CHAPTER II.
OUR VISITS.
So engrossed were we by our plans, which we were laboring to get intoshape, that we forgot the passing hours and the demands of appetite. Itwas long past the lunch hour when a servant appeared to ask if heshould not bring in the tray, having waited in vain for the usualsummons. With its appearance Lenore came in, the same lovely,sylph-like little creature, but looking rather less fragile than when Isaw her last. At the sight of me, her color went and came--one instantshe hesitated, then approached and gave me her hand, with a smile andkiss. Her father had already told of her having made two or threevisits to the Argyll mansion within the time of my absence; and Iattributed her blushes, upon meeting me, to her frank heart accusingher of the disparaging thoughts she had entertained of me. The subtleinfluence of James had doubtless, without any necessity for putting theidea into words, warned her against me as a bad man; but now as shelooked at me, she was sorry for what she had felt, and disposed torenew her old friendship.
Before lunch was concluded, Mr. Burton fell into a reverie, which heended by saying,
"We must have the assistance of Lenore, if she can give us any."
I felt reluctant to see the child placed again in that unnaturaltrance; but other considerations were even weightier than our fears forthe shock to her nervous system; and after she had chatted a while withus, and had sung for me, Mr. Burton subjected her to the experiment. Ithad been so long since he had exercised his power over her, that itrequired a greater effort than on the former occasion which Iwitnessed, to place her in the desired condition. He, however, finallysucceeded perfectly. The dead-letter was placed in her hands, when weobserved her shrink as if a serpent had glided over her lap; but shedid not throw it down, as she seemed moved to do.
"What do you see, Lenore?"
"It is too dark to see. A lamp shines across the walk, and I see a mandropping the letter in the box. He is muffled up so that I can not tellabout his face; he steals up and goes off again very quickly."
"Follow him, Lenore."
"It is too dark, father. I am lost in the streets. Oh! now I haveovertaken him again; he walks so fast--he is short and thick--he looksas if he were afraid of something. He will not pass the police-officer,but crosses the street, and keeps in the shadow. Now we are at theferry--it is the Fulton Ferry--I know it well. Oh, dear! the waterrises and the wind blows--it is getting morning, but it rains so--andthe water is so wild I can not make my way on to the boat."
"Don't be discouraged, my child. I would give much to have you followhim across the river, and tell me at what house he stops."
"The wind blows so," continued Lenore, pitifully; "all is dark anduncertain. I have missed him--I do not know him from others."
"Try again, my darling. Look well at the letter."
"All is dark and uncertain," she repeated, in a vague tone.
"It is useless," exclaimed Mr. Burton, in a burst of disappointment;"it has been too long since the letter was penned. The personality ofthe writer has departed from it. If she had only been able to pursuehim to his haunts, our investigations in that vicinity might haverichly repaid us."
Finding it impossible to get any more information from the child, shewas relieved from her trance, stimulated with a glass of cordial, andsent up to take a siesta before the hour for dinner. Scarcely had sheleft the library before I sprung to my feet, exclaiming,
"Good heavens, how easy!--and here I have never thought of it."
"What is easy?"
"To ascertain who is the John Owen who calls for these letters atPeekskill. Of course--why, what a fool I am!"
"I am afraid you will not find it so easy. People carrying on acorrespondence for such a purpose, do not come forward openly for theirletters--and this was a good while ago--and it is quite possible thismay be the only missive ever sent, through the mail, to thataddress--and this, evidently, was never called for."
"At least, it is worth inquiring into," I added, less triumphantly.
"Of course it is. We wish, also, to ascertain how the letter camedragging along to Washington two years, nearly, behind its time. Ipropose that we start for Peekskill by the early morning train."
To wait, even until morning, seemed too tardy for my mood. But as itwas now four o'clock, and I had no right to ask the detective to resignhis dinner and evening comfort, I made no objection to the time. And,in truth, the time sped more swiftly than I expected; we had still somuch to discuss. Dinner came--and the hour of retiring followed--beforewe had matured our course of action. We were to go to Peekskill andlearn all possible about John Owen. If we gained no importantinformation there, we were to go on, in the evening, to Blankville, toenter, under cover of the darkness, the lawn of the Argyll house, andsecure the broken knife or dagger, which, we believed, we should findsecreted in a certain oak upon the premises. This we wished to dowithout the knowledge of the family, for two reasons: the smaller oneof which was, that I did not wish my visit to be made known, and thelarger, that we both were certain we could prosecute our plans moresuccessfully if the friends knew nothing of our efforts. Then, if westill failed to discover the accomplice, we were to sail for California.
The reader may see that we were set upon the accomplishment of ourpurposes by the willingness with which we gave time, money and mind toour object. I had first proposed the visit to California, avowing myintention to make it, when Mr. Burton had surprised me by offering tobe my companion. This was a sacrifice which I could not have asked orexpected of him; but he would not allow me to view it in that light,saying, with pleasant peremptoriness, that Lenore needed a sea-voyage;and he had been thinking of taking one on her account. He would make ita pleasure-tour, as well as one of business, "and then," with a laughwhich would have been satirical if it had not been so frank--"he wasafraid my mission would not be so successful, if undertaken alone." AndI had answered him that I realized my own inefficiency, as comparedwith his talent and experience--all I had to encourage me was thedevotion with which I undertook my work--to _that_, alone, I trusted toinsure me some reward. But if he really were willing to go with me, Ishould feel almost elated.
We were at Peekskill the next day in good season. We found the samepostmaster in service who had been in the office at the time thedead-letter arrived there. When Mr. Burton--I lounging carelessly inthe background--showed the envelope and inquired how it had occurredthat it had been forwarded to the Department at this late hour, theofficial showed a little embarrassment, as inferring that he was aboutto be taken to task for a neglect of duty by some indignant individual.
"I will tell you how it happened, Mr. Owen," said he, "if you're theperson addressed on that envelope. You never came for the letter, andbefore the expiration of the time required by law for forwarding it toWashington, it got slipped into a crack, and was never discovered tillabout a fortnight ago. You see, our place here wasn't just the thingfor an office; it never did suit, and this month, I finally had newboxes and shelves put in, and the room fixed up. In tearing down theold fixings, several letters were discovered which had slipped into acrack between the shelf and wall. This was one of them. I thought,'better late than never,' though at first I had a mind to throw theminto the stove. I hope, sir, the loss of the letter hasn't put you toany very great inconvenience?"
"It was of some importance," answered my companion, in a commonplacetone, "and I'm not sorry, even yet, to have recovered it, as it settlesa matter I had been in doubt about. My man must have been verynegligent; I certainly sent him for the letter. Don't you remember ayoung man, a coachman, coming for my letters?"
"He never came but twice, to my knowledge," answered the postmaster,giving a glance of curiosity at the speaker. "I wondered who it wasthey were for--not being any one that I knew--and I know mostlyeverybody in the district. Traveling through our town, perhaps?"
"Yes, I was a stranger, who merely passed two or three times throughyour village, stopping on business. My usual a
ddress is New York. Thatcoachman was hired at the next village to drive me about the country afew days. I have nearly forgotten him. I would like to call him to anaccount for some of his conduct which was not satisfactory. Can youdescribe his personal appearance?--though, I suppose, you could nothave taken any particular notice of him."
"It was evening on both occasions of his calling. He was muffled upabout the lower part of the face, and his cap pulled down. I couldn'ttell you a thing about him, indeed, except that he had black eyes. IfI'm not mistaken, he had black or dark eyes. I think I remember oftheir looking at me very sharp through the window here. But it wasevening, and I shouldn't mind the circumstance at all if I had notwondered, at the time, who John Owen was. It's likely the fellow was arogue--he looked kind of slippery."
I, listening apart to the conversation, longed to ask if this muffleddriver was small and slender, for I was thinking of a woman. While Iwas studying how to propose the question to Mr. Burton, he continued,
"A smallish fellow, if I remember rightly? I really wish I had hisname."
"Can't say any thing more about it," was the reply of the postmaster."I couldn't answer if he were large or small, white or black, except asto his eyes, which were about all I saw of him. If you want to find outabout him, why don't you go to the livery-keeper who furnished yourteam to you? Of course, his employer could tell you all you want toknow."
"That _would_ be the most sensible course," answered the detective,with a laugh. "But, my good friend, it is considerably out of my way togo to S--; and I must leave on the train up, in half an hour. Afterall, the matter is not of so much importance. I had a curiosity tolearn what had kept the letter so long on its travels. Good-day, sir."
It never entered the official's thoughts to inquire how we came inpossession of a document which had not been returned from theDead-Letter Department--at least, not while we remained withhim--though he may afterward have puzzled his brains over the affair.
As we did not wish to arrive in Blankville until after dark, we had toleave the cars once again, and to get off at a little intermediatestation, with half a dozen houses clustered about it; and here wewhiled away, as we best could, several tedious hours, whose drearinesswas only partially soothed by the influences of such a supper as couldbe obtained in the small public-house attached to the depot.
As the sun drew toward setting and the night approached, a fiercerestlessness thrilled along my nerves. That peace--if the dullness andsluggishness of my chilled feelings could be called peace--into which Ihad forced myself for many months, was broken up. The mere fact of mynearness to the spot which had once been so dear to me, overpowered mewith strong attractions; the force of habit and of memory was at work;and when, at twilight, the train stopped and took us up, my mind ran onbefore the iron-horse, and was at the end of the little journey beforethe commencement. Upon arriving at Blankville, we descended the rearcar and walked up toward the village, without approaching the depot, asI was afraid the lamps might betray me to some former acquaintance. Itwas a mild evening, early in September, and I had no excuse formuffling up; so I pulled my hat down over my eyes, quite sure that Ishould escape recognition, in the dim moonlight, which, overblown bylight, thin clouds, transfused the western sky. We walked about, inquiet parts of the village, until ten o'clock; and then, the moonhaving set, we approached the Argyll mansion, along the well-rememberedstreet. I know not if my companion guessed my disturbance, as I passedthe office and came up in front of the lawn, black beneath thestarlight, with the shadows of its fine old trees. The past was nothalf so dead as I had got in the habit of believing it--life is sweetand strong in the heart of youth, which will endure many blows beforeit will cease to beat with the tremulous thrill of hope and passion.
A bright light was shining from the windows of the parlor and severalof the other rooms, but the hall-door was closed, and every thing wasso quiet about the premises that I did not believe I ran any risk inentering the gate and seeking out the monarch oak--a mighty tree, thepride of the lawn, which stood quite to one side from the centralavenue which led up to the front portico, and only some thirty feetfrom the left corner of the mansion, which was, at times, almosttouched by the reach of its outermost branches. We advanced togetherthrough the darkness, it being the understanding that, should anyaccident betray our visit, before its purpose was accomplished, I wasto retreat, while Mr. Burton would boldly approach and make the excuseof a call upon Mr. Argyll. My familiarity with the premises and mysuperiority in the art of climbing, made the duty of ascending the treedevolve upon me. While my companion stood on guard beneath, I drewmyself up, carefully making my way through the night, out along to the"second branch to the left," feeling for the hollow which I knewexisted--for, in my more boyish days, I had left no possible point ofthe grand old tree unvisited. Not five minutes had elapsed since Ibegan my search, before my fingers, pressing into the ragged cavity ofthe slowly-decaying limb, touched a cold object which I knew to besteel. My hand recoiled with an instinctive shudder, but returnedimmediately to its duty, cautiously drawing forth a slender instrumentof which I could not make out the precise character. Upon raising myhead, after securing the object of our anxiety, my eyes fell upon ascene which held them fascinated for so long a time that the patienceof my friend at the foot of the tree must have been sorely tried.
The windows on the side of the parlor looking on the left were bothopen, the chandeliers lighted, and from my airy eyrie in the tree, Icommanded a full view of the interior. For a time I saw but one person.Sitting by a center-table, directly under the flood of light from thechandelier, was one of the sisters, reading a book. At first--yes, fora full minute--I thought it was Eleanor!--Eleanor as she was, when thehomage of my soul first went out toward her, like the exhalation of aflower to the sun--as young, as blooming and radiant as she was beforethe destroyer came--the dew upon the lip, the light on the brow, theglory of health, youth and joy upon every feature and in every flow ofher garments, from the luster of her hair to the glimmer of her silkenslipper.
"Can it be?" I murmured. "Is there such power of resuscitation in humanvitality as this?"
While I asked myself the question, I was undecided. I saw (and wonderedhow I could have been mistaken for an instant), that this beautifulwoman was Mary, grown so like her older sister, during the months of myabsence, as to be almost the counterpart of what Eleanor had been. WhenI left her she was a girl, half-child, half-woman, bright with thepromise of rare sweetness; and now, in this brief summer-time offifteen months--so rapid had the magic culmination been--she hadexpanded into the perfection of all that is loveliest in her sex. Athoughtfulness, caused, probably, by the misfortune which had befallenthe house--a shadow from the cloud which wrapped her sister--toned downthe frolicsome gayety which had once characterized her, and added thegrace of sentiment to her demeanor. I could not gaze upon the fair,meditative brow without perceiving that Mary had gained in depth offeeling as well as in womanly beauty. She wore a dress of some lustrousfabric, which gleamed slumberously in the yellow light, like watershining about a lily; as she bent above her book, her hair clusteredabout her throat, softening its exquisite outlines; so near, so vivid,was the unconscious _tableau-vivant_, seen through the open frame ofthe window, that I imagined I heard her breathe, and inhaled thefragrance lingering in her curls and handkerchief.
While I gazed, another figure glided within range of my vision.Eleanor, as I beheld her in my dreams, colorless, robed in black, youngstill, beautiful still, but crowned, like a queen, with the majesty ofher desolation, which kept her apart from sympathy, though not fromadoration. Gliding behind her sister's chair, she bent a moment to seewhat volume had such attractions, kissed the fair face turned instantlywith a smile to hers, and passed away, going out into the hall. I hadheard her low "good-night."
Then, almost before she had vanished, came the third figure into thepicture. James, approaching as if from some sofa where he had beenlounging, took the book from Mary's hand, which he held a little,saying somet
hing which brought blushes to her cheeks. Presently shewithdrew her hand; but he caught it again, and kissed it, and I heardhim say,
"Oh! Mary, you are cruel with me--you know it."
Not until I heard him speak, did it rush upon me that I had no businessto be there, spying and eavesdropping. I had looked at first,unconscious of the circumstances, like a wandering spirit lingering bythe walls of Eden, gazing upon the beauty which is not within itssphere. No sooner did I realize my position than I began to descendfrom my eyrie; but James had drawn his cousin from her chair, and thepair approached the window, and stood there, their eyes fixed,apparently, upon that very point in the giant oak where I crouched,suddenly fear-blasted, with the square of light from the windowilluminating the limb where I lay concealed. I had crawled from myfirst resting-place, and was about jumping to the ground, when theirpresence transfixed me, in the most dangerous possible predicament. Idared not move for fear of being discovered. I was paralyzed by alightning consciousness that should I then and there be betrayed, Iwould be the victim of a singular combination of _circumstantialevidence_. Found lingering at night, like a thief, upon the premises ofthose I had injured; stealthily seeking to remove the evidence of myguilt--the weapon with which the murder was committed, hidden by me, atthe time, in this tree, and now sought for in order to remove it frompossible discovery--why, I tell you, reader, had James Argyll sprungupon me there, seized the knife, accused me, nothing would have savedme from condemnation. The probabilities are, that the case would havebeen so very conclusive, and the guilt so horribly aggravated, that thepopulace would have taken the matter in their own hands, and torn me topieces, to show their love of justice. Even the testimony of Mr. Burtonwould not have availed to turn the tide in my favor; he would have beenaccused of seeking to hide my sin, and his reputation would not havesaved him from the ban of public opinion. A cold sweat broke over me asI thought of it. Not the fear of death, nor of the horror of theworld--but dread of the judgment of the two sisters took possession ofme. If this statement of my critical position, when the trembling of abough might convict an innocent man, should make my reader morethoughtful in the matter of circumstantial evidence, I shall be repaidfor the pangs which I then endured.
The young couple stepped out upon the sward. I did not trouble myselfabout what had become of Mr. Burton, for I knew that he was in theshadow, and could retreat with safety; he, doubtless, felt more anxietyabout me.
"Draw your scarf up over your head, Mary," said James, in that soft,pleasant voice of his, which made me burn with dislike as I heardit--"the night is so warm, it will not harm you to be out a fewmoments. Do not deny me a little interval of happiness to-night."
As if drawn forward more by his subtle will than by her own wish, shetook his arm, and they walked back and forth, twice or thrice, in thelight of the window, and paused directly under the limb of the tree,which seemed to shake with the throbbing of my heart. A beam of lightfell athwart the face of James, so that I could see its expression, ashe talked to the young creature on his arm--a handsome face, dark,glowing with passion and determination, but sinister. I prayed, in myheart, for Mary to have eyes to read it as I read it.
"Mary, you promised me an answer this week. Give it to me to-night. Youhave said that you would be my wife--now, tell me how soon I may claimyou. I do not believe in long engagements; I want to make you minebefore any disaster comes between us."
"Did I promise you, James? I really did not know that you consideredwhat I said in the light of a promise. Indeed, I am so young, and wehave always been such friends--cousins, you know--that I hardlyunderstand my own feelings. I do wish you would not overpersuade me; wemight both be sorry. I never believed in the marriage of cousins; so Ido not think you ought to feel hurt, cousin James."
He interrupted the tremulous voice with one a little sharper than hisfirst persuasive tone:
"I am surprised that you do not feel that I regard you as alreadybetrothed to me. I did not think you were a coquette, Mary. And, as forcousinship, I have already told you what I think of it. I know thesecret of your reluctance--shall I betray it to you?"
She was silent.
"Your heart is still set on that scoundrel. One might suppose thatdread and loathing would be the only sentiment you could entertaintoward a traitor and--I will not speak the word, Mary. You took upswords in his defense, and persisted in accusing us of wronging him,against the judgment of your own father and friends. I suspected, then,by the warmth of your avowed friendship for him, that he had, among hisother _honorable_ deeds, gained my little cousin's heart, for thepleasure of flattering his self-love. And I shall suspect, if youpersist in putting me off, when you know that your father desires ourunion, and that my whole existence is wrapped up in you, that he stillholds it, despite of what has passed."
"He never 'gained' my heart by unfair means," said the girl, speakingproudly. "I _gave_ him what he had of it--and he never knew how large apart that was. I wish he _had_ known, poor Richard! for I still believethat you are all wronging him cruelly. I am _his friend_, James, and ithurts me to hear you speak so of him. But that would not prevent mybeing your friend, too, cousin--"
Page 223.
IN THE OAK.]
"You must not say 'cousin,' again, Mary. I'm worn out, now, and halfmad with my feelings--and it makes me desperate. One thing is certain:I can not stay any longer where you are, if you continue so undecided.I want a final answer to-night. If it is unpropitious, I shall go awayto-morrow, and seek for such poor fortune as may be mine, in some otherpart of the world."
"But what will father do without you, James?"
There was distress and a half-yielding cadence in Mary's voice.
"That is for you to think of."
"His health is failing so rapidly of late; and he leans so much uponyou--trusts every thing to you. I am afraid it would kill him to haveall his hopes and plans again frustrated. He has never recovered fromthe shock of Henry's death, and Richard's--going away."
"If you think so, Mary, why do you any longer hesitate? You acknowledgethat you love me as a cousin--let me teach you to love me as a lover.My sweetest, it will make us all so happy."
But why should I try to repeat here the arguments which I heard?--themain burden of which was the welfare and wishes of her father andsister--mingled with bursts of tender entreaty--and, what was morepowerful than all, the exercise of that soft yet terrible will whichhad worked its way, thus far, against all obstacles. Suffice it, thatwhen the cousins at last--after what seemed to me an age, though itcould not have been twenty minutes--returned through the window, I hadheard the promise of Mary to become the wife of James before thebeginning of another year.
Never was a man more glad to release himself from an unpleasantpredicament than I was to descend from my perch when the two figureshad passed within the house. My fear of discovery had become absorbedin my keen shame and regret at being compelled to play the eavesdropperto a conversation like that which I had overheard. Moving a few pacesin the shadow of the trees, I whispered--"Burton."
"Got yourself into a pretty scrape," was instantly answered, in a lowtone, as my friend took my arm and we moved forward to the gate. "Ididn't know but we should have a tragico-comedy upon the spot,impromptu and highly interesting."
"I almost wonder that you are not too greatly out of patience withwaiting to jest about the matter."
"I've told you my motto--'learn to _wait_,' Richard. The gods will notbe hurried; but have you the knife?"
"Ay!" was my grim answer; I felt grim, as I grasped the treacherous,murderous thing which had wrought such deadly mischief. The sound ofshutters drawn together startled us into a quicker pace; we looked backand saw the lower part of the house dark--hurried forward, and withoutany molestation, or our presence in Blankville being known to a singleacquaintance, took the night-train back to New York, which we reachedabout two, A. M. and were at Mr. Burton's house, ringing up thesurprised servants, shortly after.
It was not until we were in
the library, with the doors closed, and thefull blaze of a gas-burner turned on, that I took from my pocket theweapon, and handed it to my companion.
Both of us bent curiously forward to examine it.
"This," said the detective, in a surprised and somewhat agitated tone,"is a surgical instrument. You see, it is quite unlike a common knife.It corroborates one of my conclusions. I told you the blow was dealt bya practiced hand--it has been dealt by one skilled in anatomy. There'sanother link in my chain. I hope I shall have patience until I shallhave forged it together about the guilty."
"There is no longer any doubt about the dead-letter referring to themurder. You see the instrument is broken," I remarked.
"No doubt, indeed," and Mr. Burton went to a drawer of a secretarystanding in the room, and took out the little piece of steel which hadbeen found in Henry Moreland's body.
"You see it is the very fragment. I obtained this important bit ofevidence, and laid it away, after others had given up all efforts tomake it available. How fortunate that I preserved it! So, the weddingis to take place within three months, is it? Richard, we must not restnow. A great deal can be done in three months, and I would give all thegold I have in bank to clear this matter up before that marriage takesplace. Should _that_ once be consummated before we are satisfied withour investigations, I shall drop them for ever. A doctor--a doctor"--hecontinued, musingly--"I knew the fellow had half-studied someprofession--he was a surgeon--yes! By George!" he exclaimed, presently,leaping from his chair as if he had been shot, and walking rapidlyacross the room and back.
I knew he was very much excited, for it was the first time I had heardhim use any expression like the above. I waited for him to tell me whathad flashed into his mind so suddenly.
"The fellow who married Leesy's cousin, and ran away from her, was adoctor--Miss Sullivan has told me that. Richard, I begin to seelight!--day is breaking!"
I hardly knew whether his speech was figurative or literal, as day wasreally breaking upon us two men, plotting there in the night, as if wewere the criminals instead of their relentless pursuers.
"Three months! There will be time, Richard!" and Mr. Burton actuallyflung his arms about me, in a burst of exultation.