she had an appointment with Mr. Weare to wait for and drive home with him?”

“ She did not tell me so.”

“ Then you started from the theater together?”

She was standing now once more, composed and self-reliant, and merely answered by a bow.

“ Then where and why did you part?”

“ My sister wished to walk through the gardens.”

“ And you refused to accompany her?”

“ She did not ask me to do so.”

“Were you in the habit of separating so?”

“We had never done so before.”

“And did you ask her her reason for wishing to go alone then?”

Her lips .quivered piteously, as though through some sorrowful recollection.

“ You know-some one has told you — that we had had a disagreement, ; she reminded the coroner, nervously.

“ That was last Friday. It must have been a serious difference of opinion not to have righted itself quickly.”

“ It was a serious difference of opinion.”

“ Yet you decline to tell me its origin or cause?”

“ Indeed — indeed it has nothing to do with the cause of my sister's death!” she protested, earnestly.

4 c And there is no one that you know Who had reason to dislike her — who had sufficient motive, in fact, for committing such a crime?”

She shook her head in emphatic denial.

“ There is no one — no one,” she replied, in a tone of such deep conviction that it seemed almost as though she

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were anxious to persuade herself as well as those around her.

“ And you were the last to see her alive?” observed the coroner, meditatively, not perceiving at the moment the full force and significance of his remark.

But the young actress, with a woman’s natural quickness, saw her danger at once, and shrunk back trembling, her hands upraised as though to ward off a blow.

“ Not — not the last!” she whispered, hoarsely.

Her slight figure swayed reed-like to and fro, and her lovely eyes were raised imploringly to the man who stood before her as her judge.

He corrected himself at once, his correction not entirely uninfluenced by her beauty and her pathetic look.

“ 1 beg your pardon. Miss Warrington — I should have said the last person we know of as yet. May I ask at about what time you left the theater?”

<c At eleven o’clock. My sister looked at her watch and told me that was the time.”

One of the jurymen leaned forward and whispered something in the coroner’s ear; and, acting apparently on the hint received, he continued —

“ And, according to the evidence, you arrived at your house about an hour later? What is the time you allow yourself usually for the walk to or from the theater?”