THE NIGHT IN MORELAND VILLA.
Mr. Burton's arrival prevented my fulfilling the intention of sleeping
at Moreland villa that night; I immediately resolved to defer my
explorations until he could keep me company. The next day he came to my
room, and we had, as usual when we met, a long talk over things past,
present and to come. I did not introduce the subject of the mystery at
the villa until we had discussed many other matters. My companion was
preoccupied with important business of his own--the same which had
taken him to Boston; but his interest was pledged, almost as earnestly
as mine, to unmask the criminal of the Blankville tragedy, and any
reference to that sad subject was sure to secure his attention. Baffled
we acknowledged ourselves, as we talked together that morning, but not
discouraged. Mr. Burton told me that he was on the track of two
five-hundred-dollar bills of the Park Bank, which had left the city the
week after the murder, taking widely-different flights; there had one
come back from St. Louis, whose course his agents were tracing. As for
the sewing-girl, she had the power of vanishing utterly, like a light
extinguished, leaving no trace behind, and her pursuers literally in
the dark. This comparison of the detective reminded me of the curious
light which had led me, like a Jack-o'-lantern, into a quagmire of
uncertainty; I was about to begin my account of it, when he gave me one
of those peculiar piercing looks of his, saying,
"You have not yet entered into the contemplated partnership?"
"No, Mr. Burton; and I hardly think now that I shall."
There was some bitterness in my tone; he evinced no surprise, asking,
simply,
"Why?"
"I think James has been chosen to fill the place."
"But, he has not been admitted to the bar."
"He is studying a little recently; probably in order to pass an
examination."
"The wind is changing," said Mr. Burton, speaking like the old
gentleman in Bleak House. "I see how the land lies. The goodly and
noble Argyll ship is driving on to the rocks. Mark my words, she will
go to pieces soon! you will see her ruins strewing the shore."
"I pray heaven to avert your prophecy. I hope not to live to see any
such sight."
"How can it be otherwise?" he exclaimed, rising and pacing to and fro
through my little room, like a caged elephant. "A spendthrift and a
gambler--a man like _that_--about to have the helm put in his hands!
But it's none of my business--none of my business; nor much yours,
either."
"It is mine!" I cried; "I can not help but make it mine, as if these
girls were my sisters, and Mr. Argyll my father. Yet, as you say--it
is, indeed, nothing to me. They will not allow it to be!"
I drooped my head on my arms; my own loss and disappointment were
receding into the background before the idea of their possible
discomfiture. I was startled by the detective bringing his clenched
hand down upon the table with a blow which shook it; he was standing,
looking not at me, but at the wall, as if he saw some one before him,
invisible to me.
"James Argyll is a singular man--a _singular_ man! A person ought to be
a panther in cunning and strength to cope with him. By George, if I
don't look out, he'll overreach me yet--with that will of his. I see
everybody about me succumbing. He's having the game all in his own
hands. By the way, Redfield, I was a little surprised to see Lenore so
fond of him."
"Why so, Mr. Burton? James is an attractive, elegant young man; he has
never had any lack of admirers. It would rather have been strange if
your daughter had _not_ fancied him. He has been very good to her."
"He has, indeed; I'm sure I ought to be greatly obliged to all of you.
Did I ever tell you that I place great confidence in Lenore's intuitive
perception of character? You know that I have a remarkable gift that
way myself. When I meet people, I seem to see their minds, and not
their bodies--I can't help it. Well, I've remarked the same thing in my
child. She is so young and inexperienced that she can not explain her
own impressions; she has her instantaneous partialities, and I have
noticed that she leans toward true natures like a flower toward the
light, and away from the false as if they were shadows. I hardly
expected she would be so intimate with young Argyll."
I remembered the curious effect his first address had made upon her;
but I did not repeat it to her father. I was sensitive about appearing
in any manner jealous of James; if he could win my friends from me,
even that little girl whom I had loved for her pure sweetness, let them
go! I was too proud to solicit them to reconsider their opinions.
"Do you know," continued my companion, "he is performing a marvel with
my little Lenore? He has gained a great ascendancy over her in these
few days. This morning, for a purpose which you will realize I
considered highly important, I endeavored, alone with her in my own
apartment, to place her in the clairvoyant state. For the first time, I
failed. Her mind is no longer a pellucid mirror, reflecting truths
without color or refraction. She is under the influence of a
counter-will, as strong as my own--and mine moves mountains," he added,
with a laugh.
"I shouldn't think you would like it."
"I don't; but she is going home to-morrow. I will tell you why I wished
to procure Lenore's aid again. I have succeeded in tracing Leesy
Sullivan to this village. She came here the day after we frightened her
from Brooklyn--that is, she got off the cars at a little station about
six miles from here, not daring to land at this depot, and, I have no
doubt, started on foot for Blankville, coming here in the night."
"That aunt of hers is in the work," I exclaimed. "We are justified in
taking any step to compel her to own up where she conceals that girl."
"I am convinced that her aunt knows nothing whatever about her. Has
Mrs. Scott kept a sharp lookout at the villa?"
"She has not seen her since that first day; and I believe it would be
difficult for her to set her foot on the place without being
discovered, for the woman has got it into her head that the place is
haunted, and she is on guard night and day."
"Haunted?"
Mr. Burton sat down and drew up his chair with an appearance of
interest, which led me to recount our experiences at the villa, and my
intention of completing my researches that night, in his company, if he
had no objection. He said, "Of course; it would give him pleasure; he
liked nothing better than an adventure of the kind."
In fact, the idea evidently pleased him immensely; his face brightened,
and after that, for the rest of the day, for the first time in our
brief acquaintance, I saw him a little flurried and expectant. One of
his mottoes was:
"Learn to labor, and to _wait_."
His was one of those minds which would have kept silence seven years,
rather than speak a moment too soon; he was seldom in a hurry, no
matter what was at stake; but the fancy for lying _perdu_ in a haunted
house, to "nab" a ghost, was a novelty in his detective experience,
which inwardly amused him.
He smiled to himself more than once during the intervening hours. As
soon as tea was over, we excused ourselves to the family, kissed
Lenore, and, saying that Mr. Burton would stay with me all night, we
took our departure. I left the conduct of the proceedings in his hands.
When we reached the cottage, we found Mrs. Scott disposed to regard the
non-fulfillment of my engagement on the previous night as proof that I
was frightened from the pursuit; she accepted my excuse, however, and
highly approved of my having a companion in the spiritual dangers which
I was about to encounter. She made us, moreover, some of her excellent
coffee, to aid us in keeping awake, and gave us her prayers for our
protection along with the keys of the house.
"Treat a ghost as you would any other burglar," said my companion, as
we approached the villa, in the darkness, by the back entrance. "Steal
a march on him if you can."
It was a wild night for an enterprise like ours. It reminded me of that
night upon which Henry Moreland was murdered. One of those sudden
changes in the weather, common to our climate, had been transpiring
through the day, and now the warm, wild wind which brings in the
"January thaw," was blowing about the place, making every loose board
creak, and rubbing the bare branches of the trees against each other
with a grating sound. Black clouds, with ragged edges, skurried along
the air, with the large stars looking down between, with wide, bright
eyes, as of fear. While we stood outside, the great drops began to
patter down; and presently it was raining violently, as it rained
_that_ night. As gently as if he were a robber making a felonious
entrance, Mr. Burton turned the key in the lock; we entered the thick
darkness of the house, closed the door, and stole noiselessly, I taking
the lead, along the stairs and corridors, until we came to Henry's
room. This we entered, and, finding chairs, sat down upon either side
the little table in absolute silence. But we might safely have knocked
over half the furniture without giving alarm to any inmate--had there
been an inmate of the room or villa--such a tremendous uproar was now
made by the elements. As the rain dashed fitfully against the windows,
and the wind shook the solitary building, I was nearly overpowered with
the memories which the place and the storm so vivified. I was in a fit
mood to become a convert to a nocturnal specter--in that hour of gloom
and tempest, under the roof of the murdered, the material world seemed
not so far removed from the awful and shadowy confines of the
spiritual, as it appeared in the common routine of daylight life. As my
heart thumped loudly with the agitation of feelings almost too powerful
for mortal endurance, I was glad to consider that my companion was
cool, calm and vigilant. He had no such memories of the wind and rain
to overwhelm him as I had; this roof was not the roof of his friend--he
did not know Eleanor.
It was rather impressive to the dullest imagination to be sitting there
at night, in that empty mansion, in the darkness, with the storm
beating around it, waiting for--we knew not what. To me, with my ardent
temperament, and under the peculiar circumstances, it was exciting in
the highest degree.
For a long time there was but one interruption to our silent watch. Mr.
Burton leaned over the table, whispering,
"Did you hear some one singing?"
"I heard nothing but the wind, and the creaking of a tree against the
side of the house, except the rain, that I would be sure of. Hark!"
I did think I heard a soft, angelic note of music swelling in the air
above me, but at that moment the tempest redoubled its clamor, beating
out all lesser sounds.
"Unless I am mistaken, there was a human voice," he continued, in the
same whisper.
"Or a heavenly one," I murmured.
I believe Mr. Burton said "nonsense!" but I am not certain. Again there
was a long interval of waiting; we both leaned over toward each other
at the same instant, as the sound of something shoved overhead
attracted our attentive ears.
"It is rats in the garret," said I. "Mrs. Scott says they are in the
house."
"I hardly think it was rats; but we will wait a while."
Mr. Burton had brought a lamp and matches, so that we could have a
light when we wished it; if we heard any thing more overhead, I knew he
would examine the attic. There was a lull in the rain; as we sat
expectant, the pushing sound was shortly followed by a light, regular
patter, as of soft footsteps, along the floor of the garret. I had
heard rats make precisely similar sounds traversing a ceiling; and
though my heart beat a little faster, I was still quite certain it was
these troublesome vermin.
The next thing which fixed our attention was a glimmer of light. I
think the most spectral visitant could hardly have affected me as did
that sudden ray of light, shooting through the key-hole and under the
bottom of the door. Silently it crept along over the carpet, moving as
if the object which threw it was carried in the hand of a person
walking. I do not know exactly what I did expect when it paused in
front of the door, except that the door would open, and I should
see--the mystery. An instant of suspense--then the flickering light
wavered and moved around to the opposite angle from that at which it
had first appeared--it was going through the corridor and down the
stairs.
"All right," breathed my companion, in a scarcely audible whisper.
"Wait!"
The hand which he laid on my own was cold with excitement. As the last
yellow gleam trembled and disappeared, the elements conspired in a
grand attack upon our citadel; we could hear nothing but the roar of
their artillery--the tramp of their battalions. We waited perhaps five
minutes.
"Now," and I arose, following Mr. Burton through the darkness, as he
silently opened the door, crossed the corridor, and, leaning over the
railing, looked down into the lower hall. We could see nothing, until,
as we descended the stairs, a faint effulgence from some distant room
penetrated the obscurity. With cautious steps we followed it up through
the hall and library, to the family-room, from which, it will be
recollected, Mrs. Scott assured me she had heard mysterious noises. The
door was open a little distance, but not sufficiently to give us a view
of the interior. As we paused on the threshold, we heard a sigh--a
deep, long-drawn, tremulous sigh. With a deft hand my companion pushed
the door ajar, so that we could step in, and we both silently entered.
This room, in summer, was the favorite sitting-room of Mrs. Moreland;
and here, upon the walls, she had the portraits, life-size, in oil, of
her little family. In front of us, as we stepped in, hung the likeness
of Henry Moreland. Before it stood a woman, one hand holding aloft a
lighted candle, in a small chamber-candlestick, the other pressed upon
her heart, as if to keep down those painful signs. Motionless, rapt,
absorbed she stood; we made no sound, and if we had, I do not think she
would have heard us; her back was toward us; the light was thrown full
on the picture upon which her gaze was bent.
The woman was Leesy Sullivan. I knew her at once, though her face was
turned from us. Here, at last, we had found the fugitive we sought,
haunting the home of the man of whose murder my thoughts accused her,
standing before his portrait, in the dead of night, unwitting who were
the witnesses of her secret, as she betrayed it now. How she had
obtained access to the villa, or how long she had been its inmate, I
left to future inquiry to develop--the present scene was all-engrossing.
A long--long--long time she stood there; we did not interrupt her; it
was probably the expectation that she would utter some soliloquy which
would be of importance to us, as revealing what was on her mind, which
kept my companion quiet. She said nothing, however; only drawing those
deep sighs; until, at the last, she set the light on the little table
beneath the picture, and, lifting up both hands with a passionate
gesture toward it, sobbed one word--"Henry!"
Then, slowly, as if her eyes refused to leave the object of their
attraction, she began to turn away. We had one instant's glance at her
face before she discovered us; there was a burning spot upon either
thin cheek, and two great tears, frozen, as it were, upon her eyelids;
and a tremulous curve to the full, red lips of the tender and beautiful
mouth, as if they quivered with grief and love. There was nothing wild
or severe about her at that moment. Turning, slowly, she perceived us,
standing there in the shadow--two cruel men, hunting her even in this
sacred solitude. That was the feeling she gave us by the look which
passed over her countenance; I felt ashamed and unjustified until I
forced myself to recollect all.
She did not scream; she had passed through too many vicissitudes to
betray any fright; she only turned white, and put her hand on the table
to steady herself.
"You two men have come here at last, have you? Why do you interfere
with me? It's only a little while I have to stay, and I want peace."
"Peace only comes with a pure conscience," said Mr. Burton, sternly.
"What are you doing in this house?"
"I know I have no right here; but where else will you let me stay? Not
even by his grave--no, not even by his grave! You want to drag me forth
before the world, to expose my foolish secret, which I have hidden from
everybody--to put me in prison--to murder me! This is the business of
you two men; and you have the power, I suppose. I am so poor and
friendless it makes me a fit object for your persecution. Well, if you
can justify yourselves, do as you will with me!"
She folded her hands, looking us full in the face with eyes which
absolutely blazed.
"If you had no guilty secret, why did you fly from friends and enemies?
Why did you not seek an interview and explanation which would have been
satisfactory to us?" asked Mr. Burton.
"You would not believe me if I told you the reason," scornfully. "It is
not in the minds of men--the gross, suspicious minds of men--to
conceive or credit my excuse. I will not make it to such people."
Really, there was a majesty about the girl which quite awed me. As she
confronted us, the undaunted spirit sparkling through her slight,
wasted face and form, compelled a sort of acquiescence in me. I was not
the one to subdue or handle this powerful nature. Mr. Burton was.
"This is not the proper hour, nor the proper place, to enter into
explanations, Miss Sullivan. You must go with me to Mrs. Scott's
cottage; she will care for you until morning, and then we will have a
talk together. You will not find me harsh; nor shall I take any step
without good cause. All I want is the truth--and that I am bound to
have."
"Let me stay here to-night; I promise you I will not attempt to leave
the place. I will wait here until you see fit to come in the morning."
"I can not; there is too much at stake," he said, with determination.
"Then let me go and get the child," she said.
She took up the lamp and we followed her; up and along the garret
staircase, mounting the narrow steps which led into the attic. There,
upon the pile of mattresses which I have mentioned as lying in the
corner, reposed the baby girl before spoken of, sleeping sweetly, as
only infancy can rest.
"We were under this when you paid us a visit the other day," said
Leesy, with a sort of bitter smile. "I had hard work to keep baby from
crying out. She did make a fuss at last; you said it was a cat."
"How sound the little creature sleeps," said the detective. He had a
gentle heart, which shrunk from disturbing the slumbering infant.
"It's too bad to startle her up so," murmured her nurse.
"Yes, it is. I'll tell you what we will do. We will lock you up here,
and keep guard in the chamber until morning, if that pleases you."
"I don't care to take Norah out in the storm."
"Tell me one thing," said Mr. Burton, his bright eye fixing itself on
her own; "are you the mother of that babe?"
For a moment she answered his look with one of astonishment; then the
rosy blood rushed up to neck, cheek and brow--a virgin blush, which
showed all the soft and girlish side of her character.
"Am I Norah's mother?" she repeated. "I thought you knew I was not a
married woman."
The detective stood, a little embarrassed by the perfect simplicity of
her reply.
"It is understood to be your deceased cousin's child--an orphan, I
believe," he said. "Well, Miss Sullivan, we will leave you here,
undisturbed, for the remainder of the night."
We descended to the second floor, turning the key of the little
store-room which inclosed the garret staircase, well satisfied to keep
guard until morning, since we had secured the mysterious inmate of the
haunted house.