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.