THE HAUNTED GRAVE.
When I returned to my boarding-house that same evening, I found a
telegram awaiting me from Mr. Burton, asking me to come down to the
city in the morning. I went down by the earliest train, and, soon
after, ringing the bell at the door of his private residence in
Twenty-third street, a servant ushered me into the library, where I
found the master of the house so absorbed in thought, as he sat before
the grate with his eyes bent upon the glowing coals, that he did not
observe my entrance until I spoke his name. Springing to his feet, he
shook me heartily by the hand; we had already become warm personal
friends.
"You are early," he said, "but so much the better. We will have the
more time for business."
"Have you heard any thing?" was my first question.
"Well, no. Don't hope that I have called you here to satisfy you with
any positive discoveries. The work goes on slowly. I was never so
baffled but once before; and then, as now, there was a woman in the
case. A cunning woman will elude the very Prince of Lies, himself, to
say nothing of honest men like us. She has been after the child."
"She has?"
"Yes. And has taken it away with her. And now I know no more of her
whereabouts than I did before. There! You must certainly feel like
trusting your case to some sharper person to work up"--he looked
mortified as he said it.
Before I go further I must explain to my reader just how far the
investigation into the acts and hiding-place of Leesy Sullivan had
proceeded. Of course we had called upon her aunt in Blankville, and
approached the question of the child with all due caution. She had
answered us frankly enough, at first--that Leesy had a cousin who lived
in New York, whom she was much attached to, and who was dead, poor
thing! But the moment we intruded the infant into the conversation, she
flew into a rage, asked if "we'd come there to insult a respectable
widdy, as wasn't responsible for what others did?" and wouldn't be
coaxed or threatened into any further speech on the subject, fairly
driving us out of the room and (I regret to add) down the stairs with
the broomstick. As we could not summon her into court and compel her to
answer, at that time, we were compelled to "let her alone." One thing,
however, became apparent at the interview--that there was shame or
blame, or at least a family quarrel, connected with the child.
After that, in New York, Mr. Burton ascertained that there had been a
cousin, who had died, but whether she had been married, and left a
babe, or not, was still a matter of some doubt.
He had spent over a week searching for Leesy Sullivan, in the vicinity
of Blankville, at every intermediate station between that and New York,
and throughout the city itself, assisted by scores of detectives, who
all of them had her photograph, taken from a likeness which Mr. Burton
had found in her deserted room at her boarding-place. This picture must
have been taken more than a year previous, as it looked younger and
happier; the face was soft and round, the eyes melting with warmth and
light, and the rich, dark hair dressed with evident care. Still, Leesy
bore resemblance enough to her former self, to make her photograph an
efficient aid. Yet not one trace of her had been chanced upon since I,
myself, had seen her fly away at the mention of the word which I had
purposely uttered, and disappear over the wooded hill. We had nearly
made up our minds that she had committed suicide; we had searched the
shore for miles in the vicinity of Moreland villa, and had fired guns
over the water; but if she had hidden herself in those cold depths, she
had done it most effectually.
The gardener's wife, at the villa, had kept vigilant watch, as I had
requested, but she had never any thing to report--the sewing-girl came
no more to haunt the piazza or the summer-house. Finally, Mr. Burton
had given over active measures, relying simply upon the presence of the
child in New York, to bring back the protectress into his nets, if
indeed she was still upon earth. He said rightly, that if she were
concealed and had any knowledge of the efforts made to discover her,
the surest means of hastening her reäppearance would be to apparently
relinquish all pursuit. He had a person hired to watch the premises of
the nurse constantly; a person who took a room next to hers in the
tenement-house where she resided, apparently employed in knitting
children's fancy woolen garments, but really for the purpose of giving
immediate notification should the guardian of the infant appear upon
the scene. In the mean time he was kept informed of the sentiments of
the nurse, who had avowed her intention of throwing the babe upon the
authorities, if its board was not paid at the end of the month. "Hard
enough," she avowed it was, "to get the praties for the mouths of her
own chilther; and the little girl was growing large now. The milk
wouldn't do at all, at all, but she must have her praties and her bit
bread wid the rest."
In answer to these complaints, the wool-knitter had professed such an
interest in the innocent little thing, that, sooner than allow it to go
to the alms-house, or to the orphan-asylum, or any other such place,
she would take it to her own room, and share her portion with it, when
the nurse's month was up, until it was certain that the aunt was not
coming to see after it, she said.
With this understanding between them, the two women got along finely
together; little Nora, just toddling about, was a pretty child, and her
aunt had not spared stitches in making up her clothes, which were of
good material, and ornamented with lavish tucks and embroidery. She was
often, for half a day at a time, in the room with the new tenant, when
her nurse was out upon errands, or at work; and the former sometimes
took her out in her arms for a breath of air upon the better streets.
Mr. Burton had seen little Nora several times; he thought she resembled
Miss Sullivan, though not strikingly. She had the same eyes, dark and
bright.
Two days before Mr. Burton telegraphed for me to come down to New York,
Mrs. Barber, the knitting detective, was playing with the child in her
own room. It was growing toward night, and the nurse was out getting
her Saturday afternoon supplies at Washington Market; she did not
expect her back for at least an hour. Little Nora was in fine spirits,
being delighted with a blue-and-white hood which her friend had
manufactured for her curly head. As they frolicked together, the door
opened, a young woman came in, caught the child to her breast, kissed
it, and cried. "An-nee--an-nee," lisped the baby--and Mrs. Barber,
slipping out, with the excuse that she would go for the nurse, who was
at a neighbor's, jumped into a car, and rode up to Twenty-third street.
In half an hour Mr. Burton was at the tenement-house; the nurse had not
yet returned from market, and the bird had flown, carrying the baby
with her. He was sufficiently annoyed at this _dénoûement_. In the
arrangements made, the fact of the nurse being away had not been
contemplated; there was no one to keep on the track of the fugitive
while the officer was notified. One of the children said that the lady
had left some money for mother; there was, lying on the table, a sum
which more than covered the arrears due, and a note of thanks. But the
baby, with its little cloak and its new blue hood, had vanished. Word
was dispatched to the various offices, and the night spent in looking
for the two; but there is no place like a great city for eluding
pursuit; and up to the hour of my arrival at Mr. Burton's he had
learned nothing.
All this had fretted the detective; I could see it, although he did not
say as much. He who had brought hundreds of accomplished rogues to
justice did not like to be foiled by a woman. Talking on the subject
with me, as we sat before the fire in his library, with closed doors,
he said the most terrible antagonist he had yet encountered had been a
woman--that her will was a match for his own, yet he had broken with
ease the spirits of the boldest men.
"However," he added, "Miss Sullivan is not a woman of that stamp. If
_she_ has committed a crime, she has done it in a moment of passion,
and remorse will kill her, though the vengeance of the law should never
overtake her. But she is subtle and elusive. It is not reason that
makes her cunning, but feeling. With man it would be reason; and as I
could follow the course of his argument, whichever path it took, I
should soon overtake it. But a woman, working from a passion, either of
hate or love, will sometimes come to such novel conclusions as to defy
the sharpest guesses of the intellect. I should like, above all things,
a quiet conversation with that girl. And I will have it, some day."
The determination with which he avowed himself, showed that he had no
idea of giving up the case. A few other of his observations I will
repeat:
He said that the blow which killed Henry Moreland was given by a
professional murderer, a man, without conscience or remorse, probably a
hireling. A woman may have tempted, persuaded, or paid him to do the
deed; if so, the guilt rested upon her in its awful weight; but no
woman's hand, quivering with passion, had driven that steady and
relentless blow. It was not given by the hand of jealousy--it was too
coldly calculated, too firmly executed--no passion, no thrill of
feeling about it.
"Then you think," said I, "that Leesy Sullivan robbed the family whose
happiness she was about to destroy, to pay some villain to commit the
murder?"
"It looks like it," he answered, his eye dropping evasively.
I felt that I was not fully in the detective's confidence; there was
something working powerfully in his mind, to which he gave me no clue;
but I had so much faith in him that I was not offended by his
reticence. Anxious as I was, eager, curious--if it suits to call such a
devouring fire of longing as I felt, curiosity--he must have known that
I perceived his reservations; if so, he had his own way of conducting
matters, from which he could not diverge for my passing benefit. Twelve
o'clock came, as we sat talking before the fire, which gave a genial
air to the room, though almost unnecessary, the "squaw winter" of the
previous morning being followed by another balmy and sunlit day. Mr.
Burton rung for lunch to be brought in where we were; and while we
sipped the strong coffee, and helped ourselves to the contents of the
tray, the servant being dismissed, my host made a proposition which had
evidently been on his mind all the morning.
I was already so familiar with his personal surroundings, as to know
that he was a widower, with two children; the eldest, a boy of fifteen,
away at school; the second, a girl of eleven, of delicate health, and
educated at home, so far as she studied at all, by a day-governess. I
had never seen this daughter--Lenore, he called her--but I could guess,
without particular shrewdness, that his heart was wrapped up in her. He
could not mention her name without a glow coming into his face; her
frail health appeared to be the anxiety of his life. I could hear her,
now, taking a singing-lesson in a distant apartment, and as her pure
voice rose clear and high, mounting and mounting with airy steps the
difficult scale, I listened delightedly, making a picture in my mind of
the graceful little creature such a voice should belong to.
Her father was listening, too, with a smile in his eye, half forgetful
of his coffee. Presently he said, in a low voice, speaking at first
with some reluctance,
"I sent for you to-day, more particularly to make you the confidential
witness of an experiment than any thing else. You hear my Lenore
singing now--has she not a sweet voice? I have told you how delicate
her health is. I discovered, by chance, some two or three years since,
that she had peculiar attributes. She is an excellent clairvoyant. When
I first discovered it, I made use of her rare faculty to assist me in
my more important labors; but I soon discovered that it told fearfully
upon her health. It seemed to drain the slender stream of vitality
nearly dry. Our physician told me that I must desist, entirely, all
experiments of the kind with her. He was peremptory about it, but he
had only need to caution me. I would sooner drop a year out of my
shortening future than to take one grain from that increasing strength
which I watch from day to day with deep solicitude. She is my only
girl, Mr. Redfield, and the image of her departed mother. You must not
wonder if I am foolish about my Lenore. For eighteen months I have not
exercised my power over her to place her in the trance state, or
whatever it is, in which, with the clue in her hand, she will unwind
the path to more perplexed labyrinths than those of the fair one's
bower. And I tell you, solemnly, that if, by so doing, she could point
out pots of gold, or the secrets of diamond mines, I would not risk her
slightest welfare, by again exhausting her recruiting energies.
Nevertheless, so deeply am I interested in the tragedy to which you
have called my attention--so certain am I that I am on the eve of the
solution of the mystery--and such an act of justice and righteousness
do I deem it that it should be exposed in its naked truth before those
who have suffered from the crime--that I have resolved to place Lenore
once more in the clairvoyant state, for the purpose of ascertaining the
hiding-place of Leesy Sullivan, and I have sent for you to witness the
result."
This announcement took away the remnant of my appetite. Mr. Burton rung
to have the tray removed, and to bid the servant tell Miss Lenore, as
soon as she had lunched, to come to the library. We had but a few
minutes to wait. Presently we heard a light step; her father cried,
"Come in!" in answer to her knock, and a lovely child entered, greeting
me with a mingled air of grace and timidity--a vision of sweetness and
beauty more perfect than I could have anticipated. Her golden hair
waved about her slender throat, in glistening tendrils. Seldom do we
see such hair, except upon the heads of infants--soft, lustrous, fine,
floating at will, and curled at the end in little shining rings. Her
eyes were a celestial blue--celestial, not only because of the pure
heavenliness of their color, but because you could not look into them
without thinking of angels. Her complexion was the most exquisite
possible, fair, with a flush as of sunset-light on the cheeks--too
transparent for perfect health, showing the wandering of the delicate
veins in the temples. Her blue dress, with its fluttering sash, and the
little jacket of white cashmere which shielded her neck and arms, were
all dainty, and in keeping with the wearer. She did not have the serene
air of a seraph, though she looked like one; nor the listless manner of
an invalid. She gave her father a most winning, childish smile, looking
full of joy to think he was at home, and had sent for her. She was so
every way charming that I held out my arms to kiss her, and she, with
the instinct of children, who perceive who their real lovers are, gave
me a willing yet shy embrace. Mr. Burton looked pleased as he saw how
satisfactory was the impression made by his Lenore.
Placing her in a chair before him, he put a photograph of Miss Sullivan
in her hand.
"Father wants to put his little girl to sleep again," he said, gently.
An expression of unwillingness just crossed her face; but she smiled,
instantly, looking up at him with the faith of affection which would
have placed her life in his keeping, and said, "Yes, papa," in assent.
He made a few passes over her; when I saw their effect, I did not
wonder that he shrunk from the experiment--my surprise was rather that
he could be induced to make it, under any circumstances. The lovely
face became distorted as with pain; the little hands twitched--so did
the lips and eyelids. I turned away, not having fortitude to witness
any thing so jarring to my sensibilities. When I looked again, her
countenance had recovered its tranquillity; the eyes were fast closed,
but she appeared to ponder upon the picture which she held.
"Do you see the person now?"
"Yes, papa."
"In what kind of a place is she?"
"She is in a small room; it has two windows. There is no carpet on the
floor. There is a bed and a table, a stove and some chairs. It is in
the upper story of a large brick house, I do not know in what place."
"What is she doing?"
"She is sitting near the back window; it looks out on the roofs of
other houses; she is holding a pretty little child on her lap."
"She must be in the city," remarked Mr. Burton, aside; "the large house
and the congregated roofs would imply it. Can you not tell me the name
of the street?"
"No, I can not see it. I was never in this place before. I can see
water, as I look out of the window. It appears like the bay; and I see
plenty of ships, but there is some green land across the water, besides
distant houses."
"It must be somewhere in the suburbs, or in Brooklyn. Are there no
signs on the shops, which you can read, as you look out?"
"No, papa."
"Well, go down the stairs, and out upon the street, and tell me the
number of the house."
"It is No. --," she said, after a few moments' silence.
"Go along until you come to a corner, and read me the name of the
street."
"Court street," she answered, presently.
"It is in Brooklyn," exclaimed the detective, triumphantly. "There is
nothing now to prevent us going straight to the spot. Lenore, go back
now, to the house; tell us on which floor is this room, and how
situated."
Again there was silence while she retraced her steps.
"It is on the fourth floor, the first door to the left, as you reach
the landing."
Lenore began to look weary and exhausted; the sweat broke out on her
brow, and she panted as if fatigued with climbing flights of stairs.
Her father, with a regretful air, wiped her forehead, kissing it
tenderly as he did so. A few more of those cabalistic touches, followed
by the same painful contortions of those beautiful features, and Lenore
was herself again. But she was pale and languid; she drooped against
her father's breast, as he held her in his arms, the color faded from
her cheeks, too listless to smile in answer to his caresses. Placing
her on the sofa, he took from a nook in his secretary a bottle of old
port, poured out a tiny glassful, and gave to her. The wine revived her
almost instantly; the smiles and bloom came back, though she still
seemed exceedingly weary.
"She will be like a person exhausted by a long journey, or great labor,
for several days," said Mr. Burton, as I watched the child. "It cost me
a pang to make such a demand upon her; I hope it will be the last
time--at least until she is older and stronger than now."
"I should think the application of electricity would restore some of
the vitality which has been taken from her," I suggested.
"I shall try it this evening," was his reply; "in the mean time, if we
intend to benefit by the sacrifice of my little Lenore, let us lose no
time. Something may occur to send the fugitive flying again. And now,
my dear little girl, you must lie down a while this afternoon, and be
careful of yourself. You shall dine with us to-night, if you are not
too tired, and we shall bring you some flowers--a bouquet from old
John's conservatory, sure."
Committing his darling to the housekeeper's charge, with many
instructions and warnings, and a lingering look which betrayed his
anxiety, Mr. Burton was soon ready, and we departed, taking a stage for
Fulton Ferry a little after one o'clock.
About an hour and a quarter brought us to the brick house on Court
street, far out toward the suburbs, which had the number indicated upon
it. No one questioned our coming, it being a tenement-house, and we
ascended a long succession of stairs, until we came to the fourth
floor, and stood before the door on the left-hand side. I trembled a
little with excitement. My companion, laying his hand firmly on the
knob, was arrested by finding the door locked. At this he knocked; but
there was no answer to his summons. Amid the assortment of keys which
he carried with him, he found one to fit the lock; in a moment the door
stood open, and we entered to meet--blank solitude!
The room had evidently been deserted but a short time, and by some one
expecting to return. There was a fire covered down in the stove, and
three or four potatoes in the oven to be baked for the humble supper.
There was no trunk, no chest, no clothing in the room, only the scant
furniture which Lenore had described, a few dishes in the cupboard, and
some cooking utensils, which had been rented, probably, with the room.
On the table were two things confirmatory of the occupants--a bowl,
containing the remains of a child's dinner of bread-and-milk, and a
piece of embroidery--a half-finished collar.
At Mr. Burton's request I went down to the shop on the first floor, and
inquired in what direction the young woman with the child had gone, and
how long she had been out.
"She went, maybe, half an hour ago; she took the little girl out for a
walk, I think. She told me she'd be back before supper, when she
stopped to pay for a bit of coal, and to have it carried up."
I returned with this information.
"I'm sorry, now, that we inquired," said the detective; "that fellow
will be sure to see her first, and tell her that she has had callers;
that will frighten her at once. I must go below, and keep my watch from
there."
"If you do not care for a second person to watch with you, I believe I
will go on to Greenwood. We are so near it, now, and I would like to
visit poor Henry's grave."
"I do not need you at all now; only, do not be absent too long. When I
meet this Leesy Sullivan, whom I have not yet seen, you remember, I
want a long talk with her. The last object I have is to frighten her; I
shall seek to soothe her instead. If I can once meet her face to face,
and voice to voice, I believe I can tame the antelope, or the lioness,
whichever she turns out to be. I do not think I shall have to coerce
her--not even if she is guilty. If she is guilty she will give herself
up. I may even take her home to dinner with us," he added, with a
smile. "Don't shudder, Mr. Redfield; we often dine in company with
murderers--sometimes when we have only our friends and neighbors with
us. I assure you I have often had that honor!"
His grim humor was melancholy to me--but who could wonder that a man of
Mr. Burton's peculiar experience should be touched with cynicism?
Besides, I felt that there was more in the inner meaning of his words
than appeared upon their outer surface. I left him, sitting in a
sheltered corner of the shop below, in a position where he could
command the street and the entrance-hall without being himself
observed, and making himself friendly with the busy little man behind
the counter, of whom he had already purchased a pint of chestnuts. It
would be as well that I should be out of the way. Miss Sullivan knew
me, and might take alarm at some distant glimpse of me, while Mr.
Burton's person must be unknown to her, unless she had been the better
detective of the two, and marked him when he was ignorant of her
vicinity.
Stepping into a passing car, in a few minutes I had gone from the city
of the living to the city of the dead. Beautiful and silent city! There
the costly and gleaming portals, raised at the entrance of those
mansions, tell us the name and age of the inhabitants, but the
inhabitants themselves we never behold. Knock as loud and long as we
may at those marble doors, cry, entreat, implore, they hold themselves
invisible. Nevermore are they "at home" to us. We, who once were never
kept waiting, must go from the threshold now, without a word of
welcome. City of the dead--to which that city of the living must soon
remove--who is there that can walk thy silent streets without a
prescience of the time when he, too, will take up his abode in thee for
ever? Strange city of solitude! where thousands whose homes are ranged
side by side, know not one the other, and give no greeting to the pale
new-comers.
With meditations like these, only far too solemn for words, I wandered
through the lovely place, where, still, summer seemed to linger, as if
loth to quit the graves she beautified. With Eleanor and Henry in my
heart, I turned in the direction of the family burial-plot, wishing
that Eleanor were with me on that glorious day, that she might first
behold his grave under such gentle auspices of light, foliage and
flowers--for I knew that she contemplated a pilgrimage to this spot, as
soon as her strength would warrant the attempt.
I approached the spot by a winding path; the soft plash of a fountain
sounded through a little thicket of evergreens, and I saw the gleam of
the wide basin into which it fell; a solitary bird poured forth a
mournful flood of lamentation from some high branch not far away. It
required but little aid of fancy to hear in that "melodious madness"
the cry of some broken heart, haunting, in the form of this bird, the
place of the loved one's sleep.
There were other wanderers than myself in the cemetery; a funeral train
was coming through the gate as I passed in, and I met another within a
few steps; but in the secluded path where I now walked I was alone.
With the slow steps of one who meditates sad things, I approached
Henry's grave. Gliding away by another devious path, I saw a female
figure.
"It is some other mourner, whom I have disturbed from her vigil by some
of these tombs," I thought--"or, perchance, one who was passing further
on before reaching the goal of her grief,"--and with this I dismissed
her from my mind, having had, at the best, only an indistinct glimpse
of the woman, and the momentary flutter of her garments as she passed
beyond a group of tall shrubs and was lost to view.
The next moment I knelt by the sod which covered that young and noble
form. Do not think me extravagant in my emotions. I was not so--only
overpowered, always, by intense sympathy with the sufferers by that
calamity. I had so mused upon Eleanor's sorrow that I had, as it were,
made it mine. I bowed my head, breathing a prayer for her, then leaning
against the trunk of a tree whose leaves no longer afforded shade to
the carefully-cultivated family inclosure, my eyes fell upon the grave.
There were beautiful flowers fading upon it, which some friendly hand
had laid there within a week or two. Ten or fifteen minutes I may have
passed in reverie; then, as I arose to depart, I took up a fading bud
or two and a sprig of myrtle, placing them in my vest-pocket to give
Eleanor on my return. As I stooped to gather them, I perceived the
imprint of a child's foot, here and there, all about the grave--a tiny
imprint, in the fresh mold, as of some toddling babe whose little feet
had hardly learned to steady themselves.
There were one or two marks of a woman's slender shoe; but it was the
infant feet which impressed me. It flashed upon me what female figure
it was which I had seen flitting away as I approached; now that I
recalled it, I even recognized the tall, slender form, with the slight
stoop of the shoulders, of which I had obtained but a half-glance. I
hastily pursued the path she had taken; but my haste was behind hers by
at least a quarter of an hour.
I realized that I would only lose time by looking for her in those
winding avenues, every one of which might be taking me from instead of
toward the fugitives; so I turned back to the gate and questioned the
keeper if he had seen a tall young woman with a little child pass out
in the last half-hour. He had seen several children and women go out in
that time; and as I could not tell how this particular one was dressed,
I could not arouse his recollection to any certainty on the point.
"She was probably carrying the child," I said; "she had a consumptive
look, and was sad-looking, though her face was doubtless hidden in her
vail."
"It's quite likely," he responded; "mostly the women that do come here
look sad, and many of them keep their vails down. However, it's my
impression there hasn't no child of that age been past here, lately. I
noticed one going in about two o'clock, and if it's _that_ one, she
hasn't come out yet."
So while Mr. Burton sat in the shop in Court street keeping watch, I
sat at the gates of Greenwood; but no Leesy Sullivan came forth; and
when the gates were closed for the night, I was obliged to go away
disappointed.
The girl began to grow some elusive phantom in my mind. I could almost
doubt that there was any such creature, with black, wild eyes and
hectic cheeks, whom I was pursuing; whom I chanced upon in strange
places, at unexpected times, but could never find when I sought
her--who seemed to blend herself in this unwarrantable way with the
tragedy which wrung some other hearts. What had she to do with Henry's
grave? A feeling of dislike, of mortal aversion, grew upon me--I could
not pity her any more--this dark spirit who, having perchance wrought
this irremediable woe, could not now sink into the depths where she
belonged, but must haunt and hover on the edges of my trouble, fretting
me to follow her, only to mock and elude.
Before leaving the cemetery I offered two policemen a hundred dollars
if they should succeed in detaining the woman and child whose
description I gave them, until word could be sent to the office of the
detective-police; and I left them, with another on guard at the gates,
perambulating the grounds, peering into vaults and ghostly places in
search of her. When I got out at the house on Court street, I found my
friend quite tired of eating chestnuts and talking to the little man
behind the counter.
"Well," said he, "the potatoes will be roasted to death before their
owner returns. We have been led another wild-goose chase."
"I have seen her," I answered.
"What?"
"And lost her. I believe she is a little snaky, she has such a slippery
way with her."
"Tut! tut! so has a frightened deer! But how did it happen?"
I told him, and he was quite downcast at the unlucky fortune which had
sent me to the cemetery at that particular time. It was evident that
she had seen me, and was afraid to return to this new retreat, for fear
she was again tracked.
"However," said he, "I'm confident we'll have her now before long. I
_must_ go home to-night to see my Lenore; I promised her, and she will
make herself sick sitting up."
"Go; and let me remain here. I will stay until it is perfectly apparent
that she does not expect to return."
"It will spoil the dinner. But, now that we have sacrificed so much, a
few hours more of inconvenience--"
"Will be willingly endured. I will get some bread and cheese and a
glass of beer of your friend, the penny-grocer, and remain at my post."
"You need not stay later than twelve; which will bring you home about
two, at the slow rate of midnight travel. I shall sit up for you. _Au
revoir._"
I changed my mind about supping at the grocer's as the twilight
deepened into night. The dim light of the hall and staircase, part of
them in total darkness, enabled me to steal up to the deserted room
unperceived by any one of the other inmates of the great building.
Here I put fresh coal on the fire, and by the faint glow which soon
came from the open front of the stove, I found a chair, and placing it
so that it would be in the shadow upon the opening of the door, I
seated myself to await the return of the occupants. The odor of
roasting potatoes, given forth at the increased heat, admonished me
that I had partaken of but a light lunch since an early and hasty
breakfast; drawing forth one from the oven, I made a frugal meal upon
it, and then ordered my soul to patience. I sat long in the twilight of
the room; I could hear the bells of the city chiming the passing hours;
the grocer and variety-storekeepers closing the shutters of their
shops; the shuffling feet of men coming home, to such homes as they had
in the dreary building, until nearly all the noises of the street and
house died away.
Gazing on the fire, I wondered where that strange woman was keeping
that little child through those unwholesome hours. Did she carry it in
her arms while she hovered, like a ghost, amid the awful quiet of
drooping willows and gleaming tombstones? Did she rock it to sleep on
her breast, in the fearful shadow of some vault, with a row of coffins
for company? Or was she again fleeing over deserted fields, crouching
in lonely places, fatigued, distressed, panting under the weight of the
innocent babe who slumbered on a guilty bosom, but driven still, on,
on, by the lash of a dreadful secret? I made wild pictures in the
sinking embers, as I mused; were I an artist I would reproduce them in
all their lurid light and somber shadow; but I am not. The close air of
the place, increased in drowsiness by the gas from the open doors of
the stove, the deep silence, and my own fatigue, after the varying
journeys and excitements of the day, at last overcame me; I remember
hearing the town clock strike eleven, and after that I must have
slumbered.
As I slept, I continued my waking dreams; I thought myself still gazing
in the smoldering fire; that the sewing-girl came in without noise, sat
down before it, and silently wept over the child who lay in her arms;
that Lenore came out of the golden embers, with wings tipped with
ineffable brightness, looking like an angel, and seemed to comfort the
mourner, and finally took her by the hand, and passing me, so that I
felt the motion of the air swept by her wings and garments, led her out
through the door, which closed with a slight noise.
At the noise made by the closing door, I awoke. As I gathered my
confused senses about me, I was not long in coming to the conclusion
that I had, indeed, heard a sound and felt the air from an open
door--some one had been in the room. I looked at my watch by a match
which I struck, for the fire had now entirely expired. It was one
o'clock. Vexed beyond words that I had slumbered, I rushed out into the
empty passages, where, standing silent, I listened for any footstep.
There was not the echo of a sound abroad. The halls were wrapped in
darkness. Quietly and swiftly I felt my way down to the street; not a
soul to be seen in any direction. Yet I felt positive that Leesy
Sullivan, creeping from her shelter, had returned to her room at that
midnight hour, had found me there, _sleeping_, and had fled.
Soon a car, which now ran only at intervals of half an hour, came
along, and I gave up my watch for the night, mortified at the result.
It was three o'clock when I reached Mr. Burton's door. He opened it
before I could ring the bell.
"No success? I was afraid of it. You see I have kept up for you; and
now, since the night is so far spent, if you are not too worn-out, I
wish you would come with me to a house not very far from here. I want
to show you how some of the fast young men of New York spend the hours
in which they ought to be in bed."
"I am wide awake, and full of curiosity; but how did you find your
little daughter?"
"Drooping a little, but persisting that she was not ill nor tired, and
delighted with the flowers."
"Then you did not forget the bouquet?"
"No, I never like to disappoint Lenore."
Locking the door behind us, we again descended to the deserted street.