Chapter XV: One Corner of the Veil

The MS. began abruptly, without either preamble or address:

I am sitting here in the library of "Hildebrand Hundred"--the room
in which five men have met their death--and while I am waiting I
shall set down certain data and figures which should prove of more
than ordinary interest to anyone who has the wit to discern their
underlying meaning. But judge for yourselves.

The Hildebrands have been at the "Hundred" since the settlement of
the province by the Calverts. All of the earlier generations were
decent, God-fearing, hard-drinking country squires who died
respectably with their boots off, and are now sleeping quietly in
S. Saviour's churchyard; honest gentlemen no doubt, but a little
dull after their bucolic kind. Then we come to something different.
But first let us set down the roster of the five who did not pass
away comfortably in their beds. Here it is:

Yardley Hildebrand, elder son of Oliver Hildebrand; succeeded his
father, 1860; died, 1861; aged fifty-five; no issue.

Randall Hildebrand, younger son of Oliver; succeeded his brother,
1861; died, 1862; aged fifty-three; left issue.

Horace Hildebrand, elder son of Randall; succeeded his father,
1862; died, 1865; aged thirty-five; no issue.

Richard Hildebrand, younger son of Randall; succeeded his brother,
1865; died, 1918; aged eighty-three; no issue.

Francis Hildebrand Graeme, great-nephew to Richard; succeeded his
great-uncle, 1918; died, 1919; aged forty-five; no issue.

Now as we analyze these dates and periods we come upon some curious
coincidences; and also, upon some marked discrepancies. For
example, Yardley Hildebrand reigned for one brief year, and the
same is true of Randall Hildebrand and of Francis Graeme. But
Horace enjoyed three full years of sovereignty, while Richard was
Hildebrand of the "Hundred" for no less a period than fifty and
three years. Yet all five went to their death along an unfrequented
road, and no man can say of a certainty what was the essential
damnation of their taking-off. They died, and they died alone--here
in this very room where I sit waiting, waiting.

I dare say that you, Hugh Hildebrand, will read what I have written
here, and I have now a word for your ear alone. Not long ago John
Thaneford gave you your choice--Betty or the "Hundred." You could
not have both.

Well, you possess your wife; take her and go in peace; stay, and
you do so at your unending peril. I leave you this warning merely
to clear the ground for the assertion of John Thaneford's rights in
the estate; they will be defended, and all the odds are against
you. So I warn you, but it would be idle for me to pretend to any
philanthropic motive, and there is but small show of friendship
between us. You have treated me with courtesy, even with kindness,
and I am not unmindful of the obligation imposed upon me. But I
must be perfectly frank: you are in the way; either you go of your
own volition, or you will be removed--at the appointed time. It may
be in one year, or in three years, or in three and fifty years;
upon that point I cannot speak definitely. But there was only one
man out of the five who drew a long straw--remember that.

Neither have I any cause of quarrel with you, Cousin Betty Graeme.
You have been very good to a poor and proud relation; and what
little measure of human affections I had left over--after John
Thaneford had turned me inside out, like an old glove, and flung me
on the dust heap--was truly given to you. Believe me, then, when I
tell you that if your happiness is bound up with the life of your
husband, there is but one way of preserving it; you must persuade
him to relinquish "Hildebrand Hundred," and be content with the
ready money and the personal property specifically bequeathed in
Francis Graeme's will. I dare say you will have difficulty in
bringing this about; men are so ridiculously stubborn and unwilling
to take a woman's advice that I do not expect to see my counsel
followed. But when the blow does fall do me the favor to remember
that I gave you fair and honorable warning.

This is not a confession. It is true that Cousin Francis Graeme
came to his death through violence, but I had no share in it,
direct or indirect. Seeing that I am waiting to follow him over
the same dark and unfrequented road that he has already traveled, I
can speak no more and no less than the truth.

At the same time I have no hesitation in admitting the essential
correctness of the deductions offered by Chalmers Warriner as to my
share in what happened posterior to the event. I was on the library
terrace that Tuesday noon, and I did receive a message from Sugar
Loaf that the way was clear for me to enter the library and secure
the will which disinherited John Thaneford. I don't like dead men,
but I am not afraid of them, and I should have examined the
despatch-box on the spot had I not been disturbed by the knocking
at the door--I mean the effort of the negro peddler, Dave Campion,
to gain access to Mr. Graeme. Then it occurred to me that as I
should have to leave by the postern-door, as I had entered, it
might prove useful in the future to cover my trail. Accordingly, I
snatched, at random, a cocoon from the case, dabbed it with library
gum, and stuck it in place over the crack, just as Mr. Warriner was
clever enough to figure out.

But I had run the risk to no purpose; the new will was not in the
despatch-box, and John Thaneford would be disinherited after all.
Then I reflected that it was a bare possibility that Cousin Francis
had postponed the making of the new will; in this case the earlier
testament would remain in force. Obviously, I must get the
despatch-box containing it back in the library before any formal
examination should be made of the surroundings. My chance came
unexpectedly when Effingham was left on guard at the library door.
As you already know, I sent him upstairs on an errand, having
first secured from him the master-key. I re-entered the library,
put the box back in its original position, and was standing quietly
at the door when Betty and Doctor Marcy arrived.

While it is true that the signal came to me from John Thaneford it
is not necessary to jump to the conclusion that he had a hand in
bringing about Francis Graeme's death, either as principal or
accessory. He did know that it was about to happen, but nothing
more; I say this upon my own responsibility, and to the best of my
knowledge and belief. You will give me credence in this matter,
realizing that I owe little of love to the Thaneford name.

Yet I will try and be just to John Thaneford, for, brute though he
be, I do believe that he loved me after his fashion; yes, and would
have made me his wife had not his heart been turned against me by
his father--may the soul of Fielding Thaneford dwell in darkness
for evermore!

Let us premise that the elder Thaneford was jealous of me and of my
influence over John. The old man was determined that some day his
son should be lord of "Hildebrand Hundred," and if John should
marry Betty Graeme his object would be automatically attained. And
so Fielding Thaneford did the devil's work, and I was cast out; the
very fact that I had given to John Thaneford all that a woman has
to give was subtly twisted against me; my very sacrifice was plain
proof of my unworthiness to be an honorable man's wife. Do you
wonder now that I had no love for Fielding Thaneford. You, Hugh
Hildebrand, surprised me one day while I was taking the afternoon
relief for Miss Davenport. Before that particular occasion I had
been content with inventing purely material means for disturbing
the sick man's repose. I used to throw his medicine out of the
window, under his very eyes, and then force him to go through the
solemn mockery of swallowing doses of plain water. Or, on a warm,
damp day, when the flies were particularly troublesome, I would put
a saucer containing treacle close by his pillow, and then sit,
comfortably fanning myself, on the opposite side of the room.
Horrible! you say, but I tell you that Fielding Thaneford was a
devil; I was only anticipating by a little space his doom of
eternal torment.

And then, on the particular day of which we were speaking, I
discovered how cruelly mere eyes could sting and burn. And so I sat
and looked at Fielding Thaneford, and laughed to see him writhe
like a beetle impaled upon a pin. But you came in and spoiled my
amusement.

There isn't much more for me to say or tell, nor am I very sure how
much time is left me in which to make my final warning clear.
Whatever was the nature of Fielding Thaneford's secret he has taken
it with him to the grave. So far as I know, he said nothing more
definite to his son John than that he should possess his soul in
patience, and then all things should come to him. But he also
intimated plainly that he had foreseen how Yardley, and Randall,
and Horace, and Richard Hildebrand should die; and it was at his
suggestion that John Thaneford sat that day at the observation
point on Sugar Loaf, and waited for death to come to Francis
Graeme.

Hypothetically, that death was due to natural
causes--hypothetically! Or possibly there was someone who entered
that postern-door before I did, and struck a foul blow--possibly!
Or perhaps, John Thaneford, from his safe retreat on Sugar Loaf,
may have been able to direct some hitherto unknown form of lethal
attack--a tiny shell charged with a poison gas of instantaneous
deadliness, or a devouring blast from a flame-thrower of unexampled
precision--perhaps!

But, frankly, none of these hypotheses appear to me to be tenable;
the mystery does not lie so plainly on the surface. Moreover, I
believe that the heart of the Terror continues to beat in this very
place, the library of "Hildebrand Hundred," where I am sitting.
Something is in this room, something that is eternally menacing and
eternally patient. It may be in one year and it may be in three and
fifty years that it chooses to strike, but strike it surely will
and no art or cunning will avail to avert the blow. Yes, there is
_something_ here, the _something_ for which I myself am waiting.
But search as you will, you shall not find the Terror; you must
await its coming as I am doing. Fielding Thaneford has gone to his
own place, but his works of darkness remain behind him.

There is just one more thing that I might tell you, but I shall not
do it--you would then seek to compromise the situation, and that I
will not have. I put my own wits to work and so was able to lift
one corner of the veil; that is why I wait so confidently to-day
for that which will surely come.

And so I leave you but the one door to safety--the abandonment of
the "Hundred" to John Thaneford, the same "Black Jack" Thaneford
who once loved me and who finally cast me off. This is the last
thing I can do for him--for him whom I both hate and love to the
death. Why? Ask any woman----

The MS. had ended as abruptly as it had begun. I took the sheets from Betty's hand, arranged them in order, and put the bundle in my pocket. "I don't think we had better discuss this any further to-night," I said decisively.

"Quite right," assented Warriner. "Betty looks pretty white, and you have been traveling for two days. Let me know, at any time, if I can be of service."

We both of us accompanied Warriner to the porch, and saw him drive away. As we re-entered the hall the closed door of the library shone white and ghostly at the end of the passage.

"That horrible room!" panted Betty, her hand tight clutched on my arm. "I can never, never enter it again."

I tried to soothe her as best I could, but the poor girl's nerves had been badly overstrained, and it was a long time before I could get the upper hand of her hysterical mood. I positively refused to say one more word on the general subject of the tragedy, or the particular contents of Eunice Trevor's _ante mortem_ statement; and, after a while, Betty gave in and was reasonable again. But both of us knew that the question had not been settled, that it was only postponed. And to-morrow it would return again to plague us.