McLevy (5 page)

After looking anxiously and timidly for some time, and affording me, as I have said, sufficient opportunity to scan and treasure up her features, she quietly drew in her pale, and, as I thought,
beautiful face, let down the sash, almost with a long whisper of the wood, and all was still. I now came out of my hiding-place, and telling the man not to say a word to any one of what had been
seen or done, I went round to the Exchange, and satisfied myself of the house thus signalised by the head of the pale watcher of the morning.

I need not say I had my own thoughts of this transaction but still I saw that to have gone and directly impeached this poor, timid looker-out upon the dawn for scarcely any other reason than she
did then and there look out, and that she had a delicate appearance, would have been unauthorised, and perhaps fraught with painful consequences. What if I had failed in bringing home to her a
tittle of evidence, and left her with a ruined reputation for life? The thought alarmed me, and I behoved to be careful, however strict, in the execution of my duty; so I betook myself during the
forenoon to my first resolution of having conferences with the heads of the houses.

I took the affair systematically, beginning at one end and going through the families. No master or mistress could I find who could say they had observed any
signs
in any of their
female domestics. The last house was a reservation—that house from which my watcher of the morning had been intent upon the doings in the court. It was the inn occupied, as I have said, by Mr
W—te. Strangely enough, the door was opened by that same pale-faced creature. I threw my eye over her,—the same countenance, delicate and interesting,—the same nervous eye, and
look of shrinking fear,—but now a smart cap on her head, which was like a mockery of her sadness and melancholy. She eyed me curiously and fearfully as I asked for Mr W—te, and ran with
an irregular and irresolute motion to show me in. I made no inquiry of her further, nor did I look at her intently to rouse her suspicion, for I had got all I wanted, even that which a glance
carried to me. But if she showed me quickly in, I could see that she had no disposition to run away when the door of the room opened. No doubt she was about the outside of it. I took care she could
learn nothing there, but few will ever know what she had suffered there.

I questioned Mr W—te confidentially; told him all the circumstances; and ended by inquiring whether any of his female domestics had shown any
signs
for a time bypast.

“No,” said he; “such a thing could hardly have escaped me; and if I had suspected, I would have made instant inquiry, for the credit of my house.”

“What is the name of the young girl who opened the door to me?”

“Mary B——n, but I cannot allow myself to suspect her; she is a simple-hearted, innocent creature, and is totally incapable of such a thing.”

“But is she not pale and sickly-looking as if some such event as that I allude to might have taken place in her case?”

“Why, yes; I admit,” said he, “that she is paler than she used to be, but she has been often so while with me; and then her conduct is so circumspect, I cannot listen to the
suspicion.”

“Might I see the others?” said I.

“Certainly;” replied he, “I can bring them here upon pretences.”

“You may, except Mary B——n,” said I; “I have seen enough of her.”

And Mr W—te brought up several females on various pretences, all of whom I surveyed with an eye not more versed in these indications than what a very general knowledge of human nature
might have enabled one to be. Each of them bore my scrutiny well and successfully—all healthy, blithe queans, with neither blush nor paleness to show anything wrong about the heart or
conscience.

“All these are free,” said I, “but I must take the liberty to ask you to show me the openings to the soil-pipe belonging to the tenement, but in such a way as not to produce
suspicion; for I think you will find Mary about the door of the room.”

And so it turned out, for no sooner had we come forth than we could see the poor girl escaping by the turn of the lobby.

“
That is my lass
,” said I to myself.

The investigation of the pipes showed me nothing. There was not in any of the closets a drop of blood, nor sign of any kind of violence to a child, nor in any bed-room a trace of birth, and far
less a murder; but I could not be driven from my theory. My watcher of the morning of day was she who had taken the light of the morning of life from the new-born babe.

I consulted with the police doctor, and he saw at once difficulties of the case. The few facts, curious and adventitious as they were, which had come under my own eye, were almost for myself
alone; no other would have been moved by them because they might have been supposed to be coloured by my own fancy. Yet I felt I had a case to make out in some way, however much the reputation of a
poor young girl should implicated, and not less my own character and feelings. As yet, proof there was none. To have taken up a girl merely because she had a pale face—the only indication I
could point to that others could judge of—was not according to my usual tactics; but I could serve my purpose without injuring the character of the girl were she innocent, and yet convict her
if guilty. So I thought; and my plan, which was my own, was, as a mere tentative one, free from the objection of hardship or cruelty to the young woman.

About twelve o’clock I rolled up the leg of the child in neat paper parcel, and writing an address upon it to Mary B——n, at Mr W—te’s, I repaired to the inn. Mary,
who was not exclusively “the maid of the inn,” did not this time open the door; it was done by one whose ruddy cheeks would have freed her from the glance of the keenest detective.

“Is Mary B——n in?” asked I.

“Yes,” she replied somewhat carelessly; for I need not say there was not a suspicion in the house, except in the breast of Mr W—te, who was too discreet and prudent to have
said a word.

“Tell her I have a parcel from the country to her,” said I, walking in, and finding my way into a room.

The girl went for Mary, and I waited a considerable time; but then, probably, she might have been busy making the beds, perhaps her own, in a careful way, though she scarcely needed, after my
eye had surveyed the sheets and blankets, as well as everything else. At length I heard some one at the door,—the hand not yet on the catch—a shuffling, a sighing, a
flustering—the hand then applied and withdrawn—a sighing again—at length a firmer touch,—the door opened, and Mary stood before me. She was not pale now; a sickly flush
overspread the lily—the lip quivered—the body swerved; she would have fallen had not she called up a little resolution not to betray herself.

“What—what—you have a parcel for me, sir?” she stuttered out.

“Yes, Mary,” said I, as I still watched her looks, now changed again to pure pallor.

“Where is it from?” said she again, with still increased emotion.

“I do not know,” said I, “but here it is,” handing it to her.

The moment her hand touched it, she shrunk from the soft feel as one would do from that of a cold snake, or why should I not say the dead body of a child? It fell at her feet, and she stood
motionless, as one transfixed, and unable to move even a muscle of the face.

“That is not the way to treat a gift,” said I. “I insist upon you taking it up.”

“O God, I cannot!” she cried.

“Well, I must do so for you,” said I, taking up the parcel. Is that the way you treat the presents of your friends; come,” laying it on the table, “come, open it; I wish
to see what is in it.”

“I cannot,—oh, sir, have mercy on me,—I cannot.”

“Then do you
wish
me to do it for you?”

“Oh, no, no,—I would rather you took it away,” she said with a spasm.

“But why so? what do you think is in it?” said I, getting more certain every moment of my woman.

“Oh, I do not know,” she cried again; “but I cannot open that dreadful thing.”

And as she uttered the words, she burst into tears, with a suppressed scream, which I was afraid would reach the lobby. I then went to the door, and snibbed it. The movement was still more
terrifying to her, for she followed me, and grasped me convulsively by the arm. On returning to the table, I again pointed to the parcel.

“You must open that,” said I, “or I will call in your master to do it for you.”

“Oh,—for God’s sake, no,” she ejaculated; “I will,—oh yes, sir, be patient,—I will, I will.”

But she didn’t—she couldn’t. Her whole frame shook, so that her hands seemed palsied, and I am sure she could not have held the end of the string.

“Well,” said I, drawing in a chair, and seating myself, “shall wait till you are able.”

The sight of the poor creature was now painful to me, but I had my duty to do, and I knew how much depended on her applying her own hand to this strange work. I sat peaceably and silently, my
eye still fixed upon her. She got into meditation—looked piteously at me, then fearfully at the parcel—approached it—touched it—recoiled from it—touched it again and
again—recoiled;—but I would wait.

“Why, what is all this about?” said I calmly, and I suspect even with a smile on my face, for I wanted to impart to her at least so much confidence as might enable her to do this one
act, which I deemed necessary to my object. “What is all this about? I only bear this parcel to you, and for aught I know, there may be nothing in it to authorise all this terror. If you are
innocent of crime, Mary, nothing should move you. Come, undo the string.”

And now, having watched my face, and seen the good-humour on it, she began to draw up a little, and then picked irresolutely at the string.

“See,” said I, taking out a knife, “this will help you.”

But whether it was that she had been busy with a knife that morning for another purpose than cutting the bread for her breakfast, I know not; she shrunk from the instrument, and, rather than
touch it, took to undoing the string with a little more resolution. And here I could not help noticing a change that came over her almost of a sudden. I have noticed the same thing in cases where
necessity seemed to be the mother of energy. She began to gather resolution from some thought; and, as it appeared, the firmness was something like new-born energy to overcome the slight lacing of
the parcel. That it was an effort bordering on despair, I doubt not, but it was not the less an effort. Nay, she became almost calm, drew the ends, laid the string upon the table, unfolded the
paper, laid the object bare, and—the effort was gone—fell senseless at my feet.

I was not exactly prepared for this. I rose, and seeing some spirits in a press, poured out a little, wet her lips, dropped some upon her brow, and waited for her return to consciousness; and I
waited longer than I expected,—indeed, I was beginning to fear I had carried my experiment too far. I thought the poor creature was dead, and for a time I took on her own excitement and fear,
though from a cause so very different. I bent over her, watching her breath, and holding her wrist; at last a long sigh,—oh, how deep!—then a staring of the eyes, and a rolling of the
pupils, then a looking to the table, then a rugging at me as if she thought I had her fate in my hands.

“Oh, where is it?” she cried. “Take it away; but you will hang me, will you? Say you will not, and I will tell you all.”

I got her lifted up, and put upon a chair. She could now sit, but such was the horror she felt at the grim leg, torn as it was at the one end, and blue and hideous, that she turned her eyes to
the wall, and I believe her smart cap actually moved by the rising of the black hair beneath it.

“Mary B——n,” said I, calmly, and in a subdued voice, “you have seen what is in the parcel?”

“Oh, yes sir; oh, yes,” she muttered.

“Do you know what it is?”

“Oh, too well, sir; too well.”

“Then tell me,” said I.

“Oh, sir,” she cried, as she threw herself upon the floor on her knees, and grasped and clutched me round my legs and held up her face,—her eyes now streaming with tears, her
cap off, her hair let loose,—”if I do, will you take pity on me, and not hang me?”

“I can say, at least, Mary,” I replied, “that it will be better for you if you make a clean breast, and tell the truth. I can offer no promises. I am merely an officer of the
law; but, as I have said, I know it will be better for you to speak the truth.”

“Well, then, sir,” she cried, while the sobbing interrupted every other word; “well, then, before God, whom I have offended, but who may yet have mercy upon a poor sinner left
to herself,—and, oh, sir, seduced by a wicked man,—I confess that I bore that child—but, sir, it was dead when it came into the world; and, stung by shame, and wild with pain, I
cut it into pieces, and put it down into the soil-pipe; and may the Lord Jesus look down upon me in pity!”

“Well, Mary,” said I, as I lifted her up,—feeling the weight of a body almost dead,—and placed her again upon the chair; “you must calm yourself, and then go and
get your shawl and bonnet, for you must—”

“Go with you to prison,” she cried, “and be hanged. Oh, did you not lead me to believe you would save me?”

“No,” said I; “but I can safely tell you that, if what you have told me is true, that the child was still-born, you will not be hanged, you will only be confined for a little.
Come,” I continued, letting my voice down, “come, rise, and get your shawl and bonnet. Say nothing to any one, but come back to me.”

But I had not an easy task here. She got wild again at the thought of prison, crying—

“I am ruined. Oh, my poor mother! I can never look her in the face again; no, nor hold up my head among decent people.”

“Softly, softly,” said I. “You must be calm, and obey; or see,” holding up a pair of handcuffs, “I will put these upon your wrists.”

Again necessity came to my help. She rose deliberately—stood for a moment firm—looked into my face wistfully, yet mildly—then turned up her eyes, ejaculating, “Thy will,
O Lord, be done,”—and went out.

I was afraid, notwithstanding, she might try to escape, for she seemed changeful; and a turn might come of frantic fear, which would carry her off, not knowing herself whither she went. I
therefore, watched in the lobby, to intercept her in use of such an emergency; but the poor girl was true to her purpose. I tied up the fatal parcel which had so well served my object, put it under
my arm, and quietly led her over to the office.