The face which I had seen, in its despair, the face of Leesy Sullivan, rose in my memory, full of passion, marked in every soft yet impressive lineament with slumbering power—“such a nature,” I thought, “can be maddened into crime, but it will not consort with villainy.”
Mr. Burton put the handkerchief in the inside pocket of his coat, and we returned into the house. He inquired the names of the servants, none of whose initials corresponded with those we had found, nor could I recall any lady visitors of the family to whom the handkerchief might belong by virtue of its inscription. There was not the shadow of a doubt but that it had been the property of the sewing-girl. Some errand, secret and unlawful, had brought her to these grounds, and under this window. We now considered it proper to show the handkerchief to Mr. Argyll, and relate to him our grounds of suspicion against the girl. Mary and James were admitted to the council. The former said that she remembered Miss Sullivan; that she had been employed in the family, for a few days at a time, on several different occasions, but none of them recent. “We liked her sewing very much, and wanted to engage her for the next six weeks,” she added, with a sigh, “but on inquiring for her, learned that she was now employed in New York.”
“She must, then, have been perfectly familiar with the arrangement of the house, and with the habits of the family; as for instance, at what hour you dined. She might enter while the family were at table, since, had she been surprised by the entrance of a servant, or other person, she could affect to have called on an errand, and to be waiting for the young ladies,” remarked Mr. Burton.
The servants were then summoned, one at a time, and questioned as to whether they had observed any suspicious persons whatever about the house or grounds within a week. They were, of course, in a national state of high excitement, and immediately upon a question being put to them, answered every other imaginary case in the world but that, blessed themselves, called on the Virgin Mary, gave an account of all the beggars as called at the kitchen last year and the year afore, cried abundantly, and gave no coherent information.
“Ah, sure!” said Norah, the cook, “there was the blackin’-and-bluin’ man come around last Wednesday, and I tuk a bottle of the blue for the clothes. It’s a poor mimiry I have, sure, since I came across the say. Afore that I could recollect beyond any thing, and the praste used to praise my rading. I think it was the tossin’ an’ rollin’ ov the ship upsot my brain. It was Saturday, it wur, and oh, Lordy, it is setting me all of a trimble a-thinkin’ of that day, and I see a little yeller dog a-stickin’ his nose into the kitching door, which was open about half, and says I, there’s vagabonds around sure, now, I knew by the dog, and I wint and looked out, and sure as me name’s Norah, there was an old lame man wid a stick a-pretinding to look for rags an’ bones in the alley to the stable, which I niver allows such about, as it’s against the master’s orthers, and I druv him off immajetly—and that, I think, was Saturday two weeks now, but I won’t be sure; and I don’t mind nobody else but the chany-woman, wid her basket, which I don’t think it could have been her as done any thin’ bad, for she’s been round rig’ler, for a good while, and is a dacent-spoken body that I’ve had some dalin’s wid myself. I sowld her my old plaid gown for the match-box of ebony that sits on the kitching-mantel now, and oh dear! but my heart’s dead broke, sure! Margaret and I daren’t set in the kitching of nights no more, unless Jim’s there, an’ I’ve woke up scr’aming two nights now—och hone! and if I’d seed any thing, I’d a told it long afore, which I wish I had, seein’ you’ve axed me, sir. It don’t do no good a-cooking delicacies which nobody eats no longer—I wish I had never come to Amyriky, to see poor Miss Eleanor so tuk down!” and having relieved herself of the sympathy which she had been aching to express, without the opportunity, she threw her apron over her head, and sobbed after the manner of her people.
Margaret’s testimony was no more to the point than Norah’s. Mr. Burton let each one go on after her own heart, putting up with the tedious circumlocution, in the hope of some kernel of wheat in the bushel of chaff.
After a deluge of tears and interjections, Maggie did finally come out with a statement which arrested the attention of her listeners.
“I’ve never seen none gawking about as didn’t belong here—not a living sowl. The howly Virgin prevint that iver I should see what Jim did—it wasn’t a human being at all, but a wraith, and he seen it that very night. He niver told us of it, till the Tuesday night, as we sot talking about the funeral, and it frightened us so, we niver slept a wink till morning. Poor Jim’s worried with it, too; he pretinds he isn’t afraid of the livin’ nor dead, but it’s no shame to the best to stand in awe of the sperits, and I see he’s backward about going about the place, alone, after dark, and no wonder! Sure, he saw a ghost!”
“What was it like?”
“Sure, you’d best call him, and let him describe it for hisself—it’ll make your blood run cold to think of sich things in a Christian family.”