CHAPTER VIII.
THE RIPE HOUR.
I arose from my sleepless bed to face this, the most memorable day ofmy life. Whether I ate or drank, I know not; but I noticed that Mr.Burton's countenance wore a peculiar, illuminated look, as if his soulwas inwardly rejoicing over a victory gained. However, there was stillpreoccupation in it, and some perplexity. Immediately after breakfast,he proposed to go out, saying,
"Richard, remain here a couple of hours with Lenore, until I find outwhether Miss Sullivan is dead or alive. I should not have gone to bedlast night without knowing, had I not been troubled with a severeheadache. This is now the first step in the day's duties. As soon aspossible I will report progress;" and he went out.
The time of his absence seemed very long. Lenore, sweet child, withmuch of her father's perception, saw that I was restless and impatient,and made many pretty efforts to entertain me. She sung me some of thefinest music, while I roamed about the parlors like an ill-bred tiger.At the end of two hours my friend returned, looking less perplexed thanwhen he went out.
"God is good!" he said, shaking my hand, as if thus congratulating me."Leesy Sullivan is alive, but very feeble. She is scarcely able toundertake a journey; but, since I have explained the object, she hasconsented to go. She says she is so near death's door, that it mattersnot how soon she passes through; and she is willing, for the sake ofothers, to endure a trial from which she might naturally shrink. Sofar, then, all is well."
Was this trial, of which he spoke, that pang which she must feel inconfessing herself implicated in this matter? Did he think, and had hepersuaded her, since she was too far gone for the grasp of the law totake hold of her, she might now confess a dangerous and dark secret?
I could not answer the questions my mind persisted in asking. "It willbe but a few hours," I whispered to myself.
"We are to go up to Blankville by the evening train," he continued."Leesy will accompany us. Until that time, there is nothing to do."
I would rather have worked at breaking stones or lifting barrels thanto have kept idle; but, as the detective wished me to remain in thehouse as a matter of caution against meeting any prying acquaintanceupon the streets, I was forced to that dreariest of all things--towait. The hours did finally pass, and Mr. Burton set out first with acarriage, to convey Miss Sullivan to the depot, where I was to meet himin time for the five o'clock train. When I saw her there, I wonderedhow she had strength to endure the ride, she looked so wasted--such amere flickering spark of life, which a breath might extinguish. Mr.Burton had almost to carry her into the car, where he placed her on aseat, with his overcoat for a pillow. We took our seats opposite toher, and as those large, unfathomable eyes met mine, still blazing withtheir old luster, beneath the pallid brow, I can not describe thesensations which rushed over me. All those strange scenes through whichI had passed at Moreland villa floated up and shut me in a strangespell, until I forgot what place we were in, or that any other personssurrounded us. When the cars moved rapidly out of the city, increasingtheir speed as they got beyond the precincts, Leesy asked to have thewindow open.
The air was cold and fresh; her feverish lips swallowed it as areviving draught. I gazed alternately at her and the landscape, alreadyflushed with the red of early sunset. It was a December day, chill butbright; the ground was frozen, and the river sparkled with the keenblueness of splintered steel. The red banner of twilight hung over thePalisades. I lived really three years in that short ride--the threeyears just past--and when we reached our destination, I walked like onein a dream. It was quite evening when we got out at Blankville, thoughthe moon was shining. A fussy little woman passed out before us,lugging a large band-box; she handed it to the town express, tellingthe driver to be very careful of it, and take it round at once toEsquire Argyll's.
"I suppose it contains the wedding-bonnet," he said, with a laugh.
"That it does, and the dress, too, all of my own selection," said thelittle woman, with an air of importance. "Just you carry it in yourhand, sir, and don't you allow nothing to come near it."
When I heard these words, a hot flush came to my face. That Mary Argyllwas already married, or expected to be very soon, I knew; but I couldnot hear this reference to the wedding, nor see this article ofpreparation, without keen pain. Yet what business was it of mine?
Mr. Burton had also heard the brief colloquy, and I noticed his lipspressed together with a fierce expression as we passed under the lampwhich lighted the crossing. He took us into the hotel by the depot. Oh,how suffocating, how close, became memory! Into this building poorHenry had been carried on that wretched morning. It seemed to be butyesterday. I think Leesy was recalling it all, for when a cup of teawas brought in for her, at Mr. Burton's bidding, she turned from itwith loathing.
"Leesy," he said, looking at her firmly, and speaking in a tone of highcommand, "I don't want you to fail me now. The trial will soon be over.Brace yourself for it with all the strength you have. Now, I am goingout a few moments--perhaps for half an hour. When I return, you willboth be ready to go with me to Mr. Argyll's house."
I was nearly as much shaken by this prospect as the frail woman who sattrembling in a corner of the sofa. To go into that house from which Ihad departed with such ignominy--to see Eleanor face to face--to meetthem all who had once been my friends--to greet them as strangers, forsuch they were--they must be, to me!--to appear in their midst undersuch strange circumstances--to hear, I knew not what--to learn thatmystery--my heart grew as if walled in with ice; it could not halfbeat, and felt cold in my breast.
Both Leesy and myself started when Mr. Burton again appeared in theroom.
"All is right thus far," he said, in a clear, cheery voice, which,nevertheless, had the high ring of excitement. "Come, now, let us notwaste the golden moments, for now the hour is ripe."
We had each of us to give an arm to Miss Sullivan, who could scarcelyput one foot before the other. We walked slowly along over _that_ pathwhich I never had trodden since the night of the murder without ashudder. A low moan came from Leesy's lips, as we passed the spot wherethe body of Henry Moreland had been discovered. Presently we came tothe gate of the Argyll place, and here Mr. Burton again left us."Follow me," he said, "in five minutes. Come to the library-door, andknock; and, Richard, I particularly desire you to take a seat by thebay-window."
He went up the walk and entered the house, without seeming to ring thehall door-bell, leaving the door open as he passed in. I looked at mywatch by the moonlight, forcing myself to count the minutes, by way ofsteadying my head, which was all in a whirl. When the time expired, Ihelped Leesy forward into the dim hall, on to the library-door, where Iknocked, according to directions, and was admitted by Mr. Argyllhimself.
There was a bright light shining from the chandelier, fullyilluminating the room. In the midst of a flood of recollections, Istepped within; but my brain, which had been hot and dizzy before, grewsuddenly calm and cool. When Mr. Argyll saw that it was me, he slightlyrecoiled, and gave me no greeting whatever. A glance assured me thatevery member of the family was present. Eleanor sat in an arm-chairnear the center-table; Mary and James occupied the same sofa. Eleanorlooked at me with a kind of white amazement; James nodded as my eye methis, his face expressing surprise and displeasure. Mary rose,hesitated, and finally came forward, saying,
"How do you do, Richard?"
I bowed to her, but did not take her outstretched hand, and shereturned to her place near James. In the mean time, Mr. Burton himselfplaced Leesy Sullivan in an easy-chair. I walked forward and took aseat near the window. I had time to observe the appearance of my whilomfriends, and was calm enough to do it. Mr. Argyll had grown old muchfaster than the time warranted; his form was somewhat bent, and hiswhole appearance feeble; I grieved, as I noticed this, as though he wasmy own father, for I once had loved him as much. Mary looked the sameas when I had seen her, three months since, in that surreptitious visitto the oak, blooming and be
autiful, the image of what Eleanor once was.Eleanor, doubtless, was whiter than her wont, for my appearance hadstartled her; but there was the same rapt, far-away, spiritual lookupon her features which they had worn since that day when she hadwedded herself to the spirit of her lover.
Mr. Burton turned the key in the lock of the door which opened into thehall; then crossed over and closed the parlor-door, and sat down by it,saying as he did so,
"Mr. Argyll, I told you a few moments ago, that I had news ofimportance to communicate, and I take the liberty of closing thesedoors, for it would be very unpleasant for us to be intruded upon, orfor any of the servants to hear any thing of what I have to say. Youwill perhaps guess the nature of my communication, from my havingbrought with me these two persons. I would not agitate any of you bythe introduction of the painful subject, if I did not believe that youwould rather know the truth, even if it is sad to revive the past. ButI must beg of you to be calm, and to listen quietly to what I have tosay."
"I will be very calm; do not be afraid," murmured Eleanor, growing yetfeebler, for it was to her he now particularly addressed the injunction.
I was so occupied with her that I did not notice the effect upon theothers.
"Mr. Argyll," continued the detective, "I have never yet abandoned acase of this kind until I have unraveled its mystery to the lastthread. Nearly two years have passed since you supposed that I ceasedto exert myself to discover the murderer of Henry Moreland. But I havenever, for a day, allowed the case to lie idle in my mind. Whenever Ihave had leisure, I have partially followed every clue which was put inmy hands at the time when we first had the matter under discussion. Itwas not alone the sad circumstances of the tragedy which gave itunusual interest to me. I became warmly attached to your family, andas, from the first--yes, from the very first hour when I heard of themurder--I believed I had discovered the perpetrator, I could not allowthe matter to sink into silence. You remember, of course, our lastinterview. Some ideas were there presented which I then opposed. Youknow how the discussion of all the facts then known ended. Yoursuspicions fell upon one who had been an honored and favored member ofyour family--you _feared_, although you were not certain, that RichardRedfield committed the deed. You gave me all the reasons you had foryour opinions--good reasons, too, some of them were; but I thencombated the idea. However, I was more or less affected by what yousaid, and I told you, before parting, that, if you had such feelingstoward the young man, you ought not to allow him to be, any longer, amember of your family. I believe he came to understand the light inwhich you regarded him, and shortly after left the place, and since hasbeen most of the time, in Washington, employed there as a clerk in thedead-letter office. I believe _now_, Mr. Argyll, that you were not farwrong in your conjectures. _I have discovered the murderer of HenryMoreland, and can give you positive proof of it!_"
This assertion, deliberately uttered, caused the sensation which mightbe expected. Eleanor, with all her long habit of self-control, gave aslight shriek, and began to tremble like a leaf. Exclamations came fromthe lips of all--I believe James uttered an oath, but I am not certain;for I, perhaps more than any other in the room, was at that momentconfounded. As the idea rushed over me that Mr. Burton had been actinga part toward _me_, and had taken these precautions to get me utterlyin his power, where I could not defend myself, I started to my feet.
"Sit still, Mr. Redfield," said the detective to me, sternly. "There isno avenue of escape for the guilty," and rising, he took the key of thedoor and put it in his pocket, giving me a look difficult to understand.
I did sit down again, not so much because he told me, as that I waspowerless from amazement; as I did so, I met the eyes of James, whichlaughed silently with a triumph so hateful that, at the moment, theyseemed to me the eyes of a devil. All the feelings which, at varioustimes, had been called up by this terrible affair, were nothing tothose which overwhelmed me during the few moments which followed. Mythought tracked many avenues with lightning rapidity; but I could findno light at the end of any of them. I began to believe that GeorgeThorley, in his confession, had criminated _me_--who knew him not--whonever had spoken with him--and that _this_ was the reason why Mr.Burton had withheld that document from me--falsely professingfriendship, while leading me into the pit! If so, what secret enemy hadI who could instruct him to lay the murder at my door? If he _had_accused me, I was well aware that many little circumstances might beturned so as to strengthen the accusation.
I sat there dumb. But there is always strength in innocence--even whenbetrayed by its friends! So I remained quiet and listened.
"When a crime like this is committed," proceeded the detective, quitecalm in the midst of our excitement, "we usually look for the _motive_.Next to avarice come the passions of revenge and jealousy in frequency.We know that money had nothing to do with Henry Moreland'sdeath--revenge and jealousy had. There lived in Blankville three orfour years ago, a young fellow, a druggist, by the name of GeorgeThorley; you remember him, Mr. Argyll?"
Mr. Argyll nodded his head.
"He was an adventurer, self-instructed in medicine, without principle.Shortly after setting up in your village, he fell in love with thiswoman here--Miss Sullivan. She rejected him; both because she had a dimperception of his true character, and because she was interested inanother. She allows me to say, here, what she once before confessed tous, that she loved Henry Moreland--loved him purely and unselfishly,with no wish but for his happiness, and no hope of ever being any thingmore to him than his mother's sewing-girl, to whom he extended someacts of kindness. But George Thorley, with the sharpness of jealousy,discovered her passion, which she supposed was hidden from mortal eyes,and conceived the brutal hate of a low nature against the younggentleman, who was ignorant alike of him and his sentiments. So far, noharm was done, and evil might never have come of it, for Henry Morelandmoved in a sphere different from his, and they might never have come incontact. But another bosom was also possessed of the fiend of jealousy.An inmate of your family had learned to love your daughter Eleanor--notonly to love her, but to look forward to the fortune and position whichwould be conferred by a marriage with her as something extremelydesirable. He would not reconcile himself to the engagement which wasformed between Miss Argyll and Mr. Moreland. He cherished bad thoughts,which grew more bitter as their happiness became more apparent. Once,he was standing at the gate of this lawn, when the young couple passedhim, going out for a walk together. He looked after them with a darklook, speaking aloud, unconsciously, the thought of his heart; he said,'_I hate him! I wish he were dead!_' Instantly, to his surprise anddismay, a voice replied, '_I'm with you there--you don't wish it somuch as I do!_' The speaker was Thorley, who, passing, had beenarrested by the young couple going out of the gate, and who hadremained, also, gazing after them. It was an unfortunate coincidence.The first speaker looked at the second with anger and chagrin; but hehad betrayed himself, and the other knew it. He laughed impudently, ashe sauntered on; but, presently, he returned and whispered, 'I wouldn'tobject to putting him out of the way, if I was well paid for it.' 'Whatdo you mean?' inquired the other, angrily, and the response was, 'Justwhat I say. I hate him as bad as you do; you've got money, _or can getit_, and I can't. Pay me well for the job, and I'll put him out of yourway so securely that he won't interfere with your plans any more.' Theyoung gentleman affected to be, and perhaps was, indignant. The fellowwent off, smirking; but his words left, as he thought they would, theirpoison behind. In less than a month from that time, the person hadsought Thorley out, in his lurking-place in the city--for he had, yourecollect, been driven from Blankville by the voice of publicopinion--and had conferred with him upon the possibility of youngMoreland being put out of the way, without risk of discovery of thosewho had a hand in it. Thorley agreed to manage every thing without riskto any one. He wanted three thousand dollars, but his accomplice, whowas aware that you were about to draw two thousand from a bank in NewYork, promised him that sum, with which he agreed to be satisfied. Itwas expected and
planned that the murder should be committed in thecity; but, as the time drew nigh for accomplishing it, opportunity didnot present. Finally, as the steamer upon which Thorley wished to fleeto California was about to sail, and no better thing offered, heconcluded to follow Mr. Moreland out in the evening train, and stabhim, under cover of the rain and darkness, somewhere between the depotand the house. This he did; then, afraid to take the cars, for fear ofbeing suspected, he went down along the docks, took possession of asmall boat which lay moored by a chain, broke the chain, and rowed downthe river, completely protected by the storm from human observation.The next morning found him in New York, dress, complexion and hairchanged, with nothing about him to excite the least suspicion that hewas connected with the tragedy that was just becoming known. However,he wrote a letter, directed to John Owen, Peekskill, in which he statedin obscure terms, that the instrument with which the murder wascommitted would be found secreted in a certain oak tree on thesepremises, and that it had better be taken care of. I have the letterand the broken instrument. The way it came to be concealed in the treewas this: After the murder, being so well sheltered by the storm, hewas bold enough to approach the house, in hopes of communicating withhis accomplice, and receiving the money directly from his hands, whichwould prevent the latter from the necessity of making a trip toBrooklyn to pay it. He saw nothing of him, however; perceiving that hecould look into the parlor through the open upper half of the shutterby climbing the large oak at the corner, he did so; and was looking atyou all for some minutes on that evening. Perceiving by the light whichshone from the window that the instrument was broken at the point, heat once comprehended how important it was to get rid of it, andchancing to discover a hollow spot in the limb he stood on, he workedit well into the rotten heart of the wood. He it was whom Miss Sullivandetected descending from the tree, on that awful night when she, alas!led by a hopeless, though a pure love, passing the house on her way toher aunt's, could not deny herself a stolen look at the happiness ofthe two beings so soon, she thought, to be made one. She never expectedto see them again until after their marriage, and a wild, foolishimpulse, if I must call it so, urged her into the garden, to lookthrough the open bay-window--a folly which came near having seriousconsequences for her. George Thorley escaped, and fulfilled theprogramme so far as to sail for San Francisco; but the boat stopping atAcapulco, he received an offer there, from a Spanish gentleman, of theposition of doctor on his immense estates. It was just the country fora character like that of Thorley to prosper in; he accepted theproposition, wormed himself into the esteem of the Spaniard, marriedhis daughter, and was flourishing to his heart's content, when I camesuddenly upon him and disturbed his serenity. Yes! Mr. Argyll, Istarted for California after the villain, for I had traces of him whichled me to take the journey, and it was by a providential accident thatI ascertained he was near Acapulco, where I, also, landed, sought himout, and wrung a confession from him, which I have here in writing. Hehas told the story plainly, and I have every other evidence to confirmit which a court of law could possibly require. I could hang hisaccomplice, without doubt."
At the first mention of the name of George Thorley I chanced to belooking at James, over whose countenance passed an indescribablechange; he moved uneasily, looked at the closed doors, and againriveted his gaze on Mr. Burton, who did not look at him at all duringthe narrative, but kept steadily on, to the end, in a firm, clear tone,low, so as not to be overheard outside, but assured and distinct.Having once observed James, I could no longer see any one else. Iseemed to see the story reflected in his countenance, instead ofhearing it. Flushes of heat passed over it, succeeded by an ashypaleness, which deepened into a sickly blue hue, curious to behold;dark passions swept like shadows over it; and gradually, as the speakerneared the climax of his story, I felt like one who gazes into an openwindow of the bottomless pit.
"Have I told you _who_ it was that hired George Thorley to murder HenryMoreland?" asked Mr. Burton, in the pause which followed.
It had been taken for granted who the person was, and as he asked thequestion the eyes of all turned to me--of all except James, whosuddenly sprung with a bound against the door opening into the parlor,which was not locked. But another was too quick for him; the powerfulhand of the detective was on his shoulder, and as he turned theattempted fugitive full to the light, he said, in words which fell likefire,
"It was your nephew--James Argyll."
For a moment you might have heard a leaf drop on the carpet; no onespoke or stirred. Then Eleanor arose from her chair, and, lifting upher hand, looked with awful eyes at the cowering murderer. Her lookblasted him. He had been writhing under Mr. Burton's grasp; but now, asif in answer to her gaze, he said,
"Yes--I did it, Eleanor," and dropped to the floor in a swoon.