CHAPTER I.
THE LETTER.
The reader can now understand why it was that I turned cold withexcitement as I sat there in the dead-letter office, holding thetime-stained epistle in my hand. Every word burned itself into mybrain. Obscure as it was--non-committal--directed to an unknown personof a neighboring village--I yet felt _assured_ that those vague hintshad reference to the sinful tragedy which had occurred October 17th,1857. Here was placed in my hands--at last!--a clue to that mysterywhich I had once sworn to unravel. Yet, how slender was the clue, whichmight, after all, lead me into still profounder labyrinths of doubt andperplexity! As I pondered, it seemed to break and vanish in my fingers.Yet, I felt, in spite of this, an inward sense _that I held the keywhich was surely to unlock the awful secret_. I can never rightlyexpress the feelings which, for the first few moments, overpowered me.My body was icy cold, but my soul stung and stirred me as with fire,and seemed to rise on "budding wings" of flame with conviction of aspeedy triumph which was to come after long suffering. I arose,clutched my hat, and went forth from the Department, to return to it nomore, for the present. Half the night I sat in my room at myboarding-place, looking at that letter on the table before me.
Before I proceed further with its history, I will give, in a few words,the brief, monotonous record of my life, since I was driven--driven isthe word you must use, Richard, haughty and sensitive though you maybe--from the friendship and presence of the Argylls, and from myprospects of a long-cherished settlement in life. I made the visit tomy mother. She was shocked at the change in me, and grieved that Iwithheld my confidence from her. But, I did not feel in a confidingmood. The gentleness of my nature had been hardened; I was bitter,sneering, skeptical; not from my own mother would I accept the sympathywhich my chilled heart seemed no longer to crave. Only one thing savedme from utter loathing of humanity, and that was the memory of Mary'sface, as she had sought me at parting. In those sweet eyes were trustand love; the tears which streamed down and fell upon her bosom, thequiver of her lip, the sobs and fond words, attested to the sorrow withwhich she had beheld my banishment.
Of course my mother was surprised to hear that I had left Blankville,with no intention of returning to it; that the long-understoodpartnership was not to be entered into. But, she did not press me forexplanations. She waited for me to tell her all, patiently; ministeringto my health and comfort, meanwhile, as a widowed mother will ministerto an only son--with a tenderness only less than that of heaven,because it is yet, perforce, of earth.
Before I had been at home a fortnight, the unnatural tension of my mindand nerves produced a sure result--a reaection took place, and I fellsick. It was in the softer mood which came over me, as I wasconvalescing from this illness, that I finally told my mother all thedreadful story of the influences which had broken up my connection withthe Argylls. Her grief for me, her indignation against my enemy orenemies, was what might have been expected. I could hardly restrain herfrom starting at once for Blankville, to stand before her old friend,the friend of my father, and accuse him, face to face, of the wrong hehad done her boy. But, out of this I persuaded her. I asked her if shedid not see that the wrong was irreparable? I could not forgive it. Itdid not admit of being talked about; let the cloud drop between themand us; our paths were henceforth apart. To this she finally yielded;and, if there could have been any balm to my wounded pride and stillmore deeply wounded affections, I should have found it in the enhanced,touching, almost too-perfect tenderness with which my parent sought tomake up to me that which I had lost.
For a few weeks I abandoned myself to her healing attentions. Then Iset myself resolutely to find work both for hands and mind. My motherwas not without influential friends. As I have said, my fortunes weresomewhat nipped by my father's untimely death, but our family andassociations were among the best. We had a relative in power atWashington. To him I applied for a clerkship, and received, in answer,the situation I was filling, at the time when that dead-letter came sostrangely into my hands.
It may be thought improbable that I should abandon the profession forwhich I had studied with so much zeal. But, the very memory of thatzeal, and of the hopes which had stimulated it, now gave me a disliketo the law. I required both change of scene and of pursuits. The blowdealt at my heart had stunned my ambition, also. To one of mytemperament, aspirations, acquisitiveness, all the minor passions andpursuits of life are but steps leading up the hillside to therose-crowned summit, where love sits smiling under the eye of heaven.And I, being for the time at least, blasted prematurely, was no moremyself, but was to myself like a stranger within my own sanctuary. Iwent into the dead-letter office, and commenced my routine of breakingseals and registering contents, as if I had been born for thatbusiness. I was a rapid worker, quiet, and well-thought-of by myassociates, who deemed me a little cold and skeptical, a triflereserved, very steady for so young a fellow, and an efficient clerk whothoroughly earned his salary. That was all they knew of RichardRedfield. And in those days I did not know much more about myself. Themonths had worn away, one after the other, with a dreary coldness. Inthe summer I struggled through the suffocating dust; in the winter Ipicked my way through the disgusting mud, to and fro, from my lodgingsto the office buildings; that was about all the change which theseasons brought to me, whom once the smell of spring violets filledwith pungent delight, and the odor of June roses made happy as a god onOlympus.
Half the night I sat brooding over that brief revelation, so preciousto me, yet so loathsome. The longer I pondered its words the less vividgrew my hope of making any triumphant use of it for the detection ofthe two guilty persons--the one who wrote it, and the one to whom itwas addressed. I might lay it before Mr. Argyll, but he might not feel,as I did, that it had any connection with the murder, neither was thereanything to prove but that the missive might have been directed to_me_. Indeed, Mr. Argyll might well inquire how I could pretend that itshould have reached me through the routine of the dead-letterdepartment, after all this stretch of time--very nearly two years!
This was a matter which puzzled me exceedingly. In the ordinary courseof affairs, it would, if not claimed, have been forwarded to Washingtonthree months after its reception at Peekskill, and have long ago beenconsigned to the waste-basket and the flames. The hand of an overrulingProvidence seemed to be moving the men in this terrible game. At thathour I recognized it, and felt a solemn conviction that, sooner orlater, the murderer would be checkmated. It was this assurance, morethan any evidence contained in the letter, which gave me hope that itwould eventually be the instrument of punishment to the guilty. Iremembered the vow I had once made to my soul, never to rest in thepeace of my own pursuits, until I had dragged the slayer of theinnocent into the awful presence of Justice. That vow I had neglectedto fulfill to the uttermost, partly because of the injury which hadbeen done to my self-love, and also because the circumstance which hadattached suspicion to me, in the eyes of those interested, had made itdangerous for me to move in a matter where all my motives weremisconstrued. But now that Fate had interposed in this singular manner,in my behalf and in that of Truth, I took fresh courage. I was fullystartled from my apathy. That night I wrote my resignation to theDepartment, gathered up my few effects again, and the next morningfound me on the way to New York.
My first purpose was to consult Mr. Burton. I had not seen him sincethe day when we parted in Blankville; I only knew, by accident, that hewas still a resident of New York, having casually heard his namementioned in connection with a case which had brought some detectiveson to Washington only a few weeks previous.
I had never forgiven or understood the part he had played in that lastinterview with the Argylls. I remembered the assurance he had given meof friendship, but I did not believe that he had shown any friendshipfor me, in that consultation with the relatives, or the results wouldnot have been so disastrous to me. Nevertheless, I felt a confidence inhim; he was the man for the emergency, and to hi
m I would take theletter. I thought it quite probable, that in the multiplicity of newinterests, the circumstances which had once brought us so much togetherhad faded from his mind, and that I should have to reawaken hisrecollection of the details.
On the morning after my arrival in New York, I consulted the directory,and finding that Mr. Burton still resided in Twenty-third street, Icalled at the house at the earliest admissible hour.
While I was handing my card to the servant, his master came out of thelibrary at the end of the hall, and hastening forward, shook meheartily by the hand. His joyous tones were better evidence of hispleasure at seeing me, than even his words, which were cordial enough.
"I heard your voice, Richard," he said, "and did not wait for you to beushered in with the formalities. Welcome, my friend;" his expressionwas as if he had said--"Welcome, my son."
He led me into the library, and placing me in an arm-chair, sat downopposite me, looking at me with the well-remembered piercing shafts ofthose steel-blue eyes. After inquiring about my health, etc., he said,suddenly,
"You have news."
"You are right, Mr. Burton--else I should not have been here. I supposeyou are aware that I have been a clerk in the dead-letter office forthe last eighteen months?"
"I was aware of it. I never intended to let you slip out of thenumbered rosary of my friends, and lose you so entirely as not even toknow your whereabouts."
"Day before yesterday this letter arrived at the office, and I chancedto be the clerk who opened it."
I handed him the missive. He examined the envelope attentively, beforeunfolding the sheet within; and as he continued to hold it in his hand,and gaze at it, one of those wonderful changes passed over hiscountenance that I had remarked on some previous important occasions.His practical intelligence seized upon the date, the post-office marks,the hasty direction, and made the contents of the letter his own,almost, before he read it. For some moments he pondered the outside,then drew forth the letter, perused it with one swift glance, and satholding it, gazing at it, lost in thought, and evidently forgetful ofmy presence. A stern pallor settled gradually over his usually placidface; at last he looked up, and seeing me, recalled his surroundings tohis recollection.
"It is sad to be made to feel that such creatures live and flourish,"he said, almost despondingly; "but," as his face brightened, "I can notsay how glad I am to get hold of this. It partially explains somethings which I have already found out. The chance which threw thisdocument into your hands was a marvelous one, Richard."
"However simple the explanation may prove to be, I shall always regardit as Providential."
"All things are Providential," said my companion, "none less, and nonemore so. Causes will have their effects. But now, as to the writer ofthis--I am glad I have a specimen of the villain's handwriting; it willenable me to know the writer when I see him."
"How so, Mr. Burton?"
"Because I have a very good picture of him, now, in my mind's eye. Heis about thirty years of age, rather short and broad-shouldered,muscular; has dark complexion and black eyes; the third finger of hisright hand has been injured, so as to contract the muscles and leave ituseless. He has some education, which he has acquired by hard studysince he grew up to be his own master. His childhood was passed inignorance, in the midst of the worst associations; and his own natureis almost utterly depraved. He is bad, from instinct, inheritance andbringing-up; and now, our blessed Redeemer, himself, would hardly findgood enough in him to promise a hope of ultimate salvation. It iscurious that he should ever have seen fit to study, so as to acquireeven the smattering of knowledge which he has. He must have been ledinto it by some powerful passion. If I could decide what that passionwas, I might have a key to unlock the gate into some other matters."
I stared at the speaker in astonishment as he rapidly pronounced theabove analysis of the personal appearance and character of the writer.
"Do you know him?" I asked.
"I do not know his _name_, and I have never met him. All theacquaintance I have with him, I have made through the medium of hischirography. It is sufficient for me; I can not mistake,"--then,observing my puzzled and incredulous look, he smiled, as he added, "Bythe way, Richard, you are not aware of my accomplishment in the art ofreading men and women from a specimen of their handwriting. It is oneof my greatest aids in the profession to which I have devoted myself.The results I obtain sometimes astonish my friends. But, I assure you,there is nothing marvelous in them. Patient study and unweariedobservation, with naturally quick perceptions, are the only witchcraftI use. With moderate natural abilities, I assert that any other personcould equal me in this art (black art, some of my acquaintances regardit,) by giving the same time to it that a musician would to master aninstrument."
"I do not know about that, Mr. Burton. I guess it would take a mind ofthe singular composition of your own to make much out of an art with norules and no foundations."
"It has its rules, for me. But as proof is better than argument, showme any letters or scraps of writing you may have about you. I wouldlike to satisfy you, before we proceed further, for I do not wish youto feel that you are working with a crack-brained individual, who isriding a hobby at your expense."
I emptied my inside coat-pocket of its contents, among which wereseveral letters--one from my mother, a note from my uncle inWashington, an invitation from an old college-chum to attend hiswedding in Boston, and two or three business epistles from casualacquaintances--one, I remember, an entreaty from a young man to get himsomething to do in that magnetic center of all unemployedparticles--Washington. Of these, I revealed only to him thesuperscription and signature, with, perhaps, some unimportant sentence,which would, in no way, of itself, betray the characters or pursuits ofthe writers. I need not describe my surprise when, in each instance, hegave a careful and accurate description of the age, appearance, habits,profession and mental qualities of the person whose handwriting he hadexamined.
I could hardly credit my own senses; there must be some "_hocus-pocus_"about it, as in the tricks which jugglers play with cards. But myrespect for the earnestness of my companion's pursuits, and theindubitable nature of his proof, did not allow me to doubt any lengthof time. I became a believer in _his facts_, and I give these facts tomy readers, at the risk of seeing the plain, sensible nose of themajority turned up with an expression of skepticism, mortifying to me.Mr. Burton's character is a real one, and the truth of his wonderfulachievements will become history.
The terrible interest of the subject which had brought us together didnot permit us to spend much time in these interesting but irrelevantexperiments. We discussed the past and present. Mr. Burton assured methat he had never, for a day, lost sight of the case--that his interestin it had deepened, rather than lessened; that he had not been idleduring all this long period; but that he had already gathered up a factor two of some importance, and had been on the point of sending for me,once or twice. He had refrained, waiting for some lights to culminate,and "now, he was glad enough to get hold of that letter."
He informed me that Leesy Sullivan was living quietly in the city,subsisting mostly upon donations from himself, she being too far gonewith consumption to exert herself much with the needle. The child waswith her, healthy and pretty.
I made no inquiries after James Argyll, but he told me that the youngman came frequently to the city; that, for a while, he had seemeddispirited, and gambled desperately, but that lately he was looking andbehaving better.
"It is my impression," added he, "that he is about to marry one of hiscousins--probably the youngest. And as to his bad habits, I caused himto understand, indirectly, that if they were not reformed, he should beconvicted of them, before his uncle. This I did (after I becameconvinced that he would marry one of the young ladies) out ofcompassion to the family."
My head drooped on my hand. It was long since I had any tidings of theArgylls--death could hardly have created a more barren space betweenus. Yet, now that I heard the names of the girls
mentioned, a flood ofold emotions broke over me, beneath which I struggled, half-suffocated.Keen pain shot through my heart at the idea of Mary, that innocent,most sweet and lovable girl, becoming the wife of James. I felt as ifit ought to be prevented, yet how could I interfere? Why should I wishto? I recalled the hour when she had flown to me--had said, "_I_believe in you, Richard; _I_ love you!" and I knew that I had put aconstruction upon the tearful, passionate words of her last avowal,which was, after all, not warranted. I had feared that she did reallylove me, and that, in the last moment of sorrow and trouble, herfeelings had betrayed themselves to her own comprehension--and I hadfelt a hope that it was not so. My own unanswered passion--my lonely,unmated life--had taught me sympathy; and I was not so utterly selfishas to have my personal vanity tickled with the idea that this youngcreature loved me, who did not love her, except truly as a sister.
Yet now, when hearing that James had turned from Eleanor to her, I felta pang of pity--a wish that she might rather have loved me than himwhose cold, deceitful bosom could never be a safe shelter for a womanas affectionate as Mary. With this regret I felt a triumph that Eleanorhad remained unassailable on the sublime and solitary hight of hersorrow. It was what I expected of her. I gloried in her constancy tothe dead. I had loved her for this noble beauty of her nature, andshould have been disappointed had the test found her wanting in any ofthe attributes with which my worship had invested her. She had done mea wrong too cruel for me to complain about; but I would rather, still,that she would wrong me than herself.
Lastly, Mr. Burton assured me that he had tidings of thefive-hundred-dollar bill which had been stolen from Mr. Argyll's desk.This was, indeed, important, and I showed by my looks how deeply I wasabsorbed in the particulars. That bill had come into the hands ofWells, Fargo & Co., about six months after the robbery, having beensold for specie to their agent in California, and forwarded to themalong with the other sums which they were constantly receiving. Atleast, he had taken it for granted that it was the same bill, it beingone of the two which left the city of New York the week of the robbery;the other he had traced to St. Louis, and ascertained that no possiblesuspicious circumstances attached to it.
Wells, Fargo & Co. had given him every assistance in their power todiscover who had sold that bill to the California branch of theirhouse; but an answer had been returned from there that the person whodisposed of it was a stranger, on his way to the mining regions, whomthey had never seen before or since, and whose name they had not taken.The clerk who transacted the brief business with him, had no distinctrecollection of him, except that he was rather a thick-set man, with anunpleasant expression--doubtless one of the "hard cases" so frequent inthe precincts of San Francisco.
Of course, it was clear to us two, who sat in company with thedead-letter, that the five-hundred-dollar bill was a part of the sumreferred to by the writer; that it had come out of Mr. Argyll's desk,and that it was blood-money paid for a murder; and the receiver wasthis person who, in the letter, so explicitly declared his intention offleeing to California. We were much excited in the presence of thesebold facts. In our enthusiasm, then, it seemed easy to stretch a handacross the continent and lay it upon the guilty. We scarcely realizedthe long and wearisome pursuit to which we were doomed--the slight cluewhich we had to the individual whose deeds were yet so patent to us.
At this revelation of conspiracy, my mind eagerly searched about forthe accessory, and again settled itself upon Miss Sullivan. It did seemto me that she had thrown a glamour over the usually clear sight of Mr.Burton; so that I resolved to keep a separate watch which should not beinfluenced by his decisions. While I was thinking of this, Mr. Burtonwas walking about the floor. Suddenly he stopped before me and lookedinto mine with those vivid eyes, so full of power, and said, asconfidently as if a vision had revealed it to him,
"I have now made out all the meaning of the letter. In the first place,it is written '_by contraries_'--that is, it means just the contrary ofwhat it says. The contract _was_ fulfilled. The price was expected, theemigration decided upon. The bright day was a rainy night; the picturetaken was a human life. And, don't you see it, Richard?--the old friendwas the hiding-place of the instrument of death, after which theaccomplice is directed to look. That instrument is the brokentooth-pick. It was secreted in the pocket of the old friend. Now, whoor what is this old friend? Richard, didn't Leesy affirm she saw a mandescending from the old oak tree at the right of the Argyll mansion, onthe evening of the murder?"
"She did."
"Then _that_ is it. I want to know no more. The arms are the arms ofthat old oak. Unless it has been removed, which is not probable, sincethis letter was never received, the broken knife or dagger (of which Ihave the point which was taken from the wound), will be found in somehollow on the left side of that oak."
I gazed at him in astonishment; but he, unconscious of my wonder, satdown, with a relieved, almost happy, expression.