CHAPTER II.—“A VOICE, A MYSTERY.”
ARTHUR RIPLEY—good-natured, impressionable, unpractical Arthur Ripley,as his familiars called him—dwelt in Beekman Place. Beek-man Place,as the reader may not know, is a short, chocolate-colored, unpretentiousthoroughfare, perched on the eastern brink of Manhattan Island, andcommanding a fine view of the river, of the penitentiary, and of the oilfactories at Hunter’s Point. Arthur and a friend of his, Mr. JulianHetzel, kept house in the two upper stories of No. 43, an old Germanwoman named Josephine acting as their maid-of-all-work. They had akitchen, a dining-room, a parlor, two airy dormitories, a light closetwhich did duty for a guest-chamber; and over and above all, they hadthe roof. Upon the roof Hetzel had swung a hammock, and in earthen potsround about had ranged an assortment of flowering shrubs; so that bycourtesy the roof was commonly styled the loggia. Here, toward sundownon that summery April day mentioned in the last chapter, the chums wereseated, sipping their after-dinner coffee and smoking their after-dinnercigarettes. They could not have wished for a pleasanter spot for theirpleasant occupation. By fits and starts a sweet breeze puffed up fromthe south. Westward the sun was sinking into a crimson fury. Eastwardthe horizon glowed with a delicate pink light. Below them, on one side,stretched the river—tinted like mother-o’-pearl by the ruddy skyoverhead—-up which a procession of Sound steamboats was sweeping instately single file. On the other side lay the street, clamorous withthe voices of many children at sport. Around the corner, an itinerantband was playing selections from Trovatore. Blatant and faulty thoughthe music was, softened by distance, it had a quite agreeable effect. Ofcourse, the topic of conversation was Arthur’s case.
Hetzel said, “It will be slow work, and tedious.”
“On the contrary,” retorted Arthur, “it seems to me to furnishan opportunity for brilliant strategy. I must get a clew, you know, andthen clinch the business with a few quick strokes.”
“Just so; after the manner of Monsieur Lecoq. Well, where do youpropose to strike your clew?”
“Oh, I haven’t started in yet. I suppose I shall hit upon one soonenough.”
“I doubt it. In my opinion you’re booked for a sequence of wearisomedetails. The quality you’ll require most of, is patience. Besides,if the lady should sniff danger, she’ll be able to elude you at everyturn. You want to make it a still hunt.”
“I am aware of that.”
“What’s the first step you mean to take?”
“I haven’t made up my mind. I need time for deliberation.”
“There’s only a single thing to do, and that’s not the leastLecoq-like. Write to the place where she was last known to be—Vienna,did you say?—to the consul or postmaster or prefect of police, orbetter yet all three, and ask whither she went when she left there.Then, provided you get an answer, write to the next place, and so ondown. This will take about a hundred years. So, practically, you see,Peixada has supplied you with permanent employment. The likelihoodthat it will ultimately succeed is extremely slim. There is danger of aslip-up at every point. However, far be it from me to discourage you.”
“What do you think of Peixada’s plan—an advertisement?”
“Gammon! You don’t fancy she would march with open eyes into apalpable trap like that, do you? I suspect the matter will end by yourmaking a trip to Europe. If Peixada knows what’s what, he’ll bundleyou off next week. You could trace her much more effectively in personthan by letters.”
“Wouldn’t that be jolly? Only it would involve my neglecting theother business that might turn up if I should stick here.”
“What of it? What other business? What ground have you for believingthat any other business will turn up? Has the past been so prolific?Besides, isn’t the summer coming? And isn’t the summer a lawyer’sdull season? You might lose a couple of two-penny district-courtcases; but suppose you did. See of what advantage it would be to yourreputation. Somebody calls at your office. ’Is Mr. Ripley in?’’No,’ replies your clerk, ’Mr. Ripley is abroad on importantbusiness.’ ’Ah,’ thinks the caller, ’this Ripley is aflourishing young practitioner.’ And mark my words, nothing hastenssuccess like a reputation for success.”
“Such a picture sends the blood to my head. I mustn’t look at it. Itwould make me discontented with the reality.”
“If you’re diplomatic,” Hetzel went on, “you can get a liberaleducation out of this Peixada case. Just fancy jaunting from townto town in Europe, and having your expenses paid. In your moments ofleisure you can study art and languages and the manners, costumes, andsuperstitions of the hoary east.”
“And all the while, Mrs. Peixada may be living quietly here in NewYork! Isn’t it exasperating to realize the difficulty of putting yourfinger upon a given human being, when antecedently it would seemso easy? Nevermind; up-hill work though it be, it’s sure to getinteresting. A woman, young, beautiful, totally depraved, a murderess atthe age of twenty-one—I wonder what she is like.”
“Oh, probably vulgar to the last degree. Don’t form a sentimentalconception of her. Keep your head cool, or else your imagination willget the better of your common sense.”
“No fear of that. But I shall go at the case with all the more zest,because I am anxious to view this novel specimen of womankind.”
“You’ll find she’s a loud, flashy vixen—snapping eyes, stridentvoice, bediamonded person. Women who resort to powder and shot to getrid of their husbands in this peaceable epoch of divorce, are scarcelyworth a respectable man’s curiosity.”
“Hello!” cried Arthur, abruptly. “What’s that?”
“Oh, that,” answered Hetzel, “that’s the corner house—No.46.”
Hetzel spoke metonymically. “That” was a descending musicalscale—fa, mi, re, do, si, la, sol, fa,—which rang out all at oncein a clear soprano voice, from someplace near at hand; a wonderfullypowerful voice, with a superb bugle-like quality.
“Fa, sol, la, si, do, re, mi, fa,” continued the songstress. .
“By Jove,” exclaimed Arthur, “that’s something like.” Thenfor a moment he was all ears, and did not speak. At last, “The cornerhouse?” he queried. “Has some one moved in?”
“Yes,” was Hetzel’s answer; “they moved in yesterday. I had thisall the morning.”
“This singing?”
“Exactly, and a piano to boot. Scales and exercises till I was nearlymad.”
“But this—this is magnificent. You were to be envied.”
“Oh, yes, it’s very fine. But when a man is trying to prepare anexamination paper in the integral calculus, it distracts and interferes.She quite broke up my morning’s work.” Hetzel was a tutor ofmathematics in a college not a hundred miles from New York.
“Have you seen her?” Arthur asked.
“No, they only took possession yesterday. A singular thing about itis that they appear to confine themselves to one floor. The blinds areclosed every where except in the third story, and last night there wasno light except in the third story windows. Queer, eh?”
Arthur approached the verge of the roof, and looked over at the cornerhouse across the street. The third story windows were open wide, andout of them proceeded that beautiful soprano voice, now practicingintervals—fa-si, sol-do, and so forth. “Well,” he affirmed,“this is a regular romance. Of course a woman with such a voice isyoung and beautiful and every thing else that’s lovely. And then,living cooped up on the third floor of that dismal corner house—shemust be in needy circumstances; which adds another element of charm andmystery. I suppose she’s in training to become a prima donna. But whoare they? Who lives with her?”
“How should I know? I haven’t seen any of them. I take it forgranted that she doesn’t live alone, that’s all.”
“Hush-sh!” cried Arthur, motioning with his hand.
The invisible musician had now abandoned her exercises, and was fairlylaunched upon a song, accompanying herself with a piano. Neither Arthurnor Hetzel recognized the tune, but they greatly enjoyed listening toit, b
ecause it was rendered with so much intelligence and delicacy ofexpression. They could not make out the words, either, but from thelanguid, sensuous swing of the melody, it was easy to infer that thetheme was love. There were several verses; and after each of them,occurred a brilliant interlude upon the piano, in which the refrainwas caught up and repeated with variations. Arthur thought he had neverheard sweeter music in his life; and very likely he never had. “Thatwoman,” he declared, when silence was restored, “that woman,whoever she is, has a soul—a rare enough piece of property in thismaterialistic age. Such power of making music betokens a correspondingpower of deep feeling, clear thinking, noble acting. I’d give my righthand for a glimpse of her. Why doesn’t some mesmeric influence bringher to the window? Oh, for an Asmodeus to unroof her dwelling, andlet me peep in at her—observe her, as she sits before her key-board,unconscious of observation!” Even Hetzel, who was not prone toenthusiasms, who, indeed, derived an expert’s satisfaction fromapplying the wet blanket, admitted that she sang “like an angel.”
Arthur went on, “Opera? Talk about opera? Why, this beats the operaall hollow. Can you conceive a more exquisite mise en scene? Twilight!Lingering in the west—over there behind the cathedral—a pale, rosyflush! Above, a star or two, twinkling diamond-like on the breast of thecoming night! In our faces, the fragrance of the south wind! Belowus, the darkling river, alive with multitudinous craft! Can your OperaHouse, can your Academy of Music boast any thing equal to it? And then,as the flower and perfection of this loveliness, sounding like a clarionfrom heaven, that glorious woman’s voice. I tell you, man,it’s poetry—it’s Rossetti, Alfred de Musset, HeinrichHeine—it’s—Hello! there she goes again.”
This time her selection was the familiar but ever beautiful Erl Konig,which she sang with such dramatic spirit that Hetzel himself exclaimed,when she had finished, “It actually made my heart stand still.”
“‘Du liebes Kind, komm geh mit mir!’” hummed Arthur. “Ah, howpersuasively she murmured it! And then, ’Mein Vater, mein Vater, undhorest du nicht?’.—wasn’t it blood-curdling? Didn’t it conveythe entire horror of the situation? the agony of terror that bound thechild’s heart? Beekman Place has had an invaluable acquisition. I’llwager, she’s as good and as beautiful as St. Cecilia, her patroness.What do you guess, is she dark or fair, big or little?”
“The odds are that she’s old and ugly. Patti herself, you know, isupwards of forty. It isn’t probable that with her marvelous musicalaccomplishments, this lady is endowed with youth and beauty also. Iwouldn’t cherish great expectations of her, if I were you; becausethen, if you should ever chance to see her, you’ll be so muchdisappointed. Better make up your mind that her attractions beginand end with her voice. Complexion? Did you ask my opinion of hercomplexion? Oh, she’s blonde—that goes without saying.”
“Wrong again! She’s a brunette of the first water; dusky skin, redmouth, black, lustrous eyes. You can tell that from the fire she putsinto her music. As for her age, you’re doubly mistaken. If you had theleast faculty for adding two and two together—arithmetician that youare—you’d know at once that a voice of such freshness, such compass,and such volume, could not pertain to a woman far beyond twenty. Onthe other hand, no mere school-girl could sing with such intelligentexpression. Wherefore, striking an average, I’ll venture she’s inthe immediate vicinity of twenty-five. However, conjectures areneither here nor there. Where’s Josephine? Let’s have her up, andinterrogate her.”
With this speech, Arthur began to pound his heel upon the roof—themethod which these young bachelors employed to make known to theirdomestic that her attendance was wanted. When the venerable Josephinehad emerged waist-high from the scuttle-door, “Josephine,” demandedArthur, “who is the new tenant of the corner house?”
But Josephine could not tell. Indeed, she was not even aware that thecorner house had been taken. Arthur set her right on this score, and,“Now,” he continued, “I wish you would gossip with the divers andsundry servants of the neighborhood until you have found out the mostyou can about these new-comers, and then report to me. For this purpose,you are allowed an evening’s outing. But as you prize my good-will, beboth diligent and discreet.”
As the twilight deepened into darkness, Arthur remained posted at theroof’s edge, looking wistfully over toward the third-story windows ofthe corner house. By and by a light flashed up behind them; but thenext instant an unseen hand drew the shades; and a few moments later thelight was extinguished.
“They retire early,” he grumbled.
“By the way, don’t you think it’s getting a little chilly uphere?” asked Hetzel.
“Decidedly,” he assented, shivering. “Shall we go below?”
They descended into their sitting-room—a cozy, book-lined apartment,with a permanent savor of tobacco smoke upon its breath—and chattedtogether till a late hour. The Peixada matter and the mysterioussongstress of No. 46 pretty equally divided their attention.
Next morning Hetzel—whose bed-chamber, at the front of the house,overlooked the street; whereas Arthur’s, at the rear, overlooked theriver—Hetzel was awakened by a loud rap at his door.
“Eh—er—what? Who is it?” he cried, starting up in bed.
“Can I come in?” Arthur’s voice demanded.
Without waiting for a reply, Arthur entered.
Hetzel’s wits getting out of tangle, “What unheard-of event bringsyou abroad so early?” he inquired.
“Early? You don’t call this early? It’s halfpast seven.”
“Well, that’s a round half hour earlier than I ever knew you to risebefore. ’Is any thing the matter? Are you ill?”
“Bosh! I’m always up at half-past seven,” averred Arthur, withbrazen indifference to the truth.
He crossed the floor, and sent the curtains screeching aloft; havingdone which, he established himself in a rocking-chair, facing thewindow, and rocked to and fro.
“Ah, I—I understand,” said Hetzel.
“Understand what?”
“The motive that impelled you to rise with the lark.”
“You’re making much ado about nothing,” said Arthur. But heblushed and fidgeted uncomfortably. “Any body would suppose I was aninveterate sluggard. Grant that I am up a little in advance of my usualhour—is that an occasion for so much talk?”
“The question is, rather,” rejoined Hetzel, with apparentirrelevancy, “are you rewarded?”
For a moment Arthur tried to appear puzzled; but as his eyes met thoseof his comrade, the corners of his mouth twitched convulsively; andthereupon, with a shrug of the shoulders, he laughed outright.
“Well, I’m not ashamed, anyhow,” he said.
“I’d give a good deal for a glimpse of her; and if I can catch onebefore I go down-town, why shouldn’t I?”
“Of course,” replied Hetzel, sympathetically.
“But don’t be secretive. Let’s have the results of yourobservation.”
“Oh, as yet the results are scanty. The household seems to beasleep—blinds down, and every thing as still as a mouse.—No, there,the blinds are raised—but whoever raises them knows how to keep out ofsight. Not even a hand comes in view.—Now, all’s quiet again.—Ah,speaking of mice, they have a cat. A black cat sallies forth upon thestone ledge outside the window, and performs its ablutions with tongueand paw.—Another! Two cats. This one is of the tiger sort, stripedblack and gray. Isn’t it odd—two cats? What on earth, do yousuppose, possesses them to keep two cats?—One of them, the black one,returns indoors. Number two whets his claws upon the wood of thewindow frame—gazes hungrily at the sparrows flitting roundabout—yawns—curls himself up—prepares for a nap there on the stonein the sun.—Why doesn’t she come to the window? She ought to want abreath of the morning air. This is exasperating.”
The above monologue had been delivered piecemeal, at intervals of aminute or so in duration. At its finish, Hetzel got out of bed.
“Well,” he cried, stretching himself, “maintain your v
igil,while I go for a bath. Perhaps on my return you may have something moresalient to communicate.”
But when he came back, Arthur said, “Not a sign of life since youleft, except that in response to a summons from within the tiger-cathas reentered the house; probably is discussing his breakfast at thismoment. Hurry up—dress—and let us do likewise.”
At the breakfast table, “Well, Josephine,” said Arthur, “tell usof the night.”
Josephine replied that she had subjected all the available maid-servantsof the block to a pumping process, but that the most she had been ableto extract from them was—what her employers already knew. On Thursday,the 24th, some person or persons to the deponents unknown, had movedinto No. 46. But two cart-loads of furniture, besides a piano, had beendelivered there; and the new occupants appeared to have taken only onefloor: whence it was generally assumed that they were not people of verygreat consequence. Arthur directed her to keep her eyes and ears open,and to inform him from time to time of any further particulars that shemight glean. This she promised to do. Then he lingered about the frontof the house till Hetzel began to twit him, demanding sarcasticallywhether he wasn’t going downtown at all that morning. “Oh, well, Isuppose I must,” he sighed, and reluctantly took himself off.
Down-town he stopped at the surrogate’s office, and verified thestatements Peixada had made about the administration of his brother’sestate. Mrs. Peixada had taken the oath to her accounting before theUnited States consul at Vienna, January 11, 1881, Short and Sondheimappearing for her here. It was decidedly against the woman—added, ifany thing could add, to the blackness of her offense—the fact that shewas represented by such disreputable attorneys as Short and Sondheim.
From the court house, Arthur proceeded to Peixada’s establishment inReade Street near Broadway. He had concluded that the search for Mrs.Peixada would have to be very much such an inch by inch process asHetzel had predicted. He could not rid his mind of a feeling thaton general principles it ought to be no hard task to determine thewhereabouts of a rich, handsome, and notorious widow: but when he camedown to the circumstances of this particular case, he had to acknowledgethat it was an undertaking fraught with difficulties and withuncertainties. He wanted to consult his client, and tell him the upshotof his own deliberations. The more he considered it, the more persuadedhe became that he had better cross the ocean and follow in person thetrail that Mrs. Peixada had doubtless left behind her. Probably the wishfostered the thought. As Hetzel had said, he would not run the riskof losing much by his absence. A summer in Europe had been the fondestdream of his youth. The very occupation of itself, moreover, wasinviting. He would be a huntsman—his game, a beautiful woman! Andthen, to conduct the enterprise by letters would not merely consume aneternity of time, but ten chances to one, it would end in failure. Itdid not strike him that this was properly a detective’s employment,rather than a lawyer’s; and even had it done so, I don’t know thatit would have dampened his ardor.—Meanwhile, he had turned into ReadeStreet, and reached Peixada’s place. He was surprised to find itclosed, until he remembered that to-day was Saturday and that Peixadawas an orthodox Jew. So he saw nothing for it but to remain inactivetill Monday. He returned to his office, and spent the remainder ofthe day reading a small, canary-colored volume in the Frenchlanguage—presumably a treatise upon French jurisprudence.
He dined with a couple of professional brethren at a restaurant thatevening, and did not get home till after dark. Ascending his stoop, hestopped to glance over at the corner house. A light shone at the edgesof the curtains in the third story; but even as he stood there, lookingtoward it, and wishing that by some necromancy his gaze might beempowered to penetrate beyond, the light went out. Immediatelyafterward, however, he heard the shades fly clattering upward; and then,all at once, the silence was cloven by the same beautiful soprano voicethat had interested him so much the night before. At first it was verylow and soft, a mere liquid murmur; but gradually it waxed stronger andmore resonant; and Arthur recognized the melody as that of Schubert’sWohin. The dreamy, plaintive phrases, tremulous with doubt and tensewith yearning, gushed in a mellow stream from out the darkness. Nowonder they set Arthur’s curiosity on edge. The exquisite qualityof the voice, and the perfect understanding with which the songwas interpreted, were enough to prompt a myriad visions of feminineloveliness in any man’s brain. That a woman could sing in thiswise, and yet not be pure and bright and beautiful, seemed aself-contradictory proposition. Arthur seated himself comfortably uponthe broad stone balustrade of his door-step, and made up his mind thathe would retain that posture until the musical entertainment across theway should be concluded.
“I wonder,” he soliloquized, “why she chooses to sing in the dark.I hope, for reasons of sentiment—because it is in darkness that theeffect of music is strongest and most subtle. I wonder whether she isalone, or whether she is singing to somebody—perhaps her lover. Iwonder—ah, with what precision she caught that high note! How firmlyshe held it! How daintily she executed the cadenza! A woman who cansing like this, how she could love! Or rather, how she must have lovedalready! For such a comprehension of passion as her music reveals, couldnever have come to be, except through love. I wonder whether I shallever know her. Heaven help me, if she should turn out, as Hetzelsuspects, old and ugly. But that’s not possible. Whatever the styleof her features may be, whatever the number of her years, a young andardent spirit stirs within her. Isn’t it from the spirit that truebeauty springs? I mean by the spirit, the capability of inspiring and ofexperiencing noble emotions. This woman is human. Her music proves that.And just in so far as a woman is deeply, genuinely human, is she lovelyand lovable.”
In this platitudinous vein Arthur went on. Meanwhile the lady hadwandered away from Schubert’s Wohin, and after a brief excursion upand down the keyboard, had begun a magically sweet and thrilling melody,which her auditor presently identified as Chopin’s Berceuse, soarranged that the performer could re-enforce certain periods with hervoice. He listened, captivated, to the supple modulations of the music:and it was with a sensation very like a pang of physical pain thatsuddenly he heard it come to an abrupt termination-break sharply off inthe middle of a bar, as though interrupted by some second person. “Ifit is her lover to whom she is singing,” he said, “I don’t blamehim for stopping her. He could no longer hold himself back—resist theimpulse to kiss the lips from which such beautiful sounds take wing.”Then, immediately, he reproached himself for harboring such impertinentfancies. And then he waited on the alert, hoping that the music wouldrecommence. But he waited and hoped in vain. At last, “Well, I supposethere’ll be no more to-night,” he muttered, and turned to enter thehouse. As he was inserting his latch-key into the lock, somebody belowon the sidewalk pronounced a hoarse “G’d evening, Mr. Ripley.”
“Ah, good evening, William,” returned Arthur, affably, lookingdown at a burly figure at the bottom of the steps.—William was thenight-watchman of Beekman Place.
“Oh, I say—by the way—William—” called Arthur, as the watchmanwas proceeding up the street.
“Yassir?” queried William, facing about.
Arthur ran down the stoop and joined his interlocutor at the foot.
“I say, William, I see No. 46 has found a tenant. You don’t happento know who it is?”
“Yes,” responded William; “moved in Thursday—old party of thename of Hart.”
“Old party? Indeed! Then I suppose he has a daughter—eh? It was thedaughter who was singing a little while ago?”
“I dunno if she’s got a darter. Party’s a woman. I hain’t seenno darter. Mebbe it was the lady herself.”
“Oh, no; that’s not possible.—Hart, do you say the name is?”
“Mrs. G. Hart.”
“What does G. stand for?”
“I dunno. Might be John.”
“Who is Mr. G. Hart?”
“I guess there ain’t none. Folks say she’s a I widder.—Well,Wiggins ought to thank his stars to have that hou
se taken at last.It’s going on four years now, it’s lain there empty.”
Mused Arthur, absently, “An old lady named Hart; and he doesn’t knowwhether the musician is her daughter or not.”
“Fact is,” put in William, “I dunno much about ’em—only whatI’ve heerd. But we’ll know all about them before long. Every bodyknows every body in this neighborhood.”
“Yes, that’s so.—Well, good night.”
“Good night, sir,” said William, touching his cap.
Upstairs in the sitting-room, Arthur threw himself upon a sofa. Hetzelwas away. By and by Arthur picked up a book from the table, and tried toread. He made no great headway, however: indeed, an hour elapsed, and hehad not yet turned the page. His thoughts were busy with the fair one ofthe corner house. He had spun out quite a history for her before he haddone. He devoutly trusted that ere long Fate would arrange a meetingbetween her and himself. He whistled over the melody of Wohin, imitatingas nearly as he could the manner in which she had sung it. When hismind reverted to the Peixada business, as it did presently, lo! theprospective trip to Europe had lost half its charm. He felt that therewas plenty to keep one interested here in New York.
All day Sunday, despite the fun at his expense in which Hetzel liberallyindulged, Arthur haunted the front of the house. But when he went to bedSunday night, he was no wiser respecting his musical neighbor than hehad been four-and-twenty hours before.