THE NIGHT-PASSENGER’S NEWS
Rise! If the past detain you,
Her sunshine and storms forget;
No chains so unworthy to hold you
As those of a vain regret.
Sad or bright, it is lifeless ever,
Cast its phantom arms away,
Nor look back but to learn the lesson
Of a nobler strife to-day.
The future has deeds of glory,
Of honor—God grant it may!
But your arm will never be stronger
Or the need so great as to-day.
_A. A. P._
The Rev. Mr. Cave and the good Dr. Kerr, both devoted friends of Tudor
Hereward, had promised him to leave nothing untried that might lead to a
clew to trace the fate of the missing women. For—to reach the truth more
promptly and effectually—it was deemed highly important to institute an
exhaustive investigation into the movements of both the lost ones, from
the day of their disappearance.
One of them lay in her grave, in the village church-yard; and the other
had vanished.
But which was the dead and which was the living, no human being at
Frosthill could prove.
The negroes and the neighbors had identified the body thrown up by the
spring flood from the bed of the creek and found in the ravine as that
of young Mrs. Tudor Hereward; but they had identified it only by the
clothing and by the long, black, curling hair—only by these; for
“decay’s effacing finger” had blotted out every feature beyond
recognition.
And this held good for the truth until old Adah declared in the most
solemn manner her conviction that the remains were those of the poor
gypsy girl Lucille, giving strong reasons to support her statement.
Lucille was dressed in a suit of young Mrs. Hereward’s clothes, which
had been bestowed on her by that lady.
Lucille had left Adah’s hut that fatal night, in company with her
ruffian husband, with whom she had ventured to remonstrate on his
robbing the poor old woman of the goods sent her by Mrs. Hereward; and
they had gone away quarreling until they were out of hearing; soon after
which, and at about the time they might have reached the point where the
path through the woods passed over the bridge crossing the creek, a
piercing shriek rang through the air followed by another and another,
startling the bed-ridden old woman in the hut and filling her soul with
terror.
Then all was still as death.
Old Adah had not at that time suspected the man of killing his wife, but
only of beating her brutally, as he had been in the habit of doing.
Never until she heard of the body that had been found did she think of
murder.
Then, at the first opportunity, she had told her story and given her
opinion to the convalescent master of the Cliffs, who, in her judgment,
was entitled to the first information.
Tudor Hereward’s “wish” was certainly “father to the thought” when he
gave so ready a credence to old Adah’s story, and called his two oldest
and most faithful friends into counsel as to the best means of
ascertaining the truth.
And they, without committing themselves to any positive opinion—for, in
such a case, they could have no just grounds for entertaining one—had
pledged their words to leave “no stone unturned” for discovering the
truth.
To do so, they knew that they must search for clews for both the missing
women.
And they searched long, thoroughly, but fruitlessly, until near the end
of May.
They ascertained from the accounts of the ticket agent at Frosthill that
two passengers only had bought tickets for the midnight express on that
fatal 21st of March. One was a ruffianly young man, he—the agent—was
sure, but the other he could not describe at all.
Now who were those two passengers?
The uttermost efforts of our amateur detectives failed to discover. They
could find no one in the village or in the surrounding country who had
taken the train that night.
The “ruffianly young man” mentioned by the ticket agent was probably the
husband of the poor gypsy girl; but who was the other passenger? Was she
his wife, traveling with him, as they had set out from the hut to do, or
was it Lilith, who was a mere accidental fellow-passenger?
No one could tell.
And so the time passed in fruitless search and heart-sickening suspense,
until late in May, when one morning, as Dr. Kerr was seated in his
office, the door opened and a stranger entered.
The doctor, believing the visitor to be a patient, arose and offered him
a chair.
“Thank you, sir. I dare say you are surprised to see me, sir,” said the
man, as he seated himself, took off his hat and wiped his face.
“Not at all. Strangers sometimes honor me with a call,” blandly replied
the doctor.
“Yes, I know, for medical advice, with a fee in their hands, and then
they have a right to come, and you are glad to see them. But I don’t
want any medical advice whatever, and I haven’t brought any fee; and
that’s the reason why I am afraid you will think I am intruding.”
“Not at all, if I can serve you in any way,” politely replied the
doctor.
“Yes, but you can’t even do that! I don’t stand in need of services.”
“Then will you kindly enlighten me as to the circumstance to which I am
indebted for this honor?” inquired the doctor, with a smile of
amusement.
“Do you mean to ask what brought me here?”
“Yes, if you please.”
“Well, I don’t mind telling you. I should have to do it anyway, because
that is what I came for. My name is Carter, and I came from Maryland.”
“Yes?” smiled the doctor.
“And have been traveling through the country here looking for land.”
“Quite so, and you have found a great deal.”
“I mean, and to buy. I hear that land is very good and cheap about here
and the climate very healthy.”
“All quite true; but I fear I cannot help you in the least in that
matter. You had better take counsel with Lawyer Jordon, who acts as land
agent occasionally,” said the doctor.
“Did I ask you to help me? I told you first off that I didn’t want any
service.”
“Then what in the name of——”
“Sense have I come for?”
“Yes, if you please.”
“Why, I am telling you, man! Being in search of a suitable farm, I have
been traveling about these parts considerable. Last night I came here
and put up at ‘The Stag.’ Good house that!”
“Pretty good. Yes.”
“Well, I did hear of a rum case. The body of that young woman being
found, and there being a distressing doubt whether it be that of young
Mrs. Tudor Hereward, who disappeared from the neighborhood on the 21st
of last March, or that of a little gypsy tramp, who bore a great
personal resemblance to that lady, and who was suspected of having been
made way with by her ruffian of a husband!”
“Yes, yes,” eagerly exclaimed the doctor, all his listless indifference
vanished. “Yes! You have heard of that affair. You have been traveling
about in this region. Is it possible that you may be able to throw some
light on that dark subject?”
“I think I may; that is what has brought me here this morning. Perhaps I
ought to have gone out to the place they call the Cliffs to see Mr.
Tudor Hereward himself; but they told me it was a matter of six miles
from the village, and that perhaps I had better see you, as you were
interested; and so here I am.”
“I am very glad you did. Now tell me quickly what you have to tell, for
I am extremely anxious to hear,” said the doctor, eagerly.
“Wait a bit! Let us see how the land lies first. You say young Mrs.
Hereward and the gypsy girl looked alike?”
“In size, figure, and the unusual length and beauty of their hair—yes!”
“And that both disappeared from the neighborhood the same night. At
least so I heard from the talk at the Stag.”
“It was true.”
“And a young woman’s body was found near the creek a month afterwards?”
“Yes.”
“But so far gone that it could not be identified except by the
clothing?”
“True.”
“And that clothing was recognized as having been young Mrs. Hereward’s?”
“Yes.”
“And that proved to the coroner’s jury the body to be also young Mrs.
Hereward’s.”
“Yes.”
“Until a certain old woman comes with a tale that young Mrs. Hereward
gave those clothes to the gypsy girl?”
“You have a correct account.”
“And so the doubt remains, which of the two missing women was killed and
thrown into the creek, and which levanted from the neighborhood?”
“Yes, that is the situation at present. Can you help us to clear up the
doubt?” anxiously inquired the doctor.
“Well, I rather reckon I can clear it up pretty decidedly, if not
satisfactorily.”
“What do you mean? Speak!”
“You were much interested in young Mrs. Hereward?”
“I was very much attached to her, having known her from her infancy.”
“Then I am afraid I am going to grieve you. I am indeed,” said the man,
gravely and hesitatingly.
“Oh, what do you mean?”
“It was that young gypsy girl who took the train at Frosthill at
midnight of March 21st,” said Carter, in a low tone.
The doctor stared gravely for a moment, and then inquired:
“How do you know this?”
“Because I was on that very same train, and sat in that very same car
along with her.”
“Man! Is this undoubtedly true?” demanded the doctor.
“Well, I will tell you all about it, and then you will see that it is
true. I took the train at Westbourne and traveled on until we got to
Frosthill, which it reached at midnight, and where it stopped for one
minute. Two passengers got on—a young man who looked like a young devil,
saving your presence, he had such a dark, scowling, lowering face. He
was clothed in a rough overcoat, and had his hands thrust into his
pockets, and never offered the least assistance to the young woman, who
came creeping and cowering behind him. I couldn’t help but notice them
both, and saw at a glance that they were man and wife, and that they had
had a row, in which the woman, of course, had come off second best. He
looked so wicked and sullen, and she so frightened and broken-hearted.
He just threw himself into a seat, and stretched out his legs over the
top of another one; and she slunk away into a corner, and turned her
face to the wall, and cried fit to break her heart. And he never took
any more notice of her than if she had been a dog. I wanted to kick him
all around the car. There was plenty of room to do it, too, because
there weren’t a half a dozen people in that car, all told. I got out at
Snowden, about twenty miles farther on, where I stopped over a day to
look at a farm, and I never thought any more about that ruffian husband
and gypsy wife until I came here to Frosthill last night, and heard the
whole story of the mystery at the Stag. And then I thought I would tell
you what I had seen at the Frosthill station, at midnight, on the
twenty-first of March,” concluded the visitor.
“I thank you very much. Still, still, there may be ground for a faint
hope. How was this girl whom you saw in the man’s company dressed, do
you remember?” inquired the doctor, with increased uneasiness.
“Oh, yes; I remember quite well. She was clothed in a red suit, with
something dark about her head and shoulders. And Mrs. Hereward was in
deep mourning, they say, for her father.”
“Yes, she was,” said the doctor, as the faint hope died away. “And this
red suit,” he added, mentally, “was, of course, the very suit that she
used to wear before she went in mourning, and which, of course, she must
have given to the girl in preference—upon every account of economy and
fitness—to giving her a black one.”
While the doctor was turning these hopeless thoughts over in his mind
the visitor arose and said:
“Well, sir, I have told you all I came to tell, and now I must go. But I
shall be in this neighborhood for a few days longer, if anybody wants to
ask me any questions about this matter.”
The doctor also arose and said:
“I thank you, Mr. Carter, for the trouble you are taking, and shall,
perhaps, have occasion to see you again. You will be at the Stag?”
“Yes, mostly, for the rest of this week; but I shall be riding round a
good deal in the daytime, looking at land, but always at home—leastways
at the hotel—at night, and shall be glad to see you or any one you send.
Good-morning, sir.”
“Good-morning, Mr. Carter.”
And the visitor left.
The doctor sat ruminating over what he had heard for some time after he
had been left alone.
At length, when his office hours were over, instead of taking his
noontide meal and rest as a preparation for his afternoon round of
professional visits, he rang for his servant, ordered his horse, and
started on a ride to the Cliffs.
He did not go to the mansion house, but taking a narrow bridle path
through the woods to the creek, he crossed the little rustic bridge, and
drew up at the log hut in the thicket on the other side.
Here he dismounted, tied his horse to a tree, and went up to the door,
where he found old Adah sitting in the sun, and busy with her knitting.
“Well, auntie, how is the rheumatism to-day?” he inquired cheerfully, as
the old woman stood up and courtesied.
“T’anky, Marse Doctor, sah. Dis warm sun hab melted it all out’n my
bones. ’Deed it’s de trufe. Will you come inter de house, Marse Doctor,
or take a chair out yere?” she inquired, politely.
“I will stay out here,” replied the doctor, as he settled himself on a
little bench outside the door.
“Have anyfing been yeard ’bout po’ dee Miss Lilif, Marse Doctor?”
anxiously questioned old Adah.
“No. Not since the verdict of the coroner’s jury,” significantly replied
Dr. Kerr.
“Oh, Lor’, Marse Doctor, dat want nuffin. Dat hadn’ nuffin to do long ob
Miss Lilif. Dat war de gypsy gal wot war foun’ in dem woods, and war sot
on by dat jury. I done tole Marse Tudor Her’ward all bout dat a mont’
ago,” said old Adah, speaking with the utmost confidence.
“Yes; I have heard so from Mr. Hereward himself. I know all the evidence
you have brought forward in rebuttal of the evidence given before the
coroner. I would to Heaven it had been as conclusive as you thought. But
we will not go into that. I only wish to ask you a few questions.”
“Go on Marse Doctor. I’ll answer de trufe. I ain’t got no secrets from
nobody.”
“Well, then, did you see the clothing worn by the gypsy girl on the
night she left the hut in company with her husband?”
“Yes, Marse Doctor, I did. I yeard her say how Missis Her’ward had gib
it to her, an’ I seed her put it on, an’ tie her ole close—nuffin but
duds dey was—in a bundle.”
“What was the color of those clothes?”
“Dem wot she took off an’ tied into a bundle?”
“No, no; those given her by Mrs. Hereward.”
“Oh! dose as she wo’ ’way?”
“Yes.”
“Wot was it yer ax me ’bout ’em, Marse Doctor?”
“I asked you what color they were?”
“Oh! Dey was sort o’ dark.”
“Dark red?”
“Now, dey mought o’ been. Or dey mought o’ been dark blue or dark black.
You see, Marse Doctor, it was sort o’ dark in de house, an’ it made
eberyfing look dark.”
“Had you no light?”
“Nuffin’ but a tallow dip—dat didn’ show much.”
“And you can’t be certain about the color of the clothing?”
“No, Marse Doctor; on’y it were dark. I sort o’ t’ought it were dark
black, but I dessay it were dark red, jes’ as you say.”
The doctor asked a few more questions, and then arose to depart. He put
a half dollar into the hand of the old woman, who thanked him heartily.
And then he remounted his horse and rode away along the same bridle-path
that led back through the thicket to the little bridge crossing the
creek, and by a circuit through the next woods up to the mansion house.
He found Tudor Hereward walking up and down on the front piazza. He had
convalesced so very slowly that he had not yet been strong enough to
take a ride.
Hereward dropped heavily into a chair as the doctor dismounted, threw
his bridle to Steve, who came up to take it, and walked up the steps.
“Any news, doctor?” anxiously inquired Mr. Hereward.
“Not a trace of Lilith yet. No, I did not come to bring news, but to
make a few investigations here in the house that may lead to something.”
“Very well, doctor; you have carte blanche. But what is the nature of
the investigation in this instance?” wearily inquired Hereward.
“Into the wardrobe of your wife, to see what is missing, and what is
left.”
Hereward sighed, as if he were very weary of a hopeless subject and then
faintly replied:
“Why, you know that has been done, thoroughly, and there is nothing
missing but the one black waterproof cloth suit that was found on the
body of that poor murdered gypsy girl.”
“And that was Lilith’s usual walking-dress when in the country, was it
not?”
“Yes, it was; but she gave it to that poor girl upon whose dead body it
was found.”
“She gave a suit; but you do not know that it was the waterproof suit
she gave. She would not have been likely to have given the suit that she
was in the habit of wearing, and that she could not very well do
without,” suggested the doctor.
“Ah! but she did give it. It was found on the body of the girl.”
“You still feel so sure that it was the body of the gypsy girl which was
found?”
“Yes, I do. Oh, doctor, why do you doubt it?” demanded Hereward, with
the fretful querulousness of an invalid.
“Because we cannot be sure until the other missing one is found. Until
the living one turns up we cannot prove who is the dead,” gravely
replied the physician.
“How much proof do you want? The dress that Lilith gave to the gypsy
girl was found on the dead body.”
“But you do not know that the black waterproof cloth was the dress that
was given by Lilith to the girl. I repeat, that it was not likely that
Lilith should have given away a suit that was so necessary to her own
comfort, when she might have given others.”
“But that is the only one missing from her wardrobe.”
“The only one missing from her wardrobe?”
“Yes. I have told you so twice before.”
“Then, if Lilith is living, what dress did she wear when she left home?”
significantly inquired the doctor.
Hereward started, turned paler than before, and stared fixedly at the
questioner. He had never asked himself that question. He stared, but did
not speak.
“Tudor, my dear boy, we must look facts in the face. And now I ask you,
was the discarded wardrobe of your wife examined when the investigation
was made?”
“The discarded wardrobe?” questioned Hereward, with a perplexed look.
“Yes; I mean the colored clothing that she left off and packed away when
she went into mourning for your father?”
“Of course it was not touched. She would not have been likely to wear
colored clothing in her deep mourning.”
“No, of course she would not. But she would have been very likely to
give that left-off colored clothing to the gypsy instead of the mourning
suit, which would have been unsuitable to the girl.”
Again Hereward started, changed color and gazed at the speaker, but
without uttering a word.
“Come, Hereward, let us send for Nancy and have her search through her
mistress’ left-off clothing, to see if any portion of it is missing.
Shall I ring?” inquired the doctor.
“If you—please,” faltered the young man, sinking back into his chair.
Dr. Kerr rang the door bell which was soon answered by Alick, who had
reinstated himself in his place as butler at the Cliffs, but who was
still a poor, broken-hearted old man, grieving for his young mistress,
and accusing himself of being her murderer.
“Go and tell Nancy to come here,” said Dr. Kerr.
Alick ducked his head and disappeared.
Nancy soon stood in his place.
“Aunty,” said the doctor, speaking for his young friend and patient, “I
wish you to open all Mrs. Hereward’s boxes of colored clothing, and
examine every article and find out if any be missing.”
“Berry well, sah,” said the woman, turning and going to do her errand.
The doctor followed her into the house, went to the corner buffet in
Lilith’s parlor, and took out a certain liqueur case, opened it, and
proceeded to mix a strong, restorative cordial, which he brought out and
placed on the stand beside Hereward’s chair, saying:
“Drink half of that now, Hereward, and leave the rest.”
The young man obeyed, and then, as he put down the half emptied glass,
he inquired:
“What is it that you expect to prove by this new search, doctor?”
“Wait and see, dear boy! I do not yet know what myself.”
About half an hour passed, and Nancy came downstairs.
“Well, auntie, have you missed anything?” inquired Dr. Kerr.
“Yes, Marse Doctor. Miss Lilif’s red cashmere dress, w’ich was her mos’
favorite home dress, an’ w’ich she wo’ de werry day ’fo’ she was marr’d,
an’ ’fo’ ole marse died, an’ nebber wored since den.”
“And are you sure it is gone?”
“Yes, Marse Doctor, sure, ’cause I knowed whey I packed it away, an’
nobody ebber went to dat trunk ’cept it was me an’ Miss Lilif.”
“And what do you think has become of it, Nancy?”
“Well, Marse Doctor, I s’pose as po’ dee Miss Lilif give it to dat po’
gal wot come beggin’. I know she did give her a bundle of close, ’caze I
helped dat gal to carry dat bundle t’rough de woods an’ ’cross de crik
to ole Aunt Adah’s house.”
“Did you see what was in the bundle, Nancy?”
“No, Marse Doctor, not I. I warn’t upstairs in Miss Lilif’s room w’en
she give ’way dem close, I war downsta’rs in de store room packing ob a
basket wid tea an’ sugar, an’ bread, an’ meat, an’ fings, to tote to po’
ole Aunt Adah, ’cordin’ to Miss Lilif’s orders, an’ I nebber seen dat
bundle till dat gal fotch it downsta’rs, an’ I nebber seen wot war
inside ob it; but de gal tell me, as I went along wid her, how de young
madame had gib her a good dress, an’ dat it must a been dat red cashmere
dress wot de young mist’ess couldn’ wear herse’f, ’stead of bein’ de
black mournin’ dress wot she could wear; let alone de fac’ dat de young
gal wouldn’t a-liked to ’cepted a mournin’ dress, not bein’ in no
mournin’. It wouldn’t a been lucky.”
“You are right,” said the doctor. “It was the red cashmere dress that
Mrs. Hereward gave to the girl, and that the girl wore when she left the
neighborhood that night.”
“Oh, most merciful Heaven, doctor! Do you mean to knock from under me
the last prop of hope that sustains me?” groaned Hereward, sinking back
pale and faint as any woman might have looked at such a crisis.
“Hush, Tudor! Drink this,” said Dr. Kerr, placing the glass of
restorative cordial to his lips.
Hereward emptied the glass, and the doctor set it down, and continued:
“I deprive you of no real hope, Tudor, but of a false hope which,
instead of being a prop to support you, is a burden that is wearing you
out with anxiety. The sooner you give up all hope the sooner you will be
able to resign yourself to the inevitable and find peace and rest for
your spirit.”
“But I cannot! I cannot resign all hope! I cannot!” passionately
exclaimed the young man.
“Listen to me further. Hear all that I have to say and you must do so,”
gravely and tenderly replied the doctor.
“What have you to tell me now? You said you had no news to bring me of
Lilith. You said so when you first came in and I asked you the
question.”
“And I spoke the truth,” patiently replied the old man. “I had no news
of Lilith. But I had news of the gypsy girl, which—ah me!—leaves me no
doubt as to whose remains they were that were found in the woods.”
“Oh, Heaven! Oh, Heaven!” groaned Hereward. “But tell me all! I can bear
it! Yes, I can bear it!”
“There is a man by the name of Carter now stopping at the Stag, who was
in the train at midnight of March 21st, when the strolling player and
his gypsy wife got on board. He was a sullen ruffian in coarse clothing.
She a pretty, dark-eyed gypsy, with black hair, and she was dressed in a
red suit, with something dark about her head and shoulders. They were
the only people who got in that train at Frosthill. They had been
quarreling, and the man had a scowling, ferocious look, while the woman
seemed terrified and broken-hearted. Does not this coincide perfectly
with all that we have heard about the poor girl and her ruffianly
companion?” gently inquired the doctor.
Hereward replied only by a groan.
“Come, Tudor! I must take you upstairs. You must lie down, and I will
send Cave to you,” said the doctor, with gentle firmness.
But it was with considerable difficulty that the doctor finally
prevailed on his deeply stricken patient to seek the rest and retirement
of his own chamber.
Then Dr. Kerr, leaving Nancy in charge of the sick-room, went
downstairs, got into his saddle and rode off, dinnerless, to make a
round of professional visits on a circuit of at least thirty miles. It
was very late in the afternoon when he finally reached Frosthill.
Even then, before going home, he stopped at the rectory and had half an
hour’s interview with the Rev. Mr. Cave, in which he told the latter of
all the news he had received and all the discoveries he had made
concerning the fate of Lilith, during the day. He ended by asking the
rector to go with him to the Stag to see and question Carter.
Mr. Cave put on his hat and walked with Dr. Kerr the short distance that
lay between the rectory and the hotel.
They found Carter smoking in the little reading-room. He willingly
accompanied the gentlemen to the parlor, at their request, and closeted
there, he readily answered every question put to him, but, after all,
they elicited nothing more than had been told to the doctor that
morning.
At the end of the interview they thanked Carter and took leave of him.
“And, after all,” sighed Mr. Cave, “the verdict of the coroner’s jury
was right.”
“Yes,” assented the doctor, “it was right! And now I do not think we
have far to look for the dastardly murderer of Lilith Hereward.”
“Whom do you suspect?” inquired the rector, in a low, awe-stricken
voice.
“The ruffian husband of the gypsy girl who was on the creek the same
night of her death.”