The Dead Letter: An American Romance

by Metta Victoria Fuller Victor

He had spent over a week searching for Leesy Sullivan, in the vicinity of Blankville, at every intermediate station between that and New York, and throughout the city itself, assisted by scores of detectives, who all of them had her photograph, taken from a likeness which Mr. Burton had found in her deserted room at her boarding-place. This picture must have been taken more than a year previous, as it looked younger and happier; the face was soft and round, the eyes melting with warmth and light, and the rich, dark hair dressed with evident care. Still, Leesy bore resemblance enough to her former self, to make her photograph an efficient aid. Yet not one trace of her had been chanced upon since I, myself, had seen her fly away at the mention of the word which I had purposely uttered, and disappear over the wooded hill. We had nearly made up our minds that she had committed suicide; we had searched the shore for miles in the vicinity of Moreland villa, and had fired guns over the water; but if she had hidden herself in those cold depths, she had done it most effectually.

The gardener’s wife, at the villa, had kept vigilant watch, as I had requested, but she had never any thing to report—the sewing-girl came no more to haunt the piazza or the summer-house. Finally, Mr. Burton had given over active measures, relying simply upon the presence of the child in New York, to bring back the protectress into his nets, if indeed she was still upon earth. He said rightly, that if she were concealed and had any knowledge of the efforts made to discover her, the surest means of hastening her reäppearance would be to apparently relinquish all pursuit. He had a person hired to watch the premises of the nurse constantly; a person who took a room next to hers in the tenement-house where she resided, apparently employed in knitting children’s fancy woolen garments, but really for the purpose of giving immediate notification should the guardian of the infant appear upon the scene. In the mean time he was kept informed of the sentiments of the nurse, who had avowed her intention of throwing the babe upon the authorities, if its board was not paid at the end of the month. “Hard enough,” she avowed it was, “to get the praties for the mouths of her own chilther; and the little girl was growing large now. The milk wouldn’t do at all, at all, but she must have her praties and her bit bread wid the rest.”

In answer to these complaints, the wool-knitter had professed such an interest in the innocent little thing, that, sooner than allow it to go to the alms-house, or to the orphan-asylum, or any other such place, she would take it to her own room, and share her portion with it, when the nurse’s month was up, until it was certain that the aunt was not coming to see after it, she said.

With this understanding between them, the two women got along finely together; little Nora, just toddling about, was a pretty child, and her aunt had not spared stitches in making up her clothes, which were of good material, and ornamented with lavish tucks and embroidery. She was often, for half a day at a time, in the room with the new tenant, when her nurse was out upon errands, or at work; and the former sometimes took her out in her arms for a breath of air upon the better streets. Mr. Burton had seen little Nora several times; he thought she resembled Miss Sullivan, though not strikingly. She had the same eyes, dark and bright.

Two days before Mr. Burton telegraphed for me to come down to New York, Mrs. Barber, the knitting detective, was playing with the child in her own room. It was growing toward night, and the nurse was out getting her Saturday afternoon supplies at Washington Market; she did not expect her back for at least an hour. Little Nora was in fine spirits, being delighted with a blue-and-white hood which her friend had manufactured for her curly head. As they frolicked together, the door opened, a young woman came in, caught the child to her breast, kissed it, and cried. “An-nee—an-nee,” lisped the baby—and Mrs. Barber, slipping out, with the excuse that she would go for the nurse, who was at a neighbor’s, jumped into a car, and rode up to Twenty-third street. In half an hour Mr. Burton was at the tenement-house; the nurse had not yet returned from market, and the bird had flown, carrying the baby with her. He was sufficiently annoyed at this dénoûement. In the arrangements made, the fact of the nurse being away had not been contemplated; there was no one to keep on the track of the fugitive while the officer was notified. One of the children said that the lady had left some money for mother; there was, lying on the table, a sum which more than covered the arrears due, and a note of thanks. But the baby, with its little cloak and its new blue hood, had vanished. Word was dispatched to the various offices, and the night spent in looking for the two; but there is no place like a great city for eluding pursuit; and up to the hour of my arrival at Mr. Burton’s he had learned nothing.

All this had fretted the detective; I could see it, although he did not say as much. He who had brought hundreds of accomplished rogues to justice did not like to be foiled by a woman. Talking on the subject with me, as we sat before the fire in his library, with closed doors, he said the most terrible antagonist he had yet encountered had been a woman—that her will was a match for his own, yet he had broken with ease the spirits of the boldest men.

“However,” he added, “Miss Sullivan is not a woman of that stamp. If she has committed a crime, she has done it in a moment of passion, and remorse will kill her, though the vengeance of the law should never overtake her. But she is subtle and elusive. It is not reason that makes her cunning, but feeling. With man it would be reason; and as I could follow the course of his argument, whichever path it took, I should soon overtake it. But a woman, working from a passion, either of hate or love, will sometimes come to such novel conclusions as to defy the sharpest guesses of the intellect. I should like, above all things, a quiet conversation with that girl. And I will have it, some day.”

The determination with which he avowed himself, showed that he had no idea of giving up the case. A few other of his observations I will repeat:

He said that the blow which killed Henry Moreland was given by a professional murderer, a man, without conscience or remorse, probably a hireling. A woman may have tempted, persuaded, or paid him to do the deed; if so, the guilt rested upon her in its awful weight; but no woman’s hand, quivering with passion, had driven that steady and relentless blow. It was not given by the hand of jealousy—it was too coldly calculated, too firmly executed—no passion, no thrill of feeling about it.

“Then you think,” said I, “that Leesy Sullivan robbed the family whose happiness she was about to destroy, to pay some villain to commit the murder?”