CHAPTER III.
THE FIGURE BENEATH THE TREES.
As I came near the old Argyll mansion, it seemed to me never to havelooked so fair before. The place was the embodiment of calm prosperity.Stately and spacious it rose from the lawn in the midst of great oldoaks whose trunks must have hardened through a century of growth, andwhose red leaves, slowly dropping, now flamed in the sunshine. Althoughthe growing village had stretched up to and encircled the grounds, ithad still the air of a country place, for the lawn was roomy and thegardens were extensive. The house was built of stone, in a massive yetgraceful style; with such sunshiny windows and pleasant porticoes thatit had nothing of a somber look.
It is strange what opposite emotions will group themselves in the soulat the same moment. The sight of those lordly trees called up theexquisite picture of Tennyson's "Talking Oak":
"Oh, muffle round thy knees with fern, And shadow Sumner-chace! Long may thy topmost branch discern The roofs of Sumner-place!"
I wondered if Henry had not repeated them, as he walked with Eleanoramid the golden light and flickering shadows beneath the branches ofthese trees. I recalled how I once, in my madness, before I knew thatshe was betrothed to another, had apostrophized the monarch of themall, in the passionate words of Walter. Now, looking at this ancienttree, I perceived with my eyes, though hardly with my mind, that it hadsome fresh excoriations upon the bark. If I thought any thing at allabout it, I thought it the work of the storm, for numerous branches hadbeen torn from the trees throughout the grove, and the ground wascarpeted with fresh-fallen leaves.
Passing up the walk, I caught a glimpse of Eleanor at an upper window,and heard her singing a hymn, softly to herself, as she moved about herchamber. I stopped as if struck a blow. How could I force myself todrop the pall over this glorious morning? Alas! of all the homes inthat village, perhaps this was the only one on which the shadow had notyet fallen--this, over which it was to settle, to be lifted nevermore.
Of all the hearts as yet unstartled by the tragic event was that mostcertain to be withered--that young heart, this moment so full of loveand bliss, caroling hymns out of the fullness of its gratitude to Godfor its own delicious happiness.
Oh, I must--I must! I went in at an open window, from a portico intothe library. James was there, dressed for church, his prayer-book andhandkerchief on the table, and he looking over the last evening'spaper. The sight of him gave me a slight relief; his uncle and myselfhad forgotten him in the midst of our distress. It was bad enough tohave to tell any one such news, but any delay in meeting Eleanor waseagerly welcomed. He looked at me inquiringly--my manner was enough todenote that something had gone wrong.
"What is it, Richard?"
"Horrible--most horrible!"
"For heaven's sake, _what_ is the matter?"
"Moreland has been murdered."
"Moreland! What? Where? Whom do they suspect?"
"And her father wishes me to tell Eleanor. You are her cousin, James;will you not be the fittest person?" the hope crossing me that he wouldundertake the delivery of the message.
"_I!_" he exclaimed, leaning against the case of books beside him. "I!oh, no, not I. I'd be the last person! I'd look well telling her aboutit, wouldn't I?" and he half laughed, though trembling from head tofoot.
If I thought his manner strange, I did not wonder at it--the dreadfulnature of the shock had unnerved all of us.
"Where is Mary?" I asked; "we had better tell her first, and have herpresent. Indeed, I wish--"
I had turned toward the door, which opened into the hall, to search forthe younger sister, as I spoke; the words died on my lips. Eleanor wasstanding there. She had been coming in to get a book, and had evidentlyheard what had passed. She was as white as the morning dress she wore.
"Where is he?" Her voice sounded almost natural.
"At the Eagle Hotel," I answered, without reflection, glad that sheshowed such self-command, and, since she did, glad also that theterrible communication was over.
She turned and ran through the hall, down the avenue toward the gate.In her thin slippers, her hair uncovered, fleet as a vision of thewind, she fled. I sprung after her. It would not do to allow her toshock herself with that sudden, awful sight. As she rushed out upon thestreet I caught her by the arm.
"Let me go! I must go to him! Don't you see, he will need me?"
She made an effort to break away, looking down the street with strainedeyes. Poor child! as if, he being dead, she could do him any good! Herstunned heart had as yet gone no further than that if Henry was hurt,was murdered, he would need her by his side. She must go to him andcomfort him in his calamity. It was yet to teach her that this worldand the things of this world--even she, herself, were no more to him.
"Come back, Eleanor; they will bring him to you before long."
I had to lift her in my arms and carry her back to the house.
In the hall we met Mary, who had heard the story from James, and whoburst into tears and sobs as she saw her sister.
"They are keeping me away from him," said Eleanor, pitifully, lookingat her. I felt her form relax in my arms, saw that she had fainted;James and I carried her to a sofa, while Mary ran distractedly for thehousekeeper.
There was noisy wailing now in the mansion; the servants all admiredand liked the young gentleman to whom their mistress was to be married;and, as usual, they gave full scope to their powers of expressingterror and sympathy. In the midst of cries and tears, the insensiblegirl was conveyed to her chamber.
James and myself paced the long halls and porticoes, waiting to heartidings of her recovery. After a time the housekeeper came down,informing us that Miss Argyll had come to her senses; leastwise, enoughto open her eyes and look about; but she wouldn't speak, and she lookeddreadful.
Just then Mr. Argyll came in. After being informed of what hadoccurred, he went up to his daughter's room. With uttermost tendernesshe gave her the details of the murder, as they were known; his eyesoverrunning with tears to see that not a drop of moisture softened herfixed, unnatural look.
Friends came in and went out with no notice from her.
"I wish they would all leave me but you, Mary," she said, after a time."Father, you will let me know when--"
"Yes--yes." He kissed her, and she was left with her sister for awatcher.
Hours passed. Some of us went into the dining-room and drank of thestrong tea which the housekeeper had prepared, for we felt weak andunnerved. The parents were expected in the evening train, there beingbut one train running on Sunday. The shadow deepened over the housefrom hour to hour.
It was late in the afternoon before the body could be removed from thehotel where the coroner's inquest was held. I asked James to go with meand attend upon its conveyance to Mr. Argyll's. He declined, upon theplea of being too much unstrung to go out.
As the sad procession reached the garden in front of the mansion withits burden, I observed, in the midst of several who had gathered about,a woman, whose face, even in that time of preoccupation, arrested myattention. It was that of a girl, young and handsome, though now thinand deadly pale, with a wild look in her black eyes, which were fixedupon the shrouded burden with more than awe and curiosity.
I know not yet why I remarked her so particularly; why her strange facemade such an impression on me. Once she started toward us, and thenshrunk back again. By her dress and general appearance she might havebeen a shop-girl. I had never seen her before.
"That girl," said a gentleman by my side, "acts queerly. And, come tothink, she was on the train from New York yesterday afternoon. Not theone poor Moreland came in; the one before. I was on board myself, andnoticed her particularly, as she sat facing me. She seemed to have sometrouble on her mind."
I seldom forget faces; and I never forgot hers.
"I will trace her out," was my mental resolve.
We passed on into the ho
use, and deposited our charge in the backparlor. I thought of Eleanor, as she had walked this room justtwenty-four hours ago, a brilliant vision of love and triumphantbeauty. Ay! twenty-four hours ago this clay before me was asresplendent with life, as eager, as glowing with the hope of the soulwithin it! Now, all the hours of time would never restore the tenant tohis tenement. Who had dared to take upon himself the responsibility ofunlawfully and with violence, ejecting this human soul from its house?
I shuddered as I asked myself the question. Somewhere must be lurking aguilty creature, with a heart on fire from the flames of hell, withwhich it had put itself in contact.
Then my heart stood still within me--all but the family had beenbanished from the apartment--her father was leading in Eleanor. With aslow step, clinging to his arm, she entered; but as her eyes fixedthemselves upon the rigid outlines lying there beneath the funeralpall, she sprung forward, casting herself upon her lover's corpse.Before, she had been silent; now began a murmur of woe so heart-rendingthat we who listened wished ourselves deaf before our ears had heardtones and sentences which could never be forgotten. It would be uselessfor me, a man, with a man's language and thoughts, to attempt to repeatwhat this broken-hearted woman said to her dead lover.
It was not her words so much as it was her pathetic tones.
She talked to him as if he were alive and could hear her. She wasresolved to make him hear and feel her love through the dark deathwhich was between them.
"Ah, Henry," she said, in a low, caressing tone, pressing back thecurls from his forehead with her hand, "your hair is wet still. Tothink that you should lie out there all night--all night--on theground, in the rain, and I not know of it! I, to be sleeping in my warmbed--actually sleeping, and you lying out in the storm, dead. That isthe strangest thing! that makes me wonder--to think I _could_! Tell methat you forgive me for that, darling--for sleeping, you know, when youwere out there. I was thinking of you when I took the rose out of mydress at night. I dreamed of you all night, but if I had known whereyou were, I would have gone out barefooted, I would have stayed by youand kept the rain from your face, from your dear, dear hair that I likeso much and hardly ever dare to touch. It was cruel of me to sleep so.Would you guess, I was vexed at you last evening because you didn'tcome? It was that made me so gay--not because I was happy. Vexed at youfor not coming, when you could not come because you were dead!" and shelaughed.
As that soft, dreadful laughter thrilled through the room, with a groanMr. Argyll arose and went out; he could bear no more. Disturbed with afear that her reason was shaken, I spoke with Mary, and we two tried tolift her up, and persuade her out of the room.
"Oh, don't try to get me away from him again," she pleaded, with aquivering smile, which made us sick. "Don't be troubled, Henry. I'm_not_ going--I'm _not_! They are going to put my hand in yours and buryme with you. It's so curious I should have been playing the piano andwearing my new dress, and never guessing it! that you were so nearme--dead--murdered!"
The kisses; the light, gentle touches of his hands and forehead, as ifshe might hurt him with the caresses which she could not withhold; theintent look which continually watched him as if expecting an answer;the miserable smile upon her white face--these were things whichhaunted those who saw them through many a future slumber.
"You will not say you forgive me for singing last night. You don't saya word to me--because you are dead--that's it--because you aredead--murdered!"
The echo of her own last word recalled her wandering reason.
"My God! murdered!" she exclaimed, suddenly rising to her full hight,with an awful air; "who do you suppose did it?"
Her cousin was standing near; her eyes fell upon him as she asked thequestion. The look, the manner, were too much for his alreadyoverwrought sensibility; he shrunk away, caught my arm, and sunk down,insensible. I did not wonder. We all of us felt as if we could endureno more.
Going to the family physician, who waited in another apartment, Ibegged of him to use some influence to withdraw Miss Argyll from theroom, and quiet her feelings and memory, before her brain yielded tothe strain upon it. After giving us some directions what to do withJames, he went and talked with her, with so much wisdom and tact, thatthe danger to her reason seemed passing; persuading her also intotaking the powder which he himself administered; but no argument couldinduce her to leave the mute, unanswering clay.
The arrival of the relatives was the last scene in the tragedy of thatday. Unable to bear more of it, I went out in the darkness and walkedupon the lawn. My head was hot; the cool air felt grateful to me; Ileaned long upon the trunk of an oak, whose dark shadow shut out thestarlight from about me; thought was busy with recent events. Who wasthe murderer? The question revolved in my brain, coming uppermost everyother moment, as certainly as the turning of a wheel brings a certainpoint again and again to the top. My training, as a student of the law,helped my mind to fix upon every slightest circumstance which mighthold a suspicion.
"Could that woman?"--but no, the hand of a woman could scarcely havegiven that sure and powerful blow. It looked like the work of a_practiced_ hand--or, if not, at least it had been deliberately given,with malice aforethought. The assassin had premeditated the deed; hadwatched his victim and awaited the hour. Thus far, there was absolutelyno clue whatever to the guilty party; bold as was the act, committed inthe early evening, in the haunts of a busy community, it had been mostfatally successful; and the doer had vanished as completely as if theearth had opened and swallowed him up. No one, as yet, could form anyplausible conjecture, even as to the _motive_.
In the name of Eleanor Argyll--in the name of her whom I loved, whosehappiness I had that day seen in ruins, I vowed to use every endeavorto discover and bring to punishment the murderer. I know not why thispurpose took such firm hold of me. The conviction of the guilty wouldnot restore the life which had been taken; the bloom to a heartprematurely withered; it would afford no consolation to the bereaved.Yet, if to discover, had been to call back Henry Moreland to the worldfrom which he had been so ruthlessly dismissed, I could hardly havebeen more determined in the pursuit. In action only could I feel relieffrom the oppression which weighed upon me. It could not give life tothe dead--but the voice of Justice called aloud, never to permit thisdeed to sink into oblivion, until she had executed the divine vengeanceof the law upon the doer.
As I stood there in silence and darkness, pondering the matter, I hearda light rustle of the dry leaves upon the ground, and felt, rather thansaw, a figure pass me. I might have thought it one of the servants wereit not for the evident caution of its movements. Presently, where theshadows of the trees were less thick, I detected a person stealingtoward the house. As she crossed an open space, the starlight revealedthe form and garments of a female; the next moment she passed into theobscurity of shadows again, where she remained some time, unsuspiciousof my proximity, like myself leaning against a tree, and watching themansion. Apparently satisfied that no one was about--the hour nowverging toward midnight--she approached with hovering steps, nowpausing, now drawing back, the west side of the mansion, from one ofthe windows of which the solemn light of the death-candles shone. Underthis window she crouched down. I could not tell if her attitude were akneeling one. It must have been more than an hour that she remainedmotionless in this place; I, equally quiet, watching the dark spotwhere she was. For the instant that she had stood between me and thewindow, her form was outlined against the light, when I saw that thismust be the young woman whose strange conduct at the gate had attractedmy attention. Of course I did not see her face; but the tall, slenderfigure, the dark bonnet, and nervous movement, were the same. Iperplexed myself with vain conjectures.
I could not help connecting her with the murder, or with the victim, insome manner, however vague.
At last she arose, lingered, went away, passing near me with that soft,rustling step again. I was impelled to stretch out my hand and seizeher; her conduct was suspicious; she ought to be arrested and examined,if only to clea
r herself of these circumstances. The idea that, byfollowing her, I might trace her to some haunt, where proofs weresecreted, or accomplices hidden, withheld my grasp.
Cautiously timing my step with hers, that the murmur of the leavesmight not betray me, I followed. As she passed out the gate, I stoodbehind a tree, lest she should look back and discern me; then I passedthrough, following along in the shadow of the fence.
She hurried on in the direction of the spot at which the murder hadbeen committed; but when nearly there, perceiving that some persons,though long past midnight, still hovered about the fatal place, sheturned, and passed me. As soon as I dared, without alarming her, I alsoturned, pursuing her through the long, quiet street, until it broughther to a more crowded and poorer part of the village, where she wentdown a side street, and disappeared in a tenement-house, theentrance-hall to which was open. I ought to have gone at once forofficers, and searched the place; but I unwisely concluded to wait fordaylight.
As I came up the walk on my return, I met James Argyll in the avenue,near the front portico.
"Oh, is it you?" he exclaimed, after I had spoken to him. "I thought itwas--was--"
"You are not superstitious, James?" for his hollow voice betrayed thathe was frightened.
"You did give me a confounded uneasy sensation as you came up," heanswered with a laugh.--How can people laugh under suchcircumstances?--"Where have you been at this hour, Richard?"
"Walking in the cool air. The house smothered me."
"So it did me. I could not rest. I have just come out to get a breathof air."
"It is almost morning," I said, and passed on into my chamber.
I knew who watched, without food, without rest, in the chamber ofdeath, by whose door my footsteps led; but ache as my heart might, Ihad no words of comfort for sorrow like hers--so I passed on.