CHAPTER IV.
MORELAND VILLA.
Several minor circumstances prevented my going in search of the womanwho had excited my suspicions on the previous day, until about nineo'clock of the morning, when I engaged an officer, and we two wentquietly, without communicating our plans to any one else, to thetenement-house before spoken of.
Although Blankville was not a large village, there was in it, as innearly every town blessed with a railroad depot, a shabby quarter wherethe rougher portion of its working people lived. The house stood inthis quarter--it was a three-story frame building, occupied by half adozen families, mostly those of Irish laborers, who found work in thevicinity of the depot. I had seen the strange girl ascend to the secondfloor, in the dim light of the previous night, so we went up andknocked at the first door we came upon. It was opened by adecent-appearing middle-aged woman, who held the knob in her hand whileshe waited for us to make known our errand; we both stepped into herapartment, before we spoke. A rapid glance revealed an innocent-lookingroom with the ordinary furniture of such a place--a cooking-stove, bed,table, etc.; but no other inmate. There was a cupboard, the door ofwhich stood open, showing its humble array of dishes andeatables--there were no pantries, nor other places of concealment. Iwas certain that I had seen the girl enter this room at the head of thestairs, so I ventured:
"Is your daughter at home, ma'am?"
"Is it my niece you mean?"
I detected an Irish accent, though the woman spoke with but little"brogue," and was evidently an old resident of our country--in a manner_Americanized_.
"Oh, she is your niece? I suppose so--a tall girl with dark eyes andhair."
"That's Leesy, herself. Was you wanting any work done?"
"Yes," answered the officer, quickly, taking the matter out of myhands. "I wanted to get a set of shirts made up--six, with fine,stitched bosoms." He had noticed a cheap sewing-machine standing nearthe window, and a bundle of coarse muslin in a basket near by.
"It's sorry I am to disappoint you; but Leesy's not with me now, and Ihardly venture on the fine work. I make the shirts for the hands aboutthe railroad that hasn't wives of their own to do it--but for the finebussums"--doubtfully--"though, to be sure, the machine does thestitches up beautiful--if it wasn't for the button-holes!"
"Where is Leesy? Doesn't she stop with you?"
"It's her I have here always when she's out of a place. She's anorphan, poor girl, and it's not in the blood of a Sullivan to turn offtheir own. I've brought her up from a little thing of five yearsold--given her the education, too. She can read and write like theladies of the land."
"You didn't say where she was, Mrs. Sullivan."
"She's making the fine things in a fancy-store in New York--caps andcollars and sleeves and the beautiful tucked waists--she's _such_taste, and the work is not so hard as plain-sewing--four dollars a weekshe gets, and boarded for two and a half, in a nice, genteel place. Sheexpects to be illivated to the forewoman's place, at seven dollars theweek, before many months. She was here to stay over the Sunday withme--she often does that; and she's gone back by the six o'clock trainthis mornin'--and she'll be surely late at that by an hour. I tried tocoax her to stay the day, she seemed so poorly. She's not been herselfthis long time--she seems goin' in a decline like--it's the stoopingover the needle, I think. She's so nervous-like, the news of the murderyesterday almost killed her. 'Twas an awful deed that, wasn't it,gintlemen? I couldn't sleep a wink last night for thinkin' of that pooryoung man and the sweet lady he was to have married. Such a fine,generous, polite young gintleman!"
"Did you know him?"
"Know him! as well as my own son if I had one!--not that ever I spoketo him, but he's passed here often on his way to his father's house,and to Mr. Argyll's; and Leesy sewed in their family these two summerswhen they've been here, and was always twice paid. When she'd go awayhe'd say, laughing in his beautiful way, 'And how much have you earneda day, Miss Sullivan, sitting there all these long, hot hours?' andshe'd answer, 'Fifty cents a day, and thanks to your mother for thegood pay;' and he'd put his hand in his pocket and pull out aten-dollar gold-piece and say, 'Women aren't half paid for their work!it's a shame! if you hain't earned a dollar a day, Miss Sullivan, youhain't earned a cent. So don't be afraid to take it--it's your due.'And that's what made Leesy think so much of him--he was so thoughtfulof the poor--God bless him! How could anybody have the heart to do it!"
I looked at the officer and found his eyes reading my face. One thoughthad evidently flashed over both of us; but it was a suspicion whichwronged the immaculate memory of Henry Moreland, and I, for my part,banished it as soon as it entered my mind. It was like him to paygenerously the labors of a sickly sewing-girl; it was not like him totake any advantage of her ignorance or gratitude, which might result inher taking such desperate revenge for her wrongs. The thought was aninsult to him and to the noble woman who was to have been his wife. Iblushed at the intrusive, unwelcome fancy; but the officer, not knowingthe deceased as I knew him, and, perhaps, having no such exalted ideaof manhood as mine, seemed to feel as if here might be a thread tofollow.
"Leesy thought much of him, you think, Mrs. Sullivan," taking a chairunbidden, and putting on a friendly, gossiping air. "Everybody speakswell of him. So she sewed in the family?"
"Six weeks every summer. They was always satisfied with hersewing--she's the quickest and neatest hand with the needle! She'd makethem shirts of yours beautiful, if she was to home, sir."
"When did she go to New York to live?"
"Last winter, early. It's nearly a year now. There was something comeacross her--she appeared homesick like, and strange. When she said shemeant to go to the city and get work, I was minded to let her go, for Ithought the change mebbe would do her good. But she's quite ailing andcoughs dreadful o' nights. I'm afraid she catched cold in thatrain-storm night afore last; she came up all the way from the depot init. She was wet to the skin when she got here and as white as a sheet.She was so weak-like that when the neighbors came in with the newsyesterday, she gave a scream and dropped right down. I didn't wondershe was took aback. I ain't got done trembling yet myself."
I remembered the gentleman who had first spoken to me about the girlsaid that she had come in on the morning train Saturday; I could notreconcile this with her coming up from the depot at dark; yet I wishedto put my question in such a way as not to arouse suspicion of mymotive.
"If she came in the six o'clock train she must have been on the sametrain with Mr. Moreland."
"I believe she was in the seven o'clock cars--yes, she was. 'Twashalf-past seven when she got in--the rain was pouring down awful. Shedidn't see him, for I asked her yesterday."
"In whose shop in New York is she employed?" inquired the officer.
"She's at No 3--Broadway," naming a store somewhere between Wall streetand Canal.
"Are you wanting her for any thing?" she asked, suddenly, looking upsharply as if it just occurred to her that our inquiries were ratherpointed.
"Oh, no," replied my companion, rising; "I was a bit tired, and thoughtI'd rest my feet before starting out again. I'll thank you for a glassof water, Mrs. Sullivan. So you won't undertake the shirts?"
"If I thought I could do the button-holes--"
"Perhaps your niece could do them on her next visit, if you wanted thejob," I suggested.
"Why, so she could! and would be glad to do something for her old aunt.It's bright you are to put me in mind of it. Shall I come for the work,sir?"
"I'll send it round when I get it ready. I suppose your niece intendsto visit you next Saturday?"
"Well, ra'ly, I can't say. It's too expensive her coming every week;but, she'll sure be here afore the whole six is complate. Good-mornin',gintlemen--and they's heard nothin' of the murderer, I'll warrant?"
We responded that nothing had been learned, and descending to thestreet, it was arranged, as we walked along, that the officer should goto New York
and put some detective there on the track of LeesySullivan. I informed my companion of the discrepancy between her actualarrival in town and her appearance at her aunt's. Either the woman hadpurposely deceived us, or her niece had not gone home for a good manyhours after landing at Blankville. I went with him to the depot, wherewe made a few inquiries which convinced us that she had arrived onSaturday morning, and sat an hour or two in the ladies' room, and thengone away up town.
There was sufficient to justify our looking further. I took from my ownpocket means to defray the expenses of the officer as well as tointerest the New York detective, adding that liberal rewards were aboutto be offered, and waited until I saw him depart on his errand.
Then, turning to go to the office, my heart so sickened at the idea ofbusiness and the ordinary routine of living in the midst of suchmisery, that my footsteps shrunk away from their familiar paths! Icould do nothing, just then, for the aid or comfort of the afflicted.The body was to be taken that afternoon to the city for interment, thenext day, in the family inclosure at Greenwood; until the hour for itsremoval, there was nothing more that friendship could perform in theservice of the mourners. My usual prescription for mental ailments wasa long and vigorous walk; to-day I felt as if I could breathe only inthe wide sunshine, so cramped and chilled were my spirits.
The summer residence of the Morelands lay about a mile beyond theArgyll mansion, out of the village proper, on a hillside, which slopeddown to the river. It was surrounded by fine grounds, and commanded oneof the loveliest views of the Hudson.
"A spirit in my feet Led me, who knows how?"
in the direction of this now vacant and solitary place--solitary, Ibelieved, with the exception of the gardener and his wife, who lived ina cottage back of the gardens, and who remained the year round, he toattend to out-door matters, and she to give housekeeper's care to theclosed mansion.
The place had never looked more beautiful to me, not even in the bloomof its June foliage and flowers, than it did as I approached it on thisoccasion. The frosts had turned to every gorgeous color the tops of thetrees which stood out here and there; back of the house, and extendingdown toward the southern gate, by which I entered, a grove of maplesand elms glowed in the autumn sunshine; the lawn in front sloped downto the water's edge, which flowed by in a blue and lordly stream,bearing on its broad bosom picturesque white ships. In the garden,through which I was now walking, many brilliant flowers still lingered:asters, gold, pink and purple; chrysanthemums; some dahlias which hadbeen covered from the frost; pansies lurking under their broad leaves.It had been the intention of the young couple to make this theirpermanent home after their marriage, going to the city only for acouple of the winter months. The very next week, I had heard, Eleanorexpected to go down to help Henry in his selection of new furniture.
Here the mansion lay, bathed in the rich sunshine; the garden sparkledwith flowers as the river with ripples, so full, as it were, ofconscious, joyous _life_, while the master of all lay in a darkenedroom awaiting his narrow coffin. Never had the uncertainty of humanpurposes so impressed me as when I looked abroad over that statelyresidence and thought of the prosperous future which had come to soawful a standstill. I gathered a handful of pansies--they wereEleanor's favorites. As I approached the house by the garden, I camenearly upon the portico which extended across its western front beforeI perceived that it was occupied. Sitting on its outer edge, with onearm half wound around one of its pillars, and her bonnet in the grassat her feet, I beheld the sewing-girl after whom I had dispatched anofficer to New York. She did not perceive me, and I had an opportunityof studying the face of the woman who had fallen under my suspicion,when she was unaware that my eye was upon it, and when her soul lookedout of it, unvailed, in the security of solitude. The impression whichshe made upon me was that of despair. It was written on attitude andexpression. It was neither grief nor remorse--it was blank despair. Itmust have been half an hour that I remained quiet, watching her. In allthat time she never stirred hand nor eyelid; her glance was upon thegreensward at her feet. When I turn to that page of my memory, I seeher, photographed, as it were, upon it--every fold of the dark dress,which was some worsted substance, frayed, but neat; the black shawl,bordered, drawn close about the slender shoulders, which had theslight, habitual stoop of those who ply the needle for a living; thejetty hair pushed back from her forehead, the marble whiteness andrigidity of the face and mouth.
It was a face made to express passion. And, although the only passionexpressed now was that of despair, so intense that it grew like apathy,I could easily see how the rounded chin and full lips could melt intosofter moods. The forehead was rather low, but fair, consorting withthe oval of the cheek and chin; the brows dark and rather heavy. Iremembered the wild black eyes which I had seen the previous day, andcould guess at their hidden fires.
This was a girl to attract interest at any time, and I mutely wonderedwhat had entangled the threads of her fate in the glittering web of ahigher fortune, which was now suddenly interwoven with the pall ofdeath. All her movements had been such as to confirm my desire toascertain her connection, if any, with the tragedy. It seemed to methat if I could see her eyes, before she was conscious of observance, Icould tell whether there was guilt, or only sorrow, in her heart;therefore I remained quiet, waiting. But I had mistaken my powers, orthe eyes overbore them. When she did lift them, as a steamer camepuffing around the base of the mountain which ran down into the riverat the east, and they suddenly encountered mine, where I stood not tenfeet from her, I saw only black, unfathomable depths, pouring out atrouble so intense, that my own gaze dropped beneath their power.
She did not start, upon observing me, which, as I thought, a guiltyperson, buried in self-accusing reveries, would have done--it seemedonly slowly to penetrate her consciousness that a stranger wasconfronting her; when I raised my eyes, which had sunk beneath theintensity of hers, she was moving rapidly away toward the western gate.
"Miss Sullivan, you have forgotten your bonnet."
With a woman's instinct she put up her hand to smooth her disorderedhair, came slowly back and took the bonnet which I extended toward her,without speaking. I hesitated what move to make next. I wished toaddress her--she was here, in my grasp, and I ought to satisfy myself,as far as possible, about the suspicions which I had conceived. I mightdo her an irreparable injury by making my feelings public, if she wereinnocent of any aid or instigation of the crime which had beencommitted, yet there were circumstances which could hardly passunchallenged. That unaccountable absence of hers on Saturday, fromthree o'clock until an hour after the murder was committed; thestatement of her aunt that she was in the city, and my finding her inthis spot, in connection with the midnight visit to the window, and theother things which I had observed, were sufficient to justify inquiry.Yet, if I alarmed her prematurely I should have the less chance ofcoming upon proofs, and her accomplices, if she had any, would be ledto take steps for greater safety. Anyhow, I would make her speak, andfind what there was in her voice.
"Your aunt told me that you had gone to New York," I said, steppingalong beside her, as she turned away.
"She thought so. Did you come here to see me, sir?" stopping short inher walk, and looking at me as if she expected me to tell my business.
This again did not look like the trepidation of guilt.
"No. I came out for a walk. I suppose our thoughts have led us both inthe same direction. This place will have an interest to many,hereafter."
"Interest! the interest of vulgar curiosity! It will give themsomething to talk about. I hate it!" She spoke more to herself than tome, while a ray of fire darted from those black orbs; the next instanther face subsided into that passionate stillness again.
Her speech was not that of her station; I recalled what her aunt hadsaid about the education she had bestowed on her, and decided that thegirl's mind was one of those which reach out beyond theircircumstances--aspiring--ambitious--and that this asp
iring nature mayhave led her into her present unhappiness. That she was unhappy, if notsinful, it took but a glance to assure me.
"So do I hate it. I do not like to have the grief of my friendssubjected to cold and curious eyes."
"Yet, it is a privilege to have the right to mourn. I tell you thesorrow of that beautiful lady he was to have married is light comparedwith trouble that some feel. There are those who envy her."
It was not her words, as much as her wild, half-choked voice, whichgave effect to them; she spoke, and grew silent, as if conscious thatthe truth had been wrung from her in the ear of a stranger. We hadreached the gate, and she seemed anxious to escape through it; but Iheld it in my hand, looking hard at her, as I said--"It may have beenthe hand of envy which dashed the cup of fruition from her lips. Heryoung life is withered never to bloom again. I can imagine but onewretchedness in this world greater than hers--and that is thewretchedness of the guilty person who has _murder_ written on his orher soul."
A spasm contracted her face; she pushed at the gate which I still held.
"Ah, don't," she said; "let me pass."
I opened it and she darted through, fleeing along the road which ledout around the backward slope of the hill, like Io pursued by thestinging fly. Her path was away from the village, so that I hardlyexpected to see her again that day.
Within two minutes the gardener's wife came up the road to the gate.She had been down to visit the corpse of her young master; her eyeswere red with weeping.
"How do you do, Mr. Redfield? These be miserable times, ain't they? Myvery heart is sore in my breast; but I couldn't cry a tear in the roomwhere he was, a-lying there like life, for Miss Eleanor sot by him likea statue. It made me cold all over to see her--I couldn't speak to saveme. The father and mother are just broke down, too."
"How is Miss Eleanor, this morning?"
"The Lord knows! She doesn't do any thing but sit there, as quiet ascan be. It's a bad symptom, to my thinking. 'Still waters run deep.'They're a-dreading the hour when they'll have to remove the body fromthe house--they're afraid her mind 'll go."
"No, no," I answered, inwardly shuddering; "Eleanor's reason is toofine and powerful to be unstrung, even by a blow like this."
"Who was that went out the gate as I came around the bend? Was it thatgirl, again?"
"Do you mean Leesy Sullivan?"
"Yes, sir. Do you know her? She acts mighty queer, to my thinkin'. Shewas out here Saturday, sittin' in the summer-house, all alone, 'tillthe rain began to fall--I guess she got a good soaking going home. Ididn't think much about her; it was Saturday, and I thought likely shewas taking a holiday, and there's many people like to come here, it'sso pleasant. But what's brought her here again to-day is more'n I canguess. Do you know, sir?"
"I do not. I found her sitting on the portico looking at the river.Maybe she comes out for a walk and stops here to rest. She probablyfeels somewhat at home, she has sewed so much in the family. I don'tknow her at all, myself; I never spoke to her until just now. Did youget much acquainted with her, when she was in the house?"
"I never spoke to her above a dozen times. I wasn't at the house much,and she was always at work. She seemed fast with her needle, and a girlwho minded her own business. I thought she was rather proud, for aseamstress--she was handsome, and I reckon she knew it. She's gettingthinner; she had red spots on her cheeks, Saturday, that I didn'tlike--looked consumptive."
"Did the family treat her with particular kindness?" It was as near asI cared to put into words what I was thinking of.
"You know it's in the whole Moreland race to be generous and kind tothose under them. I've known Henry more than once, when the family wasgoing out for a drive, to insist upon Miss Sullivan's taking a seat inthe carriage--but never when he was going alone. I heard him tell hismother that the poor girl looked tired, as if she needed a breath ofair and a bit of freedom, and the kind-hearted lady would laugh at herson, but do as he said. It was just like him. But I'd stake myeverlasting futur' that he never took any advantage of her feelings, ifit's that you're thinking of, Mr. Redfield."
"So would I, Mrs. Scott. There is no one can have a higher respect forthe character of that noble young gentleman, than I. I would resent aninsult to his memory more quickly than if he had been my brother. But,as you say, there is something queer in the actions of Miss Sullivan. Iknow that I can trust your discretion, Mrs. Scott, for I have heard itwell spoken of; do not say any thing to others, not even to yourhusband, but keep a watch on that person if she should come here anymore. Report to me what she does, and what spot she frequents."
"I will do so, sir. But I don't think any harm of her. She may havebeen unfortunate enough to think too much of the kindness with which hetreated her. If so, I pity her--she could hardly help it, poor thing.Henry Moreland was a young gentleman a good many people loved."
She put her handkerchief to her eyes in a fresh burst of tears. Wishingher good-morning, I turned toward the village, hardly caring what Ishould do next. Mrs. Scott was an American woman, and one to betrusted; I felt that she would be the best detective I could place atthat spot.
When I reached the office, on my homeward route, I went in. Mr. Argyllwas there alone, his head leaning on his hand, his face anxious andworn, his brow contracted in deep thought. As soon as I came in, hesprung up, closed the outer door, and said to me, in a low voice,
"Richard, another strange thing has occurred."
I stared at him, afraid to ask what.
"I have been robbed of two thousand dollars."
"When and how?"
"That is what I do not know. Four days ago I drew that amount in billsfrom the Park Bank. I placed it, in a roll, just as I received it, inmy library desk, at home. I locked the desk, and have carried the keyin my pocket. The desk has been locked, as usual, every time that Ihave gone to it. How long the money has been gone, I can not say; Inever looked after it, since placing it there, until about an hour ago.I wanted some cash for expenses this afternoon, and going for it, theroll was gone."
"Haven't you mislaid it?"
"No. I have one drawer for my cash, and I placed it there. I rememberit plainly enough. It has been stolen"--and he sat down in his chairwith a heavy sigh. "That money was for my poor Eleanor. She was tocomplete her wedding outfit this week, and the two thousand dollars wasfor refurnishing the place out at the Grove. I don't care for the lossso much--she doesn't need it now--but it's singular--at this time!"
He looked up at me, vague suspicions which he could not shape floatingin his brain.
"Who knew of your having the money?"
"No one, that I am aware of, except my nephew. He drew it for me whenhe went down to the city last Wednesday."
"Could you identify the money?"
"Not all of it. I only remember that there was one five hundred dollarbill in the package, a fresh issue of the Park Bank, of which,possibly, they may have the number. The rest was city money of variousdenominations and banks. I can think of but one thing which seemsprobable. James must have been followed from the city by someprofessional thief, who saw him obtain the money, and kept an eye uponit, waiting for a suitable opportunity, until it was deposited in thedesk. The key is a common one, which could be easily duplicated, and weare so careless in this quiet community that a thief might enter atalmost any hour of the night. Perhaps the same villain dogged poorHenry in hopes of another harvest."
"You forget that there was no attempt to rob Henry."
"True--true. Yet the murderer may have been frightened away before hehad secured his prize."
"In which case, he would have returned, as the body remainedundiscovered all night."
"It may be so. I am dizzy with thinking it over and over."
"Try and not think any more, dear sir," I said, gently. "You arefeverish and ill now. I am going, this afternoon, with the friends tothe city, and I will put the police on the watch for the money. We willget the number of the large bill, if possible, from the bank, and Iwill have investigati
ons made as to the passengers of Wednesday on thetrain with James. Have you said any thing to him about your loss?"
"I have not seen him since I made the discovery. You may tell him ifyou see him first; and do what you can, Richard, for I feel as weak asa child."