Part 34 (1/2)

”I told you the other evening that John Kingdon had died in an asylum for the insane, and that his family had a hard struggle for existence. After the mother's death, they had no means to maintain a home, and Lucy, who was only a girl, went to the Lawrence house to help her cousin, Ruth Endicott, who was housekeeper there, as I have said. The elder daughter, Harriet, secured a position in New York-I think as governess in a private family. She was called home, some time later, by the illness of her cousin Ruth, whom she took to Florida, where Ruth died. Mr. Lawrence was married soon afterwards, and Lucy Kingdon remained in his house as maid, first to his wife and afterwards to his daughter.

”Harriet Kingdon returned to New York and took up again her work of teaching. About six months later, there was a quarrel of some sort between her and her sister Lucy-a violent quarrel-and they ceased to correspond or hold communication of any kind. Just how long a time elapsed I don't know, but I should judge it was at least three years, when a letter came to Lucy Kingdon from Bloomingdale hospital, stating that her sister had been brought there a year before, violently insane, that she was practically well again and wished to be taken away. Lucy went after her at once and brought her home.”

”Home?” I repeated.

”Yes; it was at that time that Mrs. Lawrence gave them the cottage in which they still live. She virtually supported them for some time, until Harriet was able to attend to the household duties, and Lucy to resume her place as maid.”

”Was Mr. Lawrence living at the time?”

”Yes; but it was generally understood that he had no part in these benefactions. He was not a charitable man.”

”And no reason was ever given for this generosity on Mrs. Lawrence's part?”

”None but her interest in the family. This was only one of her many charities.”

I paused for a moment's thought. After all, there was nothing peculiar about it. Mrs. Lawrence would naturally be interested in a family whom she had known so well, and who had suddenly been reduced to such desperate straits.

”Did you ever hear any explanation of Harriet Kingdon's madness?” I asked at last.

”None but that of heredity-and that is an explanation I made to myself. I'm pretty sure that no one here except her sister and Mrs. Lawrence knew that she had been at Bloomingdale.”

”Mrs. Lawrence knew it, then?”

”Oh, yes; it was from her I learned the story. She came to me for advice a few months after Harriet Kingdon had been brought home. I don't think she was ever wholly cured. She had slight relapses from time to time, and it was during one of these, rather more violent than usual, that Mrs. Lawrence came to me. I made an excuse for going to see her. But I saw no reason for advising that she be sent to an asylum. I did advise, however, that a specialist be brought down from New York to look at her, and Mrs. Lawrence did this. He also advised against the asylum; he said that rest, and quiet, and freedom from worry would, in time, afford permanent relief. She certainly grew better as time went on, and, though she was always somewhat peculiar, I have regarded her as wholly out of danger of relapse, for several years past.”

”And yet,” I objected, harking back, ”heredity of itself would hardly be sufficient explanation. There must have been something to induce insanity-some shock or grave trouble.”

”Yes, I agree with you there. I have a theory, Mr. Lester, which some chance words of yours this afternoon served greatly to strengthen. You remember, you remarked that a recurrence of insanity would be very likely if the circ.u.mstances attending it were related in any way to the original cause. My theory is that this man whom Harriet Kingdon killed was the cause of her insanity-that he'd wronged her.”

”Yes,” I agreed; ”yes-and yet, how explain his presence here? If he'd wronged her, he'd hardly seek her again.”

”I don't know; there are queer depths in human nature. Unfortunately, I see no way of proving the theory either right or wrong-of putting it to the test; not, at least, until Lucy Kingdon recovers and chooses to speak.”

”I think I can put it to the test,” I said, ”if you'll permit me to lay it before a friend. I must tell you, though, that he's a reporter, and if the theory proves to be the right one, he'll use it.”

”I see no objection to that,” said Dr. Schuyler, after a moment's thought; ”provided, of course, that he doesn't use it unless it's fully proved.”

”I can promise that,” I said.

”And whether it proves right or wrong, I should like to know.”

”You shall, at the first moment. And, by the way,” I added, ”you were speaking the other evening of Ruth Endicott. There is a rather remarkable portrait belonging to the Kingdons which has her name in the corner.”

”Yes; I've seen it.”

”Did she really paint it?”

”Oh, I think there's no doubt of that.”

”Did she paint anything else?”