CHAPTER II.
EVENTS OF A NIGHT.
It was late in the afternoon of a cloudy, windy autumn day, that I leftthe office of John Argyll, Esq., in his company, to take tea and spendthe evening in his family. I was a law-student in the office, and wasfavored with more than ordinary kindness by him, on account of afriendship that had existed between him and my deceased father. Whenyoung men, they had started out in life together, in equalcircumstances; one had died early, just as fortune began to smile; theother lived to continue in well-earned prosperity. Mr. Argyll had neverceased to take an interest in the orphan son of his friend. He hadaided my mother in giving me a collegiate education, and had taken meinto his office to complete my law studies. Although I did not board athis house, I was almost like a member of the family. There was always aplace for me at his table, with liberty to come and go when I pleased.This being Saturday, I was expected to go home with him, and stay overSunday if I liked.
We quickened our steps as a few large drops were sprinkled over us outof the darkening clouds.
"It will be a rainy night," said Mr. Argyll.
"It may clear away yet," I said, looking toward a rift in the west,through which the declining sun was pouring a silver stream. He shookhis head doubtfully, and we hurried up the steps into the house, toescape the threatened drenching.
Entering the parlors, we found no one but James, a nephew of Mr.Argyll, a young man of about my own age, lounging upon a sofa.
"Where are the girls?"
"They haven't descended from the heavenly regions yet, uncle."
"Dressing themselves to death, I expect--it's Saturday evening, Iremember," smiled the indulgent father, passing on into the library.
I sat down by the west window, and looked out at the coming storm. Idid not like James Argyll much, nor he me; so that, as much as we werethrown together, our intercourse continued constrained. On thisoccasion, however, he seemed in excellent spirits, persisting intalking on all kinds of indifferent subjects despite of my briefreplies. I was wondering when Eleanor would make her appearance.
At last she came. I heard her silk dress rustle down the stairs, and myeyes were upon her when she entered the room. She was dressed withunusual care, and her face wore a brilliant, expectant smile. The smilewas for neither of us. Perhaps James thought of it; I am sure I did,with secret suffering--with a sharp pang which I was ashamed of, andfought inwardly to conquer.
She spoke pleasantly to both of us, but with a preoccupied air notflattering to our vanity. Too restless to sit, she paced up and downthe length of the parlors, seeming to radiate light as she walked, likesome superb jewel--so lustrous was her countenance and so fine hercostume. Little smiles would sparkle about her lips, little trills ofsong break forth, as if she were unconscious of observers. She had aright to be glad; she appeared to exult in her own beauty and happiness.
Presently she came to the window, and as she stood by my side, a burstof glory streamed through the fast-closing clouds, enveloping her in agolden atmosphere, tinting her black hair with purple, flushing herclear cheeks and the pearls about her throat. The fragrance of the roseshe wore on her breast mingled with the light; for a moment I wasthrilled and overpowered; but the dark-blue eyes were not looking onme--they were regarding the weather.
"How provoking that it should rain to-night," she said, and as theslight cloud of vexation swept over her face, the blackness of nightclosed over the gleam of sunset, so suddenly that we could hardlydiscern each other.
"The rain will not keep Moreland away," I answered.
"Of course not--but I don't want him to get wet walking up from thedepot; and Billy has put up the carriage in view of the storm."
At that moment a wild gust of wind smote the house so that it shook,and the rain came down with a roar that was deafening. Eleanor rung forlights.
"Tell cook to be sure and have chocolate for supper--and cream for thepeaches," she said to the servant who came in to light the gas.
The girl smiled; she knew, in common with her mistress, who it waspreferred chocolate and liked cream with peaches; the love of a woman,however sublime in some of its qualities, never fails in the tenderdomestic instincts which delight in promoting the comfort and personaltastes of its object.
"We need not have troubled ourselves to wear our new dresses," poutedMary, the younger sister, who had followed Eleanor down stairs "therewill be nobody here to-night."
Both James and myself objected to being dubbed nobody. The willfulyoung beauty said all the gay things she pleased, telling us shecertainly should not have worn her blue silks, nor puffed her hair forus--
"--Nor for Henry Moreland either--he never looks at me after the firstminute. Engaged people are so stupid! I wish he and Eleanor would makean end of it. If I'm ever going to be bridemaid, I want to be--"
"And a clear field afterward, Miss Molly," jested her cousin. "Come!play that new polka for me."
"You couldn't hear it if I did. The rain is playing a polka thisevening, and the wind is dancing to it."
He laughed loudly--more loudly than the idle fancy warranted. "Let ussee if we can not make more noise than the storm," he said, going tothe piano and thumping out the most thunderous piece that he couldrecall. I was not a musician, but it seemed to me there were morediscords than the law of harmony allowed; and Mary put her hands overher ears, and ran away to the end of the room.
For the next half-hour the rain came down in wide sheets, flappingagainst the windows, as the wind blew it hither and thither. Jamescontinued at the piano, and Eleanor moved restlessly about, stealingglances, now and then, at her tiny watch.
All at once there occurred one of those pauses which precede the freshoutbreaking of a storm; as if startled by the sudden lull, James Argyllpaused in his playing; just then the shrill whistle of the locomotivepierced the silence with more than usual power, as the evening trainswept around the curve of the hill not a quarter of a mile away, andrushed on into the depot in the lower part of the village.
There is something unearthly in the scream of the "steam-eagle,"especially when heard at night. He seems like a sentient thing, with awill of his own, unbending and irresistible; and his cry is threateningand defiant. This night it rose upon the storm prolonged and doleful.
I know not how it sounded to the others, but to me, whose imaginationwas already wrought upon by the tempest and by the presence of thewoman I hopelessly loved, it came with an effect perfectlyoverwhelming; it filled the air, even the perfumed, lighted air of theparlor, full of a dismal wail. It threatened--I know not what. Itwarned against some strange, unseen disaster. Then it sunk into ahopeless cry, so full of mortal anguish, that I involuntarily put myfingers to my ears. Perhaps James felt something of the same thing, forhe started from the piano-stool, walked twice or thrice across thefloor, then flung himself again upon the sofa, and for a long time satwith his eyes shaded, neither speaking nor stirring.
Eleanor, with maiden artifice, took up a book, and composed herself topretend to read; she would not have her lover to know that she had beenso restless while awaiting his coming. Only Mary fluttered about like ahumming-bird, diving into the sweets of things, the music, the flowers,whatever had honey in it; and teasing me in the intervals.
I have said that I loved Eleanor. I did, secretly, in silence andregret, against my judgment and will, and because I could not help it.I was quite certain that James loved her also, and I felt sorry forhim; sympathy was taught me by my own sufferings, though I had neverfelt attracted toward his character. He seemed to me to be rathersullen in temper, as well as selfish; and then again I reproachedmyself for uncharitableness; it might have been his circumstances whichrendered him morose--he was dependent upon his uncle--and hisunhappiness which made him appear unamiable.
I loved, without a particle of hope. Eleanor was engaged to a younggentleman in every way worthy of her: of fine demeanor, high socialposition, and unblemished moral character. As much
as her many admirersmay have envied Henry Moreland, they could not dislike him. To see theyoung couple together was to feel that theirs would be one of those"matches made in heaven"--in age, character, worldly circumstances,beauty and cultivation, there was a rare correspondence.
Mr. Moreland was engaged with his father in a banking business in thecity of New York. They owned a summer villa in Blankville, and it hadbeen during his week of summer idleness here that he had made theacquaintance of Eleanor Argyll.
At this season of the year his business kept him in the city; but hewas in the habit of coming out every Saturday afternoon and spendingSabbath at the house of Mr. Argyll, the marriage which was to terminatea betrothal of nearly two years being now not very far away. On hernineteenth birthday, which came in December, Eleanor was to be married.
Another half-hour passed away and the expected guest did not arrive. Heusually reached the house in fifteen minutes after the arrival of thetrain; I could see that his betrothed was playing nervously with herwatch-chain, though she kept her eyes fixed upon her book.
"Come, let us have tea; I am hungry," said Mr. Argyll, coming out ofthe library. "I had a long ride after dinner. No use waiting,Eleanor--he won't be here to-night"--he pinched her cheek to expresshis sympathy for her disappointment--"a little shower didn't use tokeep beaux away when I was a boy."
"A _little_ rain, papa! I never heard such a torrent before; besides,it was not the storm, of course, for he would have already taken thecars before it commenced."
"To be sure! to be sure! defend your sweetheart, Ella--that's right!But it may have been raining down there half the day--the storm comesfrom that direction. James, are you asleep?"
"I'll soon see," cried Mary, pulling away the hand from her cousin'sface--"why, James, what is the matter?"
Her question caused us all to look at him; his face was of an ashypaleness; his eyes burning like coals of fire.
"Nothing is the matter! I've been half asleep," he answered, laughing,and springing to his feet. "Molly, shall I have the honor?"--she tookhis offered arm, and we went in to tea.
The sight of the well-ordered table, at the head of which Eleanorpresided, the silver, the lights, the odor of the chocolateoverpowering the fainter fragrance of the tea, was enough to banishthoughts of the tempest raging without, saving just enoughconsciousness of it to enhance the enjoyment of the luxury within.
Even Eleanor could not be cold to the warmth and comfort of the hour;the tears, which at first she could hardly keep out of her proud blueeyes, went back to their sources; she made an effort to be gay, andsucceeded in being very charming. I think she still hoped he had beendelayed at the village; and that there would be a note for her at thepost-office, explaining his absence.
For once, the usually kind, considerate girl was selfish. Severe as wasthe storm, she insisted upon sending a servant to the office; she couldnot be kept in suspense until Monday.
She would hardly believe his statement, upon his return, that the mailhad been changed, and there was really no message whatever.
We went back to the parlor and passed a merry evening.
A touch of chagrin, a fear that we should suspect how deeply she wasdisappointed, caused Eleanor to appear in unusually high spirits. Shesung whatever I asked of her; she played some delicious music; sheparried the wit of others with keener and brighter repartee; the rosesbloomed on her cheeks, the stars rose in her eyes. It was not analtogether happy excitement; I knew that pride and loneliness were atthe bottom of it; but it made her brilliantly beautiful. I wonderedwhat Moreland would feel to see her so lovely--I almost regretted thathe was not there.
James, too, was in an exultant mood.
It was late when we retired. I was in a state of mental activity whichkept me awake for hours after. I never heard it rain as it did thatnight--the water seemed to come down in solid masses--and,occasionally, the wind shook the strong mansion as if it were a child.I could not sleep. There was something awful in the storm. If I had hada touch of superstition about me, I should have said that spirits wereabroad.
A healthy man, of a somewhat vivid imagination, but withoutnervousness, unknowing bodily fear, I was still affected strangely. Ishuddered in my soft bed; the wild shriek of the locomotive lingered inmy ears; _something besides rain seemed beating at the windows_. Ah, myGod! I knew afterward what it was. It was a human soul, disembodied,lingering about the place on earth most dear to it. The rest of thehousehold slept well, so far as I could judge, by its silence and deeprepose.
Toward morning I fell asleep; when I awoke the rain was over; the sunshone brightly; the ground was covered with gay autumn leaves shakendown by the wind and rain; the day promised well. I shook off theimpressions of the darkness, dressed myself quickly, for thebreakfast-bell rung, and descending, joined the family of my host atthe table. In the midst of our cheerful repast, the door-bell rung.Eleanor started; the thought that her lover might have stayed at thehotel adjoining the depot on account of the rain, must have crossed hermind, for a rapid blush rose to her cheeks, and she involuntarily putup a hand to the dark braids of her hair as if to give them a moregraceful touch. The servant came in, saying that a man at the doorwished to speak with Mr. Argyll and Mr. Redfield.
"He says it's important, and can't wait, sir."
We arose and went out into the hall, closing the door of thebreakfast-room behind us.
"I'm very sorry--I've got bad news--I hope you won't"--stammered themessenger, a servant from the hotel.
"What is it?" demanded Mr. Argyll.
"The young gentleman that comes here--Moreland's his name, Ibelieve--was found dead on the road this morning."
"Dead!"
"They want you to come down to the inquest. They've got him in a roomof our house. They think it's a fit--there's no marks of any thing."
The father and I looked at each other; the lips of both were quivering;we both thought of Eleanor.
"What shall I do?"
"I don't know, Mr. Argyll. I haven't had time to think."
"I can not--I can not--"
"Nor I--not just yet. Sarah, tell the young ladies we have gone out ashort time on business--and don't you breathe what you have heard.Don't let any one in until we return--don't allow any one to see MissEleanor. Be prudent."
Her frightened face did not promise much for her discretion.
Hastening to the hotel, already surrounded by many people, we found thedistressing message too true. Upon a lounge, in a private sitting-room,lay the body of Henry Moreland! The coroner and a couple of physicianshad already arrived. It was their opinion that he had died from naturalcauses, as there was not the least evidence of violence to be seen. Theface was as pleasant as in slumber; we could hardly believe him deaduntil we touched the icy forehead, about which the thick ringlets ofbrown hair clung, saturated with rain.
"What's this?" exclaimed one, as we began to relieve the corpse of itswet garments, for the purpose of a further examination. It was a stabin the back. Not a drop of blood--only a small triangular hole in thecloak, through the other clothing, into the body. The investigationsoon revealed the nature of the death-wound; it had been given by afine, sharp dirk or stiletto. So firm and forcible had been the blowthat it had pierced the lung and struck the rib with sufficient forceto break the blade of the weapon, about three-quarters of an inch ofthe point of which was found in the wound. Death must have beeninstantaneous. The victim had fallen forward upon his face, bleedinginwardly, which accounted for no blood having been at first perceived;and as he had fallen, so he had lain through all the drenching storm ofthat miserable night. When discovered by the first passer-by, afterdaylight, he was lying on the path, by the side of the street, whichled up in the direction of Mr. Argyll's, his traveling-bag by his side,his face to the ground. The bag was not touched, neither the watch andmoney on his person, making it evident that robbery was not the objectof the murderer.
A stab in the back, in the double darkness of night and storm! Whatenemy had Henry Morela
nd, to do this deed upon him?
It is useless now to repeat all the varying conjectures rising in ourminds, or which continued to engross the entire community for weeksthereafter. It became at once the favorite theory of many that youngMoreland had perished by a stroke intended for some other person. Inthe mean time, the news swept through the village like a whirlwind,destroying the calmness of that Sabbath morning, tossing the minds ofpeople more fearfully than the material tempest had tossed the frailleaves. Murder! and such a murder in such a place!--not twenty rodsfrom the busiest haunts of men, on a peaceful street--sudden, sure,unprovoked! People looked behind them as they walked, hearing theassassin's step in every rustle of the breeze. Murder!--the far-away,frightful idea had suddenly assumed a real shape--it seemed to havestalked through the town, entering each dwelling, standing by everyhearth-stone.
While the inquest was proceeding, Mr. Argyll and myself were thinkingmore of Eleanor than of her murdered lover.
"This is wretched business, Richard," said the father. "I am sounnerved I can do nothing. Will you telegraph to his parents for me?"
His parents--here was more misery. I had not thought of them. I wroteout the dreadful message which it ought to have melted the wires withpity to carry.
"And now you must go to Eleanor. She must not hear it from strangers;and I can not--Richard!--you will tell her, will you not? I will followyou home immediately; as soon as I have made arrangements to have poorHenry brought to our house when the inquest is over."
He wrung my hand, looking at me so beseechingly, that, loth as I was, Ihad no thought of refusing. I felt like one walking with frozen feet asI passed out of the chamber of horror into the peaceful sunlight, alongthe very path _he_ had last trodden, and over the spot where he hadfallen and had lain so many hours undiscovered, around which a crowdwas pressing, disturbed, excited, but not noisy. The sandy soil hadalready filtered the rain, so as to be nearly dry; there was nothing togive a clue to the murderer's footsteps, whither he went or whence hecame--what impress they might have made in the hard, gravelly walk hadbeen washed out by the storm. A few persons were searching carefullyfor the weapon which had been the instrument of death, and which hadbeen broken in the wound, thinking it might have been cast away in thevicinity.