TWO LINKS IN THE CHAIN.
We went up to Blankville that evening, arriving late. I confess that I
felt a thrill as of cold steel, and peered over my shoulder as we
walked up the hill from the depot; but my companion was guilty of no
such weakness. He kept as sharp a lookout as the light of a setting
moon would permit, but it was only with a view to making himself
familiar with the premises. We passed the Argyll mansion on our way to
my boarding-place; it was too late to call; the lights were
extinguished, except the faint one always left burning in the hall, and
in two or three of the chambers. A rush of emotion oppressed me, as I
drew near it; I would fain have laid my head against the pillars of the
gateway and wept--tears such as a man may shed without reproach, when
the woman he loves suffers. A growing anxiety possessed me to hear of
Eleanor, no report of her mental or physical condition having reached
me since that piercing shriek had announced the parting of her
heart-strings when the strain of final separation came. I would have
gone to the door a moment, to make inquiries, had I not inferred that a
knock at that late hour must startle the family into nervous
anticipations. The wan glimmer of the sinking moon struck under the
branches of the silent trees, which stood about the dark mass of the
stately mansion; not a breath stirred the crisp foliage. I heard a
leaf, which loosened itself and rustled downward to the sod.
"It is a fine old place," remarked my companion, pausing because my own
steps had come to a standstill.
I could not answer; he drew my arm into his, and we went on. Mr. Burton
was growing to me in the shape of a friend, instead of a
detective-officer.
That night I gave up my room to him, taking a hall-bedroom adjoining.
After breakfast we went forth into the village, making our first call
at the office. Mr. Argyll was there, looking thin and care-worn. He
said that he was glad to have me back, for he felt unfit for business,
and must let the mantle of labor drop upon my shoulders hereafter.
There had been an implied understanding, although it had never been
definitely agreed upon, that I was to become a partner in the law with
my teacher, when I had been admitted to practice. He had no one
associated with him in his large and lucrative business, and he was now
getting of an age to feel like retiring from at least the drudgery of
the profession. That he designed to offer me the place open for some
candidate, I had not doubted, for he had said as much many times. This
prospect was an unusually fair one for so young a person as myself; it
had urged me to patient study, to eager, ambitious effort. For I
rightly deemed that a respect for my habits of mental application and a
faith in my as yet undeveloped talents, had decided Mr. Argyll to offer
me the contemplated encouragement. This had been another reason for
James' dislike of me. He could not look favorably upon one who had, as
it were, supplanted him. Instead of seeing that the fault lay in
himself, and applying the remedy, he pursued the false course of
considering me as a rival and an interloper. He, also, was a student in
the office, and that he was a year behind me in his studies, and that,
if he ever became a partner, it would be as a third member of the firm,
was owing solely to his habitual indolence, which gave him a distaste
for the dry details of a lawyer's work. What he would have liked would
be to have his examination shirked over, to be admitted on the strength
of his uncle's reputation, and then to be employed only in making
brilliant oratorical efforts before the judge, jury and audience, after
some one else had performed all the hard labor of the case, and placed
his weapons ready at his hand.
If Mr. Argyll really intended to take the son of his old friend into
the firm, instead of his nephew, it was simply on the prudent
principles of business. I was to pass my examination on the first of
November; this remark, then, which he made, as I observed how weary and
unwell he looked, was not a surprise to me--it came only as a
confirmation of my expectations.
At that moment James entered the office. There was a cloud on his brow,
called up by his uncle's words; he hardly took time to shake hands with
me, before he said,
"How is it, uncle, if you are worried and overworked, that you do not
tell _me_? I should have been glad to help you. But it seems I am of no
possible account nowadays."
Mr. Argyll smiled at this outbreak, as he would at the vexation of a
child. A father could not be kinder to a son than he was to James; but
to depend upon him for solid aid or comfort would be to lean upon a
broken reed. The cloud upon the young man's face grew thunderous when
he perceived Mr. Burton; although, if I had not been looking straight
in his eyes, I should not have noticed it, for it passed instantly, and
he stepped forward with frank cordiality, extending his hand, and
saying,
"We did not know you were to come up. Indeed, we did not expect Richard
back so soon. Has any thing transpired?"
"We hope that something will transpire, very soon," answered the
detective. "You are very anxious, I see--and no wonder."
"No--no wonder! We are all of us perfectly absorbed--and, as for me, my
heart bleeds for my friends, Mr. Burton."
"And your friends' hearts bleed for you."
Mr. Burton had a peculiar voice, searching, though not loud; I was
talking with Mr. Argyll, and yet I heard this reply without listening
for it; I did not comprehend it, and indeed, I let it in at one ear and
out at the other, for I was asking about Eleanor.
"She is better than we hoped for," said the father, wiping the mist
from his eyes which gathered at the mention of her name, "but, alas,
Richard, that is not saying much. My girl never will be herself again.
My pretty Eleanor will never be my sunshine anymore. Not that her mind
is shaken--that remains only too acutely sensitive. But her heart is
broken. I can see that--broken, past mending. She has not left her bed
since Henry was carried away; the doctor assures me there is nothing
dangerous about her illness--only the natural weakness of the system
after intense suffering, the same as if she had endured great physical
pain. He says she will rally presently."
"If I could take her burden upon myself, I would ask no greater boon,"
I said.
My voice must have been very full of the feeling within me, for it made
Mr. Argyll give me a wondering look; I think it was the first time he
had a suspicion of the hopeless passion I had cherished for his
daughter.
"We must all bear our own troubles," he said. "Poor Richard, I fear you
have your own, like the rest of us."
When I again noticed what was passing between the other two, James was
telling Mr. Burton, with great animation, of some information which had
been lodged with the authorities of the village. I became absorbed in
it, of course.
A respectable citizen of a town some thirty or forty miles beyond, on
the railroad, hearing of the murder, had taken the trouble to come down
to Blankville and testify to some things which had fallen under his
observation on the night of the murder. He stated that he was a
passenger on the Saturday afternoon train from New York; that the seat
in front of his own, in the car, was occupied by a young gentleman,
who, by the description since given, he knew must be Henry Moreland;
that, as there were but few people in that car, he had given the more
attention to those near him; that he was particularly attracted by the
prepossessing appearance of the young gentleman, with whom he exchanged
a few remarks with regard to the storm, and who informed him that he
was going no further than Blankville.
"After we had been riding a while," said the witness--I do not give
James' words in telling it, but his own, as I afterward read them in
the sworn testimony--"I noticed a person who sat on the opposite side
of the car, facing us. His forehead was bent on his hand, and he was
looking out from under his fingers, at the young man in front of me. It
was his sinister expression which compelled me to notice him. His
small, glittering, black eyes were fixed upon my neighbor with a look
which made me shudder. I smiled at myself for my own sensation--said to
myself it was none of my business--that I was nervous--yet, in spite of
my attempts to be unconcerned, I was continually compelled to look
across at the individual of whose serpent-gaze the young gentleman
himself appeared totally unconscious. If he had once met those eyes, I
am certain he would have been on his guard--for I assert, without other
proof than what afterward transpired, that there was _murder_ in them,
and that that person was Henry Moreland's murderer. I can not prove
it--but my conviction is unalterable. I only wish, now, that I had
yielded to my impulse to shake my unknown neighbor, and say to
him--'See! there is an enemy! beware of him!' There was nothing but the
man's look to justify such a proceeding, and of course I curbed my
feelings.
"The man was a common-looking person, dressed in dark clothes; he wore
a low-crowned felt hat, slouched down on his forehead; I do not
remember about his hair, but his eyes were black, his complexion
sallow. I noticed a scar across the back of the hand which he held over
his eyes, as if it had sometime been cut across with a knife; also that
he had a large ring, with a red stone in it, on his little finger.
"When the cars stopped at Blankville, this person arose and followed
Henry Moreland from the car. I saw him step off the platform behind
him, which was the last I saw of either of them."
It may be imagined with what a thrill of fearful interest we listened
to this account, and the thousand conjectures to which it gave rise.
"It can not be difficult," I exclaimed, "to find other witnesses to
testify of this man."
We were assured by James that every effort had been made to get some
trace of him. No person answering to the description was a resident of
the village, and no one could be heard of as having been seen in the
vicinity. Not a solitary lounger about the depot, or the hotel close at
hand, could recall that he had seen such a stranger leave the cars; no
such person had stopped at the hotel; even the conductor of the train
could not be certain of such a passenger, though he had a dim
recollection of a rough fellow in the car with Mr. Moreland--he had not
observed where he left the train--thought his ticket was for Albany.
"But we do not despair of some evidence, yet," said Mr. Argyll.
"The New York police, not being able to do any thing further here, have
gone home," continued James. "If such a villain lurks in New York, he
will be found. That scar on the hand is a good point for identifying
him--don't you think so, sir?" to Mr. Burton.
"Well--yes! unless it was put on for the purpose. It may have been done
in red ocher, and washed off afterward. If the fellow was a practiced
hand, as the skill and precision of the blow would imply, he will be up
to all such tricks. If he had a real scar, he would have worn gloves on
such an errand."
"You think so?" and James drew a long breath, probably of
discouragement at this new statement of the case.
"I would like to go down to the depot, and along the docks for an
hour," continued Mr. Burton, "if there's nothing else to be done
immediately."
James politely insisted upon accompanying us.
"What the deuce did you bring another of those detectives up here for?"
he asked me, _sotto voce_, at the first opportunity. "We've had a
surfeit of them--they're regular bores! and this Burroughs or Burton,
or whatever his name is, is the most disagreeable of them all. A
conceited fellow--one of the kind I dislike, naturally."
"You mistake his character. He is intelligent and a gentleman."
"I wish you joy of his society," was the sneering reply.
Nevertheless, James favored us with his company during our morning's
tour. One sole fact the detective ascertained in the course of his two
hours' work. A fisherman had lost a small-boat during the storm of
Saturday night. He had left it, fastened to its accustomed moorings,
and, in the morning, found that the chain, which was old and rusty, had
parted one of its links, probably by the extreme violence with which
the wind had dashed the boat about. Mr. Burton had asked to see the
remnant of the chain. It was still attached to the post around which it
had been locked. An examination of the broken link showed that it was
partly rusted away; but there were also marks upon it, as if a knife or
chisel might have been used.
"I see my boy, Billy, a-tinkerin' with it," said the fisherman. "Like
as not he's been a-usin' of it to whittle on. That boy breaks more
knives'n his neck's wuth. He's goin' on nine, now, and he's had six
jack-knives in as many months."
Mr. Burton stood, holding the chain in his hand, and looking up and
down the river. His face glowed with a light which shone through from
some inward fire. I, who had begun to watch his varying expressions
with keen interest, saw that he was again becoming excited; but not in
the same way as on that first evening of our meeting, when he grew so
leonine.
He looked at the water and the sky, the fair shores and the dull dock,
as if these mute witnesses were telling to him a tale which he read
like a printed book. A few moments he stood thus in silence, his
countenance illuminated by that wonderful intelligence. Then, saying
that his researches were through with in this part of the village, we
returned, almost in silence, to the office; for when this man was
pondering the enigmas whose solution he was so certain to announce,
sooner or later, he grew absorbed and taciturn.
Mr. Argyll made us go home with him to dinner. I knew that I should not
see Eleanor; yet, even to be under the same roof with her, made me
tremble. Mary, who was constantly in attendance upon her sister, would
not appear at the table. She came down, for a moment, to greet me, and
to thank me for my poor efforts. The dear child had changed some, like
the rest of us. She could not look like any thing but the rosebud which
she was--a fresh and pure young creature of sixteen summers--a rosebud
drenched in dew--a little pale, with a quiver in her smile, and bright
tears beading her eye-lashes, ready, at any moment, to drop. It was
touching to see one naturally so joyous, subdued by the shadow which
had fallen over the house. Neither of us could say much; our lips
trembled when we spoke _her_ name; so, after a moment's holding my
hand, while the tears began to flow fast, Mary unclasped my fingers,
and went up stairs. I saw Mr. Burton hide those blue-gray eyes of his
in his handkerchief; my respect for him deepened as I felt that those
eyes, sharp and penetrating as they were, were not too cold to warm
with a sudden mist at the vision he had beheld.
"Ah!" murmured I to myself, "if he could see Eleanor!"
When dinner was over, Mr. Argyll went up to see his children, giving me
permission to show the house and grounds to the detective. James went
on the portico to smoke a cigar. Mr. Burton sat a short time in the
library, taking an impression of it on his mind, examined the lock of
the desk, and noticed the arrangement of the one window, which was a
large bay-window opening to the floor and projecting over the
flower-garden which lay behind the house and bordered the lawn to the
right. It was about three feet to the ground, and although quite
accessible, as a mode of entrance, to any one compelled to that
resource, the window was not ordinarily used as a mode of ingress or
egress. I had sometimes chased Mary, when she was not so old as now,
and sent her flying through the open casement into the mignonette and
violets beneath, and I after; but since we had both grown more sedate,
such pranks were rare.
We then went out upon the lawn. I took my companion to the tree beneath
which I had stood, when that dark figure had approached, and passed me,
to crouch beneath the window from which the death-candles shone. From
this spot, the bay-window was not visible, that being at the back of
the house and this on the side. Mr. Burton looked carefully about him,
walking all over the lawn, going up under the parlor windows, and
thence pursuing his way into the garden and around to the bay-window.
It was quite natural to search closely in this precinct for some mark
or footsteps, some crushed flowers, or broken branches, or scratches
upon the wall, left by the thief, if he or she had made his or her
entrance at this spot. Going over the ground thus, inch by inch, I
observed a bit of white lawn, soiled and weather-beaten, lying under a
rose-bush a few feet from the window. I picked it up. It was a woman's
handkerchief, of fine lawn, embroidered along the edge with a delicate
running vine, and a spray of flowers at the corner.
"One of the young ladies has dropped it, some time ago," I said, "or it
has blown across from the kitchen grass-plot, where the linen is put
out to dry."
Then I examined the discolored article more closely, and, involved in
the graceful twinings of the spray of flowers, I saw worked the
initials--"L. S."
"Leesy Sullivan," said my companion, taking it from my hand.
"It seems too dainty an article for her ownership," I said, at last,
for, at first, I had been quite stupefied.
"A woman's vanity will compass many things beyond her means. This thing
she has embroidered with her own needle--you remember, she is a
proficient in the art."
"Yes, I remember. She may have lost it Sunday night, during that visit
which I observed; and the wind has blown it over into this spot."
"You forget that there has been no rain since that night. This
handkerchief has been beaten into the grass and earth by a violent
rain. A thorn upon this bush has pulled it from her pocket as she
passed, and the rain has set its mark upon it, to be used as a
testimony against her."
"The evidence seems to conflict. She can not be a man and woman both."
"Why not?" was the quiet reply. "There may be a principal and an
accomplice. A woman is a safer accomplice for a man than one of his own
sex--and _vice versa_."
The face which I had seen, in its despair, the face of Leesy Sullivan,
rose in my memory, full of passion, marked in every soft yet impressive
lineament with slumbering power--"such a nature," I thought, "can be
maddened into crime, but it will not consort with villainy."
Mr. Burton put the handkerchief in the inside pocket of his coat, and
we returned into the house. He inquired the names of the servants, none
of whose initials corresponded with those we had found, nor could I
recall any lady visitors of the family to whom the handkerchief might
belong by virtue of its inscription. There was not the shadow of a
doubt but that it had been the property of the sewing-girl. Some
errand, secret and unlawful, had brought her to these grounds, and
under this window. We now considered it proper to show the handkerchief
to Mr. Argyll, and relate to him our grounds of suspicion against the
girl. Mary and James were admitted to the council. The former said that
she remembered Miss Sullivan; that she had been employed in the family,
for a few days at a time, on several different occasions, but none of
them recent. "We liked her sewing very much, and wanted to engage her
for the next six weeks," she added, with a sigh, "but on inquiring for
her, learned that she was now employed in New York."
"She must, then, have been perfectly familiar with the arrangement of
the house, and with the habits of the family; as for instance, at what
hour you dined. She might enter while the family were at table, since,
had she been surprised by the entrance of a servant, or other person,
she could affect to have called on an errand, and to be waiting for the
young ladies," remarked Mr. Burton.
The servants were then summoned, one at a time, and questioned as to
whether they had observed any suspicious persons whatever about the
house or grounds within a week. They were, of course, in a national
state of high excitement, and immediately upon a question being put to
them, answered every other imaginary case in the world but that,
blessed themselves, called on the Virgin Mary, gave an account of all
the beggars as called at the kitchen last year and the year afore,
cried abundantly, and gave no coherent information.
"Ah, sure!" said Norah, the cook, "there was the blackin'-and-bluin'
man come around last Wednesday, and I tuk a bottle of the blue for the
clothes. It's a poor mimiry I have, sure, since I came across the say.
Afore that I could recollect beyond any thing, and the praste used to
praise my rading. I think it was the tossin' an' rollin' ov the ship
upsot my brain. It was Saturday, it wur, and oh, Lordy, it is setting
me all of a trimble a-thinkin' of that day, and I see a little yeller
dog a-stickin' his nose into the kitching door, which was open about
half, and says I, there's vagabonds around sure, now, I knew by the
dog, and I wint and looked out, and sure as me name's Norah, there was
an old lame man wid a stick a-pretinding to look for rags an' bones in
the alley to the stable, which I niver allows such about, as it's
against the master's orthers, and I druv him off immajetly--and that, I
think, was Saturday two weeks now, but I won't be sure; and I don't
mind nobody else but the chany-woman, wid her basket, which I don't
think it could have been her as done any thin' bad, for she's been
round rig'ler, for a good while, and is a dacent-spoken body that I've
had some dalin's wid myself. I sowld her my old plaid gown for the
match-box of ebony that sits on the kitching-mantel now, and oh dear!
but my heart's dead broke, sure! Margaret and I daren't set in the
kitching of nights no more, unless Jim's there, an' I've woke up
scr'aming two nights now--och hone! and if I'd seed any thing, I'd a
told it long afore, which I wish I had, seein' you've axed me, sir. It
don't do no good a-cooking delicacies which nobody eats no longer--I
wish I had never come to Amyriky, to see poor Miss Eleanor so tuk
down!" and having relieved herself of the sympathy which she had been
aching to express, without the opportunity, she threw her apron over
her head, and sobbed after the manner of her people.
Margaret's testimony was no more to the point than Norah's. Mr. Burton
let each one go on after her own heart, putting up with the tedious
circumlocution, in the hope of some kernel of wheat in the bushel of
chaff.
After a deluge of tears and interjections, Maggie did finally come out
with a statement which arrested the attention of her listeners.
"I've never seen none gawking about as didn't belong here--not a living
sowl. The howly Virgin prevint that iver I should see what Jim did--it
wasn't a human being at all, but a wraith, and he seen it that very
night. He niver told us of it, till the Tuesday night, as we sot
talking about the funeral, and it frightened us so, we niver slept a
wink till morning. Poor Jim's worried with it, too; he pretinds he
isn't afraid of the livin' nor dead, but it's no shame to the best to
stand in awe of the sperits, and I see he's backward about going about
the place, alone, after dark, and no wonder! Sure, he saw a ghost!"
"What was it like?"
"Sure, you'd best call him, and let him describe it for hisself--it'll
make your blood run cold to think of sich things in a Christian family."
Jim was summoned. His story, weeded out, was this: On Saturday evening,
after tea, his mistress, Miss Eleanor, had asked him to go to the
post-office for the evening mail. It was very dark and rainy. He
lighted the lantern. As he went out the back gate, he stopped a minute
and lifted his lantern to take a look about the premises, to see if
there was any thing left out which ought to be taken in from the storm.
As he waved the light about, he saw something in the flower-garden,
about six feet from the bay-window. It had the appearance of a woman;
its face was white, its hair hung down on its shoulders; it stood quite
still in the rain, just as if the water was not coming down by
bucketfuls. It had very large, bright eyes, which shone when the candle
threw the light on them, as if they had been made of fire. He was so
frightened that he let his lantern fall, which did not happen to
extinguish the candle, but when he lifted it up again, the wraith had
vanished. He felt very queer about it, at the time; and next day, when
the bad news came, he knew it was a warning. They often had such in the
old country.
We did not undeceive Jim as to the character of the phantom. With the
assurance that it probably would not come again, since its mission had
been accomplished, and a caution not to make the girls in the kitchen
too nervous about it, we dismissed him.