It was evident that her lawyer tried to get her to abandon this line of defense. Possibly her explanation, whatever it was, had seemed convincing when she poured it out to him in the heat of their first private colloquy; but now that it was exposed to the cold daylight of judicial scrutiny, and the banter of the town, he was thoroughly ashamed of it, and would have sacrificed her without a scruple to save his professional reputation. But the obstinate Judge—who perhaps, after all, was more inquisitive than kindly—evidently wanted to hear the story out, and she was ordered, the next day, to continue her deposition.

She said that after the disappearance of the old watch-dog nothing particular happened for a month or two. Her husband was much as usual: she did not remember any special incident. But one evening a pedlar woman came to the castle and was selling trinkets to the maids. She had no heart for trinkets, but she stood looking on while the women made their choice. And then, she did not know how, but the pedlar coaxed her into buying for herself an odd pear-shaped pomander with a strong scent in it—she had once seen something of the kind on a gypsy woman. She had no desire for the pomander, and did not know why she had bought it. The pedlar said that whoever wore it had the power to read the future; but she did not really believe that, or care much either. However, she bought the thing and took it up to her room, where she sat turning it about in her hand. Then the strange scent attracted her and she began to wonder what kind of spice was in the box. She opened it and found a grey bean rolled in a strip of paper; and on the paper she saw a sign she knew, and a message from Hervé de Lanrivain, saying that he was at home again and would be at the door in the court that night after the moon had set...

She burned the paper and then sat down to think. It was nightfall, and her husband was at home... She had no way of warning Lanrivain, and there was nothing to do but to wait...

At this point I fancy the drowsy courtroom beginning to wake up. Even to the oldest hand on the bench there must have been a certain aesthetic relish in picturing the feelings of a woman on receiving such a message at night-fall from a man living twenty miles away, to whom she had no means of sending a warning...

She was not a clever woman, I imagine; and as the first result of her cogitation she appears to have made the mistake of being, that evening, too kind to her husband. She could not ply him with wine, according to the traditional expedient, for though he drank heavily at times he had a strong head; and when he drank beyond its strength it was because he chose to, and not because a woman coaxed him. Not his wife, at any rate—she was an old story by now. As I read the case, I fancy there was no feeling for her left in him but the hatred occasioned by his supposed dishonour.

At any rate, she tried to call up her old graces; but early in the evening he complained of pains and fever, and left the hall to go up to his room. His servant carried him a cup of hot wine, and brought back word that he was sleeping and not to be disturbed; and an hour later, when Anne lifted the tapestry and listened at his door, she heard his loud regular breathing. She thought it might be a feint, and stayed a long time barefooted in the cold passage, her ear to the crack; but the breathing went on too steadily and naturally to be other than that of a man in a sound sleep. She crept back to her room reassured, and stood in the window watching the moon set through the trees of the park. The sky was misty and starless, and after the moon went down the night was pitch black. She knew the time had come, and stole along the passage, past her husbands door—where she stopped again to listen to his breathing—to the top of the stairs. There she paused a moment, and assured herself that no one was following her; then she began to go down the stairs in the darkness. They were so steep and winding that she had to go very slowly, for fear of stumbling. Her one thought was to get the door unbolted, tell Lanrivain to make his escape, and hasten back to her room. She had tried the bolt earlier in the evening, and managed to put a little grease on it; but nevertheless, when she drew it, it gave a squeak... not loud, but it made her heart stop; and the next minute, overhead, she heard a noise...

What noise? the prosecution interposed.

My husbands voice calling out my name and cursing me.

What did you hear after that?

A terrible scream and a fall.

Where was Hervé de Lanrivain at this time?

He was standing outside in the court. I just made him out in the darkness. I told him for Gods sake to go, and then I pushed the door shut.

What did you do next?

I stood at the foot of the stairs and listened.

What did you hear?

I heard dogs snarling and panting. (Visible discouragement of the bench, boredom of the public, and exasperation of the lawyer for the defense. Dogs again—! But the inquisitive Judge insisted.)

What dogs?

She bent her head and spoke so low that she had to be told to repeat her answer: I dont know.

How do you mean—you dont know?

I dont know what dogs...

The Judge again intervened: Try to tell us exactly what happened. How long did you remain at the foot of the stairs?

Only a few minutes.

And what was going on meanwhile overhead?

The dogs kept on snarling and panting. Once or twice he cried out. I think he moaned once. Then he was quiet.

Then what happened?

Then I heard a sound like the noise of a pack when the wolf is thrown to them—gulping and lapping.

(There was a groan of disgust and repulsion through the court, and another attempted intervention by the distracted lawyer. But the inquisitive Judge was still inquisitive.)

And all the while you did not go up?

Yes—I went up then—to drive them off.

The dogs?

Yes.

Well—?

When I got there it was quite dark. I found my husbands flint and steel and struck a spark. I saw him lying there. He was dead.

And the dogs?

The dogs were gone.

Gone—where to?

I dont know. There was no way out—and there were no dogs at Kerfol.

She straightened herself to her full height, threw her arms above her head, and fell down on the stone floor with a long scream. There was a moment of confusion in the court-room. Some one on the bench was heard to say: This is clearly a case for the ecclesiastical authorities—and the prisoners lawyer doubtless jumped at the suggestion.

After this, the trial loses itself in a maze of cross-questioning and squabbling. Every witness who was called corroborated Anne de Cornaults statement that there were no dogs at Kerfol: had been none for several months. The master of the house had taken a dislike to dogs, there was no denying it. But, on the other hand, at the inquest, there had been long and bitter discussion as to the nature of the dead mans wounds. One of the surgeons called in had spoken of marks that looked like bites. The suggestion of witchcraft was revived, and the opposing lawyers hurled tomes of necromancy at each other.

At last Anne de Cornault was brought back into court—at the instance of the same Judge—and asked if she knew where the dogs she spoke of could have come from. On the body of her Redeemer she swore that she did not. Then the Judge put his final question: If the dogs you think you heard had been known to you, do you think you would have recognized them by their barking?

Yes.

Did you recognize them?

Yes.

What dogs do you take them to have been?

My dead dogs, she said in a whisper... She was taken out of court, not to reappear there again. There was some kind of ecclesiastical investigation, and the end of the business was that the Judges disagreed with each other, and with the ecclesiastical committee, and that Anne de Cornault was finally handed over to the keeping of her husbands family, who shut her up in the keep of Kerfol, where she is said to have died many years later, a harmless madwoman.

So ends her story. As for that of Hervé de Lanrivain, I had only to apply to his collateral descendant for its subsequent details. The evidence against the young man being insufficient, and his family influence in the duchy considerable, he was set free, and left soon afterward for Paris. He was probably in no mood for a worldly life, and he appears to have come almost immediately under the influence of the famous M. Arnauld dAndilly and the gentlemen of Port Royal. A year or two later he was received into their Order, and without achieving any particular distinction he followed its good and evil fortunes till his death some twenty years later. Lanrivain showed me a portrait of him by a pupil of Philippe de Champaigne: sad eyes, an impulsive mouth and a narrow brow. Poor Hervé de Lanrivain: it was a grey ending. Yet as I looked at his stiff and sallow effigy, in the dark dress of the Jansenists, I almost found myself envying his fate. After all, in the course of his life two great things had happened to him: he had loved romantically, and he must have talked with Pascal...

The End

MRS. MANSTEYS VIEW

As first published in Scribners Magazine, July, 1891

The view from Mrs. Mansteys window was not a striking one, but to her at least it was full of interest and beauty. Mrs. Manstey occupied the back room on the third floor of a New York boarding-house, in a street where the ash-barrels lingered late on the sidewalk and the gaps in the pavement would have staggered a Quintus Curtius. She was the widow of a clerk in a large wholesale house, and his death had left her alone, for her only daughter had married in California, and could not afford the long journey to New York to see her mother. Mrs. Manstey, perhaps, might have joined her daughter in the West, but they had now been so many years apart that they had ceased to feel any need of each others society, and their intercourse had long been limited to the exchange of a few perfunctory letters, written with indifference by the daughter, and with difficulty by Mrs. Manstey, whose right hand was growing stiff with gout. Even had she felt a stronger desire for her daughters companionship, Mrs. Mansteys increasing infirmity, which caused her to dread the three flights of stairs between her room and the street, would have given her pause on the eve of undertaking so long a journey; and without perhaps, formulating these reasons she had long since accepted as a matter of course her solitary life in New York.

She was, indeed, not quite lonely, for a few friends still toiled up now and then to her room; but their visits grew rare as the years went by. Mrs. Manstey had never been a sociable woman, and during her husbands lifetime his companionship had been all-sufficient to her. For many years she had cherished a desire to live in the country, to have a hen-house and a garden; but this longing had faded with age, leaving only in the breast of the uncommunicative old woman a vague tenderness for plants and animals. It was, perhaps, this tenderness which made her cling so fervently to her view from her window, a view in which the most optimistic eye would at first have failed to discover anything admirable.

Mrs. Manstey, from her coign of vantage (a slightly projecting bow-window where she nursed an ivy and a succession of unwholesome-looking bulbs), looked out first upon the yard of her own dwelling, of which, however, she could get but a restricted glimpse. Still, her gaze took in the topmost boughs of the ailanthus below her window, and she knew how early each year the clump of dicentra strung its bending stalk with hearts of pink.

But of greater interest were the yards beyond. Being for the most part attached to boarding-houses they were in a state of chronic untidiness and fluttering, on certain days of the week, with miscellaneous garments and frayed table-cloths. In spite of this Mrs. Manstey found much to admire in the long vista which she commanded. Some of the yards were, indeed, but stony wastes, with grass in the cracks of the pavement and no shade in spring save that afforded by the intermittent leafage of the clothes-lines. These yards Mrs. Manstey disapproved of, but the others, the green ones, she loved. She had grown used to their disorder; the broken barrels, the empty bottles and paths unswept no longer annoyed her; hers was the happy faculty of dwelling on the pleasanter side of the prospect before her.

In the very next enclosure did not a magnolia open its hard white flowers against the watery blue of April? And was there not, a little way down the line, a fence foamed over every May be lilac waves of wistaria? Farther still, a horse-chestnut lifted its candelabra of buff and pink blossoms above broad fans of foliage; while in the opposite yard June was sweet with the breath of a neglected syringa, which persisted in growing in spite of the countless obstacles opposed to its welfare.

But if nature occupied the front rank in Mrs. Mansteys view, there was much of a more personal character to interest her in the aspect of the houses and their inmates. She deeply disapproved of the mustard-colored curtains which had lately been hung in the doctors window opposite; but she glowed with pleasure when the house farther down had its old bricks washed with a coat of paint. The occupants of the houses did not often show themselves at the back windows, but the servants were always in sight. Noisy slatterns, Mrs. Manstey pronounced the greater number; she knew their ways and hated them. But to the quiet cook in the newly painted house, whose mistress bullied her, and who secretly fed the stray cats at nightfall, Mrs. Mansteys warmest sympathies were given. On one occasion her feelings were racked by the neglect of a housemaid, who for two days forgot to feed the parrot committed to her care. On the third day, Mrs. Manstey, in spite of her gouty hand, had just penned a letter, beginning: Madam, it is now three days since your parrot has been fed, when the forgetful maid appeared at the window with a cup of seed in her hand.

But in Mrs. Mansteys more meditative moods it was the narrowing perspective of far-off yards which pleased her best. She loved, at twilight, when the distant brown-stone spire seemed melting in the fluid yellow of the west, to lose herself in vague memories of a trip to Europe, made years ago, and now reduced in her minds eye to a pale phantasmagoria of indistinct steeples and dreamy skies. Perhaps at heart Mrs. Manstey was an artist; at all events she was sensible of many changes of color unnoticed by the average eye, and dear to her as the green of early spring was the black lattice of branches against a cold sulphur sky at the close of a snowy day. She enjoyed, also, the sunny thaws of March, when patches of earth showed through the snow, like ink-spots spreading on a sheet of white blotting-paper; and, better still, the haze of boughs, leafless but swollen, which replaced the clear-cut tracery of winter. She even watched with a certain interest the trail of smoke from a far-off factory chimney, and missed a detail in the landscape when the factory was closed and the smoke disappeared.

Mrs. Manstey, in the long hours which she spent at her window, was not idle. She read a little, and knitted numberless stockings; but the view surrounded and shaped her life as the sea does a lonely island. When her rare callers came it was difficult for her to detach herself from the contemplation of the opposite window-washing, or the scrutiny of certain green points in a neighboring flower-bed which might, or might not, turn into hyacinths, while she feigned an interest in her visitors anecdotes about some unknown grandchild. Mrs. Mansteys real friends were the denizens of the yards, the hyacinths, the magnolia, the green parrot, the maid who fed the cats, the doctor who studied late behind his mustard-colored curtains; and the confidant of her tenderer musings was the church-spire floating in the sunset.

One April day, as she sat in her usual place, with knitting cast aside and eyes fixed on the blue sky mottled with round clouds, a knock at the door announced the entrance of her landlady. Mrs. Manstey did not care for her landlady, but she submitted to her visits with ladylike resignation. To-day, however, it seemed harder than usual to turn from the blue sky and the blossoming magnolia to Mrs. Sampsons unsuggestive face, and Mrs. Manstey was conscious of a distinct effort as she did so.

The magnolia is out earlier than usual this year, Mrs. Sampson, she remarked, yielding to a rare impulse, for she seldom alluded to the absorbing interest of her life. In the first place it was a topic not likely to appeal to her visitors and, besides, she lacked the power of expression and could not have given utterance to her feelings had she wished to.

The what, Mrs. Manstey? inquired the landlady, glancing about the room as if to find there the explanation of Mrs. Mansteys statement.

The magnolia in the next yard—in Mrs. Blacks yard, Mrs. Manstey repeated.

Is it, indeed? I didnt know there was a magnolia there, said Mrs. Sampson, carelessly. Mrs. Manstey looked at her; she did not know that there was a magnolia in the next yard!

By the way, Mrs. Sampson continued, speaking of Mrs. Black reminds me that the work on the extension is to begin next week.

The what? it was Mrs. Mansteys turn to ask.

The extension, said Mrs. Sampson, nodding her head in the direction of the ignored magnolia. You knew, of course, that Mrs. Black was going to build an extension to her house? Yes, maam. I hear it is to run right back to the end of the yard. How she can afford to build an extension in these hard times I dont see; but she always was crazy about building. She used to keep a boarding-house in Seventeenth Street, and she nearly ruined herself then by sticking out bow-windows and what not; I should have thought that would have cured her of building, but I guess its a disease, like drink. Anyhow, the work is to begin on Monday.

Mrs. Manstey had grown pale. She always spoke slowly, so the landlady did not heed the long pause which followed. At last Mrs. Manstey said: Do you know how high the extension will be?

Thats the most absurd part of it. The extension is to be built right up to the roof of the main building; now, did you ever?

Mrs. Manstey paused again. Wont it be a great annoyance to you, Mrs. Sampson? she asked.

I should say it would. But theres no help for it; if people have got a mind to build extensions theres no law to prevent em, that Im aware of. Mrs. Manstey, knowing this, was silent. There is no help for it, Mrs. Sampson repeated, but if I am a church member, I wouldnt be so sorry if it ruined Eliza Black. Well, good-day, Mrs. Manstey; Im glad to find you so comfortable.

So comfortable—so comfortable! Left to herself the old woman turned once more to the window. How lovely the view was that day! The blue sky with its round clouds shed a brightness over everything; the ailanthus had put on a tinge of yellow-green, the hyacinths were budding, the magnolia flowers looked more than ever like rosettes carved in alabaster. Soon the wistaria would bloom, then the horse-chestnut; but not for her. Between her eyes and them a barrier of brick and mortar would swiftly rise; presently even the spire would disappear, and all her radiant world be blotted out. Mrs. Manstey sent away untouched the dinner-tray brought to her that evening. She lingered in the window until the windy sunset died in bat-colored dusk; then, going to bed, she lay sleepless all night.

Early the next day she was up and at the window. It was raining, but even through the slanting gray gauze the scene had its charm—and then the rain was so good for the trees. She had noticed the day before that the ailanthus was growing dusty.

Of course I might move, said Mrs. Manstey aloud, and turning from the window she looked about her room. She might move, of course; so might she be flayed alive; but she was not likely to survive either operation. The room, though far less important to her happiness than the view, was as much a part of her existence. She had lived in it seventeen years. She knew every stain on the wall-paper, every rent in the carpet; the light fell in a certain way on her engravings, her books had grown shabby on their shelves, her bulbs and ivy were used to their window and knew which way to lean to the sun. We are all too old to move, she said.

That afternoon it cleared. Wet and radiant the blue reappeared through torn rags of cloud; the ailanthus sparkled; the earth in the flower-borders looked rich and warm. It was Thursday, and on Monday the building of the extension was to begin.

On Sunday afternoon a card was brought to Mrs. Black, as she was engaged in gathering up the fragments of the boarders dinner in the basement. The card, black-edged, bore Mrs. Mansteys name.

One of Mrs. Sampsons boarders; wants to move, I suppose. Well, I can give her a room next year in the extension. Dinah, said Mrs. Black, tell the lady Ill be upstairs in a minute.

Mrs. Black found Mrs. Manstey standing in the long parlor garnished with statuettes and antimacassars; in that house she could not sit down.

Stooping hurriedly to open the register, which let out a cloud of dust, Mrs. Black advanced on her visitor.

Im happy to meet you, Mrs. Manstey; take a seat, please, the landlady remarked in her prosperous voice, the voice of a woman who can afford to build extensions. There was no help for it; Mrs. Manstey sat down.

Is there anything I can do for you, maam? Mrs. Black continued. My house is full at present, but I am going to build an extension, and—

It is about the extension that I wish to speak, said Mrs. Manstey, suddenly. I am a poor woman, Mrs. Black, and I have never been a happy one. I shall have to talk about myself first to—to make you understand.

Mrs. Black, astonished but imperturbable, bowed at this parenthesis.

I never had what I wanted, Mrs. Manstey continued. It was always one disappointment after another. For years I wanted to live in the country. I dreamed and dreamed about it; but we never could manage it. There was no sunny window in our house, and so all my plants died. My daughter married years ago and went away—besides, she never cared for the same things. Then my husband died and I was left alone. That was seventeen years ago. I went to live at Mrs. Sampsons, and I have been there ever since. I have grown a little infirm, as you see, and I dont get out often; only on fine days, if I am feeling very well. So you can understand my sitting a great deal in my window—the back window on the third floor—

Well, Mrs. Manstey, said Mrs. Black, liberally, I could give you a back room, I dare say; one of the new rooms in the ex—

But I dont want to move; I cant move, said Mrs. Manstey, almost with a scream. And I came to tell you that if you build that extension I shall have no view from my window—no view! Do you understand?

Mrs. Black thought herself face to face with a lunatic, and she had always heard that lunatics must be humored.

Dear me, dear me, she remarked, pushing her chair back a little way, that is too bad, isnt it? Why, I never thought of that. To be sure, the extension will interfere with your view, Mrs. Manstey.

You do understand? Mrs. Manstey gasped.

Of course I do. And Im real sorry about it, too. But there, dont you worry, Mrs. Manstey. I guess we can fix that all right.

Mrs. Manstey rose from her seat, and Mrs. Black slipped toward the door.

What do you mean by fixing it? Do you mean that I can induce you to change your mind about the extension? Oh, Mrs. Black, listen to me. I have two thousand dollars in the bank and I could manage, I know I could manage, to give you a thousand if— Mrs. Manstey paused; the tears were rolling down her cheeks.

There, there, Mrs. Manstey, dont you worry, repeated Mrs. Black, soothingly. I am sure we can settle it. I am sorry that I cant stay and talk about it any longer, but this is such a busy time of day, with supper to get—

Her hand was on the door-knob, but with sudden vigor Mrs. Manstey seized her wrist.

You are not giving me a definite answer. Do you mean to say that you accept my proposition?

Why, Ill think it over, Mrs. Manstey, certainly I will. I wouldnt annoy you for the world—

But the work is to begin to-morrow, I am told, Mrs. Manstey persisted.

Mrs. Black hesitated. It shant begin, I promise you that; Ill send word to the builder this very night. Mrs. Manstey tightened her hold.

You are not deceiving me, are you? she said.

No—no, stammered Mrs. Black. How can you think such a thing of me, Mrs. Manstey?

Slowly Mrs. Mansteys clutch relaxed, and she passed through the open door. One thousand dollars, she repeated, pausing in the hall; then she let herself out of the house and hobbled down the steps, supporting herself on the cast-iron railing.

My goodness, exclaimed Mrs. Black, shutting and bolting the hall-door, I never knew the old woman was crazy! And she looks so quiet and ladylike, too.

Mrs. Manstey slept well that night, but early the next morning she was awakened by a sound of hammering. She got to her window with what haste she might and, looking out saw that Mrs. Blacks yard was full of workmen. Some were carrying loads of brick from the kitchen to the yard, others beginning to demolish the old-fashioned wooden balcony which adorned each story of Mrs. Blacks house. Mrs. Manstey saw that she had been deceived. At first she thought of confiding her trouble to Mrs. Sampson, but a settled discouragement soon took possession of her and she went back to bed, not caring to see what was going on.

Toward afternoon, however, feeling that she must know the worst, she rose and dressed herself. It was a laborious task, for her hands were stiffer than usual, and the hooks and buttons seemed to evade her.

When she seated herself in the window, she saw that the workmen had removed the upper part of the balcony, and that the bricks had multiplied since morning. One of the men, a coarse fellow with a bloated face, picked a magnolia blossom and, after smelling it, threw it to the ground; the next man, carrying a load of bricks, trod on the flower in passing.

Look out, Jim, called one of the men to another who was smoking a pipe, if you throw matches around near those barrels of paper youll have the old tinder-box burning down before you know it. And Mrs. Manstey, leaning forward, perceived that there were several barrels of paper and rubbish under the wooden balcony.

At length the work ceased and twilight fell. The sunset was perfect and a roseate light, transfiguring the distant spire, lingered late in the west. When it grew dark Mrs. Manstey drew down the shades and proceeded, in her usual methodical manner, to light her lamp. She always filled and lit it with her own hands, keeping a kettle of kerosene on a zinc-covered shelf in a closet. As the lamp-light filled the room it assumed its usual peaceful aspect. The books and pictures and plants seemed, like their mistress, to settle themselves down for another quiet evening, and Mrs. Manstey, as was her wont, drew up her armchair to the table and began to knit.

That night she could not sleep. The weather had changed and a wild wind was abroad, blotting the stars with close-driven clouds. Mrs. Manstey rose once or twice and looked out of the window; but of the view nothing was discernible save a tardy light or two in the opposite windows. These lights at last went out, and Mrs. Manstey, who had watched for their extinction, began to dress herself. She was in evident haste, for she merely flung a thin dressing-gown over her night-dress and wrapped her head in a scarf; then she opened her closet and cautiously took out the kettle of kerosene. Having slipped a bundle of wooden matches into her pocket she proceeded, with increasing precautions, to unlock her door, and a few moments later she was feeling her way down the dark staircase, led by a glimmer of gas from the lower hall. At length she reached the bottom of the stairs and began the more difficult descent into the utter darkness of the basement. Here, however, she could move more freely, as there was less danger of being overheard; and without much delay she contrived to unlock the iron door leading into the yard. A gust of cold wind smote her as she stepped out and groped shiveringly under the clothes-lines.

That morning at three oclock an alarm of fire brought the engines to Mrs. Blacks door, and also brought Mrs. Sampsons startled boarders to their windows. The wooden balcony at the back of Mrs. Blacks house was ablaze, and among those who watched the progress of the flames was Mrs. Manstey, leaning in her thin dressing-gown from the open window.

The fire, however, was soon put out, and the frightened occupants of the house, who had fled in scant attire, reassembled at dawn to find that little mischief had been done beyond the cracking of window panes and smoking of ceilings. In fact, the chief sufferer by the fire was Mrs. Manstey, who was found in the morning gasping with pneumonia, a not unnatural result, as everyone remarked, of her having hung out of an open window at her age in a dressing-gown. It was easy to see that she was very ill, but no one had guessed how grave the doctors verdict would be, and the faces gathered that evening about Mrs. Sampsons table were awestruck and disturbed. Not that any of the boarders knew Mrs. Manstey well; she kept to herself, as they said, and seemed to fancy herself too good for them; but then it is always disagreeable to have anyone dying in the house and, as one lady observed to another: It might just as well have been you or me, my dear.

But it was only Mrs. Manstey; and she was dying, as she had lived, lonely if not alone. The doctor had sent a trained nurse, and Mrs. Sampson, with muffled step, came in from time to time; but both, to Mrs. Manstey, seemed remote and unsubstantial as the figures in a dream. All day she said nothing; but when she was asked for her daughters address she shook her head. At times the nurse noticed that she seemed to be listening attentively for some sound which did not come; then again she dozed.

The next morning at daylight she was very low. The nurse called Mrs. Sampson and as the two bent over the old woman they saw her lips move.

Lift me up—out of bed, she whispered.

They raised her in their arms, and with her stiff hand she pointed to the window.

Oh, the window—she wants to sit in the window. She used to sit there all day, Mrs. Sampson explained. It can do her no harm, I suppose?

Nothing matters now, said the nurse.

They carried Mrs. Manstey to the window and placed her in her chair. The dawn was abroad, a jubilant spring dawn; the spire had already caught a golden ray, though the magnolia and horse-chestnut still slumbered in shadow. In Mrs. Blacks yard all was quiet. The charred timbers of the balcony lay where they had fallen. It was evident that since the fire the builders had not returned to their work. The magnolia had unfolded a few more sculptural flowers; the view was undisturbed.

It was hard for Mrs. Manstey to breathe; each moment it grew more difficult. She tried to make them open the window, but they would not understand. If she could have tasted the air, sweet with the penetrating ailanthus savor, it would have eased her; but the view at least was there—the spire was golden now, the heavens had warmed from pearl to blue, day was alight from east to west, even the magnolia had caught the sun.

Mrs. Mansteys head fell back and smiling she died.

That day the building of the extension was resumed.

The End

THE BOLTED DOOR

As first published in Scribners Magazine, March 1909

I

Hubert Granice, pacing the length of his pleasant lamp-lit library, paused to compare his watch with the clock on the chimney-piece.

Three minutes to eight.

In exactly three minutes Mr. Peter Ascham, of the eminent legal firm of Ascham and Pettilow, would have his punctual hand on the door-bell of the flat. It was a comfort to reflect that Ascham was so punctual—the suspense was beginning to make his host nervous. And the sound of the door-bell would be the beginning of the end—after that thered be no going back, by God—no going back!

Granice resumed his pacing. Each time he reached the end of the room opposite the door he caught his reflection in the Florentine mirror above the fine old walnut credence he had picked up at Dijon—saw himself spare, quick-moving, carefully brushed and dressed, but furrowed, gray about the temples, with a stoop which he corrected by a spasmodic straightening of the shoulders whenever a glass confronted him: a tired middle-aged man, baffled, beaten, worn out.

As he summed himself up thus for the third or fourth time the door opened and he turned with a thrill of relief to greet his guest. But it was only the man-servant who entered, advancing silently over the mossy surface of the old Turkey rug.

Mr. Ascham telephones, sir, to say hes unexpectedly detained and cant be here till eight-thirty.

Granice made a curt gesture of annoyance. It was becoming harder and harder for him to control these reflexes. He turned on his heel, tossing to the servant over his shoulder: Very good. Put off dinner.

Down his spine he felt the mans injured stare. Mr. Granice had always been so mild-spoken to his people—no doubt the odd change in his manner had already been noticed and discussed below stairs. And very likely they suspected the cause. He stood drumming on the writing-table till he heard the servant go out; then he threw himself into a chair, propping his elbows on the table and resting his chin on his locked hands.

Another half hour alone with it!

He wondered irritably what could have detained his guest. Some professional matter, no doubt—the punctilious lawyer would have allowed nothing less to interfere with a dinner engagement, more especially since Granice, in his note, had said: I shall want a little business chat afterward.

But what professional matter could have come up at that unprofessional hour? Perhaps some other soul in misery had called on the lawyer; and, after all, Granices note had given no hint of his own need! No doubt Ascham thought he merely wanted to make another change in his will. Since he had come into his little property, ten years earlier, Granice had been perpetually tinkering with his will.

Suddenly another thought pulled him up, sending a flush to his sallow temples. He remembered a word he had tossed to the lawyer some six weeks earlier, at the Century Club. Yes—my plays as good as taken. I shall be calling on you soon to go over the contract. Those theatrical chaps are so slippery—I wont trust anybody but you to tie the knot for me! That, of course, was what Ascham would think he was wanted for. Granice, at the idea, broke into an audible laugh—a queer stage-laugh, like the cackle of a baffled villain in a melodrama. The absurdity, the unnaturalness of the sound abashed him, and he compressed his lips angrily. Would he take to soliloquy next?

He lowered his arms and pulled open the upper drawer of the writing-table. In the right-hand corner lay a thick manuscript, bound in paper folders, and tied with a string beneath which a letter had been slipped. Next to the manuscript was a small revolver. Granice stared a moment at these oddly associated objects; then he took the letter from under the string and slowly began to open it. He had known he should do so from the moment his hand touched the drawer. Whenever his eye fell on that letter some relentless force compelled him to re-read it.

It was dated about four weeks back, under the letter-head of The Diversity Theatre.

My Dear Mr. Granice:

I have given the matter my best consideration for the last month, and its no use—the play wont do. I have talked it over with Miss Melrose—and you know there isnt a gamer artist on our stage—and I regret to tell you she feels just as I do about it. It isnt the poetry that scares her—or me either. We both want to do all we can to help along the poetic drama—we believe the publics ready for it, and were willing to take a big financial risk in order to be the first to give them what they want. But we dont believe they could be made to want this. The fact is, there isnt enough drama in your play to the allowance of poetry—the thing drags all through. Youve got a big idea, but its not out of swaddling clothes.

If this was your first play Id say: Try again. But it has been just the same with all the others youve shown me. And you remember the result of The Lee Shore, where you carried all the expenses of production yourself, and we couldnt fill the theatre for a week. Yet The Lee Shore was a modern problem play—much easier to swing than blank verse. It isnt as if you hadnt tried all kinds—

Granice folded the letter and put it carefully back into the envelope. Why on earth was he re-reading it, when he knew every phrase in it by heart, when for a month past he had seen it, night after night, stand out in letters of flame against the darkness of his sleepless lids?

It has been just the same with all the others youve shown me.

That was the way they dismissed ten years of passionate unremitting work!

You remember the result of The Lee Shore.

Good God—as if he were likely to forget it! He re-lived it all now in a drowning flash: the persistent rejection of the play, his sudden resolve to put it on at his own cost, to spend ten thousand dollars of his inheritance on testing his chance of success—the fever of preparation, the dry-mouthed agony of the first night, the flat fall, the stupid press, his secret rush to Europe to escape the condolence of his friends!

It isnt as if you hadnt tried all kinds.

No—he had tried all kinds: comedy, tragedy, prose and verse, the light curtain-raiser, the short sharp drama, the bourgeois-realistic and the lyrical-romantic—finally deciding that he would no longer prostitute his talent to win popularity, but would impose on the public his own theory of art in the form of five acts of blank verse. Yes, he had offered them everything—and always with the same result.

Ten years of it—ten years of dogged work and unrelieved failure. The ten years from forty to fifty—the best ten years of his life! And if one counted the years before, the silent years of dreams, assimilation, preparation—then call it half a mans life-time: half a mans life-time thrown away!

And what was he to do with the remaining half? Well, he had settled that, thank God! He turned and glanced anxiously at the clock. Ten minutes past eight—only ten minutes had been consumed in that stormy rush through his whole past! And he must wait another twenty minutes for Ascham. It was one of the worst symptoms of his case that, in proportion as he had grown to shrink from human company, he dreaded more and more to be alone.... But why the devil was he waiting for Ascham? Why didnt he cut the knot himself? Since he was so unutterably sick of the whole business, why did he have to call in an outsider to rid him of this nightmare of living?

He opened the drawer again and laid his hand on the revolver. It was a small slim ivory toy—just the instrument for a tired sufferer to give himself a hypodermic with. Granice raised it slowly in one hand, while with the other he felt under the thin hair at the back of his head, between the ear and the nape. He knew just where to place the muzzle: he had once got a young surgeon to show him. And as he found the spot, and lifted the revolver to it, the inevitable phenomenon occurred. The hand that held the weapon began to shake, the tremor communicated itself to his arm, his heart gave a wild leap which sent up a wave of deadly nausea to his throat, he smelt the powder, he sickened at the crash of the bullet through his skull, and a sweat of fear broke out over his forehead and ran down his quivering face...

He laid away the revolver with an oath and, pulling out a cologne-scented handkerchief, passed it tremulously over his brow and temples. It was no use—he knew he could never do it in that way. His attempts at self-destruction were as futile as his snatches at fame! He couldnt make himself a real life, and he couldnt get rid of the life he had. And that was why he had sent for Ascham to help him...

The lawyer, over the Camembert and Burgundy, began to excuse himself for his delay.

I didnt like to say anything while your man was about—but the fact is, I was sent for on a rather unusual matter—

Oh, its all right, said Granice cheerfully. He was beginning to feel the usual reaction that food and company produced. It was not any recovered pleasure in life that he felt, but only a deeper withdrawal into himself. It was easier to go on automatically with the social gestures than to uncover to any human eye the abyss within him.

My dear fellow, its sacrilege to keep a dinner waiting—especially the production of an artist like yours. Mr. Ascham sipped his Burgundy luxuriously. But the fact is, Mrs. Ashgrove sent for me.

Granice raised his head with a quick movement of surprise. For a moment he was shaken out of his self-absorption.

MRS. ASHGROVE?

Ascham smiled. I thought youd be interested; I know your passion for causes celebres. And this promises to be one. Of course its out of our line entirely—we never touch criminal cases. But she wanted to consult me as a friend. Ashgrove was a distant connection of my wifes. And, by Jove, it is a queer case! The servant re-entered, and Ascham snapped his lips shut.

Would the gentlemen have their coffee in the dining-room?

No—serve it in the library, said Granice, rising. He led the way back to the curtained confidential room. He was really curious to hear what Ascham had to tell him.

While the coffee and cigars were being served he fidgeted about the library, glancing at his letters—the usual meaningless notes and bills—and picking up the evening paper. As he unfolded it a headline caught his eye.

ROSE MELROSE WANTS TO PLAY POETRY.
THINKS SHE HAS FOUND HER POET.

He read on with a thumping heart—found the name of a young author he had barely heard of, saw the title of a play, a poetic drama, dance before his eyes, and dropped the paper, sick, disgusted. It was true, then—she was game—it was not the manner but the matter she mistrusted!

Granice turned to the servant, who seemed to be purposely lingering. I shant need you this evening, Flint. Ill lock up myself.

He fancied the mans acquiescence implied surprise. What was going on, Flint seemed to wonder, that Mr. Granice should want him out of the way? Probably he would find a pretext for coming back to see. Granice suddenly felt himself enveloped in a network of espionage.

As the door closed he threw himself into an armchair and leaned forward to take a light from Aschams cigar.

Tell me about Mrs. Ashgrove, he said, seeming to himself to speak stiffly, as if his lips were cracked.

Mrs. Ashgrove? Well, theres not much to tell.

And you couldnt if there were? Granice smiled.

Probably not. As a matter of fact, she wanted my advice about her choice of counsel. There was nothing especially confidential in our talk.

And whats your impression, now youve seen her?

My impression is, very distinctly, That nothing will ever be known.

Ah—? Granice murmured, puffing at his cigar.

Im more and more convinced that whoever poisoned Ashgrove knew his business, and will consequently never be found out. Thats a capital cigar youve given me.

You like it? I get them over from Cuba. Granice examined his own reflectively. Then you believe in the theory that the clever criminals never are caught?

Of course I do. Look about you—look back for the last dozen years—none of the big murder problems are ever solved. The lawyer ruminated behind his blue cloud. Why, take the instance in your own family: Id forgotten I had an illustration at hand! Take old Joseph Lenmans murder—do you suppose that will ever be explained?

As the words dropped from Aschams lips his host looked slowly about the library, and every object in it stared back at him with a stale unescapable familiarity. How sick he was of looking at that room! It was as dull as the face of a wife one has wearied of. He cleared his throat slowly; then he turned his head to the lawyer and said: I could explain the Lenman murder myself.

Aschams eye kindled: he shared Granices interest in criminal cases.

By Jove! Youve had a theory all this time? Its odd you never mentioned it. Go ahead and tell me. There are certain features in the Lenman case not unlike this Ashgrove affair, and your idea may be a help.

Granice paused and his eye reverted instinctively to the table drawer in which the revolver and the manuscript lay side by side. What if he were to try another appeal to Rose Melrose? Then he looked at the notes and bills on the table, and the horror of taking up again the lifeless routine of life—of performing the same automatic gestures another day—displaced his fleeting vision.

I havent a theory. I know who murdered Joseph Lenman.

Ascham settled himself comfortably in his chair, prepared for enjoyment.

You know? Well, who did? he laughed.

I did, said Granice, rising.

He stood before Ascham, and the lawyer lay back staring up at him. Then he broke into another laugh.

Why, this is glorious! You murdered him, did you? To inherit his money, I suppose? Better and better! Go on, my boy! Unbosom yourself! Tell me all about it! Confession is good for the soul.

Granice waited till the lawyer had shaken the last peal of laughter from his throat; then he repeated doggedly: I murdered him.

The two men looked at each other for a long moment, and this time Ascham did not laugh.

Granice!

I murdered him—to get his money, as you say.

There was another pause, and Granice, with a vague underlying sense of amusement, saw his guests look change from pleasantry to apprehension.

Whats the joke, my dear fellow? I fail to see.

Its not a joke. Its the truth. I murdered him. He had spoken painfully at first, as if there were a knot in his throat; but each time he repeated the words he found they were easier to say.

Ascham laid down his extinct cigar.

Whats the matter? Arent you well? What on earth are you driving at?

Im perfectly well. But I murdered my cousin, Joseph Lenman, and I want it known that I murdered him.

You want it known?

Yes. Thats why I sent for you. Im sick of living, and when I try to kill myself I funk it. He spoke quite naturally now, as if the knot in his throat had been untied.

Good Lord—good Lord, the lawyer gasped.

But I suppose, Granice continued, theres no doubt this would be murder in the first degree? Im sure of the chair if I own up?

Ascham drew a long breath; then he said slowly: Sit down, Granice. Lets talk.