XII
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 someone 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 tomorrow. 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 someone 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 anything 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 keyhole 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 tonight; 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 Nora 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 Nora’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 storeroom which enclosed the garret staircase, well satisfied to keep guard until morning, since we had secured the mysterious inmate of the haunted house.