EVENTS OF A NIGHT.
It was late in the afternoon of a cloudy, windy autumn day, that I left
the office of John Argyll, Esq., in his company, to take tea and spend
the evening in his family. I was a law-student in the office, and was
favored with more than ordinary kindness by him, on account of a
friendship that had existed between him and my deceased father. When
young men, they had started out in life together, in equal
circumstances; one had died early, just as fortune began to smile; the
other lived to continue in well-earned prosperity. Mr. Argyll had never
ceased to take an interest in the orphan son of his friend. He had
aided my mother in giving me a collegiate education, and had taken me
into his office to complete my law studies. Although I did not board at
his house, I was almost like a member of the family. There was always a
place for me at his table, with liberty to come and go when I pleased.
This being Saturday, I was expected to go home with him, and stay over
Sunday if I liked.
We quickened our steps as a few large drops were sprinkled over us out
of the darkening clouds.
"It will be a rainy night," said Mr. Argyll.
"It may clear away yet," I said, looking toward a rift in the west,
through which the declining sun was pouring a silver stream. He shook
his head doubtfully, and we hurried up the steps into the house, to
escape the threatened drenching.
Entering the parlors, we found no one but James, a nephew of Mr.
Argyll, a young man of about my own age, lounging upon a sofa.
"Where are the girls?"
"They haven't descended from the heavenly regions yet, uncle."
"Dressing themselves to death, I expect--it's Saturday evening, I
remember," smiled the indulgent father, passing on into the library.
I sat down by the west window, and looked out at the coming storm. I
did not like James Argyll much, nor he me; so that, as much as we were
thrown together, our intercourse continued constrained. On this
occasion, however, he seemed in excellent spirits, persisting in
talking on all kinds of indifferent subjects despite of my brief
replies. I was wondering when Eleanor would make her appearance.
At last she came. I heard her silk dress rustle down the stairs, and my
eyes were upon her when she entered the room. She was dressed with
unusual care, and her face wore a brilliant, expectant smile. The smile
was for neither of us. Perhaps James thought of it; I am sure I did,
with secret suffering--with a sharp pang which I was ashamed of, and
fought inwardly to conquer.
She spoke pleasantly to both of us, but with a preoccupied air not
flattering to our vanity. Too restless to sit, she paced up and down
the length of the parlors, seeming to radiate light as she walked, like
some superb jewel--so lustrous was her countenance and so fine her
costume. Little smiles would sparkle about her lips, little trills of
song break forth, as if she were unconscious of observers. She had a
right to be glad; she appeared to exult in her own beauty and happiness.
Presently she came to the window, and as she stood by my side, a burst
of glory streamed through the fast-closing clouds, enveloping her in a
golden atmosphere, tinting her black hair with purple, flushing her
clear cheeks and the pearls about her throat. The fragrance of the rose
she wore on her breast mingled with the light; for a moment I was
thrilled and overpowered; but the dark-blue eyes were not looking on
me--they were regarding the weather.
"How provoking that it should rain to-night," she said, and as the
slight cloud of vexation swept over her face, the blackness of night
closed over the gleam of sunset, so suddenly that we could hardly
discern each other.
"The rain will not keep Moreland away," I answered.
"Of course not--but I don't want him to get wet walking up from the
depot; and Billy has put up the carriage in view of the storm."
At that moment a wild gust of wind smote the house so that it shook,
and the rain came down with a roar that was deafening. Eleanor rung for
lights.
"Tell cook to be sure and have chocolate for supper--and cream for the
peaches," she said to the servant who came in to light the gas.
The girl smiled; she knew, in common with her mistress, who it was
preferred chocolate and liked cream with peaches; the love of a woman,
however sublime in some of its qualities, never fails in the tender
domestic instincts which delight in promoting the comfort and personal
tastes of its object.
"We need not have troubled ourselves to wear our new dresses," pouted
Mary, the younger sister, who had followed Eleanor down stairs "there
will be nobody here to-night."
Both James and myself objected to being dubbed nobody. The willful
young beauty said all the gay things she pleased, telling us she
certainly should not have worn her blue silks, nor puffed her hair for
us--
"--Nor for Henry Moreland either--he never looks at me after the first
minute. Engaged people are so stupid! I wish he and Eleanor would make
an end of it. If I'm ever going to be bridemaid, I want to be--"
"And a clear field afterward, Miss Molly," jested her cousin. "Come!
play that new polka for me."
"You couldn't hear it if I did. The rain is playing a polka this
evening, and the wind is dancing to it."
He laughed loudly--more loudly than the idle fancy warranted. "Let us
see if we can not make more noise than the storm," he said, going to
the piano and thumping out the most thunderous piece that he could
recall. I was not a musician, but it seemed to me there were more
discords than the law of harmony allowed; and Mary put her hands over
her ears, and ran away to the end of the room.
For the next half-hour the rain came down in wide sheets, flapping
against the windows, as the wind blew it hither and thither. James
continued at the piano, and Eleanor moved restlessly about, stealing
glances, now and then, at her tiny watch.
All at once there occurred one of those pauses which precede the fresh
outbreaking of a storm; as if startled by the sudden lull, James Argyll
paused in his playing; just then the shrill whistle of the locomotive
pierced the silence with more than usual power, as the evening train
swept around the curve of the hill not a quarter of a mile away, and
rushed on into the depot in the lower part of the village.
There is something unearthly in the scream of the "steam-eagle,"
especially when heard at night. He seems like a sentient thing, with a
will of his own, unbending and irresistible; and his cry is threatening
and defiant. This night it rose upon the storm prolonged and doleful.
I know not how it sounded to the others, but to me, whose imagination
was already wrought upon by the tempest and by the presence of the
woman I hopelessly loved, it came with an effect perfectly
overwhelming; it filled the air, even the perfumed, lighted air of the
parlor, full of a dismal wail. It threatened--I know not what. It
warned against some strange, unseen disaster. Then it sunk into a
hopeless cry, so full of mortal anguish, that I involuntarily put my
fingers to my ears. Perhaps James felt something of the same thing, for
he started from the piano-stool, walked twice or thrice across the
floor, then flung himself again upon the sofa, and for a long time sat
with his eyes shaded, neither speaking nor stirring.
Eleanor, with maiden artifice, took up a book, and composed herself to
pretend to read; she would not have her lover to know that she had been
so restless while awaiting his coming. Only Mary fluttered about like a
humming-bird, diving into the sweets of things, the music, the flowers,
whatever had honey in it; and teasing me in the intervals.
I have said that I loved Eleanor. I did, secretly, in silence and
regret, against my judgment and will, and because I could not help it.
I was quite certain that James loved her also, and I felt sorry for
him; sympathy was taught me by my own sufferings, though I had never
felt attracted toward his character. He seemed to me to be rather
sullen in temper, as well as selfish; and then again I reproached
myself for uncharitableness; it might have been his circumstances which
rendered him morose--he was dependent upon his uncle--and his
unhappiness which made him appear unamiable.
I loved, without a particle of hope. Eleanor was engaged to a young
gentleman in every way worthy of her: of fine demeanor, high social
position, and unblemished moral character. As much as her many admirers
may have envied Henry Moreland, they could not dislike him. To see the
young couple together was to feel that theirs would be one of those
"matches made in heaven"--in age, character, worldly circumstances,
beauty and cultivation, there was a rare correspondence.
Mr. Moreland was engaged with his father in a banking business in the
city of New York. They owned a summer villa in Blankville, and it had
been during his week of summer idleness here that he had made the
acquaintance of Eleanor Argyll.
At this season of the year his business kept him in the city; but he
was in the habit of coming out every Saturday afternoon and spending
Sabbath at the house of Mr. Argyll, the marriage which was to terminate
a betrothal of nearly two years being now not very far away. On her
nineteenth birthday, which came in December, Eleanor was to be married.
Another half-hour passed away and the expected guest did not arrive. He
usually reached the house in fifteen minutes after the arrival of the
train; I could see that his betrothed was playing nervously with her
watch-chain, though she kept her eyes fixed upon her book.
"Come, let us have tea; I am hungry," said Mr. Argyll, coming out of
the library. "I had a long ride after dinner. No use waiting,
Eleanor--he won't be here to-night"--he pinched her cheek to express
his sympathy for her disappointment--"a little shower didn't use to
keep beaux away when I was a boy."
"A _little_ rain, papa! I never heard such a torrent before; besides,
it was not the storm, of course, for he would have already taken the
cars before it commenced."
"To be sure! to be sure! defend your sweetheart, Ella--that's right!
But it may have been raining down there half the day--the storm comes
from that direction. James, are you asleep?"
"I'll soon see," cried Mary, pulling away the hand from her cousin's
face--"why, James, what is the matter?"
Her question caused us all to look at him; his face was of an ashy
paleness; his eyes burning like coals of fire.
"Nothing is the matter! I've been half asleep," he answered, laughing,
and springing to his feet. "Molly, shall I have the honor?"--she took
his offered arm, and we went in to tea.
The sight of the well-ordered table, at the head of which Eleanor
presided, the silver, the lights, the odor of the chocolate
overpowering the fainter fragrance of the tea, was enough to banish
thoughts of the tempest raging without, saving just enough
consciousness of it to enhance the enjoyment of the luxury within.
Even Eleanor could not be cold to the warmth and comfort of the hour;
the tears, which at first she could hardly keep out of her proud blue
eyes, went back to their sources; she made an effort to be gay, and
succeeded in being very charming. I think she still hoped he had been
delayed at the village; and that there would be a note for her at the
post-office, explaining his absence.
For once, the usually kind, considerate girl was selfish. Severe as was
the storm, she insisted upon sending a servant to the office; she could
not be kept in suspense until Monday.
She would hardly believe his statement, upon his return, that the mail
had been changed, and there was really no message whatever.
We went back to the parlor and passed a merry evening.
A touch of chagrin, a fear that we should suspect how deeply she was
disappointed, caused Eleanor to appear in unusually high spirits. She
sung whatever I asked of her; she played some delicious music; she
parried the wit of others with keener and brighter repartee; the roses
bloomed on her cheeks, the stars rose in her eyes. It was not an
altogether happy excitement; I knew that pride and loneliness were at
the bottom of it; but it made her brilliantly beautiful. I wondered
what Moreland would feel to see her so lovely--I almost regretted that
he was not there.
James, too, was in an exultant mood.
It was late when we retired. I was in a state of mental activity which
kept me awake for hours after. I never heard it rain as it did that
night--the water seemed to come down in solid masses--and,
occasionally, the wind shook the strong mansion as if it were a child.
I could not sleep. There was something awful in the storm. If I had had
a touch of superstition about me, I should have said that spirits were
abroad.
A healthy man, of a somewhat vivid imagination, but without
nervousness, unknowing bodily fear, I was still affected strangely. I
shuddered in my soft bed; the wild shriek of the locomotive lingered in
my ears; _something besides rain seemed beating at the windows_. Ah, my
God! I knew afterward what it was. It was a human soul, disembodied,
lingering about the place on earth most dear to it. The rest of the
household slept well, so far as I could judge, by its silence and deep
repose.
Toward morning I fell asleep; when I awoke the rain was over; the sun
shone brightly; the ground was covered with gay autumn leaves shaken
down by the wind and rain; the day promised well. I shook off the
impressions of the darkness, dressed myself quickly, for the
breakfast-bell rung, and descending, joined the family of my host at
the table. In the midst of our cheerful repast, the door-bell rung.
Eleanor started; the thought that her lover might have stayed at the
hotel adjoining the depot on account of the rain, must have crossed her
mind, for a rapid blush rose to her cheeks, and she involuntarily put
up a hand to the dark braids of her hair as if to give them a more
graceful touch. The servant came in, saying that a man at the door
wished to speak with Mr. Argyll and Mr. Redfield.
"He says it's important, and can't wait, sir."
We arose and went out into the hall, closing the door of the
breakfast-room behind us.
"I'm very sorry--I've got bad news--I hope you won't"--stammered the
messenger, a servant from the hotel.
"What is it?" demanded Mr. Argyll.
"The young gentleman that comes here--Moreland's his name, I
believe--was found dead on the road this morning."
"Dead!"
"They want you to come down to the inquest. They've got him in a room
of our house. They think it's a fit--there's no marks of any thing."
The father and I looked at each other; the lips of both were quivering;
we both thought of Eleanor.
"What shall I do?"
"I don't know, Mr. Argyll. I haven't had time to think."
"I can not--I can not--"
"Nor I--not just yet. Sarah, tell the young ladies we have gone out a
short time on business--and don't you breathe what you have heard.
Don't let any one in until we return--don't allow any one to see Miss
Eleanor. Be prudent."
Her frightened face did not promise much for her discretion.
Hastening to the hotel, already surrounded by many people, we found the
distressing message too true. Upon a lounge, in a private sitting-room,
lay the body of Henry Moreland! The coroner and a couple of physicians
had already arrived. It was their opinion that he had died from natural
causes, as there was not the least evidence of violence to be seen. The
face was as pleasant as in slumber; we could hardly believe him dead
until we touched the icy forehead, about which the thick ringlets of
brown hair clung, saturated with rain.
"What's this?" exclaimed one, as we began to relieve the corpse of its
wet garments, for the purpose of a further examination. It was a stab
in the back. Not a drop of blood--only a small triangular hole in the
cloak, through the other clothing, into the body. The investigation
soon revealed the nature of the death-wound; it had been given by a
fine, sharp dirk or stiletto. So firm and forcible had been the blow
that it had pierced the lung and struck the rib with sufficient force
to break the blade of the weapon, about three-quarters of an inch of
the point of which was found in the wound. Death must have been
instantaneous. The victim had fallen forward upon his face, bleeding
inwardly, which accounted for no blood having been at first perceived;
and as he had fallen, so he had lain through all the drenching storm of
that miserable night. When discovered by the first passer-by, after
daylight, he was lying on the path, by the side of the street, which
led up in the direction of Mr. Argyll's, his traveling-bag by his side,
his face to the ground. The bag was not touched, neither the watch and
money on his person, making it evident that robbery was not the object
of the murderer.
A stab in the back, in the double darkness of night and storm! What
enemy had Henry Moreland, to do this deed upon him?
It is useless now to repeat all the varying conjectures rising in our
minds, or which continued to engross the entire community for weeks
thereafter. It became at once the favorite theory of many that young
Moreland had perished by a stroke intended for some other person. In
the mean time, the news swept through the village like a whirlwind,
destroying the calmness of that Sabbath morning, tossing the minds of
people more fearfully than the material tempest had tossed the frail
leaves. Murder! and such a murder in such a place!--not twenty rods
from the busiest haunts of men, on a peaceful street--sudden, sure,
unprovoked! People looked behind them as they walked, hearing the
assassin's step in every rustle of the breeze. Murder!--the far-away,
frightful idea had suddenly assumed a real shape--it seemed to have
stalked through the town, entering each dwelling, standing by every
hearth-stone.
While the inquest was proceeding, Mr. Argyll and myself were thinking
more of Eleanor than of her murdered lover.
"This is wretched business, Richard," said the father. "I am so
unnerved I can do nothing. Will you telegraph to his parents for me?"
His parents--here was more misery. I had not thought of them. I wrote
out the dreadful message which it ought to have melted the wires with
pity to carry.
"And now you must go to Eleanor. She must not hear it from strangers;
and I can not--Richard!--you will tell her, will you not? I will follow
you home immediately; as soon as I have made arrangements to have poor
Henry brought to our house when the inquest is over."
He wrung my hand, looking at me so beseechingly, that, loth as I was, I
had no thought of refusing. I felt like one walking with frozen feet as
I passed out of the chamber of horror into the peaceful sunlight, along
the very path _he_ had last trodden, and over the spot where he had
fallen and had lain so many hours undiscovered, around which a crowd
was pressing, disturbed, excited, but not noisy. The sandy soil had
already filtered the rain, so as to be nearly dry; there was nothing to
give a clue to the murderer's footsteps, whither he went or whence he
came--what impress they might have made in the hard, gravelly walk had
been washed out by the storm. A few persons were searching carefully
for the weapon which had been the instrument of death, and which had
been broken in the wound, thinking it might have been cast away in the
vicinity.