CHAPTER I.
THE LETTER.
I paused suddenly in my work. Over a year's experience in the DeadLetter office had given a mechanical rapidity to my movements inopening, noting and classifying the contents of the bundles before me;and, so far from there being any thing exciting to the curiosity, orinteresting to the mind, in the employment, it was of the mostmonotonous character.
Young ladies whose love letters have gone astray, evil men whose planshave been confided in writing to their confederates, may feel butlittle apprehension of the prying eyes of the Department; nothingattracts it but objects of material value--sentiment is below par; itgives attention only to such tangible interests as are represented bybank-bills, gold-pieces, checks, jewelry, miniatures, et cetera.Occasionally a grave clerk smiles sardonically at the ridiculouscharacter of some of the articles which come to light; sometimes,perhaps, looks thoughtfully at a withered rosebud, or bunch of pressedviolets, a homely little pin-cushion, or a book-mark, wishing it hadreached its proper destination. I can not answer for other employees,who may not have even this amount of heart and imagination to invest inthe dull business of a Government office; but when I was in theDepartment I was guilty, at intervals, of such folly--yet I passed forthe coldest, most cynical man of them all.
The letter which I held in my paralyzed fingers when they so abruptlyceased their dexterous movements, was contained in a closely-sealedenvelope, yellowed by time, and directed in a peculiar hand to "JohnOwen, Peekskill, New York," and the date on the stamp was "October18th, 1857"--making the letter two years old. I know not what magnetismpassed from it, putting me, as the spiritualists say, _en rapport_ withit; I had not yet cut the lappet; and the only thing I could fix uponas the cause of my attraction was, that at the date indicated on theenvelope, I had been a resident of Blankville, twenty miles fromPeekskill--and something about that date!
Yet this was no excuse for my agitation; I was not of an inquisitivedisposition; nor did "John Owen" belong to the circle of myacquaintance. I sat there with such a strange expression upon my face,that one of my fellows, remarking my mood, exclaimed jestingly:
"What is it, Redfield? A check for a hundred thousand?"
"I am sure I don't know; I haven't opened it," I answered, at random;and with this I cut the wrapper, impelled by some strongly-defined,irresistible influence to read the time-stained sheet inclosed. It ranin this wise:
"DEAR SIR--It's too bad to disappoint you. Could not execute your order, as everybody concerned will discover. What a charming day!--good for taking a picture. That old friend I introduced you to won't tell tales, and you had not better bother yourself to visit him. The next time you find yourself in his arms, don't feel in his left-hand pocket for the broken tooth-pick which I lent him. He is welcome to it. If you're at the place of payment, I shan't be there, not having fulfilled the order, and having given up my emigration project, much against my will; so, govern yourself accordingly. Sorry your prospects are so poor, and believe me, with the greatest possible esteem,
"Your disappointed NEGOTIATOR."
To explain why this brief epistle, neither lucid nor interesting initself, should affect me as it did, I must go back to the time at whichit was written.