Complete in
this Number.

Vol. IV.

Copyrighted 1878, by BHapLE’

 

 

BEADLE AND ADAMS, PUBLISHERS,

No. 98 Waut1am Street, New Yor«.

 

 

THE DEVAS ORT TER

 

BY SEELEY REGESTER.

Pid BAD ods

CHAPTER I.
THE UETTER.

I PAUSED suddenly in my
work. Over a year’s ex-
perience in the Dead Letter
offics had given a mechani-
cal rapidity to my moye-
ments in opening; noting,
and classifying the contents
of the bundles before me;
and, so far from there be-
ing any thing - exciting
to the curiosity, or inter-
esting to the mind, in the
employment, it was of
the most monotonous char-
acter.

Young ladies whose love-
letters have gone’ astray,
evil mén.whose plans have
been confided in writing to
their confederates, may feel
but little apprehension of
the prying eyes of our De-
vartment; nothing attracts
t but objects of material
ralue—sentiment is below
par; it gives attention only
to such tangible interests as
are .répresonted by bank-
bills, gold-pieces, checks,
jewelry, miniatures; et cet-
ara. Occasionally a save
clerk smiles sardonically at
the ridiculous character of
some of the articles which
come t6 light; sometimes,

rhaps; looks thoughtfully
for a moment at a withered
rosebud, or bunch of ae
violets; a homely little pin-
cushion, or a, book-mark,
wishing it had reached its
proper, destination. I can
not answer for other em-
ployees, who may not have
even this amount of heart
and i ination to invest
in the: dull. business of. 4
Government _ office; but
when [was in the Depart-
ment E was guilty, at intér-
vals, of such folly—yet I

 

them alt:

 

—
=
is

ELEANOR.

passed’ for thé coldést, most’ cynical than’ of’| from Peékskill—and something about that |
te! .

The ‘létter'which I held in my! patalyzed:fin

gers when théy so-abruptly ceased their dexter-.|

ous movements; .was contained in. a closely-
sealed envelope, yellowed by time, and. di
in a Resaliar hand to “John Owen} Peekskill,
New York,” and the date on’ the stamp was’
“ October {8th, 1857 ”—making’ the letter two
ears old. I know rot what mapnetism pissed
it, ‘putting’ me, ds’ the” spiritualists
en rapport with it; I had not yet cut:
layipet;; dnd! the: only th: I could fix
ae as; the cause of my attr Lap
the date indicated on the envelope, I had
been # resident of Blankyille, twenty mailos

‘rom
say,
the’

that,| irresistible influence to read the

ate!

Yet this was no excusé for my agitation: I
was? not\.of an inquisitive disposition; nor did
“John Owen” belong to the circle of my ac-
quaintance., I'sat there with’such a strange ex-
pression, upon, my face, that one of my fellows,
remarking my mood, exclaimed, Jesting: Ve

i nats it, Redfield? A check for a hundred

“T ati sute I don’t know; T haven't opériéd
it,” I answered; at random: atid with this T cht
the wrapper, impelled by some strongly-defined,

me-stained
sheet inclosed. It ran in this wise:
“DEAR SIR—It's too bad to disappoint you,

'| thousand

j
|

|

Could not) execute your
order, ss. everybody-con-
cerned. will discover., What
a, charming day !|—good for
taking a picture. t old
friend I introduced you to
won't tell tales, and you
haa not better bother your-
self to visit him. The next
time you find yourself in
his arms, don’t feel in his
left _ hand cket for. the
broken. tooth-pick which I
Tent him. eis 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, miy will; so,

gorery yourself, according-
y... Sorry your, aac
are so r, and believe me,

with the greatest possible
esteem.
“Your disappoitited
“NEGOTIATOR.”
To explain why this brief
epistle,. neither lucid nor in-
teresting. in_ itself, should
affect me as it did, I must
go back to the time at which
it was written.

one

CHAPTER Il.
EVENTS OF A NIGHT.

It was late in the after-
noon of _a cloudy, windy
aa gay Hae ee
office of John Argy ky
in his’ company, to take tea
and spend the evening in his
family. I was a law-stu-
dent, in the office, and was
favored with more than or-
dinary. kindness by him on
account of a_ friendship
which had existed between
him and my deceased fa-
ther. When young men,
they had started out in life
together, in equal circum-
stances; one had died early,
just as fortune. began to

J ; smile;. the other liyed to.
continue in well-earned’ prosperity, Mr,. Ar-,
gyll had never ceased to take an interest in the
orphan son of his friénd. Hé had aided’ my
mother ‘in giving tHé a'co ate education, and *
had taken me into his office tocomplete my law
studies. Although I did not board at his house,
l.was almost like a member of the family, there
was always a place, for meat his table, with
liberty to_come and_go.as I pleased, bei

| Saturday, I’ was at to go home with him,
y iked,

an i er ste few latgé drops
Ve quickened our steps as a few larg
uae sprinkled over us out of the ddr kening
clo’ ‘ *2
“Tt will be a rainy night,” said Mr. Argyll.
“It may clear away yet,” I said, looking

 
  

 

a

‘THE -FIRESIDE LIBRARY.

 

 

 

toward a rift in the west, through which
the declining sun was pouring a crimson
stream. He shook his head doubtfully ;
and we hurried up the steps into the
house, to escape the threatened drenching.

Entering the parlors, we found no one
but James, a nephew of Mr. Argyll, a
young man of about my own age, loung-
ing ee a sofa.

‘ Where are the girls ?”

“They haven't descended from the
heavenly regions yet, uncle.”

“Dressing themselves to death, I ex-
pect—it’s Saturday evening, I remember,”
smiled the indulgent father, passing on
into the library.

I sat down by the west window, and
looked out at the coming storm. I did

_not Jike James Argyll much, nor he me;

so that, as much as we were thrown to-
gether, our intercourse continued con-
strained. On this occasion, however, he
seemed in excellent spirits, persisting in
talking on all kinds of indifferent subjects
despite of my brief replies. I was won-
dering when Eleanor would make her
appearance.

At last she came. I heard her silk
dress rustle down the stairs, and my eyes
were upon her when she entered'thé room.
She was ‘dressed with unusual care, and
her face wore @ brilliant, expectant smile.
The smile was for weither of us. Perhaps
James thought of it; Iam sureI did, with
secret suffering—with a sharp pang which
I was ashamed of, and fought inwardly
to conquer. j

She spoke pleasantly to both of us, but
with a preoccupied air not flattering to
our vanity. Too restless to sit, she paced
wp-dnd down the length of the parlors,
seeming to radiate light as she walked,
like some superb jewel—so lustrous was
her countenance and so fine her costume.
Little smiles would sparkle about her lips,
little trills of song break forth, as if she
were unconscious of observers. She had
aright to be glad; she appeared to exult
in her own beauty and happiness, *

Presently she came to the window, and

as she stood by my Side, a burst of glory

streamed through the fast-closing clouds, |
enveloping her in a golden atmosphere,
tinting her black hair with purple,
flushing her clear cheeks and the pearls

‘about her throat. The fragrance of the

rose she wore:on her breast mingled with
the light; for a moment I was thrilled

‘and overpowered ; but the dark-blue eyes

were not looking on me—they were re-
garding the weather. ‘
“““How provoking that it should rain

to-night,” she said, and as the slight cloud
of vexation swept over her face, the black-
ness of night closed over the gleam of sun-
set, so suddenly that we could hardly
discern each other.

“The rain will not keep Moreland
away,” T answered. ° [sce

“ Of course not—but I don’t want him
to get wet walking up from the depot;
and Billy has put up the carriage in view
‘of the storm.”

At that moment a wild gust of wind

.' smote the house so that it shook, and the

. Tain came down with a roar that was

aot

deafening. Eleanor rung for lights.

“Tell cook to be sure and have choco-
late for ae r—and cream for the peach-
es,” she sai eG the servant who came in
to light the gas.

The girl smiled ; she knew, in common
with her mistress, who it, was preferred
chocolate and liked cream with peaches ;
the love of a woman, however sublime in

' » gome of its qualities, never fails in the

tender domestic instincts which delight
in promoting’ the comfort and personal
tastes of its object.

“ We need not have troubled ourselves
to wear our new dresses,” pouted Mary,

. the younger sister, who had followed El-
-eanor down stairs; “ there will be nobody
we here to-night.”

Both James and myself objected to be-
‘ing dubbed nobody. The willful young

'. beauty said all the gay things she pleased,

telling us she certainly should not have
worn her blue silks, nor puffed her hair
forus9

— “Nor for Henry Moreland either—he

_, pever looks at me afies the first minute.

_ judgment and will, and

 

Engaged people are so stupid. I wish he
and Eleanor would make an end of it. If
I’m ever going to be bridemaid, I want
to be—” :

“And a clear field afterward, Miss
Molly,” jested her cousin. “Come! play
that new polka for me.”

“You couldn’t hear it if I did. The
rain is playing a polka this evening and
the wind is dancing to it.”

He laughed loudly—more loudly than

the idle fancy warranted. “ Let us see if _

we can not make more noise than the
storm,” he said, going to the piano and
thumping out the most thunderous
piece that he could recall. I was not a
musician, but it seemed to me there were
more discords than the law of melody al-
lowed ; and Mary put her hands over her
ears, and ran away to the end of the
room.

For the next half-hour the rain came
down in wide sheets, flapping against the
windows, as the wind blew it hither and
thither. James continued at the piano,
and Eleanor moved restlessly about, steal-
ing glances, now and then, at her tiny
watch.

All at once there occurred one of those
pauses which precede the fresh outbreak-
ing of @ storm; as if startled by the sud-
den lull, James Argyll paused in his play-
ing; just then the shrill whistle of the
locomotive pierced the silence with more
than usual power, as the evening train
swept around the curve of the hill not. a
quarterof a mile away, and rushed on
into the depot in the lower part of the
village:

There is something unearthly in the
scream of the “steam-eagle,” especially
when heard at night. He seems like a
sentient thing, with a will of his own,
unbending and irresistible ; and his cry is
threatening and defiant. This night it
ie upon the storm prolonged and dole-

I know not how it sounded to the
others, but to me, whose imagination was
already wrought upon by the tempest and
by the ‘presence of the woman I hope-
lessly loved, it came with an effect per-
fectly overwhelming; it filled the air,
even the perfumed, lighted air of the
parlor, full of a dismal wail. It threatened
—I know not what. It warned against
soine strange, unseen disaster. Then it

sunk into a hopeless cry, so full of mortal _

anguish, that | involuntarily put my fin-
gers to my ears. Perhaps James felt
something of the same thing, for he started
from the piano-stool, walked twice or

thrice acrogs the floor, then flung himself —

again upon the sofa, and for along time
sat with his eyes shaded, neither speaking
nor stirring. .

Eleanor, with maiden artifice, took up
a book, and composed herself to pre-
tend to read; she would not have her
lover to know that she had been so rest-
less while awaiting his coming. Onl
Mary fluttered about like a Aaninteaccbirt,
diving into the sweets of things, the mu-
sic, the flowers, whatever had honey in
it; and teasing me in the intervals.

I havesaid that IlovedEleanor. I did,
secretly, in silence and regret, against my
cause I could
not help it. I was quite certain that
James loved her also, and I felt sorry for
him; sympathy was taught me by a
own sufferings, though I had never felt
attracted toward his character. He seem-
ed tc me to be rather sullen in temper,
as well as selfish ; and then again I re-
proached myself for uncharitableness ; it
might have been his circumstances which
rendered him morose—he was dependent
upon his uncle—and his unhappiness
which made him appear unamiable,

Lloved, without a particle of hope.

. Eleanor was engaged. to a young gentle-

man in every way worthy of her: of fine
demeanor, high social position, and un-
blemished moral character. As much as
her many admirers may have envied
Henry Moreland, they could not dislike
him. To see the young couple together
was. to feel that theirs would be one of
those “ matches made in heayen’’—in age,
character, worldly circumstances, beauty

 

and cultivation there was a rare corre-
spondence.

- Mr. Moreland was engaged with his
father in a banking business in the city
of New York. They owned a summer
villa in Blankville, and it had been dur-
ing his week of summer idleness here that
he had made the acquaintance of Eleanor
Argyll. ‘
t this season of the year his busfness
kept him in the city; but he was in the
habit of coming out every Saturday after-
noon and nett Sabbath at the house
of Mr. Argyll, the marriage which was to
terminate a betrothal of nearly two years
being now not very far away. On her
nineteenth birthday, which came in De--.
cember, Eleanor was to be married.

Another half-hour passed away and the
expected guest did not arrive. He usv
ally reached the house in fifteen minutes
after the arrival of the train; I could see
that his betrothed was psy hig hekocy
with her watch-chain, though she. kept
her eyes fixed upon her book.

“ Come, let us have tea; I am hungry,”
said Mr. Argyll, coming out of the library.
“T had a long ride after dinner. No use
waiting, Eleanor—he won't be here to-
night ”—he pinched her cheek to express
his sympathy for her disappointment—
“a little shower didn’t use to keep beaux
away when I was a boy.” gree

“A little rain, papal I never heard
such a torrent before; besides, it was
not the storm, of course, for he would
already have taken the cars before it
commenced,”

“To be sure! to be sure! defend your
sweetheart, Ella—that’s right! But it
may -have been raining down there half”
the day—the storm comes from that
direction. James, are you asleep ?”

“Tl soon see,” cried Mary, pulling
away the hand from her cousin’s face—
“why, James, what is the matter ?”

Her question caused us all to look at
him ; his face was of an ashy paleness ; his
eyes burning like coals of fire.

“ Nothing is the matter! I’ve been half
asleep,” he answered, laughing, and
springing to his feet. “Molly, shall 1
have the honor ?”—she took his offered
arm, and we went in to tea.

The sight of the well-ordered table, at
the head of which Eleanor presided, the
silver, the lights, the odor of the chocolate »
overpowering the fainter fragrance of the
tea, was enough to banish thoughts of the
tempest raging without, saving just
enough consciousness of it to enhance
the enjoyment of the luxury within.

Even Eleanor could not be cold to the
warmth and comfort of the hour; the
tears, which at first she could hardly
keep out of her proud blue eyes, went
back to their sources; she made an effort
to be gay, and succeeded in being very
charming. I think she still hoped he
had been delayed at the village; and
that there would be a note for her at the
post-office, explaining his absence.

For once, the usually kind, considerate

irl was selfish. Severe as was the storm,
she insisted upon sending a servant to the
office; she could not be kept in suspense
until Monday.

She would hardly believe his statement,
upon his return, that the mail had been
changed, and there was really no message
whatever. ;

We went back to the parlor and passed
@ merry evening.

A touch of chagrin, a fear that we
should suspect how deeply she was dis-
appointed, caused Eleanor to appear in

unusually yp spirits. She sung what-
ever I asked of her; she played some
the wit of

delicious music; she fats
others with keener and brighter repartee ;
the roses bloomed on her cheeks, the
stars’ rose in her eyes. It was not an
altogether ha Py excitement; I knew
that pride and loneliness were at the bot-
tom of it; but it made her brilliantly
beautiful. © I wondered what Morela’
would feel to see her so lovely—I almost
regretted that he was not there. ee
ames, too, was in an exultant |
mood, tT Se meer Scaieys sts
It was late when we retired. I was in
a state of mental activity which kept me».

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

4)

 

 

 

_ door-bell rung.

-YPHE “DEAD! EETTER:

3

 

 

awake for hours after. T never heard it
rain a8 it did that night—the water seem-
ed to come down in solid masses, and, .
oceasionally, the wind shook the strong
mansion as if it were a child. 1 could
not sleep. There was something awful
in the storm. If I had had a touch of
superstition about me I should have said
that spirits were abroad.

A healthy man, of a somewhat vivid
imagination, but without nervousness,
unknowing bodily fear, I was still affect-
ed strangely. I shuddered in my soft
bed; the wild shriek of the locomotive
lingered in my ears; something besides rain
seemed beating at the windows. Ah, my
God! I knew afterward what’ it was.
It was a human soul, disembodied, linger-
ing about the place on earth most dear
to it. Therest ofthe household slept well, .
so far'as I could judge, by its silence and
deep repose.

oward morning I fell asleep ; when I
awoke the rain was over; the sun shone
brightly ; She ground was covered with
gay autumn leaves shaken down by the
wind and rain; the day promised well.
I shook off the impressions of the dark-
ness, dressed’ myself quickly, for the
breakfast-bell had rung, and ‘descending,
joined the family of my host at the table.

n the midst of our cheerful repast, the
Eleanor started; the
thought that her lover might have stayed
at the hotel adjoining the depot on ac-
count of the rain, must have crossed her
mind, for a rapid blush rose to her cheeks,
and she involuntarily put up a hand to
the dark braids of her hair as if to give
them amore graceful touch. The servant
came in, ‘Saying that a man ‘at the door
wished to speak with Mr. Argyll and Mr.”
Redfield. : mer
“He says it’s important, and can’t wait,
sir.”

We arose and went out into the hall,
closing ‘the door of the breakfast-room

behind us. i!

“Tm very sorry—I’ve got bad news— +

I hope you won’t”—stammered the mes- é
3

)

“What is it?” demanded Mr. Argyll.
“The young gentleman that comet
ner satbnelnnts his name, 1 believe— ,
was found dead on the road this morn /

me Dead ?”
“They want you to come down to the
inquest. They've got him in a room
of our house. They think it’s a fit— ,
there’s no marks of any thing.” ~ .
The father and I looked at each other;
the lips of both were quivering ; we both
thought of Eleanor. {
“What shall I do 2” ‘

oqee a servant from the hotel.

“1 don’t know, Mr. Argyll. Ihaven’t 4
t

had time to think.”

“T can not—I can not—”

“Nor I—not just yet. Sarah, tell the
young ladies we have gone out a short
time on business—and don’t you breathe
what you haye heard. Don’t let any one «
in until we return—don’t allow any one
to see Miss Eleanor. Be prudent.”

Her frightened face did not promise
much for Her discretion.

Hastening to the hotel, already sur-
rounded by many people, we found the
distressing message too true. Upon a
lounge, in a private eiiing oom, lay the *
body of Henry Moreland! The coroner
and a couple of physicians had ‘already
arriyed., It was their opinion that he had
died from, natural causes, as there was
not the least evidence of violence to be
secon, The face was as pleasant as in
slumber; we could hardly believe him
dead until we touched the icy forehead,
about which the thick ringlets of brown
hair clung, saturated with rain.

“What's this ?” exclaimed one, as we
began to relieve the corpse of its wet gar-
ments, for the purpose of a further exam
ination, It was a stab in the back. Not
a drop of blood—only a small triangular
hole.in, the cloak, through the other cloth
ing, into, the, body. The inyestigation
soon, revealed. the nature of the death-
wound; it. had been given by a fine, sharp
dirk.-or stiletto. . $0 firm and forcible
had. been the blow that it had pie
jung and struck the rib with sufficient

 

force to break the blade of the weapon,
about three-quarters of an inch of the
point of which was found in the wound.
Death must have been instantaneous.
The victim had fallen forward upon his
face, bleeding inwardly, which accounted
for no blood haying been at first per-
ceived; and as he had fallen, so he had
jain through all the drenching storm of that
miserable night. When discovered by
the first passer-by, after daylight, he was
lying on the path, by the side of the
street, which led up in the direction of
Mr. Argyll’s, his traveling-bag by his side,
his face to the ground. The bag was not
touched, neither the watch and money on
his person, making it evident that robbery
was not the object of the murderer.

A stab in the back, in the double dark-
ness of night and storm! What enemy
had Henry Moreland, to do this deed
upon him ?

Tt is useless now to repeat all the vary-
ing conjectures rising in our minds, or
which continued’ to engross the entire
community for weeks thereafter. It be-
came at once the favorite theory of many
that young Moreland had perished by.a
stroke’ intended for some other person.
In the mean time, the news swept
through the village’ like a whirlwind,
destroying the calmness of that Sabbath
morning, tossing the minds of people
more fearfully than the material tempest
had tossed the frail leaves. Murder! and
such a murder in such a place !—not twen-
ty rods from the busiest haunts of men, on
a peaceful street—sudden, sure, unpro-
voked! People looked behind them as
they walked, hearing the assassin’s step
in every rustle of the breeze. Murder !—
the far-away, frightful idea had suddenly
assumed a real shape—it seemed to have
stalked. through the town, entering each
welling, standing by every hearth-stone.

While the inquest was proceeding, Mr.
Argyll and myself were thinking more of
Eleanor than of her murdered lover.

“This is wretched business, Richard,”
said the father. “I am so unnerved I can
do nothing. Will you telegraph to his
parents for me?”

His parents—here was more misery.
I had not thought of them. I wrote out
the dreadful message which it ought to
haye melted the wires with pity to carry.

“And now you must go to Eleanor.
She must not hear it from strangers: and
I can not—Richard !—you will tel. ner,
will you not? J will follow you home
immediately. As soon as I have made
arrangements to have poor Henry brought
to our house when the inquest is over.”
| He wrung my hand, looking at_me so
beseechingly, that, loth as I was, I had no
thought of refusing. . I felt like one walk-
ing with frozen feet as I passed out of
the chamber. of horror into the peaceful
suntient, along the very path he had last
trodden, and over the spot where he had
fallen and had lain so many hours undis-
covered, around which a crowd was
pressing, disturbed, excited, but not
noisy. The sandy soil had already
‘filtered the rain, so ‘as to be nearly dry ;
there. was nothing to give a clue to
the murderer’s footsteps, whither he
went or whence he came—what impress
they might have made in the hard,
gravelly walk had been washed out by
the storm. A féw persons were search-
ing carefully for the weapon which had
been the instrument of death, and which
had been broken in the wound, thinking
it might have been cast. away in the
vicinity.

 

CHAPTER III.
THE FIGURE BENEATH THE TREES.

As I came near the old Argyll mansion
it seemed to me never to have looked so
fair before. The place was the embodi-
ment of calm prosperity. Stately and
spacious it rose from the lawn in the
midst of great old oaks whose trunks
must have hardened through a century of
growth, and whose red leaves, slowly drop-
ping, now flamed in the sunshine. Al-
though the growing village had stretched
up ‘to and encircled the grounds, it had

 

still the air of a country place, for the
lawn was roomy and the gardens were
extensive. The house was built of stone,
in a massive and yet graceful style; with
such sunshiny windows and pleasant per-
ticoes that it had nothing of a somber look.

It is strange what opposite emotions ~
will group themselves in the soul’ at the
sume moment. The sight of those lordly
trees called up the exquisite pictures of
Tennyson’s “ Talking Oak”: |

“Oh, mufile round thy knees with fern,

And shadow Sumner-chace!
Long may thy topmost branch discern
The roofs of Sumner-place !”’

I wondered if Henry had not repeated
them, as he walked with Eleanor amid
the golden light and flickering shadows :
beneath the branches of these trees. 1”
recalled how L once; in my madness, be- *
fore I knew that she was betrothed to an-
other, had apostrophized the monarch of ©
them all, in the passionate words of Wal-
ter. Now, leoking at this ancient tree, J
perceived with my eyes, though hardly
with my mind, that it had some tresh«
excoriations upon the bark. IfI thought ©
any thing at all about it, I thought it?
the work of the storm, for numerous
branches had been torn from the “trees

throughout the grove, and the ground was °

carpeted with fresh-fallen leaves.

Passing up the walk I caught a glimpse’ >

of Eleanor at an upper window, and
heard her singing a hymn, softly to her-
self, as she moved about her chamber. “1
stopped as if struck a blow. How could
I force myself to drop the pall over this
glorious: morning? Alas! of all . the
homes in that village, perhaps this was’!
the only one on which the shadow had 4
not yet fallen—this, over which it ’was to /
settle, to be lifted nevermore. .
Of all the hearts as yet unstartled by the

tragic event was that most certain to be”

withered—that young heart, this moment ©
so full of love and bliss, caroling hymus ~
out-of the fullness of its gratitude to God -
for its own delicious happiness.

Oh; I must—I must! I went in at an

open window, from a portico into ‘the *

library. James was there, dressed for
church, his prayer-book and handker-—
chief on the table, and he looking ‘over
the last evening’s paper. ‘The sight of
him gave mea slight relief’; his uncle and
myself had forgotten him in the midst of
our distress. It was bad enough to have
to tell any one such news, but an
delay in meeting Eleanor was eagerly wel-

comed. He looked at me inquiringly— ©

my manner was enough to denote that
something had gone wrong.
“What is it, Richard ?”
““Horrible—most horrible !”

“ For heaven’s sake, what is the mat-

ter?” ;
“Moreland has been murdered.”

“Moreland! What? Where?) Whom’

do they suspect ?”

“And her father wishes me to tell '

Eleanor. You are her cousin, James;

will you not be the fittest person ?” the

hope crossing me that he would under-
take the delivery of the message.

“7!” he exclaimed, Jeaning against the /

case of books beside him. “1! oh, no,
not Il. I'd be the last person! I'd look
well telling her about it, wouldn’t 1?”

and he half Jaughed, though trembling —

from head to foot. wWesit Ki
If I thought his manner strange, I did.

not wonder at it—the dreadful nature of ©)

the shock had unnerved all of us.

“Where is Mary ?” I asked ; “we had
better tell her first, and have her present.
Indeed, I wish—”

I had turned toward the door, which
opened into the hall, to search for the
younger sister, as I spoke; the words”
died on my lips. Eleanor was standing,’
there. She had been coming in to get a:
book, and had evidently heard what had t
passed. She was as white as the morning
dress she wore.

‘Where is he?” Her voice sounded al-
most natural. :

“At the Eagle Hotel,” I ee
without reflection, glad that she show:
such self-command, and, since she did,
glad also that the terrible communication
was over. :

She turned and ran through the hall,

Wes

re

 
  

 

4

 

THE) FIRESIDE, LABRARY.

 

down the ayenue toward the gate. In
her thin ‘slippers, her bair uncoyered,
fleet as a vision of the wind, she fled. I
sprung after her. It would not do to al-
low her to shock herself with that sudden,
awful sight. As she rushed out upon the
street I caught her by the arm,

“Let me go! I must goto him! Don’t
you see, he will need me?”

‘She made an. effort fo break away,
looking down. the street with strained
eyes. Poor child! as if, he being dead,
she could do him any good! Her stun-
ned heart.had as yet gone no further than
that if Henry ‘was'hurt, was murdered,
he would. need her by: his side. She must
goto him and ‘comfort, him in his calam-
ity. It. was. yet to teach her that this
world and the things of this world—even
she, ‘herself, were no more to him.

“ Come back, Eleanor; they will bring
him to you before long.”

Lhad to lift her in my arms and carry

_ her back to the house.

In, the hall we met Mary, who had
heard the story from James, and who
burst,into tears and sobs as she, saw her
sister.

“They are keeping me away. from
shim,” said, Hleanor,. pitifully, looking at
her. , I felt, her form relax in) my arms.
saw that she, had fainted; James and) I
carried her to a sofa, while Mary ran dis-
tractedly for the housekeeper.

There, was noisy, wailing now in the
mansion ;the, senvants all, admired and
liked the young gentleman to. whom their
mistress was to be married; and, as
usual, they gave full scope to their
powers. of expressing terror and sym-
pathy. In. the midst of cries and tears,
the insengsible girl was conveyed to her
chamber.

James and myself paced the long halls
and porticoes, waiting to hear tidings of
her recovery. After a time the housge-
keeper came down, ipforming. us, that
Miss Argyll had come, to. her) senses ;
leastwise, enough to,open her, eyes and
look about; but she wouldn’t, speak, and
she looked dreadful.

Just then Mr. Argyll,came in. AdSer
being informed of what, had, occurred he
went up to his daughter's room. With
uttermost tenderness; he gaye her the de-
tails of the murder, as:they, were known ;
his eyes overrunning with tears to see
that not.a drop,of ‘moisture softened her
fixed, unnatural look,

‘Eriends came,in and went out with no
notice from: her.

41 wish they. would all leave me but
Fou Mary,” she. said, after. a. time.
‘ather, you will let: me know when—”’

“ Yes—yes.”’ He kissed her, and she
was Jett with: her sister fora watcher.

Hours passed. Some of us went into
the dining-room and drank.of the strong
tea,whi¢h the housekeeper, had prepared,
for we felt weak and unnerved. The
parents. were expected,.in ‘the evening
train, there being, but, one, train running
on Sunday. The.shadow deepened, over
the house from hour to, hour,

It was late in the afjerngon before the
body: could be removed, from the hotel
where the coroner's inquest, was,held, I
asked James to go, with me and attend
upon its conveyance to, Mr, Argyll’s,

e.declined, upon, the, plea, of being too
much unstrung to go out.

Asi thes ait procession reached the

rden:in, front; of the mansion with its

urden, I observed, in, the, midst of seve-
ralj who ,had jgathered: about, a woman,
whose face, .even,in that time of preoccu-
ation, arrested my attention. It was
at» of a gifl,, young and handsome,
though now: thin. and deadly pale, with a
wild, look injher, black eyes, which were
fixed, upon .the.shrouded burden with
more:than awe, and curiosity.

[ know not yet why I remarked her so

particularly; why her strange face made
such an impression on me. Once she
started toward us, and then shrunk back
again. By her dress and general appear-
ance. she might haye; been a shop-girl.
I had never seen her before,

“That, girl,” said a gentleman by my
side, “acts queerly, And, come to think,
she was on the train from New York yes-
terday afternoon, Not the one poor
Moreland came in; theone before. I jvas

 

on board myself, and noticed her partic-
ularly, as she sat facing me. She seemed
to haye some trouble on her mind.”

I seldom forget faces; and I never for-
got hers. :

“T will trace her out,” was my mental
resolve.

We passed on into the house, and de-
posited our charge in the back parlor. I
thought of Eleanor, as she had walked this
room just twenty-four hours ago, a bril-
liant yision of love and triumphant
beauty. Ay ! twenty-four hours ago this
clay before me was as resplendent with
life, ag eager, as glowing with the hone
of the soul within it! Now, all the hours
of time would never restore the tenant to
his‘ tenement. Wo had dared to take
upon himself the responsibility of unlaw-
fully and with violence, ejecting this hu-
man soul from its house?

Ishuddered as I asked myself the ques-
tion. Somewhere must be lurking a
guilty creature, with a heart on fire trom
the flames of hell, with which it had put
itself in contact.

Then my heart stood still within me—
all but the family had been banished from
the apartment—her father was leading in
Eleanor. With a slow step, clinging to
his arm, she entered; but as her eyes
fixed themselyes upon the rigid outlines
lying there beneath the funeral pall, she
sprung forward, casting herself upon her
lover's corpse. Before, she had been
silent; now began a murmur of woe so
heart-rending that we who listened wish-
ed ourselves deaf before our ears had heard
tones and sentences which could never
be forgotten. It would be useless for me,
a man, with a man’s language and
thoughts, to attempt to repeat what this
broken-hearted woman said to her dead
lover.

It was not her words so much as it was
her pathetic tones.

She talked to him as if he were alive
and could hear her. She was resolved to
make him hear and feel her love through
the dark death which was between them.

“Ah, Henry,” she said, in a low,
caressing tone, eo back the curls
from his forehead with her hand, “ your
hair is wet still, To think that you
should lie out there all night—all night—
on the ground in the rain, and I not
know of it! I, to be sleeping in my
warm bed—actually sleeping, and you
lying out in the storm, dead. ‘That is the
strangest thing! that makes me wonder
—to think I could! Tell me that you
forgive me for that, darling—for sleeping,
you know, when you were out there. 'T wis
thinking of you when I took the rose out
of my dregs at night. I dreamed of you
all night, but if I ‘had known where you
were, [ would have gone out barefooted,
I would have stayed by you arid kept the
rain from your face, from ‘your dear, dear
hair that i like so much and hardly ever
dare to touch. It was cruel of me to
sleep so. Would you guess, I was vexed
at you last evening because you didn’t
come? It was that made me 0, gay—
not because T'was happy. Vexed at you
for not coming, when ‘you ‘could “not
come because you were dead!” and she
laughed. .

As that soft, dreadful laughter thrilled
through the room, “with a groan Mr.
Argyll arose and”went out; he could’ bear

no more. Disturbed with a tear that her
reason was shaken, I spoke with Mary,
and we two tried to lift’her up, and per-
suade her out of the room. ' a

“Oh, don’t try to’ get me away from

him again,” she pleaded, with a quiver-
ing smile which made-us-sick. ‘“ Don’t
be troubied, Henry. I’m not going—I’m
not! They are going to putjmy hand in
yours and bury me with you. It’s so
curious I should have been playing ‘the
piano and wearing my. new. dress, and
never guessing it! that you were, so, near
me—dead—murdered !” ;
' The kisses ; the light, gentle touches of
his hands and forehead, as if, she might
hurt him with the caresses which. she.
could not withhold; the intent. look,
which continually watched him asg,if ex-
pecting an answer; the miserable smile
upon her white face—these were. things
which haunted those who saw they
through many a future slumber.

 

“You will not say you forgive me for
singing last night. You don’t say a.wora
to me—because you are dead—that’s it—
because you are dead—murdered !”

The echo of her own last word recalled
her wandering reason.

“My God! murdered!” she exclaimed,
suddenly rising to her full hight, with an
awful air; “ who do you suppose didit ?”

Her cousin was standing near; her
eyes fell ayer him as she asked the
question. he look, the manner, were
too much for his already overwrought
sensibility ; he shrunk away, caught my
arm, and sunk down, insensible. I did
not. wonder. We all of us felt ag if we
could endure no more. eae

Going to the family physician, who
waited in another apartment, I begged
of him to use some influence to Bae
Miss Argyll from the room, and quiet her
feelings and memory, before her brain
yielded to the strain upon it. After giving
us some directions what to do with James,
he went and talked with her, with s0
much wisdom and tact, that the danger
to her reason seemed passing ; persuading
her also into taking the powder which. he
himgelf administered; but no argument.
could induce her to leave the mute, un-
answering clay.

The arrival of the relatives wag the laat
scene in the ireped of that day. Unable,
to bear more of it, I went out in the dark-
ness and walked upon the lawn. My head
was hot; the cool air felt grateful to. me;
I leaned long upon the trunk of an oak,
whose dark shadow shut out the starlight
from about me; thought was busy. with
recent events. Who was the murderer?
The question revolyed in my brain, com-
ing uppermost every other moment, as
certainly as the turning of a wheel brings
a certain point again and again to the top.
My training, as a student of the law, help-
ed my; mind to fix upon every. slightest
circumstance which might hold a sus-
picion. ;

“Could that woman ?’—but no, the
hand of a woman could scarcely have
ie that sure and powerful blow. I

ooked like the work of 9 practiced hand
—or, if not, af ica it had been, deliber-
ately given, with malice aforethought.
The, assassin had premeditated the deed ;
had watched his victim and awaited the
hour. Thus far, there was, Sheeley
no, clue. whatever to the guilty party;
‘bold as was the act, committed i the,
early evening, in the, haunts. of ft busy
community, it. had been most, fatally suc-
cessful; and, the doer had yanished as.
completely as if the earth had opened and
swallowed liim up. No one, asyet, could
form any plausibie conjecture, even. as, to,

oe, mote.
n the name of Eleanor Arey ip the
name of her whom I loyed, whose happi-
negs,I had that.day,seen in ruins, I yow-
ed to use every endeayor, to discover and
bring to punishment the murderer. I
know, not why this purpose took such
firm hold of me. The conyiction, of the
uilty would not restore the. life which
had en, taken; the bloom. to a, heart
prematurely withered; it would afford
no_consolation to the bereaved. Yet, if.
to discover, had, been to call back Henry
Moreland to the world from which he had
been. so ruthlessly dismissed, I could
hardly have been more. determined in the
ursuit. action, only could I feel re-
ief from. the oppression which weighed
upon, me. It could not give life to the
dead—but. the voice of Justice called
alqud, never to permit this deed to. sink
into oblivion, until she had executed the
divine vengeance of the law upon the doer.
As I stood therein silence and dark-
ness, pondering He matter, I heard a
light, rustle. of, the, dry leaves upon the
ground, and felt, rather than saw, a figure
passme. J might haye thought it one of
the servants were it not for the evident
caution of its movements. Presently,
where the shadows of the trees were less
thick, I detected a person stealing toward
the house. Ab shé crossed an open Bp
the starlight revealed the form and’gar-
ments ofa female ; the next moment ‘she
passed into the obscurity. of shadows
again, where, she remained some time,
unstispicious of my proximity, Ike’ my»

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THE, DEAD, LETTER.

  

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self leaning against a tree, and watching
the mansion. Apparently satisfied that
nO One was about—the hour now a tae
toward midnight—she approached wit
hovering steps, now pausing, now draw-
ing back, the west sidé of the mansion
from one of the windows of which the
solemn light of the death-candlés shone!
Under this’ window shé'crouched down!
T could not tell if her attitude were a
kneeling oné. It must havé beén’ moré

. than an howr that she remained motion+
less in this place; I, equally quiet, watch-
ing the dark spot where’ she was! For
the instant that she had stood bétweén
me and the window, her forny was out-
lined against the light, when’ TI saw that
this must be the young woman whosé
strange conduct at the gate‘ had attracted
my attention. Of course’ I did not seé
hier face ; but: the’ tall, slender figure, the
dark bonnet, and nervous movement,
were the same. I perplexed myself with
vain ‘conjectures: — ;

Tcotild not help connectiig’ her with
the murder, or with the: victim, in sonve
manner, however vagite.

At last slie ardse, lingered, went awdy,
passing near me with that soft, rustling
step again. I was impelled to stretch ow’
my hand and seize her; her conduct was
suspicious; she ought to be arrested’ and
examined ; if only to clear herself of these
cireumstances. The idea that, by follow-
ing her, I might trace her to some haunt,

here proofs were secreted, or accom-
plies Hidden, withheld my grasp.

Cautiously timing my step with hers,

that the murmur of the leaves might not,

betray mie, I followed. As she ed out
the gate; I stood behind ‘a tree, lest she
should Jodk' back. and discérn mie; then
I passed through, following along’ in the
shadow of the fence.

She hurried on in the direction of the
spot at which the murder had been com:
mitted; but when nearly there, percciy-
ing. that some persons, though long tf
midnight, still hovered’ about’ the’ fatal
place, she turned, and passed me. As
soon ag I dared, without alarming her, I
also turned, pursuing’ her’ through ‘the
long, quiet street, until it brought her to
a more’ crowded and ‘poorer part of the
village, where’ she went down’'a side
street, and disappeared in a’ tenément-
house, the’ etitrance-hall' to which’ was
open. I ought to have gone at once for
officers, and searched the place’; but’ I un-
wisely concluded to wait for daylight.

As I came up the walk on’ my return,
I'met James Argyll in the avenue, near
the front portico.

“Oh, is it you?” he exclaimed, after’
I had spoken to him, “T thought it
was—was—”

“You are not superstitious, James ?”
for his hollow voice betrayed that he was
frightened.

“You did give me a confounded un-
easy sensation as you came up,” he’ an-
swered with a’ laugh.—How can’ peo-

le laugh under such circumstances ?—

“Where have you beén at this hour,
Richard ?”

“Walking in theé'cool air. The house
amothered me.” Z

“80 it did me. I could not’ rest. I
have just come out to get a breath of' air.”

“Tt is almost morning,” I said, and
passed on into my chamber.

I knew who. watched, without food,
without rest, in the chamber of death, by
whose door my footsteps Jed; but ache
as my heart might, I had no words of
conifutt for sorrow like hers+-so I passed
on.

—_—

CHAPTER IY.
MORELAND VILLA:

SEVERAL minor circumstances prevent-
ed my going in search of the woman who
had excited my suspicions on the previ-
ous day until about nine o'clock of the
morning, when I engaged an officer, and
we two went quietly, without communi-
cating our plans to any one else, to the
tenement house before spoken of.

Although Blankville was not a large

ARE en ea ater enr snag one

 

village, there was in it, as in nearly every
town blessed with a railroad depot, a
shabby quarter where the rougher portion
of its working people lived. The house
stood in this quarter—it was'a three-stor
frame building, oecupied by half a doz
families; mostly those’ of lrish laborérs,
who found work’ in the vicinity of the
depot: I had seen the strange gir] ascend
to thé second floor, in the dim light of
the previous night, so we went up and
knocked ‘at the first door we came upon.
It was opened by a decent-appearing mid-
dle-aged woman, who’ hel :
her hand whild ‘she waited for us to make
known our errand’; we both stepped inte
her apartment, before we spoke: ‘A rapid
glance revealed an iniiocent-looking room
with the ordinary furniture’ of stich’ a
places: codking-stove, bed; table, ete’’;
but no other inmate. There’ was a cup-
board, the door of which stood open;
showing ‘its ‘humble array of dishes arid
eatablessthere were ‘no. \pantries,: nor
other places of concealment: | I was cer:
tain that I had ‘seen the girl enter this
room at’ the’ head of the stairs) so I ven-
tured:

“Ts Co daughter at home, ma’am’?”

“Tsit my niece you mean ?”

I detected: an Irish accent, though the
woman spoke with but ‘little “ brogue,”
and was evidently an old resident of our
country—in a’ manner Americanized.

“Oh, shé is your niece? I suppose so
—a tall'girl with dark eyes ‘and hair.”

“That's Leesy herself. Was you want-
ing any work doné ?”

“Yes,” answered the’ officer, quickly;
taking the matter out of my hands. “f
wanted to gét' a set’ of ‘shirts’ made’ up—
six, with fine, stitched bosoms.” He had
noticed a cheap sewing-machine standing’
near the window, and ‘a bundle of coatse’
muslin in a basket near by.

“Ts sorry I am'to disappoint you ; ‘but
Leesy’s not’ with me now, and I hardly’
venture’ on the fine work, I make the’
shirts for the hands about the railrodd’
that hasn’t wives of thei own to do it—
but for’ the fine’ bussums ”—doubtfally—
“though, to be sure, the machin does thé’
stitchés up’ beaiitiful--if it wasn’t for the
button-holes?” :

“Where is’ Leesy'?’ Doesn’t she stor
with you by :

“Tts' her I have’ here’ always wher
she’s olit of a placé:’ She’s ab orphan;
aa girl, and’ it's not in’ the blood ofa’

allivan’ to tutn off their own TPve
brought her up’ from 4 little thing of five

ears old—given her the edtication) too:

he can read and’ write like the ladies of
the land.” |

“You didn’t say’ where shé was, Mrs'
Sullivan,” :

“ She's’ making’ the’ fine’ thitgs’ in a
fancystoré'in New’ York—caps and col-
lars'and'sleéves and the beattifal tucked’
waists—she’s such taste, and the ‘work is’
not'so hard ‘as plain-sewing—four dollurs’
a. week she gets, and boarded for two and:
a half, in ‘a nice, genteel plate!’ She’ ex:
pects tobe ilivated’ to the’ ‘forewomdn’s
place, at seven’ dollars the week, before
many months.’ She’ was hére’ to stay
over the Sunday with mé—she often’ does’
that; and she’s’ gone’ back’ by’ the’ six’
o'clock train this ‘mornin’—and she'll be
surely Jate at that by an hour!’ I tried'to
coax her to stay the day, she séemed so
poosly. She’s not been herself this long
time~ she seems goit’ ina decline like—
it’s the stooping over the needle, I think:
She’s so nervouslike, the news of the
murder yesterday almost killed her’
’Twas‘an awful deed that, wasn’t it, gin-
tlemén? I couldn't sleep’ a wink last
night for thinkin’ of that'poor young’
man and the’sweet lady he was to have
married: Such a finé, genérous,’ polite
young gintleman !”

“Did you know him'?”

“ Know him! as well as my own son
if I had one!—not that ever I spoke to
him, but he’y passed here often on his
way to his father’s howise, and to Mr.
Argyll’s ; and Leesy sewed in their family’
these two summers when they’ye been
here, and was always twice paid.’ When‘
she’d go away he'd say, laughing jn his
beautiful way, ‘And how much Nave you

the knob in ~

 

earned a day, Miss Sullivan, sitting there
all these long, hot hours?’ and she'd
answer, “ Fifty cents a day, and thanks to
your mother for the good pay ;” and he’d
put his hand in his pocket and pull out a
ten-dollar gold-pjece and say, “ Womeli
arén’t half” paid ‘for their work! it’s’ a
shame! if you, hain’t earned a dollar a4
day, Miss Sullivan, you hain’t earned’
cent. So don’t be afraid to take it—it's
your due.” And that’s what made Leesy
think so much of him—he was so thought-
ful of the poor—God bless’ him! How
could anybody bavé the heart’ to do
py :

I looked at. the officer and found his
eyés reading my face. One thought had
evidently. flasiled over both of us; but it
‘was a suspicion which wronged the im-
mactlate aa of Henry Moreland:
and I, for my part, banished it as soon ag
it entered my mind, It’ was like him to
pily generously the’ labors of a’ sickly
xwing-pitl ; it was not like him to take
aDY wa vantage of her ignorance’ or grati-
tude, which might réesult in ‘her’ taking
such desperate revenge for her wrongs:
The thought was’an insult to him and to
the noble” woman who was to haye been
his wife. I blushed at the intrusive, un
welcome’ fae i but ‘the’ officer, not
knowing the deceased as I knew him,
and, perhaps; having no such exalted
idea of manhootas mine, séemed to’ feel
as if heré might bé @' thread to follow.

“Teésy ‘thought much’ of him, you
think; Mrs! ‘Sullivan,’ taking’ a‘chair un
bidden} ‘and! putting on a ‘friendly, gos
siping air, “ Evetybody speaks’ well ‘of
him. $6 shé sewed in the family ?”

“Six weeks every summer!’ They was
always satisfied with her séwing—she’s
the quickest’ ‘and neatest hand with’ the
needle! She'd make them shirtsof yours
beautiful, if'she*was to home, sir.”

“When did she #6 to New York to live?”

“ Last winter, early. It’s nearly a year
now. There was something come across
her—she appeared’ homesick like, and
strange. en she said’ she meant to go
to the city and gét work, I was minded'to
let her go, for’ T thought’ the« change
mebbe would’ do her! good. But she’s

uite ailing and couglis dreadful o’ nights:
tm afraid she catched cold in that rain-
storm night afore last; she came up ‘all
the way from the depot in it. She was
wet to the skin when she got here and*as
white as a sheet. She was so’ weak-like
that when the neighbors came in with the
news yesterday, she gave’a screany and
dropped ‘right down. I didu't wonder
she was took aback. Iain’t got’ done
trembling’ yet myself” »

LT retiembered the gentleman who had
first spoken te me about the girl said
that she had come in? on the morning:
train Saturday ; I could not reconcile this’
with hér coming up ‘from the depot lat
dark’; yet'I wished to put my question in’
such @ way ‘as not to arouse suspicion of
my motive. J

“Tf she’came in the’six o’clock'train she’
must have’ been on the same train with
Mr. Moreland.” i Dita

“T believo’she was in the seven o’¢lock’
cars—yes, she was. "T'was: half-past
seven when’ she’ got’ in—the rain was:
pouring down‘ awful. She didn’t ‘see’
him, for I asked her yesterday.”

“In whose shop in New York is she’
employed?” inquired the officer. j

“ She’s at No. 83+ Broalway,” naming:
a store somewhere between Wall street
and Canal. 4

“Are you wanting her for any thing 2”:
she asked, suddenly, looking up sharply?
as if it just occurred to her that our in»
quiries ‘were rather pointed. r

“Oh, no,” replied my companion, ris:
ing;°“ I was a bit tired. and thought Pa
rest my feet before starting out again.
thank you fora glass of water, Mrs. Sul-»
livan. So you won’t undertake the shirts?”

“If 1 thought I could do the button-
holes”

“ Perhaps your niece could do themon!
her next visit, if you wanted the job,” I
suggested.

“Why; so she could! and’ would be
pe to do something: for her old aunt.,
It’s bright you are to put me in mind of
it. Shall I come for the work, sir?”

 
 

AS

    

.

BENS upre

THE FIRESIDE LIBRARY,

 

“Tl send it round when I get it ready.
I suppose your niece intends to visit you
next Saturday ‘
. “ Well, ra’ly, I ean’t say. It’s too ex-

pensive her coming .every week; but, -

she’ll sure be. here afore the whole six
is complate. Good-mornin’, gintlemen—
and they’s heard nothin’ of the murderer,
‘PU warrant?”

We responded that nothing had
been learned, and descending to the
street, it. was arranged, as. we walk-
ed along, that the officer should. go
to New York and put some detective
there on the track of Leesy Sullivan. I
informed my companion of the discrepan-
cy between her actual arrival in town and
her appearance at her aunt’s. Hither the
woman had purposely deceived us or her
niece had not gone home for a good many
hours after landing at Blankyille. I
went with him to the depct, where we
made a few inquiries which convinced us
that she had arrived on Saturday morning,
had sat an hour or two in the lady’s
room, and then gone away up town.
oi There was sufficient to justify our look-
ing further, I took from my own pocket
means to defray the expenses of the officer
as well as, to interest. the New York
Jetective, adding, that liberal rewards
were about. to be offered, and waited until
{ saw him depart on his errand.

_ Then, turning to go to the office, my
heart so sickened at the idea, of, business
and the ordinary routine of living in the
midst of such misery, that my footsteps
shrunk away from their familiar paths!
I could do nothing, just.then, for the aid
or comfort of the afflicted. The body was
to. be taken. that afternoon to the city for
‘jnterment, the next. day, in. the family
inclosure at Greenwood; until the hour
for its removal, there was nothing more
that friendship could perform in the ser-
vice of the mourners. . My usual prescrip-
tion for mentalailments was along and
vigorous walk ; to-day I felt.as if I.could
breathe only in the. wide sunshine, so
!eramped and chilled, were my, spirits.

.. The summer residence of the More-
lands lay about a mile beyond the Argyll
mansion, out of the village proper, on a
hillside, which sloped down to the river.
It was surrounded by fine grounds, and
eommanded one of the loveliest views. of
the Hudson. . :

‘A spirit in my feet

ety i hat me, who knows how ?”

in the direction of this now vacant and
solitary place—solitary, I believed, with
the ‘exception of the gardener and his
wife, who lived in ‘a cottage. back of the
gardens, and who, remained the year
round, he to attend to out-door matters,

and she to give housekeeper’s care to the
closed mansion. ;

The place had never looked more bean-
tiful to me, not even in the bloom of its
June foliage and flowers, than it did as I
approached it on this occasion. The
frosts had turned to every gorgeous color
the'tops of the trees which stood out here
and there; back of the house, and extend-
jug down toward the southern, gate, by
vhualt Lentered, a groye of maples and
elms glowed in the autumn sunshine; the
Jawn in front sloped down to the water's
edge, which flowed by in a blue and
lordly stream, bearing on its broad bosom
picturesque white ships. In the garden,
through which I was now walking, many
brilliant flowers still lingered: asters, gold,
pink and purple; crysanthemums ; some
dahlias which had been covered from the
frost; pansics lurking under their broad
leaves. It had been the intention of the

oung couple to make this their permanent
hon after their marriage, going to the
city only fora couple of the winter months.
Phe very next week, I had heard, Eleanor

' Stach to go down to help Henry in
his selection of new furniture.

‘Here’! the mansion lay, bathed in the
rich sunshine; the garden sparkled with
flowers as the river with ripples, so full, as
it were, of conscious, joyous life, while the
master of all lay in a darkened room
awaiting his narrow coffin. Never had
the uncertainty of human purposes so
impressed me as when I looked abroad

amen + eaten
Aye

 

over that stately residence and thought
of the prosperous future which had come
to so awful a stand-still. I gathered a
handful of pansies — they were, Elea-
nor's favorites. As I approached. the
house by the garden, I-came nearly upon
the portico which. extended across its
western front before I perceived that it
was occupied. Sitting on its outer edge,
with one arm half wound around one of
its pillars, and her bonnet in the grass at
her feet, I beheld the sewing-girl after
whom. I, had dispatehed an. officer. to
New York. She did not perceive me,

and I had an opportunity of studying:

the fuce of the woman who had fallen
under my suspicion, when she was un-
aware that. my eye was upon it, and
when hersoul looked out of it, unvailed
in the security of solitude. The impres:
sion which she made upon me was that
of despair. It was. written on attitude
and expression. It was neither grief nor
remorse—it was blank despair. It must
have been half an hour that I remained
quiet, watching her., In all that time she
never stirred hand nor eyelid ; her glance
was, upon the, greensward ‘at her feet.
When I turn. to that page of my memory
I ‘see ner; photographed, as it. were,
upon. ‘every’ fold) of. the dark dress,
which was. some , worsted. substance,
frayed, but neat; the black shawl, bord-
ered, drawn close about. the slender
shoulders, which had the slight, habitual
stoop, of those who ply the needle for a
living; the jetty hair pushed back from
her ‘forehead, the. marble whiteness and
tigidity of the face and mouth,

It was a face made to express passion.
And, although the only passion expressed
now was that. of despair, so intense that
it grew like apathy, 1 could easily see
how the rounded chin and full lips could
melt. into, softer. moods... The forehead
was rather low, but fair, consorting with
the oval of the cheek and chin; the brows
dark and.rather heayy.. I remembered
the wild black eyes which I had seen the
previous day, and could. guess at their
hidden. fires,

This was a girl to attract interest at
any time, and [ mutely wondered what
had entangled the threads of her fate in
the glittering web of a higher fortune,
which was now, suddenly interwoven
with the pall of death. All her moye-
ments fae been such as to, confirm my
desire to ascertain her connection, if any,
with the tragedy. It, seemed to me that
if I could see her eyes, before she was
conscious., of. observance, I could tell

_ whether there was guilt, or only sorrow,

in her heart; therefore I remained quiet,
waiting. But [had mistaken my powers,
or the. eyes ovetbore them. Then she
did lift them, as a steamer came, pufling
around the base of the mountain which
ran down into the river at the east, and
they suddenly encountered mine, where
I stood not ten feet from her, I saw only
black, unfathomable depths, pouring out a
trouble so intense, that my own gaze
dropped beneath their power.

She did not start upon observing me,
which, as I thought, ,a, guilty . person
buried in. self-accusing, reveries, would
have done — it seemed only slowly to
penetrate her consciousness that a stranger
was confronting her; when I raised my
eyes, which had sunk beneath the inten-
sity of hers, she was moving rapidly away
toward the western gate,

“Miss Sullivan, you have. forgotton
your bonnet.”

With a woman’s instinct she put up her
hand to smooth her disordered hair, came
slowly, back and took the bonnet which I
extended toward her, without, speaking.
T hesitated what move to make next. I
wished to address ler—she was here, in
my grasp, and I ought to satisfy myself,
as far as possible, about the suspicions
which I had conceived. I might do her
an irreparable injury by making my fcel-
ings public, if she were innocent of any
aid or instigation of the crime which had
been committed, yet there were circum-
stanees which could hardly. pass unchal
lenged. That unaccountable absence of
hers on Saturday, from three o'clock until
an hour after the murder was committed ;

 

the statement of her aunt that she was
in the city, and my finding her in this
spot, in connection with the midnight
visit to the window, and the other things
which I had observed, were sufficient to
justify inquiry. Yet, if I alarmed her
prematurely should haye the less
chance of coming upon proofs, and: her
accomplices, if she had any, would be led
to take steps for greater safety, Anyhow,
I would make her speak, and find what
there was in her voice. ‘

“Your aunt told mé that you had gone
to New York,” I said, stepping along be-
side her, as she turned away.

“ She thought so. Did you come-here
to see me, sir?” stopping short in her
walk, and looking at me as if she expect-
ed me to tell my business. :

This again did not look like the trepida-
tion of guilt. sins

“No, I came out, for a walk. I sup-
pose our thoughts have led us both in the
game direction. This place will haye an
interest to many, hereafter?’ aah

“Tnterest! the interest of vulgar curios-
ity! It will give them something to talk
about. I hate it!’ She spoke more. to
herself than to me, while a ray of fire
darted from those black orbs ; the méxt
instant her face subsided into that pas-
sionate stillness again. as oft brat

Her speech was not that of her station ;
I recalled what her aunt had said about
the education she had bestowed’ on her,
and decided that the girl’s mind was one
of those which reach out beyond their
circumstances — aspiring — ambitious —
and that this aspiring nature may haye
led her into her present unhappiness.
That she was unhappy, if not sinful, it
took but a glance to assure me.

“80 do Thate it. I donotlike to have

the grief of my friends , subjected to cold
and curious eyes.” eit i
“Yet, itis a privilege to have the right
to mourn. I tell you the sorrow of that
beautiful lady he was to have married is
light compared, with trouble that some
feel. There are those who envy her.”
. {t was not her words, as much as her
wild, half-choked voice, which gave effect
to. them; she spoke, and grew silent, as
if conscious that the truth had been wrung
from her.in the ear of a stranger.” We
had reached, the gate, and she séemed
anxious to escape through it; but I held
it. in my hand, looking ‘hard at her, as I
said—“It may have been the hand of
envy which dashed the cup. of fruition
from her lips. Her young life is withered
never to bloom again. I can imagine hut
one wretchedness in. this world greater

’ than hers—and that is the wretchedness

of the guilty person who has murder
written on his-or her soul,”

A spasm contracted her face ; she push-
ed at the gate which T still held. .

“An, don’t,” she said, “let me pass.”

Topened it and she darted through, flee-
ing along the road which led out around
the backward slope of the hill, like lo
pursued by the stinging fly. Her path
was away from the village, so that I
hardly expected to see her again that
day. : ;

Within two. minutes the gardener’s
wife came up the road to the gate. She
had been down fo visit the corpse of her
young master; her eyes were red with
weeping, eke

“How do you do, Mr, Redfield? These
be miserable times, ain’t they? My very
heart is sore in my breast; but I couldn't
ery a tear in the room where he was, a-
lying there like life, for Miss Eleanor sot
by him like a statue. It made me cold
ail over to see her—I couldn't speak to

saveme. The father and mother are just .

broke down, too.”

“ How is Miss Eleanor, this morning ?”

“The Lord knows! She doesn’t do
any thing but sit there, as quiet as can be.
It’s a bad symptom, to my seas:
‘Still waters run deep. . They’re a dread-
ing the hour when they’ll haye to remove
the body from ihe house—they’re afraid
her mind ’Ii go.” : :

“No, no,” I answered, inwardly shud-

dering, “ Eleanor’s reason is too fine ‘and

Re werful to pe unstrung, even by a blow
ike this,” ,

 

 

 

 
 

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Bata

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x

“Who was that went out the gate as 1
Came around the bend? Was it that girl,
again ?”

“Do you mean Leesy Sullivan ?”

“ Yes, sir. Do you know her? She
acts mighty queer, to my thinkin’. She
was out here Saturday, sittin’ in the sum-
mer-house, all alone, ’till the rain began
to fall—I guess she got a good soaking

oing home. I didn’t think much about
j er; it was Saturday, and I thought
likAy she was taking a holiday, and
there’s many people Tike to come here,
it’s so pleasant. But what’s brought her
here again to-day is more’n I can guess.
Do you know, sir ?”

“Ido not.’ I found her sitting on the
portico looking at the river. Maybe she
comes out for a walk and stops here to
rest. She probably feels somewhat at
home, she has sewed so much in the
ently I don’t know her at all my-
self; I never spoke to her until just
bow. Did you get much acquainted with

_ her, when she was in the house ?”
“T never spoke to her above a dozen

times. I wasn’t at the house much, and

she was always at work. She seemed
fast with her needle, and a girl who
minded her own business. I thought she
was rather proud, for a seamstress—she
was handsome, and I reckon she kuew
it. She’s ea thinner; she had red
spots on her cheeks, Saturday, that ]
- didn’t like—looked consumptive.”
. “Did the family treat her with particu
lar kindness?” It was as near as I cared
to put into words what I was thinking of
“You know it’s in the whole Moreland
race to be generous and kind to those
under them. I’ve known Henry more
than once, when the family was goin
out for a drive, to insist upon Miss Sulli
van’s taking a seat in the carriage—but
never when he was going alone. I heard
him tell his mother that the poor girl
looked tired, as if she needed a breath of
air and a bit of freedom, and the kind-
hearted lady would laugh at her son, but
do as he said. It was justlike him. But
I'd stake my everlasting futur’ that he
never took any advantage of her feelings,
if it’s that your thinking of, Mr. Redfield.”
“80 would I, Mrs. tt. There is no
one can have a higher respect for the
character of that noble young gentleman,
than I. I would resent an insult to his
memory more quickly than if he had been
my brother. But, as you say, there is
something queer in the actions of Miss
Sullivan. I know that I can trust your
discretion, Mrs. Scott, for I have heard it
well spoken of; do not say any thing to
others, not even to your husband, but
keep a watch on that person if she should
come here any more. Report to me what
she does, and what spot she freyuents.”
“TJ will do so, sir. But I don’t think
any harm of her. She may have been
unfortunate enough to think too much of
the kindness with which he treated her.
_ If so, I pity her—she could hardly help
it, poor thing, Henry Moreland was a
me, gentleman 4 good many people
oved.’

She put her handkerchief to her eyes
tm a fresh burst of tears. Wishing her
od-morning, I turned toward the vil-
lage, hardly caring what I should do
next. Mrs. Scott was an American
woman, and one to be trusted; I felt that
she would be the best detective I could
place at that spot.

When I reached the office, on my home-
ward route, I went in. Mr. Argyll was
there alone, his head een On his hand,
his face anxious and worn, his brow con-
iracted in deep thought. As soon as I
came in he sprung up, closed the outer
door, and said to me, in a low voice:

| “Richard, another strange thing has
occurred.”

I stared at him, afraid to ask what.

“T have been robbed of two thousand
dollars.”

“ When and how ?”

“That is what I do not know. Four

-days ago I drew that amount in bills from
the Park Bank. I placed it, in a roll, just
as 1 received it, in my library desk, at
home. Llocked the desk, and have car-
sied the key in my pocket, The desk

ANON OR chao anes

 

i

 

has been locked, as usual, every time that
[have gone to it. How long the money
has been gone I can not say; I never
looked after it, since placing it there, until
about an hour ago. g
for expenses this afternoon, and going tor
it, the roll was gone.”

“Haven’t you mislaid it?”

“No. [have one drawer for my cash,
and I placed it there. 1 remember it

lainly enough. It has been stolen” —
ke sat down in his chair with a heavy
sigh. “That money was for my poor,
Eleanor. She was to complete her wed-
ding outfit this week, and the two thou-
sand dollars was for refurnishing the place
out at the Grove. I don’t care for the loss
so much—she doesn’t need it now—but
it’s singular—at this time!” if

He looked up at me, vague suspicions
which he could not shape floating in his
brain,

“Who knew of your having the
money ?”

“No one, that I am aware of, except
my nephew. He drew it for me when he
went down to the city last Wednesday.”

“Could you identify the money ?”

“Not all of it. I only remember that
there was one five hundred dollar bill in
the package, a fresh issue of the Park
Bank, of which, possibly, they may have
the number. The rest was city money of
various denominations and banks. I can
think of but one thing which seems pro-
bable. James must have been followed
from the city m some professional thief,
who saw him obtain the money, and kept
an eye upon it, waiting for a suitable op-
portunity, until it was deposited in the
desk. Mie key is a common one, which
could be easily duplicated, and we are so
careless in this quiet community that a
thief might enter at almost any hour of the
night. Perhaps'the same villain dogged
poor Henry in hopes of another harvest.”

“ You forget that there was no attempt
to rob Henry.”

“True—true. . Yet the murderer may
have been frightened away before he had
secured his prize.”

“Tn which case, he would have re-
turned, as the body remained undiscoy-
ered all night.”

“Tt may beso. Iam dizzy with think-
ing it over and over.” ,

“Try and not think any more, dear

sir,” Isaid, gently. “ You are feverish and
illnow. Iam going, this afternoon, with
the friends to the city, and I will put the
police on the watch for the money. We
will get the number of the large bill, if
pout le, from the bank, and I will have
nvestigations made as to the passengers
of Wednesday on the train with James.
Have you said any thing to him about
your loss ?” %

“T have not seen him since I made the
discovery. You may tell him if you see
him first; and do what you can, Richard,

_ for I feel as weak as a child.”

weer

CHAPTER Y.
MR. BURTON, THE DETECTIVE,

Wuen I came out of the office, I
encountered James on the steps, for
the first time that day. I could not stop
to make known the robbery to him, and
telling him that his uncle wished to see
him a few minutes, I hurried to my board-
ing house, where I had barely time to
take some lunch in my room, while pack-
ing a small bag to be sent to the cars, be-
fore hurrying back to Mr. Argyll’s to
attend the funeral escort to the train.
James and I were two of the eight pall-
bearers, yet neither of us could summon
fortitude to enter the -parlor where the
body lay; I believed that James had not
yet looked upon the corpse. We stood
outside, on the steps of the piazza, only
taking our share of the burden after the
coffin was brought out into the yard.
While we stood there, among many others,
waiting, I chanced to observe his paleness
and restlessness ; he tore his black gloves
in putting them on; I saw his fingers
trembling. As for me, my whole yang
seemed to pause, asa single, prolonge:

I wanted some cash .

 

shriek rung out of the darkened mansion
and floated off on the sunshine up to the
ear of God. , They were taking the lover
away from his bride. The next moment
the coffin appeared; I took my place by
its side, and we moved away toward the
depot, passing over the very spot where
the corpse was found. James was a step
in advance of me, and as we came to the
place, some strong inward recoil made
him pause, then step aside and. walk
around the ill-starred spot. I noticed it,
not only for the momentary confusion
into which it threw the line, but because
Thad never supposed him susceptible to
superstitious or imaginative influences.

A private car had been arranged for.
James and I occupied one seat; the'swift
motion of the train was opposed to the
idea of death; it had. an exhilarating ef-
fect upon my companion, whose paleziess
passed away, and who began to expe-
rience a reaction after his depression of
feeling. He talked to me_ incessantly
upon trifling subjects which I do notnow
recall, and in that low, yet sharp voice
which is most easily distinguished through
the clatter of a moving train. The neces-
sity for attending to him—for making an-
swers to irrelevant questions, when my
mind was preoccupied, annoyed me. My
thoughts centered about the coffin, and
its inmate, taking his last ride under cir-
cumstances so different from those under
which he had set out, only two days ago,
to meet her whom his heart adored;
whose hand he never clasped—whose
lips he never touched—the fruition of
whose hopes was cut off utterly—whose
fate, henceforth, was among the myste-
rious paths of the great eternity.

Z could not, for an instant, feel the least
lightness of heart. My nature was too
sympathetic; the currents of my youn
blood flowed too warmly, for me to fee
otherwise than deeply affected by the
catastrophe. My eyes shed inward tears
at the sight of the parents, sitting in ad-
vance of us, their heads bowed bencath
the stroke; and, oh! my heart shed tears
of blood at thought of Eleanor, left behind
us to the utter darkness of # night which
had fallen while it was yet morning.

Musing upon her, I wondered that. her
cousin James could throw off the troubles
of others as he did, interesting himself in
passing trifles. I have said that I never
liked him much; but in this I was an ex-
ception to the general rule, He was an
almost universal favorite. At least, he
seldom failed to please and win those for
whom he exerted himself to be agreeable.
His voice was soft and well modulated—
such a voice as, should one hear it from
another apartment, would make him wish
to see the speaker; his manner was gra-
cious and flattering. I had often won-
dered why his evident passion fur Eleanor
had not secured her interest in return, be-
fore she knew Henry Moreland, and had
answered myself that it was one of two
reasons: either their cousinly intercourse
had invested him, to her, with the feelings
of a brother or relative, or her fine per-
ceptions, being the superior woman which
she was, had unconsciously led her to a
true estimate of his qualities. . This day I

felt less affinity for him than ever before, |

as I gazed at his dark, thin features, and
met the light of eyes brilliant, unsteady
and cold. ‘That intense selfishness which
I had secretly attributed to him, was now,
to my perhaps too acute apprebension,
painfully apparent. In my secret heart,
as [ listened to his light remarks, and per-
ceived the rise of spirits which he hardly
endeavored to check, I accused him of
gladness that a rival was out of the way,
and that the chances were again open for
the hand of his beautiful and wealth:
cousin. At first, he had been shock
as we all were; but now that he had time
to view the occurrence with an eye to the
future, I believed that he was already cal-
culating the results with regard to his
own hopes and wishes. 1 turned from
him with a feeling of aversion. —

After neglecting to reply to him until
he was compelled to drop the one-sided
conversation, I recollected that I had not
yet spoken with him in regard to his
[ear loss; so I said to him quite sud-

o

  
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}
;
}
{
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THE. FIRESIDE. LIBRARY.

 

 

“Mr. Argyll has been robbed of a sum
of money,”

An inexplicable expression flashed
into -his face ‘and passed off; it went as
soon as it dame.

' “So he ‘informed me, just -before we

started. He says ‘that'you will put the
police’on the track of it—that possibly the
five-hundred dollar ‘bill will be identi-
fled. a ‘was taken’ from his desk, it ap-

““ Yes; I wonder what will happen
next?”? ape

a wi I wonder what will.”

“Who knows what a narrow escape
you may have had,” said I. “It is well
that you came here in ‘broad daylight;
elsé, like poor Henry, you might haye
fallen a victim to a blow in the dark. Mr.
Arey thinks you must have been follow-
ed ‘from the city by some professional
burglar.” ; 10g

“He thinks so?” he asked, while the
shadow of a sinile just showed a second
in the mirror of his eyes; it was as if
there was a smile in his heart, and a re-
flection from its invisible self fell athwart
his eyes; but he turned them away im-
mediately.

“Tt’s queer,” he resumed, “horribly queer;

don’t you think so? saw that money in
the desk Friday evening. Uncle asked
mie to hold the lamp a moment, while he
found some papers, and I noticed the roll
of ‘bills lying in his cash-drawer, just as
Thad gives them to him. Tt must haye
been abstracted paresy r Sunday—it’s
queer—contoundedly so! There must be
some great villain lurking in our midst !”
—this” last sentence he uttered with
emphasis, looking me through with his
black eyes,
_ There was suspicion in his gaze, and
my own fell before it. Innocence itself
will blush if obliged to confront the insult
of accusation. Thad had many wild, and
doubtless many wrong and ‘suspicious
thoughts about various. persons, since the
(discovery of the murder; ’and this was
turning the tables upon me rather sud-
‘denly. It had never occurred to me that
among the dozens upon whom vague and
ays suspicions might alight, might be
myself. . :

“There is an awful mystery some-
where,” I stammeréd,

“Humph ! yes, there is. My uncle Ar-
gyll is just te man to be wronged by
some one of his many friends and de-
pedents, He is too confiding, too un-
Suspectin, of others—as I have told him.
He has béen duped often—but this—this

_ ig too had!”

~Tlooked up again, clearly enough, and
shore to see what he meant.  If/he in-
tended ‘covertly to insinuate that J was

0
or dependents” ‘who cou wiche bene-
factor, I wished to understand him. ‘A
friend, T knew, Mr. Argyll was to me; a
friend to be grateful for; but I was no
dependent upon his ‘bounty, as his
nephew was, and the hot blood rushed to
my face, the fire to my eye, as I answered
back the cool gaze of James with a
haughty stare.

“There is no love lost between us,
Richard,” he said, presently, “which 1
principally your fault, but I am friendly
to you; ‘and as a friend, I would suggest
that et do not make yourself conspicu-
ous in this affair.” If you should put

' yourself forward ‘at all, being so young,

and haying, apparently, so small an in-
terest in the matter, you may bring un-
pleasant remark upon yourself. You
need not be offended, for I only say to

ou what I say to myself. Let us stand
back and allow our elders to do the work.
‘As to that money, whether it has or has
not any connection with the—the other

affair, time will pethaps show. Let the

‘ police do what they can with it—my

2 to you is to keep in the back-

ergying.

“Your course may be prudent, James,”
was my reply, “I do not ask your appro-
bation of mine, But to one thing I have
made up my mind. So long as I live,

and. the murderer of Henry Moreland,

is undiscovered; I will never rest. In

Eleanor’s name, I consecrate myself to

CM Some ep mmuccmmamnnteD geri ap

pen to imputation ap ong OF the “friends '

 

this calling. I can face the whole world
in her behalf, and fear nothing.”
He turned away with a sneer, busying

_ himself with the prospect from the win-

dow. “During the rest of the ride we said

little ; his words had given me a curious .

sensation; I had sustained so many

shocks to my feelings’ within the last —

forty-eight hours, ‘that this new one of
finding myself under the eye of ‘sus-
picion, mingled in with the perplexing
whirl of the whole, until I almost began
to doubt my identity or that of others.
A vision of Leesy Sullivan, whose wild
footsteps might still be tracking hills and
fields, hovered before ine—and out of all
this distraction, my thoughts settled upon
Eleanor. I prayed God earnestly to be
with her in this hour; either to strength-
en her heart and brain to bear -her afflic-
tion without falling to: ruins beneath the
weight, or to take her:at. once to Himself,
where Henry awaited her in the man-
sions of their eternalbhome. .

The arrival of the train at Thirtieth
street, recalled: me to my present duties.
Carriages were in waiting to convey the
coffin and its escort to the house of the
parents, the funeral being arranged for
the following day. I saw the officer who
had gone down from Blankville in the
morning, waiting in the depot to speak
to me’; but I did not need to be told that
he had: not found the sewing-girl at her
place of business. I made an appoint-
ment to meet him in the evening at the
Metropolitan, and took my place in the
sad procession to the house of the More-
lands. ;

I was anxious to give notice of the rob-
bery at the bank, and to ascertain if they
could identify any of the money, espe-
cially the’ large Dil, which being new, I
hoped” they would have on record.
Banking hours were over, however, for
the day, and.it was only by intruding the
matter upon the notice of Mr. Moreland,
that I could get.any thing accomplished.
This I decided to do; when he told me
that by going directly to the bank, he
thought I could gain access to the cashier ;
and if not, he gave me his address so
that I might seek him at his residence.
Mr. Moreland algo advised me to take
with me some competent detective, who
should be witness to the statement, of the
cashier with regard to, the money paid to
James Argyll, on his uncle’s draft, and be
employed to put the rest of the force on
the look-out for it, or any portion of it
which was identifiable. — He gave me the
name of an officer with whom he had a
chance acquaintance, and of whose abili-
ties he had a high gpinion; telling me
to make free use of his name and influ-
ence, if he had any, with him, and the
police—

““And please, Mr. Redfield—or James
here, if you should be too busy—make
out an advertisement for the morning
papers, offering a reward of five thousand
ollars for the detection and conviction
of the—the—murderer.”

James was-standing by us during the
conversation ; and 1 almost withdrew my
verdict ‘upon his selfishnéss, as I marked
how he shrunk when the eye of the be-
reayed father rested upon him, and how
vainly he endeavored to appear calm at
the alfecting spectacle of the gray-haired
gentleman forcing his quivering lips’ to
utter the word—* murderer.” He trem-
bled much more than myself, as each of
us wrung Mr. Moreland’s hand, and de-
parted down the steps,

“Tt unmanned him,” he said, stopping

“ & moment on the pavement to wipe’ the

perspiration from his brow, though the
day was not at all warm. “I believe,”
he added, as he walked along, ‘that if
the person who resolves to commit a
crime would reflect on all the conse-
uences of that act, it would remain un-
one forever. But he does not. ‘He sees
an object in the way of: his wishes,

‘ and he thrusts it aside, reckless of the

ruin which will overwhelm surrounding
things, until he sees the wreck about
him, Then it is too late for remorse—to
the devil with it. But I needn’t philoso-
phize before you, Richard, who’ have
precociously carned that privilege of Wis-

opm nema rerrimen ion amine vane «

 

dom ”—with that disagreeable halflaugh
of his—“ only I was thinking how the
guilty party must have felt could he have
seen Henry’s father, as we saw him just
now,’ and again | felt his.eye upon me.
Certainly, there seemed no prospec, ot
our friendship increasing. I would:rather
have dispensed with his oe while
I put my full energies into the business
before me; but it was quite natural ‘that
he should expect to accompany me.on an
errand in which he must haveas deep 4n
interest as myself. Coming out of thé
avenue upon ke we took a stage,
riding down as far as Grand street, when
we got out and, walked’ to the office of
the detective-police. j
The chief was not in at the moment of
our entrance; we were received by .a
subordinate and questioned )as to our
visit. The morning papers had heralded
the melancholy and mysterious murder

through the city; hundreds of thousands”

of persons had already marveled overt the
boldness and success, the silence and sud-
denness with which the deed had been
done, leaving not a clue by which to
trace the perpetrator. It had been the
sensation of the day throughout New
York and. its environs. ‘The public mind
was busy with conjectures as to. the
motive for the crime. And this was to be
one of the sharp thorns pressed into the
hearts of the distressed friends of the
murdered man. Suddenly, into the gmr-
ish light of day, beneath the pitiless gaze
of a million curious eyes, was dragged
every word, or act, or circumstance; of
the life so abruptly closed. It was neces-
sary to the investigation of the affair, that
the most, secret pages of his history should
be read out—and it is not in the nature
of a daily paper to neglect such, oppor-
tunities for turning an honest penny.
Here let me say that not one character in
ten thousand could. have stood this trial
by fire as did. Henry Moreland’s.' No
wronged hireling, no open enemy, no
secret intrigue, no gambling debts:—not
one blot on the bright record of his
amiable, Christian life. -

To return to the detective-office. Our
errand at once received attention from
the person in, charge, who sent a n.essen-
ger after the chief. He also informed us
that several of their best men had gone
up to Blankville that afternoon to confer
with the authorities there. The public
welfare demanded, as well as the interest
of private indiyiduals, that the guilty
should be ferreted out, if possible. The
apparent impunity with which.the crime
had been committed was startling, mak-

- ing every one feel it a personal matter to

aid in discouraging any more such prac-
tices ; besides, the police knew that their

. efforts would be well rewarded.

While we sat talking with the official,
I noticed the only other inmate of the
room; who made a peculiar impression
upon me for which I could not account.

He was a large man, of ae
with a florid face and‘ sandy hair. He
was quietly dressed in the ordinary man-

ner of the season, and with nothing to

mark him from a thousand other men*of

' sitnilar appearance, unless it was the ex-

pression of his small, blue-gray eyes,
whose glance, when I happened to en-
counter it, seemed not to be looking at

. ine but into me. However, he turned: it

away, and occupied himself with looking
through the window at the passers-by.
He appeared to be a stranger, awaiting,
like ourselves, the coming of the chiet.
Desiring to secure the services of the
particular detective whom Mr. Moreland
had recommended, I asked the subordi-
nate in attendance, if he could inform me
where Mr. Burton was to be found.
“Burton? I don’t know of any one of
that name, I think—if I may except my}
stage experience with Mr. Toodles,” he
added, with a smile, culled up by some
passing ‘vision of his last visit. to the
theater. ob
“Then there is no Mr. Burton belongs
to your force?” i :
“Not that I am acquainted with. He
may be one of us, for all that. We
don’t pretend to know our own. brothers
here. You can ask Mr. Browne when he
comes in”

 

 

a |
i
ai
 

9 _

 

 

THE DEAD LETTER,

 

All this time ‘the stranger by the win-
low sat motionless, absorbed in iooking
upon the throng of persons and_ vehicles
in the street beneath; aud now I, having
nothing else to do, regarded him, I felt a
magnetism emanate from him, as from a
manufactory of vital forces ; ] felt, instinc-
lively, that. he was possessed of an iron
will and indomitable courage; I was
speculating, according to my dreamy
habit, upon his characteristics, when the
chief appeared, and we, that is, James and
myself, laid our case before him—at the
same time I mentioned that Mr. Moreland
had desired me to ask for Mr. Burton to
be detailed to aid our investigations.

“Ab! yes,” said Mr. Browne, “ there
are not; many outsiders who know that
person. | He is my. right hand, but I don’t
let. the left know what he doeth, Mr.
Moreland had his services once, I remem-
ber, in tracking some burglars who had
entered his banking-honse. Poor young
Moreland! I’ve seen him often ! Shock.
ing affair, truly. We mustn't rest, till we
know more about it. I only hope we
may be of service to his afflicted father.
Burton is just here, fortunately,’ and he
beckoned to the very stranger sitting in
the window, who had overheard the in-
= ie made for him without the slightest

emonstration that such a being had any
existence as far as he was.concerned, and
who now slowly arose, and approached
us. We four went in'> an inner room,
where we were introduced to each other,
and drawing up our chairs in a close cir-
cle, we began, in low voices, the discussion
of our business.

Mr. Browne was voluble when he heard
that a robbery had been committed in Mr.
Argyll’s: house. “Without doubt,” he
seid, “the two crimes were connected,
and it would be strange, indeed, if noth-
ing could be discovered relating to cither
of them. He hoped that the lesser crime
would be the means of betraying the great-
er. He trusted the rogue, whoever. he or
she might be, had, in this imprudent act,
done something to betray himself. He
had hopes of the five-hundred dolar bill.”

Mr. Burton said very little, beyond ask-
ing two or three questions ; but he was a
good listener. Much of the time he sat
with his eyes fixed upon James, who did
a good deal of the talking. I could not,
tor the life of me, tell whether James was
conscious of those blue-gray eyes; if he
was, they und not much disturb him; he
made his statements in a calm and lucia
manner, gazing into Mr. Burton’s face
with a clear om open look. After a while,

- the latter began. to grow uneasy ; power-

ful as was his physical and mental frame,
I saw a trembling of both; he forced him-
self to remain quiet in his chair—but t)
me, he had the air of a lion, who sees its
prey but a little distance off, and who
trembles with restraint. The light in his
eye narrowed down to one gleam of con-
centrated fire—a steely, glittering point—
he watched the rest of us and said little.
If I had been a guilty man I should have
shrunk from that observation, through
the very walls, or out of a five-story win-
dow, if there had been no other way; it
struck me that it would have been unbear-
able to any accusing conscience; but my
own mind being burdened with no weigh-
tier sins than a few boyish follies—saving
the selfishness and earthliness which
make a part of all human natures—I felt
quite free, breathing easily, while I no-
ticed, with interest, the silent change going
on in’ the detective.

More and more like a lion: about to
spring he grew; but whether nis prey
was near at hand and visible, or far away
and visible only to his mental gaze, I
could not tell. } fairly jumped, when he
at last rose quickly to his feet ; | expected
to see him bound upon some guilty ghost
to us intangible, and shake it to pieces in
an honest rage; but whatever was the
passion within him, he'controlled it, say-
ing only, a little impatiently ;

“ Enough, gentlemen; we have talked
enough! Browne, will you go with Mr.
Argyll to the bank, and see about that
money? I do not wish to be known there
as belonging to your force. D wilt walk
to his hotel with Mr. Redfield, and you

“

 

can meet us there at any hour you choose
to appoint.”

“Tt will take until tea-time to attend to
the bank. Say about eight o’clock, then,
we will be at the—”

“ Metropolitan,” said I, and the quar-
tette parted, half going up and half going
down town.

On our way to the hotel we fell into an
easy conversation on topies entirely re-
moved from the one which absorbed the
gravest thoughts of both. Mr. Burton did
more talking now than he had done at
the office, perhaps with the object of mak- ,
ing me express myself freely; though if
80, he managed with so much tact that his
wish was not apparent. He had but poor
success ; the calamity of our house lay too
heavily on me for me to forget it in an in-
stant ; but I was constantly surprised at
the character of the man whose acquaint-
ance I was making. He was intelligent,
even educated, a gentleman in language
and manner—a quite different person, in
fact, from what I had expected in a mem-
ber of the detective-police.

Shut up in the private parlor which I
obtained at the Metropolitan, the subject
of the murder was again broached and
thoroughly discussed. Mr. Burton won
my confidence so inevitably that 1 felt no

‘hesitation in unvailing to him the domes-

tic hearth of Mr. Argyll, whenever the
habits or circumstances of the family were
consulted in their bearing upon the mys-
tery. And when he said to me, fixing his
eye upon me, but speaking gently :

“You, too, loved the young ot
I neither blushed norgrew angry. That
penetrating eye had read the hidden secret
of my heart, which had never been spoken
or written, yet I did not feel outraged that
he had dared to read it out to-me. If he
could find any matter against me in that
holiest truth of my existence, he was wel-
come to it.

“Be it so,” I said, “that is with myself,
and no one else.” i)

“There are others who love her,” he
continued, “ but there is a difference in the

uality of love. There is that which sanc-
tifi's, and something, called by the same
name, which is an excuse for infinite per-
fidy. In my experience I have found the
love of woman and the love of money at
the bottom of most mischief—the greed of
gain is by far the commonest and strong-
est; and when the two are combined,
there is motive enough for the darkest
tragedy. But you spoke of a young
woman, of whom you have suspicions.”

I told Mr. Burton that in this matter I
trusted to his discretion; that I had not
brought it to notice before Mr. Browne
because I shrunk from the dang. . of fix-
ing a ruinous suspicion upon person
who might be perfectly innoceut. Yet
that circumstances were such as to de-
mand inyestigation, which I was sure he
was the person to carry on. I then gaye
him a careful account of every thing Thad
seen or learned about the sewing-girl.
He agreed with me that she ought to be
placed under secret surveillance. I told
him that the officer from Blankville
would be in after tes, when we couid
consult together and dispose of the dis-
cussion before the arrival of James and
Mr. Browne—and I then rung the bell,
ordering a light supper in our room.

The Blankville official had nothing to
report of Miss Sullivan, except that she
had not arrived either at her boarding-
house or at the shop where she was em:
ployed, and that her character stood high
at both places. She had been represent-
ed to him as a “strictly proper” person,
very reserved, in poor health, with a sad
appearance, and an excellent work woman
—that no gentlemen were ever known to
call to see her, and that she never went out
after returning to her boarding-house at the
close of work hours. We then requested
him to say nothing about her to his
brother officers, and to keep the matter
from the newspapers, as we should regret
doing an irreparable injury to: one who
might be guiltless, :

t seemed as if the Fates were in fayor
of the guilty. Mr. Browne, punctually at
eight o’clock, reported that there was
none of the money paid out to James
Argyll at Mr. Argyll’s order, which the

 

bank would identify—not even its own
bill of five-hundred dollars, which was a
recent issue. They had paid out such a
bill on the draft, but the number was not
known to them.

“ However,” said Mr. Browne, “ bills of
that denomination are not common, and
we shall be on the look-out for them,
wherever offered.”

“But even should the robber) be
discovered, there is no proof that it would
establish any connection with the mur-
der. It may have been a coincidence,”
remarked James. “I have often noticed
that one calamity is sure to be followed
by another. If there is a railroad dis-
aster, a powder-mill explosion, a steamer
destroyed by fire, before the horror of
the first accident has done thrilling our
nerves, we are pretty certain to be startled
by another catastrophe.”

“T, too,” said Mr. Burton, “ have re-

“marked the succession of events—echoes,

as it were, following the clap of thunder.
And I have usually found that, like the
echoes, there was a natural cause for
them.”

James moved uneasily in his chair,
arose, pulled aside the curtain, and looked
out into the night. I had often noticed
that he was somewhat suverstitious; per-
haps he saw the eyes of Henry More-
land looking down at him from’ the
starry hights; he twitched the curtains
together with a shiver, and came back
to us.

“Tt is not impossible,” he said, keeping
his face in the shadow, for he did not like
us to see how the night had affected him,
“that some one of the clerks in Mr.
Moreland’s banking-liouse—-perhaps some
trusted and responsible person—was. de-
tected by Henry, in making false entries,
or some other dishonesty—and that to
save himself the disgrace of betrayal and
dismissal, he has put the discoverer:out
of the way. The whole business of the
establishment ought to be thoroughly
overhauled. It appears that Henry went
directly to the cars from the office; so
that if any trouble had arisen between ,
him and one of the employees, there |
would have been no opportunity for his
consulting his father, who was not at the
place all that afternoon.” 4

“Your suggestion is good,” said Mr. °
Browne, “and must be attended to.”

“The whereabouts of every one of the
employees, down to the porter, at: the
time of the murder, are already account-
ed for. They were all in the city,” said
Mr. Burton, with precision.

Shortly after the party separated for the
night. An urgent invitation canje from
Mr. Moreland for James and myself to
stop at his house during our stay in) the
city; but we thought it better not to
disturb the quiet of the house of mourn-
ing with the business which we wished
to press forward, and returned an'answer
to that effect. It was nearly ten 6’clock
when James recollected that we had not
been to the offices of the daily journals
with the advertisements which ought to
appear in the morning. 1t was the work
of'a few minutes for me to write oné out,
which we then copied on three or four
sheets of paper, and finding an errand-
boy below, we dispatched him with two
of the copies to 4s many journals, and
ourselves hurried off with the others. I
went to one estalLlishment and my com-
panion to another, in order to: hasten
proceedings, knowing that it was doubt-.
ful if we could get them inserted at that
jate hour. Having succeeded to my satis-
faction with my own errand, I thought I
would walk over to the next) street and
meet James, whom, having a little further
than I to go, I would probably: meet, re-
turning. As I neared the anne: to
which he had gone, and which was bril- {
liantly lighted up for its night-work, I
saw James come out on the pavement,
look around him an instant, and. then
start off in a direction meee to. that
which would lead back to Broadway and
his hotel. He had not observed me, who
chanced to be in shadow at the moment;
and I, without any particular motive
which I could analyze, started after him,
thinking to overtake him and offer to join

 
i

 

 

 

 

 

 

10 | THE FIRESIDE LIBRARY.

 

him ina walk. He went, nowever, at so
rapid a pace, that I still remained behind.
Our course lay through Nassau and Ful-
ton streets, to the Brooklyn ferry. I
quickened my pace almost to a run, as
James passed into the ferry-house, for I
saw that a boat was about to start; but T
had a vexatious delay in finding small
change, so that I got through just in
time to see the boat move off, James him-
self having to take a flying leap to reach
it after it was under way., At that hour
there was a boat only every fifteen min-
utes; of course Lgave up the pursuit ; and
sitting down at the end of the bridge, I
allowed the cool wind from the bay and
river to blow against my hot face, while ]
gazed out on the dark waters, listening tc
their incessant moaning about the piers,
and watching where they glimmered_ be-
neath the lights of the vupposite shore.
The blue and red lamps of the moving
vessels, in my present mood, had a weird
and ghastly effect; the thousands of
masts, of the moored shipping stood up
naked against the sky, like a forest of
blighted, skeleton, pines... Sadness, the
deepest Lhad ever felt in my life, fell up-
on me—sadness too deep for any expres-
sion. . The shifting. water, slipping and
sighing about the works of men which
fretted it; the unapproachable, glittering
sky; the leafless. forest, the wind fresh
from, its ocean, solitudes—these partially
interpreted it, but not wholly. Their
soul; 4s\far as the soul.of Nature goes,
was in unison with mine ; but in human-
ity lies‘a still deeper deep, rises a higher
hight. I was.as much alone. as if nearly
a million fellow-creatures were not so en-
circling me. I thought of the many
tragedies over which these waters had
closed; of the secrets they had hidden ;
of the many. lives sucked under these
ruthless bridges; of the dark creatures
who haunted these docks at evil hours—
but most [ thought of a distant chamber,
where a girl, who yesterday was as full
of love and beauty as.a morning rose is
full. of dew. and perfume—--whose life ran
over with light—whose step was imperial
with the happiness of youth—lay, worn
and pallid, upon her weary bed, breath-
ing sighs of endless misery. I thought
of the’ funeral procession which to-mor-
row, at noon, should come by this road

and travel these waters, to, that garden of

repose, whose white tombstones I knew,
although £ could not.see then, gleamed
now under the “ cold light of stars ?”
Thus I sat, wrapped in musings, until
ar policeman, who, if, is likely, had long
had his eye upon me, wondering if I were
a suspicious character, called out—* Take

care of your legs; young man!” and I

sprung 40 my feet, as the return boat
came into her slip, drifting up, and bump-
ing sullenly against the end of the bridge

over which my legs had been dangling.

I waited until, among the not numer-
ous passengers, I perceived James hurry-

ing by, when I slipped my hand into his

arm quietly, saying:

“Vou, led me quite a race—what in
the world have you been across to Brook-
lyn for?”

He jumped at. my voice and. touch ;
ithen grew angry, as people are apt to do

when they are startled or, frightened,
after the shock is over.

‘‘ What business is that of yours, sir?

How dare you follow me? If you have
taken upon yourself the office of spy, let
rue know it.”
“I beg, your pardon,’ I answered,
withdrawing from his arm, “1 walked
over’ to the I odice. to meet you, and
yaw you walk off in this direction. I had
no particular object in following you, and
perhaps ought not to haye done it.”

“J spoke too lustily,” he said, almost
immediately. »“ Forget it, Richard, You

"pounced upon’ meso unexpectedly, you
‘gave mea nervous shock—irritated my

combativeness, I suppose. Ithought of
course you had returned to the) hotel, and
feeling too restless to go back to my lit-
tle hedroom, there, I determined to try
the effect ofa ride across the river. The
b.acing air Las toned me up. I believe
I’ can go back and sleep”—offering his
arm again, which I took, and we slowly
retraced our steps to the Metropolitan, |

°

 

TI will not pain the heart of my reader
by forcing him to be one of the mournful
procession which followed Henry More-
land io his untimely grave. At two
o'clock of Tuesday, all was over. The
victim was hidden away from the face of
the earth--smiling, as if asleep, dreaming
of his Eleanor, he was consigned to that
darkness from whence he should never
awaken and find her—while the one who
had brought him low walked abroad un-
per the sunlight of heayen. To give that
enilty creature no peace was the purpose
of my heart.

James resolved to return to Blankville
by the five o’clock train. He looked sick,
and said that he felt so—that the last try-
ing scene had “used him up;” and then,
his uncle would surely want one of us,
to assist him at home. To this T assented,
intending myself to stay in the city a day
or two, until Mr. Burton was prepared to
go out to Blankville with me.

After such of the friends from the vil-
lage as had come down to attend the
funeral, had started for home in the after-
noon cars, I went to my room to have
another interview with the detective. In
the mean time, I had heard some of the
particulars of Mr. Burton’s history, which
had greatly increased the interest I al-
ready felt in him. He had chosen his
present occupation out of a consciousness
of his fitness for it. He was in inde-
pendent circumstances, and accepted no
salary for what was with hima labor of
love; Seldom taking any of the liberal
sums pressed upon him by grateful par-
ties who had benefited by his skill, ex-
cept. to cover expenses to which long
journeys, or other necessities of the case
might have subjected him: He had been
in the “profession” but a few years.
Formerly he had been a forwarding-mer-
chant, universally esteemed for integrity,
and carrying about him that personal in-
fluence which men of strong will and
unusual discrimination exercise over those
with whom they come in contact. But
that he had any extraordinary powers, ot
the kind which had since been devel-
oped, be was as ignorant as others, An
accident, which revealed these to him,
shaped the future course of his life. One
wild and windy night the fire-bells of
New York rung a fierce alarm; the
flames of a large conflagration lighted
the sky; the firemen toiled manfully, as
was their wont, but the air was bitter
und the pavements sleety, and the wintry
wind “ played such fantastic tricks before
high heaven,” as made the angel of
mercy almost despair. Before the fire
could be subdued, four large warehouses
had been burned to the ground, and in
one of them a large quantity of uninsured
merchandise for which Mr. Burton. was
responsible.

The loss, to him, was serious. He bare-
ly escaped failure by drawing in his
business to the smallest compass, and
by the exercise of great prudence, he
managed to save a remnant of his fortune,
with which, as soon as he could turn it
to advantage, he withdrew from his mer-
cantile career. His mind was bent on a
new business, which unfitted him for any
other. f

The fire was supposed to be purely ac-
cidental; the insurance companies, usu-
ally cautious enough, had paid over their
varying amounts of insurance to those
fortunate losers, who were not, like Mr.
Burton, unprepared. These losers were
men of wealth, and the highest position
as business firms—high and mighty po-
tentates, against whom to breathe a breath
of slander, was to overwhelm the aucta-
cious individual in the ruins of his own
presumption. Mr. Burton had an inward
conviction that these men were guilty of
arson. He knew it. His mind perceived
their guilt. But he could make no allega-
tion against them upon such unsubstan-
tial basis asthis. He went to work quietly
and singly, to gather up the threads in the
cable of his proof; and when he had
made it strong enough to hang them twice
over—for two lives, that of a porter and
a clerk, had been lost in the burned build-

in je threatened them with exposure,
unless they made good to him the loss

 

which he had sustained through their vil-
lainy. They laughed at him from their
stronghold of respectability. He brought
the case into court. Alas! for the pure,
white statue of Justice which beautifies
the desecrated. chambers of the: law.
Banded together, with inexhaustible
means of corruption at their command,
the guilty were triumphant.

During this experience, Mr. Burton got
an inside view of life,in the marts, on ex-
change, in the halls of justice, and in the
high and low places where men do con-
gregate. It was as if, with the thread in
his hand, which be nad picked out, he un-
raveled the whole web of human iniquity.
Burning with a sense of his individual
wrongs, he could not look calmly on and
see others similarly exposed ;. he grew
fascinated with his labor of dragging the
dangerous secrets of a community to the
light. The more he called into play the
peculiar faculties of his mind, which made
him so suecessful a hunter on the paths
of the guilty, the more marvelous became
their development. He was like an In-
dian on the trail of his enemy—the bent
grass, the broken twig, the evanescent
dew—which, to the uninitiated, were
“trifles light as air,” to him were “ proofs
strong as Holy Writ.”

In this work he was actuated by no
pernicious motives. Upright and humane,
with a generous heart which pitied’ the
innocent injured, his conscience would
allow him no'rest if he permitted crime,
which he could see walking where others
could not, to flourish unmolested in) the
sunshine made for better uses. . Heattach-
ed himself to the secret detective-police ;
only working up such cases as demanded
the benefit of his rare powers.

Thus ‘much: of Mr. Burton had the
chief of the potice revealed tome, during
a brief interview in the morning; and this
information, it may be supposed, had not
lessened the fascinations which he had for
me. The first thing he said, after the
greetings of the day, when he cameto my
room, Was :

“I have ascertained that our sewing-
gm has one visitor, who is a constant one. ©

here is a middle-aged woman, a nurse,
who brings a child, now about a year old,
every Sunday to spend half the day with
her, when she does not go up to Blank-
ville. On such occasions it is brought in
ithe evening, some time during the week.
It passes, so says’ the landlady, for the
child of a cousin of Miss Sullivan’s, who
was married to a worthless young fellow,
who deserted her within three months,
and went off to the West ; the mother died
at its birth, leaving it entirely unprovided
for, and Miss Sullivan, to keep it out of the
charity-hospital, hired this woman to
nurse it with her own baby, for which she
pays her twelve ‘shillings a week: She
was, according to her story to’ the'land-
lady, very much attached to. her’ poor
cousin, and could not cast off the? little
one for her sake.”

“All of which may be trae—”

“Or false—as the case may turn.”

“Tt certainly will not be" difficult to
ascertain if such a cousin really married
and died; as represented. : The girl has
not returned to her work yet, I suppose ?”

“She has not. Her absence gives the
thing a bad look. Some connection she
undoubtedly has with the case; as for
how deeply she is involved in it, we’ will
only know when we find out. Whoever
the child’s mother may have been, itseems
evident, from the tenor of the landlady’s
story, that Miss Sullivan is much attached
to it; it is safe to presume that, sooner or
later, she will return to look after it. In
her anxiety to reach the nest, she will fly
into the trap. Ihave made arrangements
by which I shall be informed if she ap-
pears at any of her former haunts, ormat the
house of the nurse. And now, I believe,
I will go up to Blankville with you for a
single day. I wish to see the ground of
the tragedy, including Mr. Argyll’s resi-
dence, the Jawn, the ‘Jibrary from’ which
the money was abstracted, ete. A clear

icture of these, carried in my mind, may
be of use to me in unexpected ways. If
we hear nothing of her in the village, 1
will return to the city, and await) her re-
THE DEAD LETTER.

a8

 

 

appearance here, which will be sure to
ocenr within a month.”

“Why within a month?”

“Women risk themselves, always,
where a little child demands it. When
the nurse finds the baby abandoned by its
protector, and the wages unpaid, she will
throw the charge upon the authorities. To
prevent this, the girl will be back here to
see after it. However, I hope we shall
not be a month getting at what we want.
It will be curious if we don’t finish up
the whole of this melancholy business be-
fore that. And, by the way, you and
young Argyll had quite a hide-and-seek
race the other night!” and when I looked
my astonishment at this remark, he only
laughed. ‘‘ It’s my profession, you know ”
was his only explanation.

 

CHAPTER VI.
TWO LINKS IN THE CHAIN.

WE went up to Blankville that evening,
arriving late. I confess that I felt a thrill,
as of cold steel, and peered over my shoul-
der, as we walked up the hill from the
depot ; but my companion was guilty of
no such weakness. He kept as sharp a
look-out as the light of a setting moon
would permit, but it was only with a view
to making himself familiar with the pre-
mises. We passed the Argyll mansion on
our way to my boarding-place; it was too
late to call; the lights were extinguished,
except the faint one always left burning
in the hall, and in two or three of the
chambers.
me, as I drew near it; I would fain have
laid my head against the pillars of the
gateway and wept—tears such as a man
may shed without reproach, when the
woman he loves suffers. A growing anx-
iety possessed me to hear of Eleanor, no
report of her mental or physical condi-
tion having reached me since that pierc-
ing shriek had announced the parting of
her heart-strings when the strain of final
separation came. I would have gone to
the door a moment, to make inquiries,
had I not inferred that a knock at that
late hour must startle the family into
nervous anticipations. The wan glimmer
of the sinking moon struck under the
branches of the silent trees, which stood
about the dark mass of the stately man-
sion ; not a breath stirred the crisp foliage.
I heard a leaf, which loosened itself and
rustled downward to the sod.

“Tt isa fine old place,” remarked my
companion, pausing because my own

f a had come to a stand-still.
c

ould not answer ; he drew my arm
into his, and we went on. Mr. Burton
was growing to me in the shape of a friend
instead of a detective officer.

That night I gave up my room to him,
taking a hall bedroom adjoining, After
breakfast we went forth into the village,
making our first call at the office. Mr.
Argyll was there, looking thin and care-
worn. He said that he was glad to have
me back, for he felt unfit for business, and
must let the mantle of labor drop upon
my shoulders hereafter.

here had been an implied understand-
ing, although it had never been definitely
agreed upon, that I was to become a part
ner in the law with my teacher, when 1
had been admitted to practice. He had
no one associated with him in his large
and lucrative business, and he was now
getting of an age to feel like retiring from
at least the drudgery of the profession.
That he designed to offer me the place
open for some candidate, I had not doubt-
ed, for he had said as much many times.
This prospect was an unusually fair one
for so young a person 4s myself; it had
urged me to. patient study, to eager, am-
bitious effort. For I rightly deemed that
a respect for my habits of mental applica-
tion and a faith in my as yet undeveloped
talents, had decided Mr. Argyll to offer
me the contemplated encouragement.
This had been another reason for James’
dislike of me. He could not look favor-
ably upon one who had, as it were, sup-
lanted him. Instead of seeing that the
‘fault lay in himself, and applying the re-

A rush of emotion genes.

 

medy, he pursued the false course of con-
sidering me as a rival and an interloper.
He, also, was a student in the office, and
that he was a year behind me in his
studies, aud that, if he ever became a
partner, it would be asa third member of
the firm, was owing solely to his habitual
indolence,which gave him a distaste for the
dry details of a lawyer’s work. What he
would have liked would be to have his
examination shirked over, to be admitted
on the strength of his uncle’s reputation,
and then to be employed only in making
brilliant oratorical efforts before the
judge, jury and audience, after some one
else had performed all the hard labor of
the case, and placed his weapons ready
at his hand.

If Mr. Argyll realiy intended to take
the son of his old friend into the firm, in-
stead of his own nephew, it was simply
on the prudent principles of business. I
was to pass my examination the first of
November ;—this remark, then, which he
made, as I observed how weary and un-
well he looked, was not a surprise to me
—it came only as a confirmation of my
expectations.

At that moment James entered the
office. There was a cloud on his brow,
called up by his uncle’s words ; he hardly
took time to shake Hands with me, before
he said :

“ How is it, uncle, if you are worried
and over-worked, that you do not tell me?
I should have been glad to help you. But
it seems I am of no possible account now-
adays.”

Mr. Argyll smiled at this outbreak, as
he would at the vexation of a child, A
father could not be kinder to a son, than
he was to James; but to depend upon
him for solid aid or comfort would be to
lean upon a broken reed. The cloud
upon the young man’s face grew thunder-
ous, when he perceived’ Mr. Burton; al-
though, if I had not been looking straight
in his eyes, I should not have noticed it,
for it passed instantly, and he stépped for-
ward with frank cordiality, extending his
hand, and saying:

“ We did not know you were to come
up. Indeed, we did not expect Richard
back so soon. Has any thing transpired ?”

“We hope that something will trans-
pire, very soon,” answered the detective.
“You are very anxious, I see—and no
wonder.”

““No—no wonder! We are all of us
perfectly absorbed—and, as for me, m:
heart bleeds for my friends, Mr. Burton.”

‘And your friends’ hearts bleed for you.”

Mr. Burton had a peculiar voice, search-
ing, though not loud; I was talking with
Mr. Argyll, and yet I heard this reply
without listening for it; I did not com-
prehend it, and indeed, I let it in at one
ear and out at the other, for I was asking
about Eleanor. Qo

“She is better than we‘hoped for,” said
the father, wiping the mist fronr his eyes
which gathered at the mention of her
name, “‘ but, alas ! Richard, that is not say-
ing much. * My. girl will never be herself
again. My pretty Eleanor will never be
my sunshine any more. Not that her
mind is shaken—that remains only too
acutely sensitive. But her heart is
broken. I can see that—broken, past
mending. She has not left her bed since
Henry was carried away; the doctor
assures me there is nothing dangerous
about her illness—only the natural weak-
ness of the system after intense suffering,
the same as if she had endursd great
physical pain. He says she will rally
presently.”

“If could take her burden upon my-
self, [ would ask no greater boon,” I said.

My voice must have been very full of
the feeling within me, for it made Mr.
Argyll give me a wondering look; I think
it was the first time he had a suspicion of
the hopeiess passion I had cherished for
his daughter,

“We must all bear our own troubles,”
he said. “ Poor Richard, I fear you have
your own, like the rest of us.” ,

When I aguin noticed what was pass-
ing between the other two, James was
telling Mr. Burton, with great animation,
of some information which had been

 

- conscious.

eee ae era econ

lodged with the authorities of the village.
I became absorbed in it, of course.

A respectable citizen of a town some
thirty or forty miles beyond, on the rail-
road, hearing of the murder, had taken
the trouble to come down to Blankville
and testify to some things which had
fallen under his observation on the night
of the murder. He stated that he was a

- passenger on the Saturday afternoon train

from New York; that the seat in front
of his own, in the car, was occupied by
a young gentleman, who, by the descrip-
tions since given, he knew must be Henry
Moreland; that, as there were but few
people in that car, he had given the more
attention to those near him; that he was
particularly attracted by the prepossess-
ing appearance of the young gentleman,
with whom he exchanged a few remarks
with regard to the storm, and who informed
him that he was going no further than
Blankville.

“After we had been riding a while,”
said the witness—I do not give James’
words in telling it, but his own as I after-
ward read them in the sworn testimony—
“T noticed a person who sat. on the op-
posite side of the car, facing us. His fore-
head was bent on his hand, and he was
looking out from under his fingers, at the
young man in front of me. It was his
sinister expression which compelled me
to notice him. His small, glittering black
eyes were fixed upon my neighbor with a
look which made me shudder. I smiled
at myself for my own sensation—said to
myself, it was none of my business—that
I was nervous—yet, in spite of my at-
tempts to be unconcerned, I was continu-
ally compelled to look across at the indi-
vidual of whose serpent-gaze the young
gentleman himself appeared totally un-
If he had once met those eyes,
I am certain he would have been on his
guard—for I assert, without other proof
than what afterward transpired, that there
was murder in them, and that that person
was Henry Moreland’s murderer. I can
not prove it—but my conviction is un-
alterable I only wish, now, that I had

. ae

yielded to my impulse to shake my un- |

known neighbor, and say to him—'‘ See!

there is an enemy! beware of him?

There was nothing Dut the man’s look to

justify such a proceeding, and of course,
curbed my feelings.

“The man was a common-looking per-
son, dressed in dark clothes; he wore a
low-crowned felt hat, slouched down on
his forehead ; I do not remember about
his hair, but his eyes were black, his com-
plexion sallow. I noticed a scar across
the back of the hand which he held over
his eyes, as if he had sometime been cut
across with a knife; also, that he hada
large ring, with a red stone in it, on his
little finger.

“When the cars stopped at Blankville
this person arose and followed Henry
Moreland from the car. I saw him step
off the platform behind him, which was
the last I saw of either of them.”

it may be imagined with what a thrill
of fearful interest we listened to this ac
count, and the thousand conjectures to
which it gave rise.

“Tt can not be difficult,” I exclaimed,
“to find other witnesses to testify of this
man.”

We were assured by James that every
effort had been made to get some trace of
him. No person answering to the de-
scription was a resident of the village, and
no one could br aeard of as having been
seen in the vicinity. Not a solitary
lounger about the depot, or the hotel
close at hand, could recall that he had
seen such a stranger leave the cars; no
such person had stopped at the hotel;
even the conductor of the train could not
be certain of such a passenger, though he

had a dim recollection of a rough fellow'

in the car with Mr. Moreland—he had
not observed where he left the train—
thought his ticket was for Albany.

“But we do not despair of some evi
dence, yet,” said Mr. Argyll.

“The New York police, not being able
to do any thing further here, have gone
home,” continued James. “If nf a
villain lurks in New York, he will be

 
  
 

i
|
1
i
i

 

 

 

found. That scar on the hand igs a good
point for identifying him—don’t you
think so, sir?” to Mr. Burton.

“Well—yes! unless it was put on for
the purpose. It may have been done in
red ocher, and washed off afterward. If
the fellow was a practiced hand, as the
skill and precision of the blow would im
ply, he will be up to all such tricks. If
he had a real scar, he would have worn
gloves on such an errand.”

“You think so?” and James drew a
long breath, probably of discouragement
at this new statement of the case.

“T would like to go down to the depot,
and along the docks for an hour,” con-
tinued Mr. Burton, “if"there is nothing
else to be done immediately.”

James politely insisted upon accom-
panying us.

“What the deuce did you bring an-
other of those detectives up here for?”
he asked me, sotto voce, at the first oppor-
tunity. “ We've had a surfeit of them
—they’re regular bores! and this Bur-
roughs or Burtor, or whatever his name
is, is the most disagreeable of them all.
A conceited fellow—one of the kind I
dislike, naturally.”

“You mistake his character. He is
intelligent and a gentleman.”

“YT wish you joy of his society,” was
the sneering reply.

Nevertheless, James favored us with
his company during our morning’s tour.
One sole fact the detective ascertained in
the course of his two hours’? work. A
fisherman had lost a small boat during
the storm of Saturday night. He had left
it, fastened to its accusiomed moorings,
and in the morning, found that the chain,
which was old and rusty, had parted one
of its links, probably by the extreme vio-
lence with which the wind had dashed

_the boat about. Mr. Burton had asked

to see the remnant of the chain. It was
still attached to the post around which it
had been locked. An examination of the
broken link showed that it was partly
rusted away; but there were also marks
upon it, as if a knife or a chisel might
have been used.

“T see my boy Billy a-tinkerin’ with
it,’ said the fisherman. “Like as not
he’s been a-using of it to whittle on.
That boy breaks more knives’n his neck’s
wuth. He's goin’ on nine, now, and
he’s had six jack-knives in as many
months.” ;,

Mr. Burton stood, holding the. chain
in his hand; and looking up and down the
river. His face glowed with a light which
shone through from some inward fire. I,
who had begun to watch his varying ex-
pressions with keen interest, saw that he
was again becoming excited; but not in
the same way as on that first evening of
our meeting, when he grew so leonine.

He looked at the water and the sky,
the fair shores and the dull dock, as if
these mute witnesses were telling to him
a tale which he read like a printed book.
A few moments he stood thus in silence,
his countenance illuminated by that won-
derful intelligence. Then, saying that his
researches were through with in this part
of the village, we returned, almost in
silence, to the office; for when this man
was pondering the enigmas whose solu-
tion he was so certain to announce,
sooner or later, he grew absorbed and
taciturn. 7

Mr. Argyll made us go home with him
to dinner. I knew thatI should not see
Eleanor; yet, even to be under the same
roof with her, made me tremble... Mary,
who was constantly in attendance upon
her sister, would not appear at the table.
She came down, for a moment, to greet
me, and to thank me tor my poor efforts.
The dear child had changed some, like
the rest of us. She could not look like
any thing but the rose-bud which she was
—a fresh and pure young creature of six-

teen summers—a rose-bud drenched in |

dew—a little pale, with a quiver in her
smile, and bright tears beading her eye-
lashes, ready, at any moment, to drop.
Tt was touching to see one naturally so
juyous, subdued by the shadow which

had fallen over the house. Neither of us

could say much: our lips trembled when

 

12 THE oFIRESLDE ‘LIBRARY.

we spoke er name ; so, after a moment’s
holding my hand, while the tears began
to flow fast, Mary unclasped my fingers,
and ran back up-stairs. I saw Mr. Burton
hide those blue-gray eyes of his in his
handkerchief; my respect for him deep-
ened as I felt that those eyes, sharp and
penetrating as they were, were not too
cold to warm with a sudden mist at the
vision he had beheld.

“Ah!” murmured I to myself, “if he
could see Eleanor !”

When dinner was over, Mr. Argyll
went up to see his children, giving me
permission to show the house and grounds
to the detective. James went on the
portico to smoke a cigar. Mr. Burton sat
a short time in the library, taking an im-
pression of it on his mind, examined the
lock of the desk, and noticed the ar-
rangement of the one window, which
was a large bay-window opening to the
floor and projecting over the flower-
garden which lay behind the house and
bordered the lawn to the right. It was
about three feet to the ground, and
although quite accessible, as a mode of
entrance, to any one compelled to that
resource, the window was not ordinarily
used as a mode of ingress or egress. I
had sometimes chased Mary, when she
Was not so old as now, and sent her flying
through the open casement into the
mignonette and violets beneath, and I
alter; but since we had both grown more
sedate, such pranks were rare.

We then went out upon the lawn. I
took my companion to the tree beneath
which Thad stood, when that dark figure
had approached, and passed me, to crouch
beneath the window from which the
death-candles shone. From this spot, the
bay-window was not visible, that being
at the back of the house and this on the
side Mr. Burton looked carefully about
him, walking all over the lawn, going up
under the parlor windows, and thence
pursuing his way into the garden and
around to the bay-window. It was quite
natural to search closely in this precinct
for some mark or footsteps, some crushed
flowers, or broken branches, or scratches
upon the wall, left by the thief, if he or
she had made his or her entrance at this
spot. Going over the ground thus, inch
by inch, I observed a bit of white lawn,
soiled and weather-beaten, lying under a
rose-bush a few feet from the window. |
picked it up. It was a woman’s hand-
kerchief, of tine lawn, embroidered along
the edge with a delicate running vine, and
a spray of flowers at the corner.

“One of the young ladies has dropped
it, some time ago,” I said, “or it has
blown across from tke kitchen grass-plot,
where the linen is put out to dry.”

Then I examined the discolored article
more closelygind, involved in the grace-
ful twinings”of the spray of flowers, 1
saw worked the initialsa—“L.8." |

“ Leesy Sullivan,” said my companion,
taking it from my hand.

“Tt seems too dainty an, «ticle for her
ownership,” I said, at last, for, at first, J
had been quite stupefied.

“A woman’s vanity will compass many
things beyond her means. This thing
she has embroidered with her own needle
—you remember, she is a proficient in
the art.”

“Yes, | remember. She may have lost
it Sunday night, during that visit which
I observed; and the wind has blown it
over into this spot.”

“You forget that there has been no
rain since that night. This handkerchief
has been beaten into the grass and earth
by a violent rain. A thorn upon this
bush has pulled it from ber pocket as she
passed, and the rain has set its mark up:
on it, to be used as a testimony against
hen.” ;

“The evidence seems to conflict. She
can not be a man and woman both.”

“Why not?” was the quiet reply
“There may be a principal and an ac-
complice. A woman is a safer accom-
plice for a man than one of. his own sex
—and vice versa.”

The face which I had seen, in its de-
spair, the face of Leesy Sullivan, rose in
my memory, full of passion, marked in

 

every soft yet impressive lineament with
slumbering power— “such a nature,” |
thought, “can be maddened into crime.
but it will not consort with villainy.”

Mr. Burton put the handkerchief in
the inside pocket of his coat, and we re-
turned into the house. He inquired the
names of the servants, none of whose
initials corresponded with those we had
found, nor could I recall any lady visit-
ors of the family to whom the handker-
chief might belong by virtue of its in-
scription. There was not the shadow of
a doubt but that it had been the property
of the sewing-girl. Some errand, secret
and unlawful, had brought her. to, these
grounds, and under this window.- We
now considered it proper to show the
handkerchief to Mr. Argyll, and relate to
him our grounds of suspicion against the
girl, Mary and Jumes were admitted to
the council. The former said that. she
remembered Miss Sullivan; that she had
been employed in the family, for a few
days at a time, on several different occa-
sions, ‘but none of them, recent. We
liked her sewing very much, and wanted
to engage her for the next six weeks,
she added, with a sigh, “ but on inquiring
for her, learned that she was now em-
ployed in New York.”

“She must, then, have been perfectly
familiar with the arrangement of ‘the
house, and with the habits of the family ;
as for instance, at what hour you dined.
She might enter while the family were at
table, since, had she been surprised by
the entrance of a servant, or other. per-
gon, she could affect to have.called on an
errand, and to be waiting for the young
ladies,” remarked Mr. Burton.

The servants were then summoned,
one at a time, and questioned» as to
whether they had observed any suspicious
persons whatever’ about the house or
grounds within a week. “They were, of
course, in a national state of high excite-
ment, and immediately upon a question
being put to them, answered every other
imaginary case in the world but that,
blessed’ themselves, called on the Virgin
Mary, gave an account of all the beggars ©
as called at the kitchen last year and the
year afore, cried abundantly, and gave no
coherent information.

‘““Ah, sure!” said Norah, the cook,
“there was the blackin’-and-bluin’ man
come around last Wednesday, and:1 tuk
a bottle of the blue for the clothes. It’s
a poor mimiry, I have, sure, since J came
across the say. Afore that I could recol-
lect beyond anything, and the praste used
to praise my rading. [think it was the
tossing un’ rolling ov the ship: upsot my
brain. It was: Saturday, it wur, and ob,
Lordy, it is setting me all ov a trimble
a-thinkin’ of that day, and I see a little
yeller dog a-stickin’ his nose into the
kitching door, which was open about
half, and saysI, there’s vagabonds around
sure, now, I knew by the dog, and Twine
and looked out, and sure as me names
Norah, there was an old lame man wid a
stick a-pretinding to look for rags an
bones in the alley to the stable, which I
niver allows such about, as it’s against
the master’s orthers, and 1 druv him off
immajetly—and that, I think, was Sath-
urday two wakes now, but I won't be
sure; and I don’t mind nobody else but
the chany-woman, wid her basket, which
I don’t think it could have been her as
done anythin’ bad, for she’s been round
rig’ler, for a good while, and is a dacent-
spoken body that I’ve had some dalin’s
wid myself. I sowld her my old plaid
gown for the match-box of ebony that
sits on the kitching-mantel now, and oh
dear! but my heart’s dead broke, sure!
Margaret and I daren’t set in the
kitching of nights no more, unless: Jim’s
there, an’ ve woke up scr’aming two
nights now—och hone! and. if I’dsee’d
any thing, I'd a told it long afore, which
1 wish I had, seein’ yowve axed me, sir.
It don’t do no good a-cooking delicacies
which nobody eats no longer—I wish I
had never come to Amyriky, to see poor

Miss Eleanor so tuk down!” and having
relieved herself of the sympathy which
shehad been aching to express, without
the opportunity, she threw her apron

 

 
 

,

.

|

“ ayailing exertions.

THE “DEAD! LETTER,

 

a 15

 

over her head, and sobbed after the man
ner of her people.

Margaret’s testimony was no more to
the point than Norah’s. Mr. Burton let
each one go on after her own heart, put-
ting up with the tedious circumlocution,
jn the hope of some kernel of wheat in
the bushel of chaff.

After a deluge of tears and interjec-
tions, Maggie did finally come out with a
statement which arrested the attention of
her listeners.

“T’ve never seen none gawking about
as didn’t belong here—not a living sow).
The howly Virgin prevint that iver I
should see what Jim did—it wasn’t a
human being at all, but a wraith, and he
seen it that very night. He niver told us
of it, till the Tuesday night,as we sot
talking about the fineral, and it frightened
us so, we niver slept a-wink till morn-
ing. Poor Jim’s worried with it, too; he
pretinds he isn’t afraid of the livin’ nor
dead, but it’s no shame to the best. to
stand in awe of sperits, and I see he’s
backward about going about the place,
alone, after dark, and no wonder! Sure!
he saw a ghost !”

“What was it like?”

“Sure, you’d best call him, and let him
describe it for hisself—itll make your
blood run cold to think of sich things ir
a Christian family.”

Jim was summoned. His story, weed
ed out, was this. On Saturday evening,
after tea, his mistress, Miss Eleanor, had
asked him to go to the post-office for the
evening mail. It was very dark and
rainy. He lighted the lantern.
went out the back gate, he stopped a min-
ute and lifted his lantern to take a look
about the premises, to see if there was
any thing left out which ought. to be
taken in from the storm. As he waved
the light about, he saw something in the
flower-garden, about six feet from the
bay-window. It had the appearance of a
woman ; its face was white, its hair hung
lown on its shoulders; it stood quite
till in the rain, just as if the water was
not coming down by bucketfuls. It had
very large, bright eyes, which shone when
the candle threw the light on them, as if
they had been made of fire. He only
saw itan instant. He was so frightened
that he let his lantern fall, which did not
happen to extinguish the candle, but
when he lifted it up again, the wraith had
vanished. He felt very queer about it, at
the time; and the next day, when the bad
news came, then he knew it was a warning.
They often had such in the old country,

We did not undeceive Jim as to the
character of the phantom. With the as-

surance that it probably would not come ,

again, since its mission had been accom-
plished, and a caution not to make the
girls in the kitchen too nervous about it,
we dismissed him.

CHAPTER VIL
ELEANOR.

One week, another—a third—a fourth,
passed by. Our village was as if it had
never been shaken by a fierce agitation.
Already the tragedy was as if it had not
been, except to the household whose fair-
est flower it had blighted. People no
longer looked over theirshoulders as they
walked; the story now only served to en-
liven the history of the little place, when
it was told to a stranger.

Every thing that human energy could
accomplish had been done to track the
murder to its origin ; yet not one step had
been gained since we sat, that Wednes-
day afternoon,in the parlor, holding a
council over the handkerchief. Young
and healthful as I was, I felt my spirits
breaking down under my constant, un-
The time for my ex-
amination came, which could not be un-
snocesstul, I had so long been thoroughly
prvpared, but I had lost my keen interest
in this'era of my life, while my ambition
srew torpid. To excel in my profession
had become, for the time, quite the sec-
oudary object of my life; my brain grew

I

As. he»:

 

feverish with the harassment of rest.ess
projects—the recoil of thwarted ideas.
There was not one in the family group (al-
ways excepting that unseen and cloistered
sufierer) who betrayed the wear-and-tear
of our trouble so much as I. James re-
marked once that I was improved by los-
ing some of my boyish ruddiness—I was
“toning down,” he said. On another oc-
casion, with that Mephistophiles smile of
his, he observed that it must be that I was
after the handsome rewards—the sum to-
tal would make a comfortable setting-out
for a person just starting in the world.

I do not think he wished to quarrel
with me; he was always doubly pleasant,
after any such waspish sting ; he was na-
turally satirical, and he could not always
curb his inclination to be so at my ex-
pense.

In the mean time an impression grew
upon me that he was watching me—with
what intent I had not yet decided.

In all this time I had not seen Eleanor.
She kad recovered from. her illness, so as
« he about her room, but had not yet
joined the family at meals. 1 went fre-
quently to the house ; it had been a second
home to me ever since I left the haunts
of my boyhood and the old red-brick man-
sion, with the Grecian portico, whose
massive pillars were almost reflected ir.
tbe waters of Seneca lake, so close to the
shere did it stand—and where my mother
still sesided, amidst the friends who had
known her in the days of her happiness
—that is, of my father’s life. >

With the same freedom as of old, I went
and came to and from: Mr. Argyll’s. I
was not apprehensive of intruding upon
Eleanor, because she never left her apart-
ments ; while Mary, gay young creature,
troubled and grieved as she was, could not
stay always in the shadow. At her ave,
the budding blooms of womanhood re-
quire sunshine, She was lonely, and
when she left her sister to the-solitude
whieh Eleanor preferred, “she wanted
company,” she said. “ James was gloomy,
and would not try to amuse her—not that
she wanted to be amused, but every thing
was so sad, and she felt so timid, it was a
relief to have any one to talk to, or even
to look at.” I felt very sorry for her. It
became a part of my duty to bring her
books, and sometimes to read them a'oud,
through the lengthening evenings ; at oth-
ers to while away the time with a game
of chess. The piano was abandonéd ow
of respect for the mourner in the cham-
ber above. Carols would rise to Mary's
lips, as they rise from the lark at sunrise,
but she always broke them off, drowning
them in sighs. Her elastic spirit constant-
ly asserted itself, while the tender sym-
pathy of a most warm, affectionate nature
as constantly depressed it. She could not
speak of Eleanor without tears; and for
this my heart blessed her. She did not
know of the choking. in my own throut
which often prevented me from speaking,
when I ought, perhaps, to be uttering
words of help or comfort. P

James was ats hovering about like
a restless spirit. It had been one of his
indolent habits to spend a great deal of
time with the young ladies; and now he
was forever in the house; but so uneasy,
so irritable—as Mary said—he was not an
agreeable companion. He would pick up
a book in the library; in five minutes he
would throw it down, and walk twice o1
thrice up and down the hall, out upon the
piazza, back into the parlor and stand
looking out of the windows—then to the
library and take up another book. He had
the air of one always listening—always
waiting. He had, too, a kind of haunted
look, if my reader can imagine what that
is. I guessed that he was listening and
waiting for Eleanor—whom, like myself,
he had not seen since the Sunday 80 in-
memorial; but that other lk I did not
seek to explain.

There had been a light fall of snow.
It seemed as if winter had come in No-
vember. But in a few hours this aspect
vanished ; the snow melted like a dream ;
the zenith was a deep, molten blue, trans-
fused with the pale sunshine which is only
seen in Indian-summer; a tender mist
circled the horizon with a zone of purple.

1

 

[I could not stay in the office that after-
noon, so infinitely sad, so infinitely lovely.
I put aside the law-papers which I had
been arranging for a case in which IT was
first to appear before a jury and make my
maiden argument. . The air, soft as that of
sunimer and scented with the indescribable
perfume of perishing leaves, came to me
through the open window, with a mes-
sage calling me abroad; I took up my
hat, stepped out upon the pavement, and
wandering along the avenue in the direc-
tion of the house, went in upon the lawn.
I had thought to go out into the open
country for a long walk; but my heart
drew meand held me here. The language
of all beauty, and of infinity itself, is love.
The divine melancholy of music, the deep
tranquillity of summer noons, the softened
splendor of aufumn days, haunting one
with ineffable joy and sadness—what. is
the name of all this varying demonstra-
tion of beauty, but love?

I walked beneath the trees slowly, my
feet nestling amid the thickly-strewn
leaves and pressing a faint aroma from
the moist earth. To and fro fora long
time I rambled, thinking no tangible
thoughts, but my soul silently filling, all
the time, like a fountain fed by secret
springs. To the back.of the lawn, ex-
tending around and behind the flower-
garden, was a little ascent, covered by a
grove of elms and maples, in the midst of
which was a summer-house which had
been a favorite resort of Eleanor. Hith-
er I finally bent my steps, and seating
myself; looked musingly upon the lovely
prospect around and beneath me. The
rustic temple opened toward the river,
which was visible from here, roiling in its
blue splendor across the exquisite land-
scape. There is a fascination in water
which will keep the eyes fixed upon it
through hours of reverie; I sat there,
mindful of the near mountains, the purple
mist, the white ships, the busy village, but
gazing only at the blue ripples forever slip-
ping away from the point of my observa-
tion. My spirit exhaled like the mist and
ascended in aspiration. My grief aspired,
and arose in passionate prayers to the
white throne of the eternal justice—it
acose in tears, etherealized and drawn up
by the rays from the one great source and
sun—the Spirit of love. I prayed and
wept for her, No thought of myself
mingled with these emotions,

Suddenly a slight chill fell upon me, 1
started to perceive that the sun had set.
A band of orange belted the west. As
whe sun dropped behind the hills. the
moon came up in the east. It seemed as
if her silver light frosted what it touched ;
the aix.grew sharp, a thin, white cloud
spread itself over the river. I had sat
there long enough, and I was forcing my-
self to a consciousness of the fact, when I
saw one coming: through the flower-gar-
den and approaching the summer-house.

The, blood paused in my veins when I
saw that it was Eleanor. The sunset yet
lingered, and the cold moonlight shone
full on her face. I remembered. how 1
had seen her, that last time but one, glow-
ing and flushing in triumphant beauty,
attired with the utmost skilled coquetry
of a young, beloved woman, who is glad
of her charms because another prizes them.

Now she came along the lonesome
path, between the withered flower-heds,
clothed in deepest. black, walking with.a
feeble.step, one small white hand holding
the sable shawl across her chest, a long.
crape vail thrown over her head, from
which her face looked out, white and still.

A pang like that of death transfixed
me, as 1 gazed at her. Not. one. rose left

.in the garden of her young life! The

ruin through which she walked was not
so complete—but this garden would res-
wrrect. itself in the month of another
spring—while for her there was no spring
on this side of the grave. Not one tint on

. the snowy cheek ! the dimples and smiles

fled—the lips pressed together—the brow
like marble. Ifmarble could waste away,
she was like a glorious statue grown thin
and wan. The frosty air, the pure movn-
light, were not more cold and white,
Slowly she threaded her way, with bent
gaze, through the garden, out upon the

 
 

SSS SS rc ce a re ee

ae

ca ar

meee

Be te a wee sees

414

 

hill-side, and up to the little rustic temple
in which she had spent so many happy
hours with him. When she had reached
the grassy platform in front of it, she
raised her eyes and swept a glance around
upon the familiar scene, There were no
tears in her blue eyes, and her lips did
not quiver. It was not until she had en-
circled the horizon with that quiet, beam-
less look, that she perceived me. I rose
to my feet, my expression only doing rey-
erence to her sorrow, for Lhad no words,

She held out her hand, and as I took
it, she said with gentleness—as if her
sweetness must excuse the absence of her
former smiles :

“Are you well, Richard? You look
thin. Becareful of yourself—is it not too
chilly for you to be sitting here at this
hour rr

1 pressed her hand,and turned away,
vainly endeavoring to command my voice.
f had changed! but it was like Bae
to put herself aside and remember others.

“ Nay, do not go,” she said, as she saw
that I was leaving her out of fear of in-
truding upon her visit, “I shall remain
here but a few moments, and I will lean
upon your arm back to the house. I am
not strong, and the walk up the hill has
tired me. I wanted to see you, Richard.
I theught some of coming down-stairs a
little while this evening. [ want to thank
you.”

The words were just whispered, and
she turned immediately and looked away
at theriver. Iunderstood her well. She
wanted to thank me for the spirit which
had prompted me in my earnest, though
unsuccessful efforts. And coming down
to the family-group a little while in the
evening, that was for Mary’s sake, and
her poor father’s. Her own light had ex-
pired, but she did not wish to darken the
hearth-stone any more than was unayoid-
able. She sunk down upon the seat I
had vacated, remaining motionless, look-
ing upon the river and the sky. After a
time, with a long, tremulous sigh, she
arose to go. A gleam from the west fell

upon a single violet which, protected from
the frost, by the projecting roof, smiled
up at us, near the door of the summer-
house. With a wild kind of passion
breaking through her quiet, Eleanor
stooped, gathered it, pressed it to her lips,
and burst into tears—it was her favorite
flower—Henry’s favorite.

It was agony to see her cry, yet, better,
perhaps, than such marble repose. She
was too weak to bear this sudden shock
alone; she leaned upon my shoulder,
every sob which shook her frame echoed
by me. Yes! I am not ashamed to con-
fess it! When manhood is fresh and un-
sullied, its tears are not wrung out in
those single drops of mortal anguish
which the rock gives forth when time and
the foot of the world has hardened it. I
could still rememt.er when T had kissed
my mother, and we}* my boyish troubles
well upon her breast. Ishould have been
harder than the nether millstone, had I
not wept with Eleanor then.

I mastered myself in order to assist her
to vegain composure, for I was alarmed

_ lest the violence of her emotion should

break down the remnant of her frail
strength. She, too, struggled against the
storm, soon growing outwardly calm, and
with the violet pressed to her bosom with
one hand, with the other she clung to my
arm, and we returned to the house, where
they were alveady looking for Elea-

nor,

Under the full light of the hall-lamp we
encountered James. It was his first meet-
ing with his cousin, as well as mine. He
gave her a quick, penetrating look, held
out his hand, his lips moved as if striving
‘o form a greeting. It was evident that
vhe change was greater than he expected ;
he dropped his hand, before her fin-
gers had touched it, and rushing past
us through the open door, he closed it be-
nind him, remaining out until long after

When he came in, Eleanor had retired
to her chamber, and Mary brought him
the cup of tea which she had kept hot for
‘him.

“You are a good girl, Mary,” he said,

THE FIRESIDE

 

drinking it hastily, as if to get rid of it.
“T hope nobody will ever make you look
like that/ I thought broken hearts were
easily mended —that girls usually had
theirs broken three or four times, and
patched them up again—but I have
changed my mind.”

That gloomy look, which Mary de-
clared she dreaded, clouded his face again.
His countenance was most variable; noth-
ing could exceed it in glitter and brilliant
coior when he was in his pleasing mood,
but when sullen or sad, it was sallow and
lusterless. Thus it looked that evening.
But I must close this chapter row and
here—it is consecrated to that meeting
with the object of my sorrow and adora-
tion, and I will not prolong it with the
details of other events.

OHAPTER VIII.
THE HAUNTED GRAVE.

Wuen I returned to my boarding-house
that same evening, I found a telegram
awaiting me from Mr. Burton, asking me
to come down to the city in the morning.
I went down by the earliest train, soon
after, ringing the bell at the door of his
private residence in Twenty-third street :
a servant ushered me into the library,
where I found the master of the house so
absorbed in thought, as he sat before the
grate with his eyes bent upon the glowing
coals, that he did not observe my entrance
until I spoke hisname. Springing to his
feet, he shook me heartily by the hand;
we had already become warm personal
friends. .

“ You are early,” he said, ‘“ but so much
the better. We will have the more time
for business.”

“ Have you heard any thing?” was my
first question. f

“Well, no. Don’t hope that I have
called you here to satisfy you with any
positive discoveries. The work goes on
slowly. I was never so baffled but once
before; and then, as now, there was a
woman in the case. A cunning woman
will elude the very Prince of Lies, himself
to say nothing of honest men like us. She
has been after the child.”

“ She has ?”

“Yes. And has taken it away with
her. And I know no more of her where-
abouts than I did before. There! You
nnist certainly feel like trusting your case
to some sharper person.to work up ;’—he
looked mortified as he said it.

Before I go further I must explain to
my reader just how far the investigation
into the acts and hiding-place of Leesy
Sullivan had proceeded. Of course we
had called upon her aunt in Blankville,
and approached the question of the child
with all due caution. She had answered
us frankly enough, at first—that Leesy
had a cousin, who lived in New York,
whom she was much attached to, and
who was dead, poor thing! But the mo-
ment we intruded the infant into the con-
versation, she Jew into a rage, asked if
“we'd come there to insult a respectable
widdy, as wasn’t responsible for what
others did?” and would not be coaxed oz
threatened into any further speech on the
subject, fairly driving us out of the room
and (I regret to add) down the stairs with
the broomstick, As we could not sum-
mon into court and compel her to answer
at that time, we were compelled to “Jet
her alone.” One thing, however, became
apparent at the interview—that there was
shame or blame, or at least a family quar-
rel, connected with the child.

After that,in New York, Mr. Burton
ascertained that there had been a cousin,
who had died, but whether she had been
married and left a babe, or not, was stilla
matte: of some doubt.

He had spent over a week in searchin
for Leesy Sullivan, in the vicinity of
Blankyille, at every intermediate station
between that and New York, and through-
out the city itself, assisted by scores of
detectives, who all of them had her pho-
tograph, taken from a likeness which Mr.
Burton had found in her deserted room

Dyer cere

 

_ LIBRARY.

 

 

 

at her boarding-place. This picture must
have been taken more than a year pre-
vious, as it looked younger and happier ;
the face was soft and round, the eyes melt-
ing 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 More-
land 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 mea-
sures, 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 the 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 re-
appearance would be to apparently relin-
quish all pursuit. He had a person hired
to watch the premises of the nurse con-
stantly; a person who took a room next
to hers in the tenement-house where she
resided, apparently employed in knitting
childrens’ fancy woolen garments, but
really for the purpose of giving immediate
notification should the guardian of the in-
fant appear upon the scene. In the mean
time he was kept informed of the senti-
ments of the nurse, who had avowed her
intention of throwing the baby 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 the
orphan asylum, or any other such place,
she would take it to her own room, an)
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 bet-
ter streets. Mr. Burton had seen little
Nora several times; he thought she re-
sembled Miss Sullivan, though not strik-
ingly. She had the same eyes, dark and
bright.

Two days before Mr. Burton telegraph-
ed 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 after- '
noon 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 to-
gether, 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, sp
ping out, with fhe 2xcuse that she wou d

o for the nurse, who was in at a n¢igh-
or’s, jumped into a car and rode up to
Twenty-third street. In ha‘f ao hour Mr,
Burton was at the tenement nouse; the

 

 
,

.

THE DEAD ,LETTER:

1%

 

nurse had not yet returned from market,
and the bird had flown, carrying the baby
with her. He was sufficiently annoyed
at this denouement. 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
isome money for mother; there was, ly-
‘ing 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 of-
fices, 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, Miss Sullivan
is nota woman of that stamp. If sie has
committed a crime, she has done it in a
burst of passion, and remorse will kill
her, though the vengeance of the law
should never overtake her. But she is
subtle and elusive. {tis not reason that

makes her cunning, but feeling. With ,.

man it would be reason; and as I could
follow the course of his argument, which-
ever path it took, I should soon overtake
it. But a woman, working from a pas-
sion, 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 con-
versation with that girl. And I will have
t, 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
ri Moreland was given by a profes-
sional murderer, a man, without con-
science 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 pas-
sion, 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 happi-
ness. she was about to Seaiaeny, to pay
some villsin to commit the murder?”

“ It looks like it,” he answered, his eye
dropping evasively.

I felt that I was not fully in the detec-
tive’s confidence; there was somethitig
working powerfully in his mind, to which
he gave me no clue; but I had so much
fuith in him that 1 was not offended by
hig reticence, Anxious I was, eager,
curious—if it suits to call such a dgvour-
ing fire of longing as I felt, curiosity.
He must have known that I perceived his
reservations; if so, he had his own way
of conducting matters, from which he
could not diverge, for my passing benefit,
‘Twelve o’clock came, as we sat talking,
before the fire, which gave a genial air to
the room, though almost unnecessary, the
“squaw winter” of the previous morn-
ing being followed by another balmy and

Vsunlit.day... Mr. Burton rung for Junch to
be brought in where we were; and while
we sipped the strong coffee, and helped
ourselves to the contents of the tray, the
servant Leing dismissed, my host made a
proposition which had evidently been on
his mind all the morning.

kL was already so familiar with his per-
sonal surroundings as to know that he
was a widower, with two children; the
eldest, a boy of fifteen, away at school ;
the second, a girl of eleven, of delicate
health, and educated at home, so far as

sone

 

she studied at all, by a day-governess. 1
had never seen this daughter—Lenore, he
called her—but IT could guess, without
particular shrewdness, that his heart was
wrapped up in her. He could not men-
tion her name without a glow coming in-
to his face; her frail health appeared to
be the anxiety of his life. I could hear
her, now, taking a singing-lesson in a dis-
tant apartment, and as her pure voice
rose clear and high, mounting and mount-
ing with airy steps the difficult scale, 1
listened delightedly, making a picture in
my mind of the graceful little creature
such a voice should belong to.

Her father was listening, too, with a
smile in his eye, half forgetful of his coffee.
Presently he said, in a low voice, speaking
at first with some reluctance :

“T sent for you to-day, more particu-
larly to make you the confidential witness
of an experiment than any thing else.
You hear my Lenore singing now—has
she not a sweet voice? I have told you
how delicate her health is. J discovered,
by chance, some two or three years since,
that she had peculiar attributes. She is
an excellent clairvoyant. When I first
discovered it, I made use of her rare fac-
ulty to assist me in my more’ important
labors ; but 1 soon discovered that it told
fearfully upon her health. It seemed to
drain the slender stream of vitality nearly
dry. Our physician told me that I'must
desist, entirely, all experiments of the
kind with her. He was peremptory about
it. but he had need only to caution me.
would sooner drop a year out of my short-
ening future than to take one grain from
that increasing strength which I watch
from day to’ day with deep solicitude.
She is my only girl, Mr. Redfield, and the
image of her departed mother. You must
not wonder if I am foolish about my Le-
nore. For eighteen months I have not
exercised my power over her to place her
in the trance state, or whatever it is, in
which, with the clue in her hand, she will
unwind the path to more perplexed laby-
rinths than those of the fair one's bower.
And I tell you, solemnly, that if, by so
doing, she could point out to me pots of
gold, or the secrets of diamond mines, T
would not risk her slightest welfare, by
again exhausting her recruiting energies.

evertheless, so deeply um I interested in
the tragedy to which you have called my
attention—so certain am I thap I am on
the eve of the solution of the mystery—
and such an act of justice and righteous-
ness do I deem it that it should be exposed
in its naked truth before those who have
suffered from the crime—that I have re-
solved to place Lenore once more in the
clairvoyant state, for the purpose of ascer-
taining the hiding-place of Leesy Sulli-
yan, and I have sent for you:to witness
the result.”

This announcement took away the rem-
nant of my appetite. _ Mr. Burton rung to
have the tray removed, and to bid the
servant tell Miss Lenore, as soon as she
had lunched, to come to the library. We
had but a few minutes to wait. Presently
we heard a light step; her father cried
“Come in!” in answer to her knock, and
a lovely child entered, greeting me with a
mingled air of grace and timidity—a
vision of sweetness and beauty more per-
fect than I could hive anticipated.» Her
golden hair waved about her slender
throat, in glistening tendrils. Seldom do
we see such hair, except upon the heads
of infants—soft, lustrous, fine, floating at
will, and curled at the end in little shining
rings. Her eyes were a celestial blue—
celestial, not only because of the pure
heavenliness of their color, but because you
could not look into them without thinking
of angels. Her complexion was the most
exquisite possible, fiir, with a flush as of
sunset-light on the cheeks—too transpar-
ent for perfect health, showing the wan-
dering of the delicate veins in the temples.
Her blue dress, with its fluttering sash,
and the little jacket of white cashmere
which shielded her neck and arms, were
all dainty, and in keeping with the wearer.
She did not have the serene air of a seraph,
though she looked like one; nor the list-
less manner of an invalid. She gave her
father a most winning, childish smile,
looking full of joy to think he was at

 

home, and had sent for her. She was so
every way Charming that I held out my
arms to kiss her, and she, with the instinct
of children, who perceive who their real
lovers are, gave me a willing yet shy
embrace. Mr, Burton looked pleased as
he saw how satisfactory was the impres-
sion made by his Lenore.

Placing her in a.chair before him, he put
a photograph of Miss Sullivan in her hand.

“Father wants to put, his little girl to
sleep. again,” he said, gently.

An expression of unwillingness just
crossed her face; but she smiled, instantly,
looking up at him with the faith of affec-
tion which would have placed her life in
his keeping, and said, “Yes, papa,” in as-
sent.

He made a few passes over her ; when J
saw their effect, I did not wonder that he
shrunk from the experiment—my surprise
was rather that he could be induced to
make it, under any circumstances, The
lovely face became distorted as with pain ;
the little hands twitched—so did the lips
and eyelids. I turned away, not having
fortitude to witness any thing so jarring
to my sensibilities. When I looked again,
her countenance had recovered its tran-
quillity ; the eyes were fast closed, but she
appeared to ponder upon the ‘picture
which she held.

“Do you see the person now ?”

“Yes, papa.”

“Tn what kind of a place is she ?”

“She'isin a small room; it has two win-
dows. There is no carpet on the floor.
There is a bed and a table, a stove and
some chairs. It is in the upper story of
a large brick house, I do not know in what
place.”

“What is she doing?”

‘““She'is sitting near the back window;
it looks out on the roofs of other houses ;
she is holding a pretty little child on her
lap.” a i

“She must be in the city,” remarked Mr.
Burton, aside; “the large house and the
congregated roofs would imply it.’ Can
you not tell me the name of the street”

“No, I can not see it. I was never in
this place before. I can see water; as I
look out of the window. It appears like
the bay ;/and T see plenty of ships, but
there is some green land across the water;
besides distant houses.” ’

“Tt must be somewhere in the suburbs,
or in Brooklyn. Are there no*signs on
the shops, which you can read, as you look
out ?”

“ No} papa.”

“Well, go down the stairs, and out upon
the street, and tell me the number of ‘the
house.”

“It is No. —,” she said, after a few mo-
ments’ silence, ~.

“Go dlong until you come to a corner,
and read me the nainé of the strect.”

“Court street,” she answered; \pres-
ently. (

“It is in Brooklyn,” exclaimed the de-
lective, triumphantly. « ‘ There is nothing
now to prevent us going straight to the
spot. Lenore, go back now, to the house;
tell us on which floor is this room, and
how situated.”

Again there was silence while she re-
traced her steps.

“Tt is on the fourth floor, the first door
tothe left, as you reach the landing.”

Lenore began to look weary and ex-
nausted ; the sweat, broke out on her brow,
and she panted as if fiutieued with Climb-
ing flights of stairs. Her father, with a
regretful air, wiped her forehead, kissing
it tenderly as he did so. A few more of
those cabalistic tonches, followed. by the
same painful contortions of those beauti-
ful features, and Lenore was herself again.
But she was pale and languid ; she droop.
cd against her father’s breast, as he held
her in his arms, the color faded from her
checks, too listless to smile in answer to
his caresses. Placing her on the sofa, he
took trom a nook in his srcretary a bottle
of old port, potred out a tiny glass fall, ~
and gave to her. The wine revived her
almost instantly ; the smiles and’ bloom
came’ back, though she stiJl seemed ex-
ceedingly weary. ;

“Sie will be like a person exhausted
by along journey, or great labor, for seye-
ral days,” said My, Burton, as T watched

 
 

 

the child. “It cost me a pang to make
such a demand upon her; I hope it will
be the last time—at least until she is older
and stronger than now.”

“T should think the application of elec-
tricity would restore some of the vitality
which has been taken from her,” I sug-
gested.

“T shall try it this evening,” was his re-
ply; “in the mean time, if we intend to
benefit by the sacrifice of my little Lenore,
let us lose no time. Something may oc-
cur to send the fugitive flying again. And
now, my dear little girl, you must lie
down a while this afternoon, and be care-
ful of yourself. You shall dine with us
to-night, if you are not too tired, and we
shall wns you some flowers—a bouque:
from old John’s conservatory, sure.”

Committing his darling to the house-
Keeper's charge, with many instructions
and warnings, and a lingering look which
betrayed his anxiety, Mr. Burton was soon
ready, and we departed, taking a stage
for Fulton Ferry a little after one o’clock.

About an hour and a quarter brought
us to the brick house ov Court street, fitr
out toward the suburbs, which had the
number indicated upon it. No one ques-
tioned our coming, it being a tenement-
house, and we ascended a long succession
of stairs, until we came to the fourth
flocr, and stood before the door on the
left-hand side. I trembled a little with
excitement. My companion, laying his
hand firmly on the knob, was arrested by
finding the door locked. At this he
knocked; but there was no answer to his
summons. Amid the assortment of keys
which he carried with him, he found one
to fit the lock; in a moment the door
stood open, and we entered to meet—
blank solitude |

The room had evidently been deserted
but a short time, and by some one expect-
ing to return. There was a fire covered
down in the stove, and three or four pota-
toes in the little oven, to be baked for the
humble supper. There was.no trunk, no

\chest, no clothing in the room, only the
scant furniture which Lenore had de-
scribed, a few dishes in the cupboard, and
some cooking utensils, which had been
rented, probably, with the room, On the
table were two things confirmatory of the
oceupants—a. bowl, containing the re-
mains of a child’s dinner of bread-and-
milk, and a piece of embroidery—a half-
finished collar.

At Mr. Burton’s request I went down
to the shop on the first floor, and inquired
in what direction the young woman with
the little child had gone, and how long
she had been out.

“She went, maybe, half an hour ago;
she. took the little girl out for a walk, I
think. She told me she’d be back before
supper, when she stopped to pay for a bit
of coal, and to have it carried up.”

I returned with this information.

“Ym, sorry, now, that we inquired,”
said the detective; ‘that fellow will be
sure to see her first, and tell her that she
has had callers; that will frighten her at
once. I must go below, and keep my
watch from there.”

“Tf you do not care for a second person

© watch with you, I believe I will go on
«o Greenwood, We are so near it, now,
and I would like to visit poor, Henry’s
grave.”
_ “T do not need you at all now; only,
do not be absent toolong, When I meet
this Leesy Sullivan, whom I have not yet
seen, you remember, I want a long talk
with her. The last object I have is to
frighten her; I shall seek to soothe her,
instead. If I can once meet her face to
face, and yoice to voice, I believe I can
tame the antelope or the lioness, which-
ev she turns out to be. I do not think
I shall have to coerce her—not even
if she is guilty. Ifshe is guilty she will
gue herself up. I may even take her
ome to dinner with us,” he added, with
asmile. “Don’t shudder, Mr. Redfield
—we often dine in company with mur-
derers—sometimes when we have only
our friends and neighbors with us. I as-
sure you I have often had that honor!”

His grim humor was melancholy to me
—but who could wonder that a man of
Mx. Burton’s peculiar experience should

 

 

whig,

THE FIRESIDE LIBRARY.

be touched with cynicism? Besides, I fel
that there was more in the inner meaning
of his words than appeared upon. their
outer surface, I left him, sitting in a
sheltered corner of the shop below, in a
position where he could command the
street and the entrance-hall without bein
himself observed, and making himsel
friendly with the busy little man behind
the counter, of whom he had already pur-
chased a pint of chestnuts. It was as well
that I should be out of the way, Miss
Sullivan knew me, and might take the
alarm at some distant glimpse of me,
while Mr. Burton’s person must be un-
known to her, unless she had been the
better detective of the two, and marked
him when he was ignorant of her vi-
cinity.

Stepping into a passing car, in a few
minutes I had gone from the city of the
living to the city of the dead. Beautiful,
silent city! There the costly and gleaming
portals raised at the entrance of those
mansions, tell us the name and age of the
inhabitants, but the inhabitants them-
selves we never behold. Knock as loud
and long as we may at those marble
doors, cry, entreat, implore, they hold
themselves: inyisible. Nevermore are
they “at home” to us. We, who once
were never kept waiting, must go from
the threshold now, without a word of
welcome. City of the dead—to which
that city of the living must soon remove,
who is there can walk thy silent streets
without a prescience of the time when he,
too, will take up his abode in thee for-
ever? Strange city of solitude! where
thousands whose homes are ranged side
by side, know not one the other, and give
no greeting to the pale new-comers.

ith meditations like these, only far

too solemn for words, I wandered
through the lovely place, where still, sum-
mer seemed to linger, as if loth to quit the
raves she beautified. With Eleanor and

enry in my heart, I turned in the di-
rection of the family burial-plot, wishing
that Eleanor were with me on that. glo-
rious day that she might first behold hi.
grave under such gentle auspices of liyht,
foliage and flowers—for I knew that she
contemplated a pilgrimage to this spot
as soon as her strength would warran.
the attempt.

I approached the spot by a winding
path ; the soft plash of a fountain sound-
ed through a little thicket of evergreens,
and I saw the gleam of the wide basin
into which it fell; a solitary bird poured
forth a mournful flood of lamentation
from some high branch not far away. It
required but little aid of fancy to hear in
that “melodious madness” the cry of
some broken heart, haunting, in the form
of this bird, the place of the loved one’s
sleep.

There were other wanderers than my-
self in the cemetery ; a funeral ‘train was
coming through the gate as I passed in,
and IT met another within a few steps;
but in the secluded path where I now
walked T was alone. ith the slow step
of one who meditates sad things, I ap-
proached Henry’s grave. Gliding away
by another devious path, I saw a female
figure—

“Tt is some other mourner whom I
have disturbed from her vigil by some of
these tombs,” I thought—“ or, perchance,
one who was passing further on before
reaching the goal of her grief,”—and with
this I dismissed her from my mind, hay-
ing had, at the best, only an indistinct
glimpse of a woman, and the momentary
flutter of her garments as she passed be-
yond a group of tall shrubs and was lost
to view.

The next moment T knelt by the sod
which covered that young and noble form.
Do not think me extravagant in my emo-
tions. I was not so—only overpowered,
always, by intense sympathy with the
sufferers by that calamity. I had so
mused upon Eleanor’s sorrow that I had,
as it were, made it mine. I bowed my
head, breathing a prayer for her; then,
leaning against the trunk of a tree whose
leaves no longer afforded shade to the
carefully-cultivated family inclosure, my
eyes fell wpon the grave. There were

 

 

beautiful flowers fading upon it, whicl:
some friendly hand had laid there with-
in a day or two. Ten or fifteen minutes
I may have passed in reverie; then, as I
arose to depart, I took up a fading bud or
two and a sprig of myrtle, placing them
in my vest-pocket, to give Eleanor upon
my return. As I stooped to gather them,
T perceived the imprint of a child’s foot,
here and there, all about the grave—a
tiny imprint, in the fresh mold, as of
some toddling babe whose little feet had
hardly learned to steady themselves.

There were one or two marks of a wo-
man’s slender shoe ; but it was the infant
feet which impressed me. It flashed
upon me what female figure it was which
I had seen flitting away as I approached;
now that I recalled it even recognized
the tall, slender form, with the slight
stoop of the shoulders, of which I had
obtained but a half-glance. I hastily pur-
sued the path she had taken; but my
haste was behind hers by at least a quar-
ter of an hour.

I realized that I would only lose time
by looking for her in those winding ave-
nues, every one of which might be taking
me from instead of toward the fugitives,
so I turned back to the gate and question-
ed the keeper, if he had seen a tall young
woman with a little child pass out within
the last half-hour. He had seen several
children and women go out in that time ;
and as I could not tell how this particular
one was dressed, I could not arouse his
recollection to any certainty on the point,

“ She was probably carrying the child,”
T said; ‘‘she had a consumptive look, and
was sad-looking, though her face was
doubtless hidden in her vail.”

“It's quite likely,” he responded;
“mostly the women that do come here
look sad, and many of them keep their
vails down. However, it’s my impression
there hasn’t no child of thatage been past
here, lately. I noticed one going in about,

two o'clock, and if it’s that one, she.

hasn’t come out yet.”
So while Mr. Bi
Court street keeping watch, I sat at the
gates of Greenwood; but no Leesy Sulli-
van came forth; and when the gates were
closed for the night, I was obliged to go
away disappointed. é
The girl began to grow some elusive
phantom in my mind. I could almost

doubt that there was any such creature, ~

with black, wild eyes, and hectic cheeks,
whom I was pursuing; whom I chanced
upon in strange places, at unexpected
times, but could never find when Isought
her—who seemed to blend herself in this
unwarrantable way with the tragedy
which wrung some other hearts. “What
had she to do with Henry’s grave? A feel-

. ing of dislike, of mortal aversion, grew

upon me—I could not pity her any more
—this dark spirit who, having perchance
wrought this irremediable woe, could not
now sink into the depths where she be-
longed, but must haunt and hover on the
edges of my trouble, fretting me to follow
her, only to mock and elude.

Before ieaving the cemetery I offered
two policemen a hundred dollars if they
should succeed in detaining the woman
and child whose description I gave them,
until word could be sent to the office of
the detective police; and I left them, with
another on guard at the gates, perambu-
lating the grounds, peering into vaults
and ghostly places in search of her. When
I got out at the house on Court street I
found my friend quite tired of eating
chestnuts and talking to the little man
behind the counter.

“Well,” said he, “the potatoes will be
roasted to death before their owner re-
turns. We have been led another wild-
goose chase. ’

“T have seen her,” I answered.

“What ?” {

“ And lost her. I believe she is a little
snaky, she has such a slippery way with
her ,

“Tut! tut! so has a frightened deer !
But how did it happen?”

T told him, and he was quite down-
east at the unlucky fortune which had
sent me to the cemetery at that partic-
ular time. It was evident that she had

f

arton sat in the shop in ©

 
ct

THE | DEAD*EETTER.

87

 

 

 

seen me, and was afraid to return to
this new retreat, for fear she was again
tracked.

“ However,” said he, “I’m confident
we'll have her now befcre long. I must
go home to-night to see to my Lenore; I
promised her, and she will make herself
sick sitting up.”

“Go! and let me remain here. 1 will
stay until it is perfectly apparent that she
does not expect to return.”

“Tt will spoil the dinner. But now that
we have sacrificed so much, a few hours
more of inconvenience—”

“ Will be willingly endured. I will get
some bread and cheese and a glass of
beer of your friend, the penny-grocer, and
remain at my post.”

“You need not stay later than twelve ;
which will bring you home about two, at
the slow rate of midnight travel. I shall
sit up for you. Aw revoir.”

I changed my mind about supping at
the grocer’s as the twilight deepened into
night. The dim light of the hall and
stair-cases, part of them in total darkness,
enabled me to steal uy to the deserted
room, unperceived by «ny of the other
inmates of the great building. Here I
put fresh coal on the fire, and by the faint

low which soon came from the open
ront of the stove, I found a chair, and
placing it so that it would be in the
shadow tipon the opening of the door, I
seated myself to await the return of the
occupants. The odor of roasting potatoes,
given forth at the increased heat, admon-
ished me that I had partaken of but a
light lunch since an early and hasty break-
fast; drawing forth one from the oven, I
made a frugal meal upon it, and then or-
dered my soui to patience. I sat long in
the twifight of the room; I could hear the
bells of the city chiming the passing
hours; the grocer and variety storekeeper
closing the shutters of their shops; the
shuffling feet of men coming . home, to
such homes as they had in the dreary
building, until nearly all the noises of the
street and house died away.

Gazing into the fire, 1 wondered where
that strange woman was keeping that lit-
tle child through those unwholesome
hours. Did she carry it in her arms while
she hovered, like a ghost, amid the awful
quiet of drooping willows and gleaming
tomb-stones? Did she rock it to sleep on
her breast, in the fearful shadow of some
vault, with a row of coffins for company ?
Or was she again fleeing over deserted
fields, crouching in lonely places, fe-
tigued, distressed, panting under the
weight of the innocent babe who slum-
bered on a guilty bosom, but driven still,
on, on, by the lash of a dreadful secret ?
I made wild pictures in the sinking em-
bers, as I mused ; were I an artist I would
reproduce them in all their lurid light and
somber shadow; but I am not. The
close air of the place, increased in drowsi-
ness by the nin from the open doors of the
stove, the deep silence, and my own fa-
tigue, after the varying journeys and ex:
citements of the day, at last overcame
me; I remember hearing the town clock
strike eleven, and after that I must have
slumbered.

As I slept, I continued my waking
dreams; I mene myself still gazing in
the smoldering fire; that the sewing-girl
came in without noise, sat down before it,
and silently wept over the child who lay
in her arms; that Lenore came out of the
golden ‘embers, with wings tipped with
ineffable brightness, looking like an angel,
and seemed to comfort the mourner, and

‘finally took her by the hand, and passing

me, so that 1 felt the motion of the air
swept by her wings and garments, led her
out through the favs, which closed with
a slight noise,

At the noise made by the closing door,
I awoke. As I gathered my confused
senses about me, I was not longin ganling
to the conclusion that I had indeed hear
a sound and felt the air from an open

- door—some one had been in the room.

I looked at my watch by a match which
I struck, for the fire had now entirely, ex-
pired. It wasoneo’clock. Vexed beyond
words that I had slumbered, I rushed out
into the empty eae, where, standing
silent, I listened for any footstep. There

 

was not the echo of a sound abroad. The
halls were wrapped in darkness. Quietly
and swiftly I felt my way down to the
street ; not a soul to be seen in any direc-
tion. Yet I felt positive that Leesy Sulli-
van, creeping from her shelter, had re-
turned to her room at that midnight hour,
had found me there, sleeping, and had
fled.

Soon a car, which now ran only at in-
tervals of half an hour, came along, and
I gave up my watch for the night, morti-
fied at the result.

It was three o’clock when I reached
Mr. Burton’s door. He opened it before I
could ring the bell.

“No success? I wasafraid of it. You
see I have kept up for you, and now, since
the night isso far spent, if you are not
too worn-out, I wish you would come
with me toa house not very fur from here.
I want to show you how some of the fast
young menof New York spend the hours
in which they ought to be in bed.”

“Tam wide awake, and full of curios-
ity; but how did you find your little
daughter?”

“ Drooping a little, but persisting that
she was not ill nor tired, and delighted
with the flowers.”

“Then you did not forget the bouquet ?”

“ No, I never like to disappoint Lenore.”

Locking the door behind us, we de-
scended again to the deserted street.

CHAPTER IX.
THE SPIDER AND THE FLY.

“Com,” said my cicerone, “we are
already very late.”

A rapid walk of a few minutes brought
us to the entrance of a handsome house,
having the appearance of a private resi-
dence, and standing on a fashionable
street.

“Why,” said I, inclined to draw back,
as he ascended the steps, “you surey
would not think of disturbing the people
here at this hour of the night? There is
not a light to be seen, even in the cham-
bers.”

Mr. Burton’s low laugh made me blush
at my own “greenness.” His ring at the
bell was followed by a knock, which I
was quick-witted enough, in spite of my
verdancy, to perceive had something sig-
nificant about it. The door immediately
swung a little open, my friend said a few
words which had the effect to unclose the
mysterious portals still wider, and we
entered a modest hall, which a single
gas-burner, half turned off, dimly illumi-
nated. The man-servant who admitted
us was sable as ebony, muscular, much
above the medium size, dressed in a plain
livery, and with manners as polished as
his own shining skin—an African leopard,
barring the spots, smooth and powerful.

“Ts Bagley still-here?” asked my com-
panion.

“Yes, sir. Inde library, jus’ where
you lef’ him.”

“Very well. You need not disturb
him. [I’ve brought my young friend in
to introduce him to the house, in view
of further acquaintance.”

The ebony man smiled respectfully,
bowing for us to pass into the parlor.
thought I saw in that quiet smile a lurk-

- ing ray of satisfaction—a gloating, as it

were, Over my prospective intimacy at
this respectable house. He had probably
been usher to the maelstrom long enough
to know that those whose feet were once
caught in the slow, delightful waltz of the
circling waters never withdrew them, after
the circle grew nftrrow and swift, and the
rush of the whirlpool sounded up from
the bottomless pit.

We entered a suit of rooms in no man-
ner differing from the parlors of a private
house. They were richly furnished and
well lighted, close inner blinds, hidden by
heavy silk curtains, shutting in the light
from the observation of the street. There
were three rooms in this suit; the two
first were now deserted, though the odor
of wine, and scented hair and handker-
chiefs showed they had Leen recently oc-

 

cupied. In these two the chandeliers
were partially obscured, but the third
room was still brilliantly illuminated.
We walked toward it. Magnificent cur-
tains of amber silk depended from the
arch which separated it from the parlors.
Only one of these curtains was now
drawn. back, the others trailing on the
carpet, and closing the apartment from
our observation. Mr. Burton placed me;
in the shadow of the curtains, where I
could see, myself unseen. The room
was furnished as a library, two of its
walls being covered with books; I par-
ticularly noticed a marble bust of Shakes-
peare, very fine. A severe, yet liberal,
taste marked the choice and arrangement
of every thing. A painting of Tasso
reading his poems to the Princess hung
between the two back windows.

It was a well-arranged library, certain-
ly ; yet the four occupants were engrossed
in a study more fascinating than that of
any of the books by which they were sur-
rounded. If Mephistophiles could have
stepped from his binding of blue and gold,
and made the acquaintance of the compa-
ny, he would have been charmed. Two
couples sat at two tables playing cards.
All the other visitors to the establishment
had gone away, some of them to theft or
suicide, perhaps, save those four, who still
lingered, wrapped in the dread enchant-
ment of the hour. The two at the table
I first glanced at, were both strangers to
me; at the second, I could not see the
face of one of the players, whose back
was toward me; but the face of the other
was directly in front of me, and under the
full light of the chandelier. This person
was James Argyll. My astonishment was
profound. That I had never fraternized
with him, I considered partly my own
fault—there are persons so naturally an-
tagonistic as to make real friendship be-
tween them impossible—and I had often
blamed myself for our mutual coldness.
But, with all my dislike of some of his
qualities—as, for instance, his indolent
acceptance of his uncle's bounty, which,
in the eyes of a person of my disposition, |
took away half his manliness—with all
my unfriendly aversion to him, I had
never suspected him of absolutely bad
habits.

I had to look twice to assure myself of
his identity. And having looked, I could
not take away my eyes from the strange
attraction of a countenance transformed
by the excitement of the gaming-table.
His dark complexion had blanched to a
sallow paleness; cheeks and lips were of
the same color; his nose seemed to have
sharpened, and was drawn in about the
face with a pinched look; his eyebrows
were very slightly contracted, but fixed,
as if cut in marble, while underneath them
the lids were drawn together, so that only
a line of the eye was visible—a narrow
line, letting out a single steady ray from
the lurid world within. The lids appear-
ed as if the eyeballs had shrunken in the
intensity of their gaze.

Silently the cards were dealt_and play-
ed. It was evidently the closing game,
upon which much depended—how much,
for James, I could only guess by the in-
creasing pallor and absorption of his
countenance.

“T wish I could see his opponent’s face,”
I whispered to my companion, '

“You would see nothing but the face
of the devil coolly amusing-himself. Bag-
ley neyer gets excited. He has ruined a
lozen young men already.”

The last card was thrown down; the
two qearers arose simultaneously,

“Well, Bagley,” said James, with a
desperate laugh, “you will have to wait
for the money until I—” i

“Marry the young lady,” said the oth- |
er; “that is the agreement, 1 believe; but
don’t consent to a long engagement.”

“T shall find some means to pay these
last two debts before that happy consum-
mation, I hope. You shall hear from me
within a month.”

“We will make a little memorandum
of them,” said his opponent ; and as they
went together to a writing-desk, Mr. Rur-
ton drew me away.

I could hardly breathe when we got

 
 

nH

4
i

f

 

THE! FIRESIDE: LI

 

 

into the strect, Fwas so suffocated with
rage at hearing the reference made by
those two men, under that unholy roof,
to the woman so revered and sacred in
my thoughts. I was certain that Miss
Argyll was the young lady whose fortune
was to pay these ‘debts of honor” con-
tracted in advance upon such security,
If his strong hand had not silently with-
held me, I do not know but I should
have made a scene, which would have
been as unwise as useless. I was thank-
ful, afterward, that I was prevented
though I chafed under the restraint at the
time. Neither of us spoke until we were
in the house of my host, where a fire in
the library awaited us. Before this we
seated ourselves, neither of us feeling
sleepy after our night’s adventures.

“How did you know that Argyll was
at that house? I had no idea that he
intended coming to the city to-day,” I
said. : :

‘He bad no intention until he learned
of your sudden departure. He came
down in the next train, to see what you
were about. He is uneasy about you, Mr.
Redfield, didn’t you know it? As he
could ascertain nothing satisfactory about
your doings, or mine, he had nothing
better on bis hands, this evening, than to
look up his friend Bagley.”

“ How do you know all this?”

The detective half smiled, his piercing
eyes fixed reflectively on the fire.

“T should be poorly able to support my
pretensions, if I could not keep the circle
of my acquaintance under my observa-
tion. I was informed of his arrival in
town, upon my return from Brooklyn,
and have known of his whereabouts since
I could tell you what he had for supper,
if it would interest you.”

The uneasy feeling which I had several
times experienced in Mr. Burton’s society,
came over me again. I spoke a little
quickly :

“T wonder if you have your secret
agents—spirits of the air, or electricity,
they might almost seem to be—hovering
always on my steps.”

He laughed, but not unpleasantly, look-
ing me through with those steel-blue rays :

“ Would it trouble you to fancy your-
self under surveillance ?”

“T never liked fetters, of any kind. I
yield my choice of will and action to
nobody. However, if any one finds sat-
isfaction in playing the part. of my shad-
ow, I don’t know that I shall suffer any
restraint upon that account.”

“T don’t think it would disturb you se-
riously,” he said. :

“No one likes to be watched, Mr. Bur-
ton.”

“We are all watched by the pure and
penetrating eye of the All-secing One,
and if we are not fearful before Him,
whom need we shrink from ?”

I looked up to see whether it was the
secret police agent who was preaching to
me, or whether my host, in his power of
varying the outer manifestations of his
character, had not dropped the mystic
star for the robe of the minister; he was
gazing into the fire with a sad, absorbed
expression, as if he saw before him a long
procession of mortal crimes, walking in
the night of earth, but, in reality, under
the full brightness of infinite day. I had
seen him before in these solemn, almost
prophetic moods, brought on him by the
revelation of some new sin, which seemed
always in him to awaken regret, rather
than the exultation of a detective bent on
the successful results of his mission. So
soft, so gentle he appeared then, I in-
wardly wondered that he had the stern-
ness to inflict disgrace and exposure upon
the ‘respectable’ guilty—which class of
criminals he was almost exclusively em-
ployed with—but I had only to reflect
upon the admirable equipoise of his
character, to realize that with him justice
was what he loved best. For those who
prowled about society in the garb of
lambs and shepherd-dogs, seeking whom
they might devour, and laying, perhaps,
the proofs of guilt at the doors of the in-
nocent, he hid no mercy of the ‘let us
alone’ type. A little time we were silent;
the dropping of an ember from the grate
startled us.

 

“ Why do you think that James watches
me? What does he watch me for ?”

I asked this, going back to the surprise
T had felt when he made the remark,

“ You will know soon enough.”

It was useless for me to press the ques-
tion, since he did not wish to be ex-
plicit.

“T did not know,’ I continued, “I
never dreamed, that James had bad asso-
ciates in the city. I know that his uncle
and cousins do not suspect it. It pains
me more than I can express. What shall
I do? 1 have no influence over him.
He dislikes me, and would take the most
brotherly remonstrance as an insult.”

“T do not wish you, at present, to hint
your discovery to him. As for your not
suspecting his habits, those habits them-
selves are recent. I doubt if he had ever
ventured a dollar on cards three months
ago. He had some gay, even dissolute
companions in the city, of which the
worst and most dangerous was Bagley.
But he had not joined them in their worst
excesses—he was only idle and fond of
pleasure—a moth fluttering around the
flames. Now he has scorched his wings.
He has not spent more than three or four
nights as he spent this; and the only
money he has lost has beeu to the person
you saw him with to-night. Bagley is
one of the vampires who fatten on the
characters and purses of young men like
James Argyll.”

“Then ought we not to make some
carnest effort to save James before it is too
late? Oh, Mr. Burton, you are wise and
experienced—teil me what to do.”

“Why. do you feel so much interest in
him? You _ not like him.”

“T could not see the merest stranger go
down toward destruction without stretch-
ing forth my hand. There is no great
friendship between us, it is true; but
James is nearly connected with the hap-
piness and reputation of the family I
honor most on earth. For its sake, I
would make the utmost endeavor.”

“ For the interests of justice, then, it is
well that I am not related to the Argylls
by the personal ties which affect you. [
will tell you one thing—James does not
gamble so much from weakness of will to
resist temptation, as he does to forget for
a time, under the influence of the fascin-
ating excitement, an anxiety which he
carries about with him.”

“Youre a close observer, Mr. Burton.
James has, indeed, been deeply troubled
lately. I have noticed the change in him
—in his appetite, complexion, manners,
in a thousand trifles—a change which
grows upon him daily. He is gnawed
upon by secret doubts—now raised by
hopes, now depressed by fears, until he is
fitful and uncertain as a light carried in
an autumn wind. But I can tell you that
he is all wrong in indulging this vain
hope, which creates the doubt. I know
what it is, and how utterly without foun:
dation. It is weakness, wickedness in
him to allow a passion which Caenk only
to ennoble him and teach him self-control,
to chase him to such ruin as I saw to-
night.”

“That is your way of viewing the mat-
ter, Mr, Redfield. We all see things ac-
cording to the color of the spectacles we
happen to wear. Then you think it isa
growing certainty that Miss Argyll, even
under her present relief from past vows,
will never favor his suit, nor that of any
man, which is driving her cousin to tnese
reckless habits?’

T was half offended with him for men-

’

tioning her name in that manner; but I -

knew that mine was an extreme, if not
morbid sensitiveness, where she was con-
cerned, and I swallowed my resentment,
answering :

“T fear it is,”

“That may explain his disquiet to you
—so be it.”

Still Mr. Burton was keeping something
back from me—always keeping somethin
back. T did not feel at all sleepy.
was full of eager thought. I reviewed,
with a lightning glance, all he had ever
said--all James had recently done or said
—and, I swear, had it not been for the
almost affectionate kindvess of his gener-
al manner to me, and my belief tn hig

eye

 

 

candor, which would not allow him. to
play the part of a friend while acting the
part of an enemy, I should have felt that
Mr. Burton suspected me of that appalling
crime which I was so busily seeking to
fix upon the head of a frail, frightened
woman! Again the idea, and not for the
first time, crept through and through my
veins, chilling me from head to foot. I
looked him full in the eye. If he had
such a thought, I would pluck it out from
behind that curtain of deception, and
make him acknowledge it. tt he had
such a thought, James had introduced it
to his mind. I knew that James had had
some interviews with him, of which I
was only cognizant by casual observations
dropped by my host. How many more
such conclaves they may have held was
left to my imagination to conjecture.
What was this man before me playing this
double part for?—a friend to each, but
never to both together. The reader may
smile, and answer that it is the very call-
ing and existence of a detective to play a
double part; and that I ought not.to be
chagrined to find him exercising his fine
talents upon me. Perhaps James also
had reason to fancy himself this man’s
confidant and friend, who was playing us,
one against the other, for purposes of his
own. It was the thought that Mr. Burton,
hefore whom more than any other person
in this world, except my mother, 1 had
been wiled to lay open my soul, could
suspect me of any hidden part in that
dark tragedy, which chilled me to the
marrow. ; :

But no!—it was impossible! I saw it
now in the frank and smiling eyes which
met my searching and lengthy gaze. _

“There!” he cried, gays “there is a
ray of actual sunrise. The fire is out;
the room is chilly—the morning has come
upon us. We have sat out the night,
Richard! Let me show you to your
room ; we will not breakfast until nine
o'clock, and you can catch a couple of
hours’ repose in the mean time.” He took
up a lamp and we ascended the stairs.
“Here is your chamber. Now, remem-
ber, I bid you sleep, and let that clock in
your brain run down. It is bad for the
young to think too: deeply. Good——
morning.” .

He passed on, as I closed ‘the door of
my chamber. His tone had been that of
an elder friend, speaking to a young man
whom he loved; I had wronged him by
that unpleasant idea which had shivered
through me. é

Closed shutters and thick curtains kept
out the broadening light of dawn; yet I
found it difficult to compose: myself to
sleep. That haunting shadow which had
flitted from Henry’s grave as I approach-
ed it yesterday—the dream which I had
in the little chamber, awakening to the re-
ality of the sewing-girl’s escape—I could
not banish these any more than I could
the discovery made in that house of sin,
where the tine spider of Play weaves
his glittering net, and sits on the watch
for the gay and brilliant victims who flut-
ter into its meshes. ;

One feeling I had, connected with that
discovery, wnich I had not betrayed to
Mr. Burton—which I would not. fairly
acknowledge to my own soul—which
quarreled with—drove out—but. which
persisted in returning to me now
banishing slumber from my_ eyelids.
When I had stood behind those silken
curtains, and beheld James Argyll losing
money in play, I had experienced a sen-
sation of relief—I might say of absolute
gladness—a sensation entirely apart from
my sorrow at finding him in such soci-
ety, with syich habits. Why? Ah, donot
ask me; I can not tell you yet. Bo not
wrong me ty saying that it was triumph
over the fall of my rival in Mr. Argyll’s
affections, in business possibly, and in the
regards of those two noble girls whose
opinions we both prized so highly. Only
do not accuse me of this most apparent
reason for my gladness, and 1 will abide

my time in your judgment. But no! I

will confess this much to-night myself.
If this stealthy and flying creature
whom we two men were hunting from
one hiding-place into another, whose wild
‘face had been seen pressing toward the

 

 
ARG D Baad el ei

 

 

Se

 

 

library window on that. night of nights,
and whose handkerchief the very thorns
of the roses had conspired to steal from
her, and hold as a witness against her—if
this doubtful, eluding creature, flitting
darkly in the shadows of this tragedy,
had not abstracted that money from Mr.
Argyll’s desk, I had dared to guess who
might have taken it. Simply and solely
—not because I did not like him—but be-
cause, to go back to the Friday before
that fatal Saturday, I had been late in the
parlors. ‘The girls were singing and play-
ing at the piano; I left turning the music
for them to go for a volume in the library
which I desired to carry off with me to
read in my room that night ; I opened the
door suddenly, and startled James, who
was leaning over that desk. ;
“Have you seen my opera-glass ?”” said
he. ‘“T left it on the desk here.” :
I answered him that J had not seen it,
got my book, and returned to the music,
thinking no more of that trifling occur-
rence—which I never more should have
recalled had it not been for a peculiar ex-
pression in James’ face, which I was af-
terward forced to remember against my
will. Yet so little did I wish to wrong

‘him, even in my secret thoughts, that

when the investigations were taking place,
I was convinced, with all the others, that
the unlawful visitor of the garden had, in
some manner, possessed herself of the
money. It only came back to me as I
watched James this night, in the gambling
saloon, that, if he ever had been tempte
to rob from his uncle more than the un-
failing generosity of that good gentleman
esaeer him, I was glad that it was play
which had tempted him to the wrongful
act. This was the shadowy nature of my
pleasure. Who has complete mastery of
his thoughts? Who does not sometimes
find them evil, unwarrantable, uncomfort-
able, and to be ashamed of ?

From the perplexity of all these things
T sunk into a light slumber, from which
I was almost immediately aroused by the

_tinkling of the breakfast-bell. I arose,

dressed, and, upon descending to the li-
brary, was met by a servant, who ushered
me at once into a cheerful apartment,
where my host sat by the window, read-
ing the morning paper, and where the
table only waited my appearance to be
graced by a well-ordered meal.

“Lenore usually presides over the tea
urn,” said Mr. Burton, as we sat down,
“We have a little affair which answers
for two, and which is adapted to the
strength of her little hands. It seems
pleasantest so ; and we both like it—but

she has not arisen this morning.”

“T hope she is not more unwell than
usual,” I said, with real solicitude.

“To tell you the truth, she was not at
all benefited by what occurred yesterday.
She is nervous and exhausted; I have
been up to see her. I know that when
the doctor comes to-day, he will guess
what I have been about, and blame me.
I mean it shall be the last time in which
I experiment upon her.” : ;

“T shall regret it, if she is really in-
jured by it, despite my intense desire to
learn what she revealed. Perhaps it was
from our selfishness in making use of this
exquisite instrument for purposes so earth-
ly that we are punished by the fruitless-
ness of the results.” :

Mr. Burton laughed.

“Perhaps. . Punishment, however, sel-
dom appears ia nse out, this side the
Stygian river. My Lenore wil be better
this afternoon; and I have strong hopes
that, with the light now before us, we
shall secure our prize. If that woman es-
capes me now, I shall set her down as a
lunatic—only ar insane person could
have the consummate cunning to thwart
me so long.”

“There never was one less insane,” I
said. “The impression which she made
upon me was that of one in whom the
emotions and intellect were both power-
ful. Her will and cunning are well-nigh
a match for yours. You will have to look
sharp.” yy

: tt is easier to pursue than to evade
pursuit. She has much the most difficult
strategy to conceive and execute, I tell
you, Mr. Redfield, ’m bound to see that

 

wonan, I. shall be so piqued at my
failure, as to go into a decline, if ?m dis-
appointed.” Ere seemed two-thirds in
earnest, through his jocular assertion.

We did not linger long over the break-
fast, being anxious to get back to. Brook-
lyn. After we had withdrawn from the
table, he gave me the paper to look over,
while he ran up a moment to say some-
thing to his daughter. While he was ab-
sent, the door-bell rung, and the servant
showed a gentleman into the room where
T was.

“Well, really,” were the first words I
heard, “has Mr. Burton taken you for an
apprentice, and do you lodge with your
employer ?”

It was James—as usual, when address-
ing me, with the gay smile covering the
sneer. He did not even extend his hand,
but stood looking at me a moment, with
a sort of defiant menace, which ended
with an uneasy glance about the place.
If he had been conscious of my secret
visit to his haunts, he would have worn
something such an expression; I con-
strued it that his restless conscience made
him suspicious of his friends.

“Tcame down, unexpectedly, yesterday
morning, at his request. We got some
trace of Leesy Sullivan ; and I shall stay
until we do something about it.”

“ Indeed !’—he seemed relieved, putting
off his ugly look and condescending to be
gentlemanly again. “Have you found
out where the wretched creature has hid-
den herself? Upon my word, I think if
Eleanor knew the case in allits bearings,
it might be useful in keeping her from
quite killing herself of grief.”

‘It was now my turn to be angry; I
turned upon him with a flushed face:

“For God’s sake, don’t slander’ the
dead, even by imputation, however slight.
Whoever put Henry where he lies now,
and for what purpose, this much I believe
—that no injustice nor sin of his own
brought that high heart low. And the
villain, I say the villain, who could
breathe such a whisper in Eleanor’s ea:
would be base enough to—to—”

“Speak out,’ smiled James, holding
me with his softly glittering gaze. ;

“T will say no more,” I ended, abruptly
as I heard Mr. Burton’s steps approaching.
It was evident to mé that there was to be
no peace between us two.

watched my host while he greeted
the new arfival; I wished to satisfy my-
self if there was a difference in his man-
ner of treating us which would justify
my belief that Mr. Burton-was not: play-
ing a part with me. He was courteous,
affable, every thing that was desirable or
to be expected in a gentleman receiving
a friendly acquaintance—that was all;
again I assured myself that it was only
toward me that he displayed real liking
and affection. But this he did not now
display. His face had on its mask—that
conventional smile and polish, that air
of polite interest, than which nothing is
more impenetrable. It was because, in
our intercourse alone together that Mr.
Burton laid this mask aside, that I flatter-
ed myself I was his friend and confidant.

“Richard got the start of me,” obsery-
ed James, after the compliments of the
day were over ; “I had not the least idea
that he was in town. I came down yes-
terday to buy myselfan overcoat—impo1t-
ant business, wasn’t it ?—and stayed over
to the opera, last night being the open-
ing of the new season. Did either of you
attend? I did not see you, if there. “He
tells me that he left in the early morning
train, before the one I took. Have you any
information of importance, Mr. Burton ?”

“We have seen Miss Sullivan.” j

“Is it possible? And have you really
made up your mind that the poor thing
is guilty? If so, I hope you will not fail
to have her arrested. I should like, very
much indeed, to have the affair sifted to
the dregs.”

“Yes, I suppose so. It is quite natural
that you should take an interest in havin
it sifted, as you say.’ T assure you that if
I have reason enough to warrant an in-
dictment I shall have one gotten owt. In
the mean time we must be cautious—the
interests involved are too serious to be
played with.”

 

“Certainly, they are, indeed. And
unless that young woman is really the
dreadful being we believe her, we ought
not to ruin her by open accusation. Still,
I must say she acts extremely like a guilty
person.” :
“She does, Mr. Argyll; I see but one
explanation of her conduct—she is herself
particeps ertminis, or she knows who is.”

“Quite likely, Indeed, we can not well ;

think otherwise. Did you say you had
actually seen the girl, Mr. Burton 2”

“We saw her yesterday—that is, Mr.
Redfield did.”

“May I inquire the result ? or am I not
supposed to be sufficiently interested in
the case to have any right to ask ques-
tions? If so, I beg you, don’t trouble
yourselves. There are doubtless others
who have deeper and different reasons
from mine, for being conspicuous in the
matter.” As James said this he looked
directly atme. “ You know, Mr. Burton,
I have intimated as much before; and, if
I am sometimes imprudent in my speech,
you must know how hard it is for mé to
control myself always.”

I was conscious that I grew pale, as
Mr. Burton glanced swiftly at me; I felt
so certain that James meant something
personal, yet so uncertain how to accuse
him of it, or to compel him to. explain
himself, when he would probably deny
there was any thing to explain.

“T don’t think there’s any one has a
deeper interest in the matter than you,
Mr. Argyll,” said Mr. Burton, with a kind
of smooth distinctness of tone which
might seem to be impressive, or mean
nothing, as the listener chose to under-
stand it “About seeing the girl, Red-
field has not half so much to tell as I
wish he had. In fact, he let her slip
through his fingers.” ~

A dry laugh was James’ comment upon
this avowal. Mr. Burton saw that we
were inwardly chafing, ready, as it were,
to spring upon each other; he took up his
hat and gloves.

“Come, gentlemen, we have business
on hand of too much importance to per-
mit of ceremony. Mr. Argyll, I must ex-
cuse myself. But if you will join us, we
shall be glad of your aid and company.
We are going over to Brooklyn, to seek
for another glimpse of Leesy Sullivan.”

James slightly started as Brooktyn was
mentioned, He had no reason to suppose
that any thing except courtesy prompted
the invitation he received; yet he did not
hesitate to accept it. Whether from mere
curiosity, or jealousy at, being kept out of
the deteetive’s full confidence, or a desire
to pry into my actions and motives, or a
praiseworthy interest—-whatever it was
prompted him, he kept with us all day,
expressing regret as deep as our own
when another night came without any re-
sults. Being belated, we took our supper
in a saloon, as we had done our dinner.
I could not but notice that Mr. Burton
did not invite James to the house to spend
the night, nor converse with him, at all
about his daughter or his personal affairs.

The next morning James returned
home; but I remained in the city several
days, all this time the guest of Mr. Burton,
and becoming more attached to him and
his beautiful child. After the first, day,
Lenore recovered pretty rapidly from the
ill effects of the trance ; L was, as the ladies
say, ‘perfectly charmed’ with her, A
gayer, more airy little sprite never existed
than she, when her health permitted her
natural spirit to display itself. Her grace
and playfulness were befitting her age—
childish in an eminent degree, yet poetized
as it were, by an ethereal spirituality,
which was all her own. To hear her sin
would be to wonder how such a depth
and hight and breadth, such an infinity
of melody, could be poured from so young
and slender a throat—as I have often won-
dered, when gazing at the swelling breast
of some little triumphant bird, where was
hidden the mechanism for all that mar-
velous power of music.

It is said that children know who are

their true friends. I do not think that

‘flitting, fairy’ Lenore doubted for an
instant that I was hers. We. acknowl-
edged a mutual attraction, which it seem-
ed to give her father pleasure to observe.

 
 

 

 

 

SS

 

 

20 ‘LAE PPRESLDE: LIBRARY.

 

She was, to both of us, a delight and a
rest, to which we looked forward after the
vexations and disappointments of the day
—vexations and disappointments which
increased upon us; for every night we
had the dissatisfaction of finding some
slender thread of probability, which we
had industriously unraveled and follow-
ed, either abruptly broken off, leaving us
standing, perplexed and foolish, or else
leading to persons and purposes most ir-
relevant. should dislike to say how
many pale, dark-eyed young women, with
pretty babies, made our unexpected ac-
quaintance during the following week—
an acquaintance as brief as it was unso-
licited on their part.

CHAPTER X:
THE ANNIVERSARY.

I HAVE said that I expected Mr. Argyll
to offer me a partnership, now that I was
prepared to begin my legal career, In
this I was not presumptuous, inasmuch
as. he had frequently and plainly hinted
hia intention. Such an, arrangement
would be a desirable one for me; [appre-
ciated its many advantages ; at the same
time, I expected, by taking all the hard
work upon mayest’ and by the constant
devotion of such talent as T had to the in-
terests of the firm, to repay, as far as, possi-
ble, my obligations to the senior member.

When I returned from New York, I
appeared in court with a case which had
chanced to be intrusted to me, perhaps
from the inability of my client to employ
an older and more expensive lawyer. [
did well with it, and was complimented
by several of Mr. Argyil’s fraternity upon
my success in handling the case. Much
to my surprise and mortification, Mr. Ar-
gyll’s congratulations were in constrained
and studied terms. He had appeared to
me more formal, less open in his manner
of treating me, ever since my last visit to
the city, At first I thought it my fancy,
or caused by some temporary ill-health,
or mental trouble, under which he might
ve laboring. Day by day the impression
Jeepened upon me that his feelings toward
me'were not what they had been. The
plainest proof I had of this was, that no
offer of partnership was made. I was
placed in a disagreeable situation for one
of my proud temperament. My studies
completed to the point where admission
to practice had been granted, T had noth-
ing to do but continue in his. office, read-
ing, reading away—not but thit my time
was most usefully employed thus, and not
that I was in any great hurry to go into
business, though my income was narrow
enough, and I knew that my mother had
pinched her domestic arrangements to af-
ford me that—but I began to feel like an
intruder. My ostensible use of his books,
office, and instructions was at an end; I
began to feel like a hanger-on. Yet |
could not go away, or offer to associate
myself with others, hastily. 1 felt that
he ought either to put in execution his
imylied promise, or to inform me that he
had changed his plans and I was free to
try elséwhere.

Can any invalid tell me why he feels
aprescience of the storm in his aching
bones and tingling nerves while the sun

- still shines in a cloudless sky, and not one

hint on the outward face of nature tells
of a change in the weather? Neither can
T explain the subtle influences which af-
fected me, depressing so deeply, and mak-
ing me sensible of a change in that atmos-
phere of home which had, brooded for me
over the Argyll mansion, T had felt thid
first in the more business air of the office ;
gradually, it seemed to me, to be creeping
over the household. Mary that sweet
child of impulse, too young, to assume
much dignity and too truthful to disguise
her innocent face in falsehood, who lad
clung to me in. this affliction as a sister
clings to an,elder brother, awakening all
my tenderest instincts of protection and
indulgence—this fair girl, doubly dear to
me ag the sister of that other woman
whom I adored, began to put on an air
of reserve toward me. She was kind and

 

gentle, but she no longer ran to me with
all those pretty demands and complaints,
those trifling confidences, which are so

‘sweet, because an evidence of trust and

affection; sometimes I caught her eyes
fixed upon me in a sad, wondering way,
which puzzled and disconcerted me;
when I caught her glance, she would
turn them quickly, and blush.

I could not help believing, although I
had no proof of it, that James was covert-
ly working to produce an impression
against. me in the family. His manner
toward me had never been so friendly ;
when we were alone together he grew
quite confidential, sometimes descending
to small flatteries, and almost entirely
neglecting the use of those little nettles
of satire with which he once delighted in
stinging me whenever any one whom I
esteemed was present. I could not pick
a quarrel with him, had I desired it. Yet
I could not rid myself of the conscious-
ness that he was undermining my footing
in the home of those friends I loved best.
In what manner, it was difficult for me
to conjecture. If he slandered my habits
or associations, nothing could be easier
than, for Mr. Argyll to quietly ascertain,
by inquiries unknown to myself, the truth
of his statements; justice to me would
require that he should take that trouble
before he cast. off, as unworthy his further
kindness, the son of his dead friend. I
could think of but one matter which he
could, use to my.prejudice; and in that
my conscience accused me loudly enough.
L said to myself that he had told them of
my love for Eleanor. He had torn that
delicate and sacred secret from my heart,
where it lay under the pitying light of

God's eye alone—discovered it through

hate and jealousy, which are next to love
in the keenness of their perceptions—and
exposed it to those from whom I had
most shrinkingly hidden it. Even then,
why should they blame me, or treat me
coldly, for what I could not help, and tur
which I alone must suffer? Certainly not
for my presumption, since I-had not. pre-
sumed. One dreadful idea preyed upon
me. It was, that, in order to rid himself
of me forever, to drive me out from the
friendship of those whom he wanted to
himself, for his own selfish aims, James
was representing to them not only that I
loved leanor, but that I was looking
forward to the fature with hopes which
mocked her present desolation.

I can not describe the pain and humili-
ation this idea gave me. If I could have
discovered it, or in any way denied it, I
should not have felt so hurt and helpless.
As it was, I felt that my honor was being
stabbed in the dark, without a chance to
defend itself— some secret enemy. was
wounding it, as some base assassin had
planted that deadly wound in the heart
of Henry Moreland.

In the mean time, the Christmas holi-
days were approaching. It was a season
of gloom and mourning, mocked by the
merry preparations of happier people.
On the twenty-third of December came
Eleanor’s nineteenth birthday. It was to
have been her wedding-day. A glorious
winter morning dawned; the sun. shone
in a sapphire sky; it seemed as if every
plant in the conservatory put forth double
bloom—the japonicas, the white roses,
were incomparable. I could not help but
linger about the house, Eleanor kept
herself in her room. If every word
which refers to her were written in tears,
it could not express the feelings with
which we all were moved at the thought
of her bereavement. We moved about
like people in dreams, silent and abstract-
ed: The oli housekeeper, when T met
her on the stairs, was wiping her eyes

with the corner of her apron, ‘Mr. Ar-

gyll, unquiet and pale, wandered from
room to room. The office remained clos-
ed; the front blinds of the house were
shut—it was like the day of the funeral.

I went into the conservatory ; there
was sunshine there, and sweetness —a
bright luxuriance of beauty. It was
more solemn to me than the darkened
arlors. I plucked a white rose, holding
t idly in my fingers. It was half-past
eleven—at twelve the ceremony should

 

 

have been performed. Mary came in
while I stood there wrapped in emotion
more than thought. Her eyes were swol-
len with weeping, her hands trembled,
and when she spoke, her lips quivered.

“She has taken out all the wedding
apparel, for the first time since that day.
She is dressing herself. She has put on
the robe and vail; and now she has sent
me down to make the bouquet. She
wants some white flowers for her bosom,
She stands before the mirror, putting on
every thing as carefully as if poor—Hen-
ry — were — down-stairs. Oh, Richard,”
she cried, breaking down utterly in a burst
of tears, and throwing herself into my
arms, “it would break your heart to see
her! It almost kills ne—but I must get
the flowers. It is best to indulge her.”

“Yes, it is best,” I answered, soothing
her as best I could; when my own voice
and hands were 80 shaken. “TI will help
you. Don’t keep her waiting.” —

J took the scissors from her, eutting the
fairest buds, the most perfect flowers, and
arranging them with care and skill.

“Twill tell you what she said,” continued
Mary, as I hastily made up the bouquet ;
“ she says that to-day they will be married,
the same as if Henry were on earth in-
stead of in heaven ; that their vows shall
be consummated at the hour appointed,
and that thereafter she shall hold herself
his wife just as surely as if he had come
in the body to fulfill his part of the con-
tract. She says that his spirit’ will be
here. She has her prayer-book open at
the marriage ceremony. She looks so
sweet and calm, as beautifulas if she, too,
were an angel with dear Henry—only so
very white, so very solemn—oh, dear, I
can not bear it !” and again I had to com-
pose her, wiping away her tears, before 1
sent her up with the bouquet. As she
went out into the breakfast, or family,
room,which opened into the conservatory,
I saw James by the door, and I knew, by
the expression of his face, that he had
heard what passed between us. Through
a kind of alarm and vexation there was a
flash of disdain, as if he wanted to say,
what he dared not:

“What. a fool the girl is to cling to that
dust and ashes! Married, indeed! She
shall be the wife of some one besides a
ghost, or I lose my guess.” :

“What a crotchety idea!” he said, as he
caught niy eye. “ Tnever thought Eleanor
would be so whimsical. She ought to
Jiave some one to exert a healthy in-
fluence over her, or she will injure’ her-
self—she surely will.”

“You ought to attempt to teach her a
more practical view of life’s misfortunes,
I'm afraid, howeyer, you'll find her a stu
pid pupil.”

His eye flashed into mine @ triumphant
gleam.

“* Perseverance conquers all obstacles,
the wise ones say ;’and I’m a persevering
man, you know, Richard.’

He took up his cap and lounged out
into the garden, JI felt a sinking at my
heart as he thus openly avowed his hopes
and expectations; I could not entirely
banish the heavy foreboding, even by re-
calling the image of the stricken girl, at
that moment binding herself, in awful and
mysterious companionship, with the spirit
that waited for her across the portals of
Time. Iwatched James pacing back and
forth, with disquiet steps, through the
frozen walks of the garden ; presently he
lit a cigar and went out on to the lawn,
and from thence into the streets. His was
one of those minds which do not like their
own company when they are uneasy.
How he managed to while away the day
I do not know; to me it was long and
oppressive; Mary remained up-stairs with
her sister; Mr. Argyll sat in the library
with a book, which he held open but did
not read. As the sun declined, I felt that
a brisk walk in the cold air would be the
best medicine for my drooping spirits—it
was my usual Fetiielly ,

If I remember aright: J had not been in
the direction of Moreland villa since that
singular meeting I had there with the per-
son who had since played so conspicuous
a part in our thoughts, if not in our eyes
—except twice, when I had gone with

hate

8

ee ee

 
omg

 

THE DEAD LETTER.

 

Mr. Burton through the vicinity, in hopes
of tracing her from the point of her dis-
appearance—but ‘to-day I mechanieally
chose that road, led thither by the chain
of association. Snow glistened on the
hilltops, the shores of the river were
skirted with ice, though its central current
still rolled bluely between those crystal
walls, It was sunset when I began my
walk; before I reached, the villa, the pink
flush was fading from the snowy summits;
one large star, preternaturally _ bright,
hung over the turrets of the lonely house,
shining through the flush of twilight ;
gray shadows stretched over the barren
hillsides, and a cold steel-blue tinged the
ice in the river. How desolate the place
looked, stripped of its summer garments !
I leaned over the gate, while the night ap-
proached, making a picture of how. the
villa would have appeared at this hour,
had that which had happened. not. hap-
pened, It would have been a blaze of
light, full of flowers, and ‘feasting, and
alive; with happy human creatures. It
had been the intention, of the young
couple to go immediately to their new
home, «fter the wedding-breakfast, and to
begin their housekeeping with a reception
of their friends that same evening. In-
stead of warmth and light, gay laughter
and music, rolling carriages and prancing
horses, feasting, congratulations, Jove,
beauty and happiness, there was silence
and desertion, oh, how appalling! Icould
not bear the,contrast between what was,
and what should have beeu.

Before returning to the village I thought
I would call upon the gardener’s wife,
Mrs. Scott, and inquire if she had any
tidings of Miss Sullivan; though I knew
very well that if she had, she would have
let me heard them without waiting for a
visit from me. I had grown chilly, lean-
ing so long over the gate, after my rapid
walk, and the glow through the window
of the little cottage standing at the back
of the kitchen garden, looked inviting, I
nade my way around to the, gate at the
back of the premises, and was soon knock-
ing at the door. I had heard Mrs. Scott
singing her baby to sleep as I approached
the house; but after I knocked there was
silence, yet no one answered the sum-
mons.

I knocked thrice, the last time rather
imperatively, for I was chilly and did not
like waiting so long, when I knew I must
be heard. At this the door was opened a
little way, very cautiously, the mistress
peering out suspiciously.

“Laws! Mr, Redfield, is it you ?”—-
throwing the door wide open, “TI beg
your pardon for keeping you waiting. If
I'd had any idee it was you,I shouldn't
a’ been skeered. But husband’s. gone
to the village, and I was alone with the
children, and when you knocked so sud-
den, my heart came right-up in my mouth,
I didn’t like to see who twas, Do come
in. How cold ’tis out to-night, You look
real blue. Take a chair by the stove and
warm yourself. I’m real ashamed I kept
you standing.so long. How is all the
family, sir?”

“About as usual, Mrs. Scott. So you
are cowardly when, you are alone of even-
ings, are you? I’ve mistaken your char-
acter, then; Pve given you credit fer
being Qne of the strong-minded women.”

“Wal, the truth is,” she said apologeti-
cally, “I never did used to be afraid of
any thing, dead or alive. But, since
young My. Heury was took away so sud-
den, Pye been nervous and frightened like.
I’ve never got over the shock. Til holler
right out, sometimes, in broad daylight,
if any thing startles me, if it’s only a
door slamming. Husband laughs at me
and scolds me, but I can’t help it.”

‘* Nobody's going to, hurt you, because
another had evil happen to him.”

‘“T know that as well as anybody, It’s
not because I’ve reason to be afeard, that I
am—it’s the shock, you see, There, there,
Johnny, be still, will you? I used to go
all over the place the darkest night that
eyer was-—but, now, really, ’m ashamed,
to tell you, I dasn’t put my face out after
dark,”

“T should think it would be unpleasant,
auch a chronic state of fear,” ayd I half

 

smiled, through my own melancholy, at
the woman’s anxious face,

“Onpleasant! J reckon it is, mighty
onpleasant. But there’s reason for it.”

“You just acknowledged that there
was no reason—that it was fancy, Mrs,
Scott.”

“Yowre goin’ to trip me over my own
words, Mr. Redfield. It was fancy, at
first, just nervousness ; but lately—lately,
as I said, there’s been things—”

“ What things?”

“I know you'll laugh at me, sir; and
you won't half believe me, neither—so I
guess I'd better not make a fool of myself
before you. But if you, or any Other
livin’ person, had seen what I seen, and
heard what I heard, then you’d know
what I know—that’s all!”

She spoke with such evident earnest-
ness, and [ had hitherto felt. so. much re-
spect for the sturdy strength and integrity
of her New England character, that. my
curiosity was somewhat aroused. |
thought best, to let her quiet herself, how-
ever, before leading her to conyerse about
the subject most on her mind; as J saw.
that she still trembled from the fright I
had, given her by my sudden knock at the
door.

“ How’s the place getting on, since the
winter weather set, in? T suppose your
husband had the plants housed long ago.
Has he been making any changes with the
grounds? I suppose not, since the:family
haye so completely deserted the. villa. I
came out to-night to take a look. at. it,
This is the twenty-third of. December, do
you remember ?”

“Tve been thinkin’ of it all day, Mr.
Redfield.” :

“It’s terrible to see the house, standing
there in silence and. darkness, to-night:
There seemed to me, something ghostly
about it—L could. not endure. it.. Have
you been through the rooms lately?”

This last question L asked without any
other object than to. keep up. the conyer-
sation; she had started; and looked curi-
ously at me, when I casually used the
figurative expression of “ghostly,” and
aow she shook her head.

“Pye not been through the, house late-
ly,” she said. “I ought to go, I know—
it wants airin’, and there’s bedclothes and
things in the closet. wants lookin’ after.”

“Then why do you not attend to it?”

“ That's it,” she answered, looking me
uneasily in the face.

“ What 2”

“ Well, sir, to tell you the truth, it’s my.
opinion, and I know, laughas youmay—”

“T haven’t laughed, Mrs. Scott.”

She arose, looked, at_her boy, now fast
asleep in his cradle, went to the window,
drew the little white curtain across, the
lower Lalf, resumed her chair, glanced
about the room, and was opening her lips
to speak, when a slight rattling sound
against the panes of glass, made her clasp
her hands together and utter a ery.

“ What on earth was, that ?”

I did indeed, now laugh at her pale face,
auswering, in some vexation:

“Tt was the snow breaking frum .16
eaves, and slipping down against the win-
dow.”

“Oh! drawing a long bivath. “ You
are provoked at me, Mr. Redfield. If you
knew all, you wouldn't be.”

“ Well, tell me all, at once, then, and let
me judge.”

Again she gave a cautious look about,
as if invisible guests might hear and not
relish her revelation, drew her chair a
little nearer mine, and said, impressively :

“ That house is haunted !”

“Ts that all?” T asked, feeling quite re-
lieved, for her nanner had startled me in
spite of myself.

“Tt’s enough!” was the significant, re-
sponse. “To tell you, flatly, sir, John’s
about coneluded to write to Mr. Moreland,
and give up the situation.”

“Your husband! is he so foolish, too?
There are no such things as haunted
houses, Mrs. Scott; and to give up a per-
manent and excellent home like this, pon
any such idle fancy, seems to me very un-
wise.” .

* Goodness knows I’ve liked the place,”
she cried, bursting into tears, “and that

 

24°

we don’t know what to turn to when we
leave this. But Pm worn out with it—I
can’t stand it no longer! You see how
unsettled Tam now.”

Unsettled enough, certainly, from the
usually composed and self-reliant woman
in whose judgment I had placed consider:
able confidence.

“You hayen’t told me any thing to
prove your assertion. I don’t believe in
ghosts, J warn you; but I’d like to hear
your reasons for thinking the villa has got
one.”

“T always made fun of ghosts myself,
and so did John, until this happened.
He won't own up now, ‘cept that he’s
ready to leave the place, and he won't go
in with me, in broad daylight, to ’tend
to the rooms. So I know he’s just as
scairtas Lam. And you know John’s no
coward with any thing he can, see or
handle, and it’s no disgrace to_a, body to
be shy of onearthly things. I’m a bold
woman, myself, but I ain’t ready to face
a spook.” :

“What makes you think the house is
haunted 2”

“Plenty of things,”

“Please mention afew. I’m a lawyer,
you know, and demand the proofs,”

“Tye seen a curious light hovering over
the roof of the house, of nights.”

“Did your husband see it, also ?”

“Yes, he did see it, night before last.

' He. wouldn't believe me till he see. it,

I’ve seen it seven or eight times myself.”

“What was it like 2”

“Oh, Lordy, P'm sure I can’t tell exactly
what it was like, when I never saw any
thing of the kind before ; Lsuppose it’s like
them dead lights that’s been seen oyer
graves. It’s more like a bright shadow
than_an actual light—you can see through
it like air. It wanders about the roof,
then stops over one partickeler place. It
would make your flesh creep to. see it,
sir !

“T would like, above all things, to try,
it. Do you suppose, if we went out now,
we should have the opportunity ?”

“Tt's too early ; leastways, I’ve never
seen it 80 early in the.evenin’. The first
time, my baby was sick, and I got up in
the night to get him some drops, and as I
looked. out the. window,, there was the
thing shinin’.”

“Ts that all makes you think the house
haunted ?”

“No, sir; we've heard things—curious
sounds—even in the daytime.”

“What were the sounds like ?”

“I couldn't, rightly explain ’em to you,
sir. They were not human sounds.”

“Try and give me some idea of them.”

“They'd rise and fall, rise and fall—not
like singing, nor crying, nor talking—a
kind of wailing music, only not like it,
cither—that is, not like any thing I ever
heard, Tt seems to come mostly from the
family-room, back o’ the library. John
and me followed it up, one eyenin’. We
went close up on the porch, and put our
ears to the shutters, We heard it plain.
We was so frightened, we've been glad
not to go near the house again. I don't
. ¥
feel as if I ever could.” , ,

“T think I know what it was,” T said,
half inclined to laugh, “ The doors or
sashes bave been left open in such a wa
as to make a draught. It is the wind,
singing through the crevices of the desert-
ed mansion. I, myself, have heard the
wind inake most unearthly music ‘under
such circumstances.”

OT wan't wind at all,” said the garden-
er’s wife, in an offended tone.

“ Perhaps persons have obtained access
to tie house that haye no business there.
They may deface the turniture, or carry
off articles of value, You really ought
to look to it, Mrs. Scott; it is part of your
duty.”

“There's nobody got n—I’m_ certain
of that. We've examined every door and
window. There's not the Jeast sign of
any human being about the premises. TI
tell you, Mr, Redfield, it’s spirits; and no
wonder, considering how poor Henry was
took away.” :

She said this solemnly, relapsing into
moody silence.

I felt quite conyinced that the imagina-

 
 

 

 

OG.
~~

ieee VRE?

 

; THE FIRESIDE LIBRARY.

 

 

tions of the pair, wready awed and ex-
cited by the murder, had converted some
trifling atmospheric or other phenomena,
or some combination of circumstances,
easily explained when the key to them
was found, into the mystery of a haunted
house. I was sorry, for two reasons:
first, that they thought of leaving, when
I knew their departure would give trouble
to Mr. Moreland, who had left the entire
charge of’ the place to them for years, and
at a time when he was too bowed with
heavier cares to be vexed with these small
matters: second, that the couple would
be sure to spread the report through the
village, causing gossip and conjecture,
. and exciting a prurient interest which
would throng the vicinity with idle won-
der-seekers. So I said: :
aA I wish your husband was at home to-
night, I must see him. It will not do
for him to trouble Mr. Moreland at this
time, by throwing up his situation. You
would both of you be sorry and ashamed
of such a movement, before many weeks,
I'm convinced. What do you say to my
coming out here to-morrow, and to our
going through the house together? If
there is any thing in it, which ought not
to be, we will turn it out. I will stay
until you have aived the house and Jooked
at the clothing; then you can lock it up,
and leave it for a few weeks without the
necessity of going through it.”

“Well, Mr. Redfield, if you’re willin’ to
do it, I ought to be ashamed to hang be-
hind. T’ll do it, of course, and be thank-
ful to you; for my conscience hain’t been
easy, lettin’ them things go so. I’m right
glad you happened out.”

“And tell your husband, please, not to
say any thing about this matter to others,
It will make it unpleasant for the friends.”

“T did tell him not to. He ain’t said
nothin’ yet, I’m sure. It’s the last thing
we'd be willin’ to do, make any more
trouble for them that has too much now,
and that has always been kind to us.
Must you go, sir?”

1__ “Yes; Pll say good-night, Mrs. Scott.
You may expect me in the morning, a
little before noon. By the way, have you

seen or heard any thing of Miss Sulli-
van ?”

“Not the least thing. She’s kept clear
of here since that day you found her here.
So she’s run away entirely, has she?
Well, well, well—I never! declare, I
turn these things over in my brain, some
days, till my head gets dizzy.”

“So does mine, and my heart sick.
Good-night, ma’am.”

“ Good -night, and good luck to you, this
dark night.’

She waited to see me through the gate,
which led yy a little lane past the kitchen
garden, and thence by a private road
along down into the main one. As I]
passed the gate into the lawn, on my way
out, I paused perhaps half an hour, in
the hopes of hearing or seeing the mar-

- vels of which the woman had spoken.
There was no mystic light, bluc or yellow,
playing lambently over the roof: no sound,
sinking and rising, came wildly on the
starlit air; all was profound silence and
darkness and coldness like that of the
ave.

My haif-contemptuous pity of the state
of mind into which the gardeners wife
had worked herself, gave place to deeper
emotions ; I turned away, almost running
along the smooth, hard-frozen road whose
course was Clearly discernible in the win-

ter starlight. I met the gardener going
home, but did not stop to speak with
him—went directly to my lodgings. The
fire was out in my room, and | crept into
bed, forgetting that I had gone without
my tea.
rue to wind promise, I went the next
day to the villa. Mrs. Scott brought her
keys, I unlocked the doors, and together
we entered the long-vacant place. There
is always something impressive, one might
say, “ghostly,” about a deserted dwelling.
hen you enter into it, you feel the in-
fluence of those who were last within it,
as if some portion of them ‘lingered in
the old locality, I confess that I felt an
almost superstitious awe and dread, as I
stepped over the threshold which T had
last crossed with kim. How joyful, how

 

full of young and princely life, he had
then been, his face lit up, as a man’s face
lights up when he attends upon the wo-
man he loyes and expects soon to make
his own! He was leading Eleanor to a
carriage; they had been talking about
the improvements they were going to
make in the house. How every look and
tone came back to me! With a silent
shudder, I stepped into the hall, which
had that moldy smell of confined air be-
longing to a closed dwelling. I hastened
to throw open the shutters. When I un-
closed a door, I flung it wide, stepping
quickly in, and raising the windows, so
as to have the sunlight before looking
much about. I had to do it all, for my
companion kept close to me, never stir-
ring from my elbow. T went into every
room, on every floor, from the kitchen to
the garret. Into the latter I only glanced,
as Mrs. Scott said there was nothing up
there which she wanted, or which re-
uired attention. It was a loft, rough-
oored, of comfortable hight, with a win-
dow at the gable end. The roof ran up
sharply in the center, the villa being built
in the Gothic style. There was such a
collection of rubbish in it as is usual
to such places—broken-down furniture,
worn-out trunks, a pile of mattresses in a
corner, over which a blanket had been
thrown to keep them from the dust, some
clothing depending from a line, and three
or four barrels. Mrs. Scott was standing
at the foot of the ladder, which led up
into the attic out of a small room, or
closet, used for storing purposes. I saw
that she was uneasy at having me even
that far from her, and after a brief survey
of the garret, I assured her there were no
ghosts there, and descended.

“Help yourself to some of them ap-
ples,” said the woman, pointing to some
boxes and barrels in the room where
we now stood. ‘“ They’re winter pippins.
John’s going to send them into the city,
to the family, in a week or two. We've
permission to keep ’em here, because it’s
dry and cool, and, the closet being in the
middle of the honse, it don’t freeze. It’s
a good place for fruit. Hark! What was
that ?”

“Tt was a cat,” said I, as I put a couple
of the apples in my overcoat pocket. “It
sounded like a cat—in the garret. If we
shut it wp there, it'll starve.”

I went up the ladder again, looking care-
fully about the attic, and calling coaxingly
to the animal, but no cat showed itself,
and I came down, saying that it must
have been in one of the lower rooms, and
had probably run in since we opened the
doors.

“Tt sartingly sounded overhead,” per-
sisted my companion, looking nervous,
and keeping closer to me than ever.

Thad heard the noise, but would not
have undertaken to say whether it came
from above or below.

“Tf that is the material she makes
ghosts of, I'm not surprised that she has
a full supply,” I thought.

In going out, the woman was careful to
close the door, and I could see her steal-
ing covert glances into every corner, as
we passed on, as if she expected, mo-
mently, to be confronted by some unwel-
come apparition, there in the broad light
of day. There were no traces of any in-
truders having made free with the house.
The clothes and china closets were undis-
turbed, and the bureaus the same.

“This was Harry’s room; he liked it
because it had the best view of the river,”
said Mrs. Scott, as we paused before a
chamber on the second floor.

We both hesitated; her apron was at
her eyes, and my own throat swelJed sud-
denly: reverently I opened the door, and
stepped within, followed by the house-
keeper. As I raised the window, and
flung back the shutter, she gave a scream.
I was really startled. Turning quickly, I
saw her with her hands thrown up, an
expression of terror upon her face.

“T told you the house was haunted,”’
she murmured, retreating backward to-
ward the door.

“What do you see?” I asked, glancing
abont for the cause of her alarm.

“This room,” she gasped—‘it was his
~aud he comes here still, I know it!”

 

“What makes you think so? Has it
been disturbed? If it has, rest assured
it has been by the living, not the dead.”

“TY wish I thought so,” she said, sol-
emnly. “It can not be. No other part
of the house is in the least disturbed. No
one has had admission to it—it is impos-
sible; not a crack, not a cranny, by
which any thing but a spirit could have
got in. Harry’s been here, Mr. Redfield ;
you can’t convince me different.”

“And if he has,” I said, calmly, for I
saw that she was much agitated, “are you
any more afraid of him now than ae
were when he was in the body? You
loved him then; think you he will harm
younow? Rather you ought to be glad,
since you believe in ghosts, that it is a
good spirit which haunts these premises
—the innocent spirit of the murdered, not
the guilty one of the murderer.”

“T know it,” she said. “I’m not afraid

—I don’t think I could be really afraid of -

Henry’s ghost, even if I should see it;
but it’s so—awful, isn’t it ?”

“Not to’me, at all. If such things
were permitted, I should like to meet this
spiritual visitant, and ask him the one
question—if, indeed, he could answer it.
I should like to have him point out the
guilty. If his hand could reach out from
the spiritual world, and stretch a blasting
finger toward his murderer, that would
be awful to the accursed one, but it would
be welcome to me. But what makes you
think Henry has been here ?”

She pointed to the bed; there was a
pressure upon it, as if some light shape
had lain there—just the faintest indenta-
tion of a head on one of the pillows;
from thence she pointed to a little writing-
table, between the windows, on which a
book lay open, and where there were some
papers and engrayings ; then to a pair of
slippers standing on the carpet at the head
of the bed. The room was a delightful
one, furnished with blue and white—Hen-
ry’s favorite colors.
site little pictures hung on the walls, and
not the slightest toy occupied a niche in
any place but spoke of the taste and re-
finement which had chosen it. From the
two windows, the view of the river flowing
amidst his hills, and the lovély country
spreading far away, was such as would
satisfy the eye of a poet, turned from the
page before him on the little writing-table,
to rest upon the fairer page of nature,

“T came into this room the day of the
funeral,” said the housekeeper, with a
trembling voice “and I sot it all to rights,
as if the master was coming back the
next day. But little I thought he would
really come! Ispread that bed as smooth
as paper; I put on fresh slips on the pil-
lows, and sot ’em up without a dent or
wrinkle in ’em; I ut his slippers with
their toes to the wall, and now they’re
standin’ as he always left ’em when he
took ’em off. , Them papers has been
stirred, and he's been readin’ in that book,
She give him that, and it was a favorite
with him; I’ve often seen him with it in his
hard. You may shake your head, Mr. Red-
field, but J know Henry’s been back here, in
his room.”

“Tf any thing in this room has been
disturbed, rest assured there’s been some
living intruder here. A spirit would have

had no need of slippers, and would have -

made no impression on your smooth bed.”

“You can talk your big words, for you
are an edicated man, Mr. Redfield, but
you can’t convince me against my own
persuasion. It’s been no human being has
mussed that spread—why, it’s hardly
wrinkled—you can voc see it’s been lain
on, and that’s all. Besides, how did they
get in? Can youtellme that? Through
the keyhole, mebbe, and went out the
same way !”

Her voice was growing sharp and a lit-
tle sarcastic. I saw that-it was in vain to
try to disabuse her mind of its impression
while she was in her present excited state.
And, indeed, I had no worthy argument
to offer. To all appearance, the rest of
the house had been undisturbed ; there
was not a broken fastening, a displaced
bar of any kind,and nothing missing. It
would seem as ifsomething hardly weight-
ier than a shadow had stirred the pillow,
and moved about the room. As long ag

 

Two or three exqui- ‘

 
¢

23

 

 

I could not tell what it was, I could not
positively assert what it was not.

I sat by the open window, while she
smoothed. the pillow, and placed every
article of the furniture with an exactness
which would inevitably betray the slight-
est disturbance.

“You shall see for yourself, sir, the
next time you come here,” she muttered.

; As I waited, I lifted a little volume,
which lay, with others, on the table before
me. It was Mrs. Browning's, and it open-
ed at a page where a book-mark had been
left—once I had seen Eleanor embroider-
ing that very mark, I was sure. The first

» lines which caught my eye were these:
‘ Tt trembled on the grass
With a low, shadowy laughter:

The sounding river, which rolled forever,
Stood dumb and stagnant after.”

Just then a cloud swept over the noon-
day sun; a chill struck through the open
window; the wind which blew in, flutter-
ing the page, could not have been more
aveavy had it blown across a church-yard,
Shivering, I continued to read :

“Tt trembled on the grass
With a low, shadowy laughter ;
And the wind did toll, as a passing soul

Were sped by church-bell after ;

And shadows, {stead of light,
Fell tro2 the stars above,

In flakes of darkness, on ier face
Still brigi.S with irzeting love.
. Margret! Margrei?

“He loved but only thee!
That love is transient, too ;
The wild hawk’s bill doth dabble still

h: the mouth that vowed thee true.

Will he open his dull eyes,
Whea tears fall on his brow ?

Behold, the death-worm in his heart

. Is a neacer thing than thou,
4 Margret | Margret !"’

T rnow notif the housekeeper spoke ta
i.e The clouds thickened about the sun ;
a dampness came in from the air. I hela
the vook, staring at it, like one in a trance,
and pondering the strange coincidence
Evidently Henry had read these verses
when he last cnened the book—perhaps

| he lovers had read them together, with a
‘soft, sigh for the fate of Margret, and a
smile in each other’s faces to think how
safe their happiness was—how far removed
from this doleful ‘‘ Romaunt.” Now would
he “open his dull eyes,” for Eleanor’:
tears? JI seemed to hear the low Jaugl
of the mocking fiend ; a more than wintry
sereness settled upon the landscape :

“ Jt trembled on the floor !”’

Yes! I was fast getting into the mood
for believing any thing which Mrs. Scott
might assert about the ad ag of this

~chamber. Emotions which I had neve

before experienced chilled my heart;
shapes began to gather in every obscure
corner; when the rising wind suddenly
blew a door shut, in the hall beneath, I
started to my feet.

“We're goin’ to have a stormy Christ-
mas,” said my companion. “It'll suit our
feelin’s better’n a sunny one, I’m sure.
Hark! there’s my Johnny cryin’, I do
believe! I should think his father could
keep him quiet a bit, till I get the house
shut up again.”

“Tt was that cat, I thought.”

“Neyer mind. I’m through now, if
you please,sir. Take a look at this room,
and fix it on your mind, if you will; and
the next time you’re out here, we'll open
it together.”

We reclosed and barred the shutters

throughout the house, carefully fastened -

the doors, once more leaving it,to its desd-
lation. Wehad seen no ghosts; I do not
suppose the woman expected to see any
but I felt certain that her fears were in no
manner dispelled.

“You see the place is all right,” I said,
when I handed her the keys. “ There is
nothing in the world to make you uneasy.
I would as soon sleep alone in the villa
asin my own room. I will do it, soon, if
you are not satisfied. All I ask of you is
not to write to Mr. Moreland until { have
seen you again. I shall come out before
many days, to see how you get along.”

“We shall wait until you come again,
sir, before we say any thing. I feel better,

now things are ’tended to, There’s J a
erying again! .

Well, Mr. Redtield, go

 

THE DEAD LETTER.

by. Ivll snow by the time you get home.”

T had a wild walk back to the village—
full of lonely magnificence and gloom,
which suited my temper. Gray mists
hung over the river and swept about the
bases of the hills; gray clouds whirled
around their summits; gray snow came
down in blinding drifts; a savage wind
seemed to be blowing the universe about
my ears.

CHAPTER XI.
THE LICTTLE GUEST AND THE APPARITION.

I wenr to Mr. Argyll’s to the Christ-
mas dinner. I was surprised to meet
Eleanor in the family group; for, although
she now frequently joined the home circle,
I thought that on this holiday her own
loss would press upon her with oyer-
whelming weight: Instead of this, I saw
a light in her countenance which it had
never before worn; her face, totally de-
yoid of smiles or color, yet shone with a
serene and solemn luster, the most touch-
ing, the most saddening, and yet elevating,
of any expression I had ever seen upon
human features. My intense sympathy
with her taught me how to translate this
new phase of her mind; I felt that, in
those mystic yows which she had taken
upon herself with a spirit, she had derived
a comfort ; that she joyed in the conscious-
ness that she was now and from hence-
forth evermore the bride of him who
waited for her in the mansions of the
Heavenly country. This life was tran-
sient—to be meekly borne a little while

.alone—then she would go to him who

awaited her in the only true and abiding
home. I, and I only, looked upon her
as the wife of Henry Moreland as sacred-
ly as if he were her living partner. I
only was fitted, by the power of my own
passion and suffering, to appreciate her
position, and the feelings with which she
now returned to her friends, to play-such
a part in life as duty still pointed out. I
can not explain with what an emotion of
reverence I took and pressed the little,
attenuated hand which she placed in
mine,

There had been, as yet, no change in
Eleanor’s demeanor toward me. Whether
I imagined it in the rest of the family, or
whether they had changed, this much was
still certain, and gave me the deepest
pleasure I could now know : Eleanor was

“the same to me as she had ever been—

the benignant, gentle sister, who loved
and trusted me as a dear brother—more
dear than ever since I had given such
proofs of my devotion to her cause—since
she could not but see how my very heart
was wrung with the pain which tore her
own. As long as she continued to treat
me thus, as long as I could give her one
smallest atom of pleasure in any way, I
felt that I could bear any thing from the
others. Not that there was any thing to
hear—nothing—nothing, except that inde-
finable air which a sensitive spirit feels
more keenly than an open slight. The
new year was now approaching ; it would
be the most natural time for entering into
new business relations; I felt that if Mr.
Argyll intended to offer me the partner-
ship, he would do it then. If he did not
—I must look out for myself. I must go
away.

The Christmas dinner was the sumptn-
ous feast which it always had been, the old
housekeeper having taken it into her own
hands. She, to judge by her provision,
felt that such kind of painstaking would
be a relief to jthe general gloom. No
guests were invited, of course. It was
touching to see how the servants persisted
in placing every imaginable delicacy be-
fore Miss Eleanor, which she could not,
by any possibility, even taste. A cup of’
coffee, with a piece of bread, made up her
slender Christmas feast. Yet it was a joy
to her father to have her at the table at
all. Mary's affectionate glances continu-
ally sought her face; parent and sister
both felt relieved and comforted by its
tranquil expression.

James, too, was cheerful; he would
have been brilliant had an opportunity

 

 

afforded. I, who read him tolerably well,
knew that it was the sight of Eleanor’s
tranquillity which had inspired him—and
that he did not understand that saintly re-
signation as I did.

In the course of the conversation around
the table, which I did my best to make
cheerful, L uappened to speak of Lenore
Burton. It was not the first time I had
mentioned her, alwavs with such enthusi-
asm as to excite the interest of the ladies.
Mary asked me many questions about
her, finally turning to her sister, and say-
ing:

. “ You were always so fond of children,
Eleanor. May I send for this beautiful
little girl to spend a few days with us?”

“Certainly, Mary, if you think you
would like her company.”

“Do you think her father would trust
her to us a little while, Richard?”

“ He can be persuaded, without doubt.”

After we hail left the table, Mary came
to me, with much animation, to whisper
her ideas about the proposed visit ; she
thought the sight of an agreeable, lovely
child about the house might interest Elea-
nor more than any thing else possibly
could, and would, at the least, delight her
father, who was drooping under the silence
and mourning in his home. I quite agreed
with her in her opinions, deciding to write,
that evening, a pressing plea to Mr. Bur-
ton, promising the most careful attention
to his frail little household blossom which
a trusty housekeeper and loving friends
could extend. I would come down to the
city for her, and attend her dutifully upon
her little journey, if his consent was given,
and Miss Lenore herself approved the ac-
tion.

The next day I had an answer. Mr.
Burton wrote that Lenore was delighted
with the invitation, and that he accepted
it the more willingly, as he was called un-
expectedly to Boston, where he should be
absent a week or ten days, and that he
had not liked leaving his daughter so
lonely during the holidays. He added
that he was obliged to leave that morning;
but I might come for Lenore at any time;
[ would find her ready; and that, upon
his return from Boston, he would come
ip to Blankville after her; closing his
a0te with polite thanks for our friendly
interest in his little girl, ete. Thus every
thing was satisfactory. The third day
after Christmas I went down, in the morn-
ing, to New York, returning in the after-
noon with my little treasure, who was
brimful of happiness, enjoying the ride
with the zest of childhood, and confiding
herself to my guardianship with a joyful
content, which awakened my tenderest
care in response. This artless faith of
the child in the providence of the grown-
up man it is which brings ont the least
selfish part of his character, bowing his
haughty, hardened nature to minister to
the humblest of its confiding wants.

The sisters both came into the hall to
receive their little visitor. They took her
into the parlors, bright with chandelier
and firelight, unhooding and uncloaking
her before the grate. was anxious to
Witness the impression she miade, for I had
been so lavish of my praises, as to run the
risk of creating a disappointment.

It was impossible to be disappointed in
Lenore. She made conquest of the whole
family in the half-hour before tea. It was
not her exquisite beauty a.one, Lut her
sweet expression, her modest self-posses-
sion amid her stranger-friends, enhancing
its effect. Mr. Argyil brightened as I had
not lately seen him; every other minute
Mary would repeat the welcome of her
little guest with another kiss, declaring in
her pretty, willful way, that Mr. Richard
was not going to monopolize Miss Lenore
because he was the oldest acquaintance—
Lenore having chosen her seat by my
side, with her hand nestled in mine.

James was not in the house ; he did not
come home until some time after we had
taken our tea—drank his alone in the
dining-room—and joined our circle quite
late in the evening. As he came in we
were sitting about the fire. Lenore had
gone, of her own inclination, to Miss Ar-
gyll’s side, where she sat on a low stool,
with her head against the lady’s lap. She
made a gay picture as she sat there, framed

 
   
  

 

 

 

 

peas ee

 

around with the black of Eleanor’s gar-
ments. Her traveling-dress was of crim-
son merino, and her cheeks—what with
the ride in the cold air and the glow of
the present fire, were almost as red as her
dress ; while her golden curls streamed in
shining strands over the sable habiliments
against which she rested. She was reply-
- ing archly to some teazing remark of Mr.
Argyll’s, and I was thinking what a
brightness she would give to the dull
house, when James came forward, holding
out his hand, with one of his pleasantest
smiles, saying :

“ This is the little lady, is it, whom we
have been so anxiously waiting to see?
Can I be introduced, cousin Mary, or does
not the Queen of the Fairies allow herself
to make the acquaintance of ordinary
mortals ?”

You have noticed, reader, how some
little cloud, floating in the west at sunset,
will be flushed through with rosy light,
and how, instantly, while you gaze, it will
turn gray, losing every particle of radi-
ance. So the child changed when he ap-
proached and spoke to her. Her cheeks
faded to a gray whiteness; her eyes were
riveted on his, but she could not smile;
she seemed to struggle with some inward
repugnance and her sense of what cour-
tesy demanded; finally she laid her little
cold hand in his, without a word, suffered
him to kiss her, and, clinging close to
Eleanor, remained pale and quiet—her
gayety and bloom were alike gone. Mr.
Argyll could not rally her—she shrunk
like a sensitive plant.

“Tf that pallid, stupid little creature is
the marvelous child Richard promised us,
why, I must say, he has shown his usual
good. taste,” commented James, in an
aside to Mary. He was not flattered by
the reception he had met.

ss Something is the matter with her,
James. She is wearied with her journey.
I am afraid we are keeping her up too
late. She was gay enough a little while
since.”

| “Are you tired? Would you wish .to
go to bed?” whispered Miss Argyll.

“Tf you please,” she eee with an
sir of relief.

“You are not getting home-sick so
soon ?” asked Mr. Argyll.

“T am not; I like it here very much,”
answered Lenore, candidly. ‘‘ Something
is the matter with me now, sir, and you
must please excuse me. My head began
to ache just now—so I suppose I had bet-
ter go to bed.”

She bade us good-night with a smile so
restrained that I felt afraid she was not
going to enjoy her visit. Eleanor herself
took her away to the maid who was to
attend upon her, and did not return to us
until her little guest. was in bed.

“Come, Mary, let’s drop the baby ques-
tion and play chess,” said James, impa-
tiently, as we discussed the visitor; “ I’m
tired of the subject.”

“Wait until to-morrow, and you will
become interested too,” she responded.

“T like hearty little bread-and-butter
girls,” said he, “but not such die-away
nisses as that. She looks to me asif she
read Coleridge already. Children should
be children, to please me.”

The repulsion was mutual. . I only had
noticed the strange effect wrought upon
my pet by a sight of James, and knowing,
as I did, and the others did not, the pecu-
liarities of her temperament, it had aston-
ished me, and aroused my curiosity. By
the ill-humors with which he received any
allusion to Lenore, I believed that James
himself was conscious that the pure eyes
of the child looked straight into the
darker chambers of his heart, and was
frightened by what she saw there. A
young man who was gambling away his
uncle's property upon the credit of a
daughter’s hand which he had not yet
won, could not haye a very easy con-
science; and it was not a pleasant thing
to be reminded of his delinquencies by
the clear eyes of an innocent child. As
he became absorbed in his game of chess,
I sat studying his countenance, and think-
ing of many things. I wondered if his
uncle and cousins were not aware of the
change which was coming over him; that
reckless, dissipated look which writes cer-

——

 

 

gree eee ee

 

tain wrinkles in a young man’s face, over-
written in his by outer smiles, which could
not hide the truth from a discerning eye.
Tasked myself if I could justify my course
in keeping silence about what I had seen ;
it was my plainest duty to inform Mr.
Argyll, not only on his account, but on
James’ also. Such a knowledge, coming
to his uncle, though it would be terribly
mortifying to his nephew, might be the
means of breaking his new fetters of
habit before they were riveted upon him.
Such, I felt, was my duty. At the same
time, I shrunk from it, as a person situated
as I was naturally would shrink; I was
liable to have my motives misconstrued ;
to have it hinted that self-interest was
prompting me to place James in a bad
light. No, I couldn’t do it! For the
hundredth time I came to this conclusion,
against the higher voice of the absolute
right. Iwas glad to strengthen myself in
my weak course by remembering that Mr.
Burton had requested my silence, and
that I was not at liberty to betray his con-
fidence. Looking at him, thinking these
things, with my thoughts more in my eyes
than they ought to have been, had Peet
on my guard, James suddenly looked up
and encountered my gaze. He pushed
the board aside with an angry motion,
which overthrew half the men and en-
tirely disconcerted the game.

“Well, how do you like my looks, Rich-
ard?” the defiant eyes glittering with 3
will which overpowered my own, smiling
a deadly smile, which threatened me.

“Flow peevish you are, James! I be-
lieve you threw up the game because you
saw Fd checkmating you,” cried his
cousin.

“That's it, my dear child; I never
would allow myself to be checkmated !”

“Then you shouldn’t play !”

“Oh, sométimes I allow women to win
the game; but when I play with men, I
never give up. The man who attempts
the chances with me must prepare for de-
feat.”

“How generous you are to the witless
sex,” said Mary, sarcastically. “I am
much obliged to you, that you sometimes
allow us to win. Just pick up that castle
you have sent tumbling in ruins, if you

- please, sir—and don’t ask me to play chess

for at least a fortnight.”

I perceived a threat in his words of
which the girl was quite innocent; he was
throwing down the gauntlet to me ; again
and again his air, his words, were such
that I could put’no other construction
upon them. He was determined to mis-
understand me—to look upon me as a
person seeking to injure him. I was in
his way—I must get out of it. This was
the manner he put on to me. I felt that
night, more than ever, the conviction that
my connection with the Argylls was
about to be broken. If James felt thus
toward me, I should be unwilling to take a
position which he regarded as belonging,
by right, to himself. Worse than all, I
felt that ss treacherous nature was work-
ing secretly against me, and that his
efforts had already told upon those whose
love and respect was most precious to
me.

Shortly after, I took my leave; he was
so engrossed, with his back toward me,
looking over some old engravings, that he
did not turn to say good-night. My room
at my boarding-house had a particularly
cheerless air that evening; I felt lonely
and‘embittered. My heart ached for sym-
pathy. TI resolved that, if a partnership
was not offered on New Year’s, I would
propose a visit to my mother, for whose
love and encouragement I longed. The
event of going away, too, would give Mr.
Argyll the opportunity of declaring him-
self in one way or another.

Lenore’s visit was a decided success—in
the way, too, which Thad hoped for. Her
fine and spiritual nature was drawn to-
ward Eleanor in a manner which made
the latter love her, and grow to feel a con-
solation in the touch of the little hand,
the unsought kiss, and the silent sympathy
which brought the child to sit hours b:
her side, saying nothing, but looking wit!
wonder and reverence at a sorrow too
deep for her young heart to fathom. Le-
nore frolicked with Mr. Argyll, chatted

4

 

and sung with Mary; but she was always
ready to leave either for her quiet corner
by Miss Argyll. Mary pretended jealousy,
though we were all glad to see the inter-
est Eleanor took in the child. One of
our greatest pleasures was in Lenore’s
singing. I have mentioned the purity and
great Compass of her voice. To hear her
sing some of Handel’s music, cf a Sab-
bath twilight, was almost to obtain a
glimpse into the heaven toward which
her voice soared. I saw Eleanor quietly
weeping while she sung, and I knew the

music was loosening the tense strain upon
t

her heart-chords.

I was interested in watching two things
—first, the attachment between Miss Ar-
gyll and Lenore ; secondly, the persistent
Sxort of James to overcome his first ayer-
sion, and his ultimate success. By the
second day he had mastered his chagrin
at the evident dislike of the child, who
could hardly compel herself to be polite
to him, and who grew constrained and
pale whenever he was near her. James
Argyll was not the man to allow a child
to slight him with impunity. His indo-
lence was a repugnance to business and
study ; it was no weakness of the will,
for when he set his resolves upon an ob-
ject, he usually accomplished it. I saw
that he had resolyed fo conquer Lenore.
He paid court to her as if she were a ‘lady
of the land, instead of a little girl; on
New Year’s he overwhelmed her with
splendid presents ; he took her out sleigh-
riding alone with him, in a fancy cutter,
which he declared was only just large
enough for those two, with chimes of sil-
ver beils and a spirited horse. I ought
not to have felt grieved that Lenore, also,
like the rest of the world, proved faithless
to me. ButIdid. I was more hurt by
perceiving her growing indifference to me
and her increasing fascination for James,
than the subject warranted. I should
have known that rides and dolls, flowers
and flatteries, and a dainty little ring for
her forefinger, would win any little maiden
of eleven; but I had estimated Lenore’s
character higher. I had noticed her at-
tractions and repulsions, the former al-
ways toward noble and true persons—the
latter toward the unworthy. Now, how-
ever, my little bird was charmed by the
serpent’s eye; she was under the influence
of James’ will, and I resigned her.

 

About ten days after my visit to Mrs.
Scott, I kept my promise to her, by re-
turning to inquire about the present con-
dition of Moreland villa. I saw, as soon
as I entered the cottage, that her mind
was preyed on by the same convictions
which had troubled her on the former oc-
casion. 3

“Tf there ain’t at least one ghost in that
house, then there never was such a thing,
and there never will be—there, now!
You’ve seen for yourself there ain’t a hu-
man being in it—and there is something /
I’ve seen it and heard it, and you can’t
convince a person against them two senses,
I reckon.”

“TI don’t want to convince you, Mrs.
Scott; I only want to convince myself
what this thing is which you have seen
and heard. Have you had any new reve-
lations ?”

“Yve seen the death-light once since,
standing over the house; we saw it, too;
shinin’ out of that room—John and I saw
that together. We was so set on findin’
out whether it was spirits or not, we mus-
tered up courage to go through the house
ag’in, the next day, and as sure as you're
settin’ there, something had been back and
laid down on that ’ere bed ag’in—some-
thing light, that scarcely made a dent—
you needn’t tell me ’twas any human
mortal, which it wasn’t. We've, heard
children cryin’, too, which is an evil omen,
the dream-book says; an’ to clap the cli-
max, Mr. Redfield, there’s no use keepin’
it back—vwe’ve seen the ghost !”

I was now as interested as the woman
could desire; she had stopped, mysteri-
ously, after making this grave declaration,
and sat looking me in the eyes. I return-
ed her gaze with one of silent inquiry,
leaning a little forward in my chair. Mrs.
Scott smoothed her apron absently, with
her large hands, still looking into my eyea,

?

 

 
y

 

as if she saw the ghost in their distending
pupils, I made up my mind that I was
going to hear either something of ridicu-
10u8 shadowyness, magnified into an ap-
parition, or something which would give
so.e tangible clue to the mystery, if there
was a mystery, of Moreland villa.

“You have been fortunate,” said I.
“ What was it like, pray ?”

“You've noticed there was a little bal-
cony under the windows of Henry’s
room?”

“‘T know there is such a balcony.”

_ “Tt was there we saw it. You know
how bright the nights have been lately,
with the full moon and the snow. John
and I walked out, night before last, to the
front of the villa, to see what we could
see—and there it was! It was as light as
day, and we both had a good look at it.
I don’t know how long it might have
stayed if I hadn’t screamed. John clap-
ped his hand over my mouth to stop me,
but he was too late; it sort of riz right up
and disappeared.”

“ But what was it like ? —-man, woman,
or child ?”

“Tt was like a ghost, I tell you,” replied
the housekeeper, stoutly. “1 s’pose sper
Its are dressed purty much alike, in the
next world, whether they’re men or wo-
men. We read in the Bible of the white
robes—and I’ve never heard of a spook
that was dressed any other way. It may
have been Henry in his shroud, for all I
know—that’s what I believe it was—there
now !”

“Henry was never dressed in a shroud,”
I answered, gravely ; “ he was buried in
a black-broadcloth suit. So you see that
you were not correct there.”

“Oh, well, Mr. Redfield, we can’t un-
derstand these things—it isn’t give to us.
I can tell you what John and I saw, and
you can make up your own mind. There
was a shape, on the balcony, standing
straight up, white all over. A long white
garment hung from its head to its feet;
its face was turned up to the moon, and
its arms were raised as if it prayed. Its
eyes was wide open, and its face as pale
as acorpse’s. John and I will both make
our affydavit to it, in court, if it’s neces-

”

© Where did it go to when it disappear-
ed?”

“Tt seemed to me to turn into the air;
but that I wouldn’t be so sure about,

‘John thought it went right through the

side of the house,”

“ Was the window open behind it ?”

“Wal, really now, | wouldn’t swear
that it was, or wasn’t. The fact is, 1 was
80 scaart the minit I saw it, I like to have
dropped. John was for stayin’ ‘to see if
it wouldn’t come ag’in,’ but I wouldn’t
let him ; so we both cut and run.”

“T am sorry you didn’t use your eyes
to better advantage.”

“When you see a thing like that, I
reckon you'll run, too. It ain’t at all
likely the window was open, or we would
have noticed it. It was all shut up the
next mornin’, the same as ever.”

“That was yesterday. I suppose you
have not been in the villa since ?”

“Lord! no, sir. I wouldn't go now
for a hundred dollars.”

“ Have you noticed any thing else pe-
culiar ?”

“Yes, sir. There’s been footsteps around
the house in the snow.”

“Indeed ?” I said, eagerly; “that is
more like something. Can I see them
now ?”

“No, sir; the sun’s melted ’em all off.
But if you’re thinking they’re the tracks
of persons comin’ about the house for
any purpose, just tell me, will you, sir,
how they happened to be just about the
porch, and so on, and not a track to it,
nor away from it, in no direction ?”

“ Indeed, I can not explain it, until Pve
rooted out the mystery from the begin-
ning.”

“Nor it can’t be explained,” cried the
housekeeper, triumphantly.

It worried her to think I was so skep-
tical when she had given me such abso-
lute proofs; the idea of the haunted villa
was making her really sick, yet she would
not give up her cherished belief in its
being haunted. I think she would have

 

been disappointed if any one had come
forward and sworn himself the ghost.

I sat a little while, pondering her state-
ments. There had been nothing, on the
former occasion, to convince me that any
intruder, human or spiritual, had been in
the villa—except the shadowy imprint of
a form on Henry’s bed, and for the proof
that it had not been made before the house
was cleaned up, I had nothing but her
word. As for the death-light and the
wailing sounds, I conceived that, in that
lonesome, solitary place, two persons of
the class to which these belonged, with
their excited imaginations reacting upon
each other, might easily persuade them-
selves of such marvels, Even in this last
statement, that both of them had clearly
and. distinctly seen a white form on the
balcony of the room, I did not find much
to disturb me. There is nothing better
for producing all kinds of shapes and
phantoms to a frightened or superstitious
eye, than a bright, moonlight night. It
is far better than the deepest darkness.
The earth is full of weird shadows; the
most familiar objects take on an unnatural
appearance in the gleaming rays, enhanc-
ed in their strange effect by the black,
fantastic shadows which stretch away
from them. Add to this, 2 garment of
snow, spread over every thing. The
landscape on which we have rested our
gaze, every day, for years, under these
circumstances, will be as novel to us as
if it were a bit of scenery transplanted
from some strange and far country. A
vivid fancy, predisposed to the work, can
make an excellent ghost out of a rose-
bush or a fence-post—a fearful apparition
out of the shadow of a cornice heaped
with snow. In the present case, not. only
were the man and his wife in that. fever-
ish state in which the eye makes visions
for itself, but they were quite ready to
link such phantoms with, Henry’s room,
which they had previously decreed to be
the favorite abode of the ghost. A re-
view of the whole case led me rather to
be vexed with them, than satisfied there
was any reason for the mental ‘ stew’ into
which they had heated themselves. The
only tangible things of the whole medley
were—the footprints. If there were ac-
tually traces: of feet walking about the
premises, that was enough to satisfy me—
not of a ghost, but of a person, engaged
in prying about the villa for some unlaw-
ful purpose. I made up my mind to watch
for this person, and entrap him. It oc-
curred to me, at once, that one of those
dare-devil spirits, to be found in every
community, was purposely getting up
scenic effects on the premises, for the
amusement of spreading the report that
the villa was haunted, and exciting the

ossip and credulity of the village. Iwas
indignant at the heartlessness of the plan,
and resolved, should I catch, the perpe-
trator, to inflict such summary chastise-
ment as would cure him of his taste for
practical joking. The assertion of the
woman that the tracks began and ended
nowhere—-that no one had approached
the house, because there were no footsteps
coming in from any direction—did not
receive entire credit from me. Were that
actually the case, then—it was positive
evidence that the person was secreted in
the dwelling—an idea foolish and incred-
ible, on the face of it, for many reasons.

However, I was in earnest, now, about
the matter; I_would ascertain the truth,
or explode the falsehood, and make an
end of it, before painful reports should
reach the enrs of friends, or every idle
ragamuffin in the country make that hal-
lowed place, consecrated by the ties and
memories of the one now gone, the focus
of his vulgar curiosity.

‘Where is your husband ?”

“ He’s sortin’ pertaters, or tyin’ up seeds,
in the loft.”

‘Please call him down, and give me
the keys of the house.”

The gardener came, following very re-
luctantly, at my bidding, while I again
entered the villa, and went over every
room, stationing him in the hall, so that
no one could possibly escape during ~
visit to the lower and upper floors.
searched from cellar to garret, while Mrs,
Scott, with her pale-blue eyes wide open,

 

aes 2

and affecting a bustling bravery which
her looks belied, accompanied me, Once,
at a sudden noise, she seized the skirts of
my overcoat, but resigned them when. I
told her it was caused by John’s shutting
the front hall-door.

“Dear! dear! there’s rats in the villa,
at last!” she exclaimed, removing the
cover of a flour-barrel which stood in
the store-room. ‘“They’ye been in this
flour! I’m sorry, for they’re an awful
pest. They'll make trouble if I don’t
watch ’em clost. I believe Pll pizen,’em.
Mrs. Moreland told me to take this flour
home and use it up; but we haven’t
needed it yet, and I’ve left it here, and
now they’ve made pretty work with it.”

“ Tf there are rats here, I shan’t be sur-
prised at all kinds of noises,” I remarked.
“Rats are equal to almost any thing.
They will tramp like an army of men,
or stalk like a solitary burglar. They
will throw down plates an
this one, broken on the floor here, since
we came here last; muss pillows and
drag books out of place. You really
will have to keep a sharp look-out.” —

“ They won’t cry like a child, nor moan
like a sick person, nor stand on balconies
dressed in shrouds!” observed the house
keeper.

“T think they would do the first two,”
and I smiled, “but as to the latter, Pm
not prepared to assert.”

“JT reckon not. I only wish you’d seen
it, Mr. Redfield.” t

“T shall stay to-night in the hope
that pleasure, Mrs. Scott.”

“Tm right glad to hear you say so, sir.
It’s not pleasant to be placed in the situ.
ation I am—to know what I know, and
not to have my word taken.”

It was true; it could not be pleasant
for her, to have her earnest statements
received with so much skepticism ; I did
not wonder that she felt hurt, almost of-
fended ; at the same time I felt as if I, in
my turn, should be intensely aggravated
if I found out there was nothing in all
this flurry.

This second search resulted in nothing,
like the first. It was nearly dark when
we returned to the cottage, where Mrs.
Scott allowed me to dandle her fat, good-
natured baby Johnny, while she prepared
tea in a style befitting the important occa-
sion of ‘company.’

“Tf you’re in earnest about settin’ up
to watch, [ll make coffee, instid of tea,
if it’s agreeable to you, Mr. Redfield. It’s
better to keep one awake.”

T assented to this assertion, being of a
similar opinion myself. She set her hus-
band to grinding the delectable berry in
a hand-mill, and soon an excellent sup-
per, with cold ham and hot biscuits, was

laced upon the table. The night prom-
ised to be clear and cold; the moon
would not rise until about eleven ; I for-
tified myself against the hardships of my
adventure by two cups of strong coffee,
with a substantial meal; passed an hour
or two chatting with the couple and sing-
ing Johnny to sleep; then, about eight
o'clock, I buttoned my overcoat close,
tied my muffler about my neck, and went
forth to begin picket duty.

“T'll leave the coffeepot on the stove,
and a good fire,” was the parting promise
of the good woman, who seemed to think
T had rather a solemn time before me.

“Thank you, Mrs. Scott; if I make no
discoveries by one or two o'clock, i shati
come in to warm myself, and give up the
hope for this occasion. You know mid-
night is the witching hour—it will be use-
less to stay much later.”

cups—like.

“The Lord be with you,” she said, earn- _

estly.

which I intended to inflict punishment
upon any intruder of earthly mold, 1
walked out on to the lawn, taking such a
survey as I could in the dim light; like
the rain in the children’s riddle, I went
‘round and round the house,’ and finall

took station on the front porch, Tee
walked softly back and forth, listening for
sounds within and without. I heard and
saw nothing. The long hours slipped
slowly away. Just before moonrise the
darkness seemed to deepen, as it does be-
fore dawn. My intention was to take up

Armed with a stout walking-stick, with

 
 

eet

 

 
 
   
 
  
  

 

 

 

26

some position: on the lawn, where, unseen
myself, I could command the approaches
to the villa, and also have a view of Hen-
ry’s room, with the balcony, It was time
now to secrete myself, before the approach-
ing moon should reveal me to the person
or persons who might themselves be on
the watch. Accordingly, I selected a seat
on a little rustic bench, completely’ en-
circled with bushy evergreens, which not
only concealed my person, but afforded
me considerable protection from the cold.
I can not, to this day, breathe the pungent
odor of the spicy trees, without recalling
the experiences of that night. A silence,
like that which Dr. Kane speaks of as one
of the most impressive features of the
long Arctic night, brooded around; over
‘against the hills came gradually stealing
the silvery luster of the rising moon, while
the valleys yet lay in profoundest gloom ;
the dimly glimmering stretches of snow
broadened into whiter fields; the pictur-
esque villa, with its turrets and porches
and pointed roof, stood black and quiet
before me. I could hear a dog barking
afar off, as it were some dream-dog, bark-
ing in some dream-world. I had almost
forgotten the cause of my being there, at
that strange hour, in that lone spot, gazing
at that dark mass of building, empty of
life and warmth as was her heart of joy
or hope ; the intense cold, the odor of the
pines and hemlock,the trance of thought in-
to which I had fallen, were benumbing me.
Suddenly I saw ashapeless and shadowy
brightness hovering amid those dark tur-
rets. It was the death-light of which
Mrs. Scott had told me. A warm thrill
ran through my fingers and toes, arousing
me tothe keenest consciousness. I watch-
ed it flutter and move—stand still—flut-
ter again—and disappear. It lasted per-
haps three minutes. In that time I had
made up my mind as to the mysterious
appearance—it was the light of a lamp or
candle being carried. about in a person’s
hand. That was what it most resembled ;
out who carried it, and how was the re-
flection thrown there, over the roof?
There was certainly a mystery about this
which, had I been at all superstitious, or
even neryous, would have unfitted me for
any further cool inytigation. I resolved
that if I could not master the marvel
then, I would do it by the light of day.
I watched intently, hoping it would reap-
pear, and give me some glimpse of its
origin. While I waited, a ray of light
pierced through the shutters of Heury’s
room. I will acknowledge that for one
single instant the hand of the dead seem-
ed laid on my heart; it turned cold, and
refused to beat. The next, I smiled grim-
ly at myself. I had never been a moral or
physical coward. The solution of the
mystery was now in my grasp, and I had
no idea of letting it slip. I was confident
. that some person was playing the mischief
in the deserted house; but if I had really
expected to confront the inhabitants of
another world, I should not have hesitated.
The key of the main entrance was in my
pocket ; I walked swiftly to the house, un-
locked the door as softly as possible, and
grasping my stick firmly in my hand,
sprung up the stairs. It was quite dark
in the house, although it was now light
out of doors; in my haste, I hit my foot
against a chair at the bottom of the stairs,
and overthrew it. I was provoked, for I
wished to come upon these midnight
prowlers unawares, Knowing just where
the room was situated, I went directly to-
ward it; it was very dark in the upper
passage, all the blinds being closed; I
groped for the handle of the door—some-
thing rustled, something stirred the air—
1 flung the door open. There was no
light in it. All was dark and silent. | Be-
I fore I could fling the shutter open, letting
“, in a peaceful flood of silver moonlight,
‘my hope of detecting the intruder was
almost at an end. was certain ‘that
something had passed me in the obscurity
of the hall; I had been conscious of that
subtle magnetism which emanates from a
human form, perceived in the blackest
night. It may be the magnetism of soul
instead of body, and a disembodied spirit
‘may have sent the same electric current
through me, At all events, I had now
nothing for my labor, I did not think

-

 

HE FIRESIDE LIBRARY.

that anvther journey over the house
would result in any discovery, since the
warning had been given; I had no lamp
or lantern with me; I reluctantly, after
lingering and listening some time in vain,
closed the room and the house, and re-
turned to the cottage, where I drank the
coffee which awaited me, laid down on a
buffalo-robe before the stove, and slept
away my vexation.

I was not very communicative as to my
adventures when eagerly questioned by
my entertainers the following morning.
They were satisfied, by my very reticence,
that I had seen something to puzzle me,
and were both alarmed and triumphant.
In answer to their inquiries, which they
were too respectful to press, though de-
voured with curiosity, I assured them
that I had reason to think, with them,
that the villa required attention. I had
not been able to satisfy myself who was
disturbing the premises ; but that I should
not rest until I knew. I should return
that night and sleep in the villa ; I wished
to enter it very quietly, probably before
dark, so as not to alarm the inmate.or in-
mates ; and I was confident that I should
thus be able to pounce upon the ghost.
Mrs. Scott regarded me with admiring awe.

“She wouldn’t go for to sleep in that
house alone for all the riches of Solomon,”
and wouldn’t I, at least, provide myself
with pistols ?

When I went into Mr. Argyll’s office
that morning he greeted me with marked
coldness. At last I could not conceal
from myself that, not only had his man-
ner changed, but that he wished me to
feel that it had. He gave me, as I enter-
ed, a searching, suspicious glance, saying,
“Good-morning, Richard,” in the most
formal tone. Nothing further. I took up
a book, hiding my pain and embarrass-
ment in an attempt to read ; but my mind
was not on the legal difficulties expound-
ed therein ; [ was wondering at the causes
of the situation in which I found myself.
A hanger-on ! yes, an unwelcome hangeyr-
on in an office where I no longer had any
conceded rights—in a home where I was
no longer trusted.

“as Mr. Argyll placed a spy on my
actions? Does he know already that I
was out the entire night? and does he
judge me before he has an explanation ?”

asked myself, indignantly. “If he
thinks I am forming bad habits, doing
wrong in any respect, why does he not
remonstrate with me—give me a chance
to defend myself?”

I had intended to take his advice in the
matter of the haunted house ; but now I
sat, angry and silent, feeling, oh, so wound-
ed and forlorn. I did not stay long in the
office ; going to my room, I wrote a long
letter to my mother, telling her I should
come soon to pay her the visit which
should have been sooner made had T not
been engrossed with the duty to which J
had vowed ‘myself.

Yes! I had pledged my own heart to
devote myself to the discovery of Henry
Moreland’s murderer ; and if Eleanor her-
self had put her foot on that heart, and
crushed it yet more, I do not know that
I should have held my vow absolved.

I should not have gone to the mansion
that day had not a message been sent,
Jate in the afternoon, that Mr. Burton had
arrived, and expected me to meet him ‘at
tea. I went; and had the pleasure of
seeing little Lenore enthroned by the side
of James, who attended upon her as if
she were a princess, and of being treated
with bare civility by all save Mr. Burton.
Miss Argyll was ill, and did not come
down.

I saw the observant eye of Mr. Burton
watching the intimacy between his daugh-
ter and her new friend ; whether he was
pleased or not I could not decide; the
eye which read the secret thoughts of
other men did not always betray its own
impressions. I was certain, too, that he
observed the change in the demeanor of
the family toward me, and my own con-
strained manner.

 

CHAPTER XII.
THE NIGHT IN MORELAND VILLA.

 

Mr. Burron’s arrival prevented my
fulfilling the intention of sleeping at
Moreland villa that night; I immediately
resolved to defer my explorations until
he could keep me company. The next '!
day he came to my room, and we had, as |
usual when we met, a long talk over |
things past, present and to come. 1 did
not introduce the subject of the mystery |*
at the villa until we had discussed many }
other matters. My companion was pre-
occupied with im:ortant business of his
own—the same wnich had taken him to
Boston ; but his interest was pledged, ai-
most as earnestly as mine, to unmask the
vriminal of the Blankville tragedy, and
uny reference to that sad subiec: was sure
to secure his attention. Luitled we ac-
knowledged ourselves, as we talked to-
gether that morning, but not discouraged.
Mr. Burton told me that he was on the
track of two five-hundred-dollar bills of
the Park Bank, which had left the city
the week after the murder, taking widely-
different flights ; there had one come back
from St. Louis, whose course his agents
were tracing. As for the sewing-girl, she
had the power of vanishing utterly, like
a light extinguished, leaving no trace be-
hind, and her pursuers literally in the
dark. This comparison of the detective
reminded me of the curious light which
had led me, like a Jack-o’-lantern, into a
quagmire of uncertainty; I was about to
begin my account of it, when he gave me
one of those peculiar piercing looks of
his, saying’:

“You have not yet entered into the con-
templated partnership ?”

“No, Mr. Burton; and I hardly think
now that I shall.”

There was some bitterness in my tone
he evinced no surprise, asking, simply :

“ Why?”

“T think James has been chosen to fill
the place.”

“But, he has not been admitted to the
bar.”

“ He is studying a little recently ; prob
ably in order to pass an examination.”

“The wind is changing,” said Mr. Bur-
ton, speaking like the old gentleman in
Bleak House. “I see how the land lies
The goodly and noble Argyll ship is driv-
ing on to the rocks. Mark my words: she
will go to pieces soon! you will see her
ruins strewing the shore.”

“T pray heaven to avert your prophecy.
I hope not to live to see any such sight.”

“How can it be otherwise ?” he exclaim-
ed, rising and pacing to and fro through
my little room, like a caged elephant.
“A spendthrift and a gambler—a man
like that—about to have the helm put in
his hands! But it’s none of my business
—none of my business ; nor much yours,
either “

“Tt ig nine!” | cried; “ I can not help
bu: uake it mine, as if these girls were
ray sisters, and Mr. Argyll my father.
xet,as you sa, .- 18, indeed, nothing to
me. ‘They wil sot allow it to be!”

I droopeu any head on my arms; my
own loss : ..d disappointment was reced-
ing inte ve background before the idea
of thei possible discomfiture. I was
startled Uy the detective bringing his
clenche.i hand down upon the table with
a blow which shook it; he was standing,
looking not at me, but at the wall, as if
he saw some one before him, invisible to
me.

“James Argyll is a singular man—a
singular man! A person ought to be a
panther in cunning and strength to cope ¢
with him. By George, if I don’t look
out, he’ll overreach me yet—with that will
of his. I see everybody about me suc-
cumbing. He's having the game all in
his own hands. By the way, Redfield, I
was a little surprised to see Lenore so fond
of him.”

“Why so, Mr. Burton? James is an
attractive, elegant young man; he has
never had any lack of admirers. It would
rather have been strange if your daugh-
ter had not fancied him. He has been
very good to her.”

“He has, indeed; ’'m sure I ought to be
greatly obliged to all of you. Did 1 ever

 

ge

 
 

tell you taat I place great contidence in
uenore’s intuitive perception of charac-
ter? You know that I have a remarkable
gift that way myself. When I meet peo-
ple I seem to see their minds and not their
bodies--1 can’t help it. Well, I’ve re-
murked the same thing in my child. She
is so young and inexperienced that she

; cannot explain her own impressions ; she

has Ler instantaneous partialities, and I
have noticed that she leans toward true
natures like a flower toward the light, and
away trom the false as if they were
shadows. I hardly expected she would
be so intimate with young Argyll.” »

I remembered the curious effect his first
address had made upon her; but I did
not repeat it to her father. I was sensi-
live about appearing in any manner jeal-
ous of James; if he could win my friends
from me, even that little girl whom I had
loved for her pure sweetness, let them go!
I was too proud to solicit them to recon-
sider their opinions.

“Do you know,” continued my com-
panion, ‘“‘ he is performing a marvel with
my little Lenore? He has gained a great
ascendency over her in these few days.
This morning, for a purpose which you
will realize f considered highly important,
I endeavored, alone with her in my own
apartment, to place her in the clairvoyant
state. For the first time, I failed. Her
mind is no longer a pellucid mirror, re-
flecting truths without color or refraction.
She is under the influence of a counter-
will, as strong as my own—and mine
moves mountains,” he added, with a
augh,

“T shouldn’t think you would like it.”

“TY don’t; but she is going home to-
morrow. I will tell you why I wished to
procure Lenore’s aid again. I have suc-
ceeded in tracing Leesy Sullivan to this
village. She came here the day after we
frightened her from Brooklyn—that is,
she got off the cars at a little station
about six miles from here, not daring to
land at this depot, and, I have no doubt,
started on foot for Blankyille, coming here
in the night.”

“That aunt of hers is in the work,” I
exclaimed. “We are justified in tuking
any step to compel her to own up where
she conceals that girl.”

“Tam convinced that her aunt knows
nothing whatever about her. Has Mrs.
Scott kept a sharp look-out at the villa ?”

“She has not seen her since that first
day; and I believe it would be difficult
for her to set her foot on the place with-
out being discovered, for the woman has
got it into her head that the place is
et and she is on guard night and

ay.

“ Haunted ?”

Mr. Burton sat down and drew up his
chair with an appearance of interest which
led me to recount our experiences at the
villa, and my intention of completing my
researches that night, in his company, if
he had no objecticn. Hesaid, “ Of course;
it would give him pleasure; he liked no-
thing better than an adventure of the
kind.”

In fact, the idea evidently pleased him
immensely ; his face brightened, and after
that, for the rest of the day, for the first
time in our brief’ acquaintance, I saw him
a little flurried and expectant. One of
his mottoes was:

‘* Learn to labor, and to wait.”

His was one of those minds which would
have kept silence seven years, rather than
speak a moment too soon; he was seldom
in a hurry, no matter what was at stake;
but the fancy for lying perdu in a haunt-
ed house, to ‘nab’ a ghost, was a novelt
in his detective experience, which inward-
ly amused him...

He smiled to himself more than once
during the intervening hours. As soon as
tea was over we excused ourselves to the
pty kissed Lenore, and, saying that
Mr. Burton would stay with me all night
we took our departure. I left the conduct
of the proceedings in his hands. When
we reached the cottage, we found Mrs,
Scott disposed to regard the non-fulfillment
of my engagement on the previous night
as proof that I was frightened from the
pursuit; she accepted my excuse, how-
ever, and highly approved of my . oe. .

 

 

a companion in the spiritual dangers which
1 was about to encounter. She made us,
moreover, some of her excellent coffee,
to aid us in keeping awake, and gave us
her prayers for our protection ulong with
the keys of the house.

“Treat a ghost as you would any other
burglar,” said ‘my companion, as we ap-
proached the villa, in the darkness, by the
back entrance. “Steal » march on him
if you can.” “

t was a wild night for an enterprise
like ours. It reminded me of that night
upon which Henry Moreland was mur-
dered. One of those sudden changes in
the weather, common to our climate, had
been transpiring through the day, and
now the warm, wild. wind which brings
in the ‘ January thaw,’ was blowing about
the place, making every loose board creak,
and rubbing the bare branches of the
trees against each other with a grating
sound. Black clouds, with ragged edges,
skurried along the air, with the large stars
looking down between, with wide, bright
eyes, as of fear. While we stood outside,
the great drops began to patter down ,
and presently it was raining violently, as
it rained that night. As gently as if he
were a robber making a felonious en-
trance, Mr. Burton turned the key in the
lock ; we entered the thick darkness of
the house, closed the door, and stole noise-
lessly, I taking the ead, along the stairs
and corridors, until we came to Henry’s
room. This we entered, and, finding
chairs, sat down upon either sie the little
table in absolute silence. But we might
safely have knocked over half the furni-
ture without giving alarm to any inmate
—had there been an inmate of the room
or villa—such a tremendous uproar was
now made by the elements. As the rain
dashed fitfully against the windows, and
the wind shook the solitary building, I
was nearly overpowered with the mem-
ories which the place and the storm so
vivified. I was in a fit mood to become
a convert to a nocturnal specter—in that
hour of gloom and tempest, under the
roof of the murdered, the material world
seemed not so far removed from the awful
and shadowy confines of the spiritual, as
it appeared in the common routine of
daylight life. As my heart thumped loud-
ly with the agitation of feelings almost
too powerful for mortal endurance, I was
glad to consider that my companion was
cool, calm and vigilant. He had no such
memories of the wind and rain to over-
whelm him as I had; this roof was not
the roof of his friend—he did not know
Eleanor.

It was rather impressive to the dullest
imagination to be sitting there at night,
in that empty mansion, in the darkness,
with the storm beating around it, waiting
for—we knew not what. To me, with
my ardent temperament, and under the
peculiar circumstances, it was exciting in
the highest degree.

For a long time there was but one in-
terruption to our silent watch. Mr. Bur-
ton leaned over the table, whispering :

“ Did you hear some one singing ?”

“T heard nothing but the wind, and the
creaking of a tree against the side of the
house, except the rain, that I would be
sure of. Hark !”

I did think I heard a soft, angelic note
of music swelling in the air above me,
but at that moment the tempest redoubled
its clamor, beating out all lesser sounds.

“Unless I am mistaken, there was a
human voice,” he continued, in the same
whisper.

“Or a heavenly one,” I murmured.

I believe Mr. Burton said ‘nonsense!’
but I am not certain. Again there was a
long interval of waiting ; we both leaned
over toward each other at the same in-
stant, as the sound of something shoved
overhead attracted our attentive ears.

“Tt is rats in the garret,” said I. ‘‘ Mrs.
Scott says they are in the house.”

“TJ hardly think it was rats; but we will
wait awhile.”

Mr. Burton had pki a lamp and
matches, so that we could have a light
when we wished it ; if we heard any thing
more overhead, I knew he would examine
the attic. There was a lull in the rain;
as we sat expectant, the pushing sound

 

 

af

was shortly followed by a light, regular
patter, as of soft footsteps, along the floor
of the garret. I had heard rats make
precisely similar sounds traversing a ceil-
ing; and though my heart beat a little
faster, I was still quite certain it was these
troublesome vermin.

The next thing which fixed our atten-
tion was a glimmer of light. I think the
most spectral visitant could hardly have
affected me as did that sudden ray of
light, shooting through the key-hole and
under the bottom of the door. Silently it
crept along over the carpet, moving as if
the object which threw it was carried in
the hand of a person walking. I do not
know exactly what I did expect when it
paused in front of the door, except that
the door would open, and I should see—
the mystery. An instant of suspense—
then the flickering light wavered and
moved around to the opposite angle from
that at which it had first appeared—it
was going through the corridor and down
the stairs.

“All right,” breathed my companion,
in a scarcely audible whisper. “ Wait!”

The hand which he laid on my own
was cold with excitement. As the last
yellow gleam trembled and disappeared,
the elements conspired in a grand attack
upon our citadel ; we could hear nothing
but the roar of their artillery—the tramp
of their battalions. We waited perhaps
five minutes.

“Now,” and I arose, following Mr.
Burton through the darkness, as he silent-
ly opened the door, crossed the corridor,
and, leaning over the railing, looked down
into the lower hall. We could see noth-
ing, until, as we descended the stairs, a
faint effulgence from some distant room
penetrated the obscurity. With cautious
steps we followed it up through the hall
and library, to the family room, from
which, it will be recollected, Mrs. Scott
assured me she had heard mysterious
noises. The door was open a little dis- -
tance, but not sufficiently to give us a
view of the interior. As we paused on
the threshold we heard a sigh—a deep,
long-drawn, tremulous sigh. With a deft
Hand my companion pushed the door
ajar, so that we could step in, and we both
silently entered. This room, in summer,
was the favorite sitting-room of Mrs.
Moreland ; and here, upon the walls, she
had the portraits, life-size, in oil, of her
little family. In front of us, as we step-
ped in, hung the likeness of Henry More-
land. Before it stood a woman, one hand
holding aloft a lighted candle, in a small
chamber candlestick, the other pressed
upon her heart, as if to keep down those
painful sighs. Motionless, rapt, absorbed
she stood; we made no sound, and if we
had, I do not think she would have heard.
us; her back was toward us; the light
was thrown full on the picture upon which
her gaze was bent.

The woman was Leesy Sullivan. I
knew her at once, though her face was
turned from us. Here, at last, we had
found the fugitive we sought, haunting
the home of the man of whose murder
my thoughts accused her, standing before
his portrait, in the dead of night, unwit-
ting who were the witnesses of her secret,
as she betrayed it now. How she had
obtained access to the villa, or how long
she had been its inmate, I left to future
inquiry to develop—the present scene was
all-engrossing.

A long—long—long time she stood
there; we did not interrupt her; it was
probably the expectation that she would
utter some soliloquy which would be of
importance to us, as revealing what was
on her mind, which kept my companion ,
quiet. She said nothing, however ; only
drawing those deep sighs; until, at the
last, she set the light on the little table
beneath the picture, and, lifting up both
hands with a passionate gesture toward it,
sobbed one word—* Henry !”

Then, slowly, as if her eyes refused to
leave the object of their attraction, she
began toturnaway. We had one instant’s
glance at her face before she discovered
us; there was a burning spot upon either
thin_cheek, and two great tears, frozen,
as it were, upon her eyelids ; and a tremu-
lous curve to the full, red lins of the tender

 
 

 

 

 

 

    
 

|

,
!

ed

 

and beautiful mouth, as if they quivered
with grief and love. There was nothing
wild or severe about her at that moment.
Turning, slowly, she perceived 1.8, stand-
ing there in the shadow—two cruel men,
hunting her even in this sacred solitude.
That was the feeling she gave us by the
look which passed over her countenance;
I felt ashamed and unjustified until I
forced myself to recollect all.

She did not scream; she had passed
through too many shocks and vicissitudes
to betray any fright; she only turned
white, and put her hand on the table to
steady herself.

“You two men haye come here at last,
have you? Why do you interfere with
me? It’s only a little while I have to
stay, and I want peace.”

“Peace only comes with a pure con-
science,” said Mr. Burton, sternly. “ What
are you doing here in this house ?”

“T know I have no right here; but
where else will you let me stay? Not
even by his grave—no, not even by his

rave! You want to drag me forth be-

ore the world, to expose my foolish secret,
which I have hidden from everybody—to
put me in prison—to murder me! This
is the business of you two men; and you
have the power, I suppose. I am so poor
and friendless it makes me a fit object for
your persecution. Well, if you can jus-
tify yourselves, do as you will with me |!”

She folded her hands, looking us full
in the face with eyes which absolutely
blazed.

“Tf you had no guilty secret, why did
you fly from friends and enemies? Why
did you not seek an interview and expla-
nation which would have been satisfactory
to us?” asked Mr. Burton.

“You would not believe me if I told

‘ou the reason,” she said, scornfully. “It
1s not in the minds of men—the gross,
suspicious minds of men—to conceive or
credit my excuse. I will not make it to
such people.”

Really, there was a majesty about the

irl which quite awed me. ‘As she con-

‘onted us, the undaunted spirit sparkling
‘ through her slight, wasted face and form,
compelled a sort of acquiescence in me.
I was not the one to subdue or handle this
powerful nature. Mr. Burton was.

“This is not the proper hour, nor the
roper place, to enter into explanations,
Miss Sullivan. You must go with me to
Mrs. Scott’s cottage ; she will care for you
until morning, and then we will have a
talk together. You will not find me
harsh ; nor shall I take any step without
good cause. All I want is the truth—and
that I am bound to have.” .

“Let me stay here to-night; I promise
oy I will not attempt to leave the place.

will wait here until you see fit to come
in the morning.”

“T can not; there is too much at stake,”
he said, with determination.

“Then let me go and get the child,”
she said.

She took up the lamp and we followed
her; up and along to the garret staircase,
mounting the.narrow steps which led into
the attic. There, upon the pile of mat-
tresses which I have mentioned as lying
in the corner, reposed the baby-girl before
spoken of, sleeping sweetly, as only infancy
can rest.

“We were under this when you paid
us a Visit, the otber day,” said Leesy., with
a sort of bittersmile. “ T had hard work
to keep baby from crying out. She did
make a fuss at last; you said it was a
cat.”

“ How sound the little creature sleeps,”
said.the detective. He had a gentle heart,
which shrunk from disturbing the slum-
bering infant.

“Tt’s too bad to startle her up so,” mur-
mured her nurse.

“Yes, itis, I'll tell you what we will
do. We will lock you up here, and keep
guard in the chamber until morning, if
that pleases you.”

“T don’t care to take Norah out in the
storm,”

“Tell me one thing,” said Mr. Burton,
his bright eye fixing itself on her own,
“are you the mother of that babe ?”

For a moment she answered his look
with one of astonishment; then the rosy

 

blood rushed up to neck, cheek and brow
—a virgin blush, which showed all the
soft and girlish side of her character.

“ Am I Norah’s mother?” she repeated.
“T thought you knew I was not a married
woman.”

The detective stood, a little embarrass-
ed by the perfect simplicity of her reply.

“Tt is understood to be your deceased
cousin’s child—an orphan, I believe,” he
said. ‘“ Well, Miss Sullivan, we will leave
you here, undisturbed, for the remainder
of the night.”

We descended to the second floor, turn-
ing the key upon the little store-room
which inclosed the garret staircase, well
satisfied to keep guard until morning,
since we had secured the mysterious in-
mate of the haunted house.

CHAPTER XIII.
THE SHADOW ASSUMES SHAPE.

WE now lighted our lamp, and, finding
a light cane sofa in the hall, nearly oppo-
site the locked door, we took seats, and
kept ourselves awake by talking. The
storm had subsided into the monotonous
patter of a steady rain.

“T am surprised,’ said Mr. Burton,
“that you did not at once comprehend
the secret of this house. The moment
you spoke the word ‘haunted,’ I knew
how our investigations would end. It
solved a mystery which has bothered me
for some time. I knew that Leesy Sulli-
van was here, in this vicinity ; the exact
hiding-place was all I wanted to know;
and when you mentioned Moreland villa,
T said to myself, ‘that’s it? All I was
then afraid of was, that she would again
elude us, before we could lay hands on
her, And in fact,” he added, laughingly,
“T hardly feel sure of hernow. She may
sublime through the ceiling before morn-
ing.”
“T did not think of her, Mr. Burton; I
was quite sure some person was playing
some game, either of mischief or worse,
about the villa; but how could T be cer-
tain, when two thorough daylight examin-
ations failed to reveal any thing? There
did not seem to be a place at which a per-
son could enter the house; and as for a
woman and child being actual inmates,
living and subsistmg here for weeks—I
think nothing but absolute proof could
have convinced me cof the marvel. I am
curious to know how she managed it.”

“T ought to have vdine right here at
first,” continued my friend, pursuing his
train of thought. “Women are like
mother-birds, when boys approach the
nest. They betray themselves and their
cherished secret by fluttering alout the
spot. If this Miss Sullivan had been a
man, she would have been in Kansas or
California by this time; being a woman,
TI ought to have looked for her in exactly
the place it would seem natural for her to
avoid. One thing is certain—she loved
young Moreland with an intensity beyond
the strength of most women, I have had
to do with natures like hers before—
where a powerful brain is subservient to
a ‘still more powerful emotional force.
She was proud, ambitious, discontented,
with tastes and perceptions reaching up
into a much higher sphere of life. Miss
Sullivan would have made a magnificent
heiress and pet daughter; yet in love she
would be humble, self-abnegating—give
all and count it nothing. It’s a sad pity
such a capacity for happiness should have
brought only ruin !”

“Tf she had loved Henry, how could
she, under any impulse of jealousy, have
injured him?” She is terrible to me in any
view of the case.”

“TJ do not know that she did injure him,
or cause him to be harmed. Cireum-
stances are against her. But I am far
from believing her the guilty person. Yet
I am exceedingly anxious to have a quiet
interview with her. I must see her and
talk with her alone. She is frightened
now, and defiant. I shall soothe her—
magnetize her will, as it were—and draw
from her the truth. Every atom of knowl-
edge which she has, in any way connect-
ed with Henry Moreland, I shall draw

t

new ONL: ALN seh aeH anne pure aety

HE FIRESIDE LIBRARY.

@

 

 

 

from her, and consolidate into one mass,
to be used for or against her. If you
have the reliance upon my judgment
which I flatter myself you have, Richard,
you will not object to my seeing Miss
Sullivan alone, and deciding, upon that
interview, whether there are causes for
getting out a warrant for her arrest, as a
party to the murder.”

“J shall not object.
to see her alone; and I have the utmost
confidence in you. I suppose Mr. Argyll
and Henry’s father would be the proper
persons to decide upon the arrest and
prosecution.”

“ Of course. And if, after I have talk-
ed with her, I can elicit no facts to war-
rant her being put on trial for her life, I
shall not give her her liberty until I have
consulted both families, laying all my evi-
dence before them. They will be loth to
begin a prosecution which they can not
sustain, even if they have an dmpression
of guilt. By the way, Redfield, these
impressions are curious things! Suppos-
ing I should tell you there are persons
who, without one particle of proof of any
kind, bave an impression that you are the
guilty man.”

I arose from the sofa, looking at him,
not knowing whether or not to knock
him down.

“Don’t ‘slay me with a look,” he said,
laughing quietly. “I don’t say that Z
haye any such inner revelation. And I
did not say this, either, to hurt your feel-
ings. I did it to save them. For, if I

mistake not, the same person who con- °

fided his impressions to me, has recently
been gradually confiding them to others.
The very thought, the very possibility,
once ertertaihed, or half-entertained and
driven away again, as an unwelcome
guest, still has “ts injurious influence
You are standing upon an earthquake,
Richard—you may be swallowed up any
instant.”

“ a 7

“Yes. J have detected the premoni-
tory rumblings. I have said this only to
warn you, that you may be ready for self-
defense.”

“Yscorn to defend myself! Defend
myself, forsooth! against what? Who
has dared to insinuate that thought against
me which you have allowed. yourself to
echo? But I need not ask—it is my natu-
ral foe, James Argyll. He hates me as
the rattlesnake hates the black-ash tree !”

“Well, the dislike is mutual. Will you
deny that you, too, have had a thought—
mind, I say a mere, floating thought—
that He may have instigated the deed ”

My conscious eye sunk before the steel-
blue glance which pierced me. God
knows such a fear, such a belief, at times
vague and shadowy, again vivid but brief
as lightning, had again and again troubled
me. I have hinted at it once, when I said
that I was glad that if James ever took
money, unpermitted, from his uncle, he
took it to waste at the gaming-table. Soon
T raised my eyes.

“Tf T have had such a suspicion, I have
struggled against it; Ihave never breathed
it into mortal ear. He has sought to in-
jure me in various ways; I have wished
to win and conciliate bim ; to be friendly
with him, for the sake of my regard for
his relatives. As to taking a step to fix a
blasting stigma upon him, without giving
him a chance openly to efface it, I am in-
capable of it. You are at liberty to judge
between us, Mr. Burton.”

“You know that I do not like him,”
answered my companion. “ But no aver-
sion which I may feel for him shall pre-
vent my weighing all facts which come
under my observation, with the utmost
impartiality.

dark end, though you, yourself, abandon
it. Justice shall be meted out—justice
shall be meted out! If the bolt strike the
loftiest head in all this aristocratic vicinity,
it shail fall where it belongs!”

He left the sofa, walking up and down
the corridor with a stern, thonghtful face.
As for me, I sunk back on my seat, over-
whelmed by the confirmation of a thou-
sand times more than my worst fears,
Suspicion of me was ereeping, like a
shadow, over the Argyll household, I

It is your privilege ©

J am on the right track, in |
this pursuit, and I shail follow it up to the ,

 
had felt its approach Tong ago; now my
whole being grew cold, freezing, except
one burning spasm of indignation which
throbbed in my breast.

As the gray dawn approached, the rain
ceased. Morning was long in coming.
As soon as it grev ight enough to see, [
heard the gardener cutting woud for the
fire, and shortly after 1 walked over, at
Mr. Burton’s request, to ask for some
breakfast for the woman and child. I
will not describe the garrulous astonish-
ment of the husband and wife upon my
announcement that the ghost was corner-
ed, and proved to be Leesy Sullivan. Of
course the evil omen of hearing children
crying was now explained, as well as the
disappearance of a considerable quantity
of flour, condiments and apples, which
Mrs. Scott had charged to the rats.

It went sorely against the inclination
of formal, correct Mrs. Scott, to furnish a
comfortable breakfast to “such a jade as
that seemed likely to prove; behavin’ in
this style, which nobody on ’arth could
account for ;” but the gratification of her
feminine curiosity was some reward for
the outrage to her sensibilities, and she
went, with great expedition, to carry the
desired refreshments to the prisoners.

When we entered the attic, in the light
of the rising sun, Miss Sullivan was sit-
ting quietly on the edge of the mattresses,
curling little Norah’s flaxen hair around
her fingers. An obstinate reticence mark-
ed her looks and actions; she scarcely re-
plied to any of Mrs. Scott’s inquiries—
only, when the comfort of the child was
concerned. For hey she took some of the
warm food and tea, quietly feeding the
eager little girl, while we made a survey
of her surroundings.

I now ascertained that a small sky-light,
hidden’ from outside view by the chim-
neys and ornamental work of the battle-
ments, had given egress to the mysterious
brightness which had hovered so frequent-
ly over the roof. The tenant of this great
house had evidently arranged herself for
the winter. She had chosen the attic as
a place of greatest safety, in the case of
parties entering the deserted dwelling for
any purpose; here she had brought a tiny
eharcoal-furnace, used in the basement in
summer for heating smoothing irons,
which she supplied with fuel frem the
stock Jeft over in the cellar. The provi-
sions left in the house had served her
wants equally well. It was evident that
by the exercise of extreme care and vigi-
lance, leaving the house only in the dark-
ness of the night, she might have remain-
ed here for a considerable tonger time
undisturbed in her novel seclusion, had
not the light, which she had never ven-
tured to burn until all was dark and silent
in the little cottage, by chance first at-
tracted the curiosity which led finally to
discovery.

Mr. Burton took a cup of tea and a roll,
brought to him there; and then, at his
request, he was left alone with the silent
woman, who sat there with resolute
brows and lips firmly closed, as if locked
over her thoughts. pralie

“Jt will require all his diplomacy to
wile her into a communicative mood,”
was my decision, as I took a parting
glance at her face. I was chilled with
my night’s watching, and chilled more
utterly by the words the detective had
spoken to me as I watched; I returned to
the cottage fire, sitting there three hours,
in a painful reverie, answering almost at
random the remarks of the housekeeper.

At the close of the three hours Mr. Bur-
ton came into the little dwelling, carrying
Norah on his arm, who was stroking his
cheek with her chubby hand, and_ fol-
lowed by the sewing-girl, whose cheeks
bore traces of tears, and whose hunted,
defiant look had given place to a deject-
ed, aemtle expression.

“Mrs. Scott, I want you to do me a
kindness,” he said, in his authoritative,
persuasive manner, to which people sel-
dom thought it worth while to object.
“T want you to take care of Miss Sulli-
yan and this little cousin of hers, until
I send them word they are wanted. It
may be ou) or not for a week. In the
mean time, if you have any sewing to be

 

eer

29

 

done for yourself or your little Johnny,
she will be glad to help you.”

“She’s welcome to stay, I’m sure,”
said the woman, in a tone not quite so
sure.

“Thank you. I knew I could ask a
favor of you. Johnny, come here, and
make Miss Norah’s acquaintance. I’m
ready, Richard, if you are, to return. to
the village. Lenore will wonder what
lias become of us, Good-morning, all.”

We walked away.

“Are you not afraid to leave that girl
unguarded, after all the trouble slte has
given us?”

“She will stay there; she has promised
me. If she chooses to run away, now, it
is a matter of no consequence. I am
perfectly, entirely convinced that she is
innocent of any participation in the mur-
der of Henry Moreland; or any know)-
edge of the murderer—except, upon one
point, I could use her testimony. I shall
give my opinion to Mr. Argyll, with my
grounds for it; if he chooses to arrest her,
she will be there at the cottage. Richard,
this affair has gone as far as it caa! I
shall tell Mr. Argyll, to-day, that 1 have
withdrawn from it—that I giveitup. But
Lam willing you should understand that I
have not dropped it entirely—that I shall
still retain my interest in it—still secretly
ao my investigations, which I believe
I can carry on to the best advantage if all
parties believe that I have given the mat-
ter up. Are you satisfied ?”

“Tf ] and not, what difference does it
make? It is not for me to dictate your
course. I believe that you think it is the
best one.”

“T do. So will you some day, if we
live to see the termination of this thing.
In the mean time, I am your friend, Rich-
ard, whether I give any outward signs of
friendship very soon or not. You are at
liberty to devote yourself to the cause as
ardently as ever—and if you ever wish to
consult me, you will find me what. you
now know me.”

I felt strangely as we walked along to-
gether. He talked as if he thought some
change were coming—as if things were to
assume new shupes—as if I were to need
friendship, and yet as if he should be
compelled to conceal his for me behind a
mask of coldness. I did not understand
it. I felt half-offended with him, and
wholly disheartened.

I dined with him at Mr. Argyll’s. It
was the last time I sat at that table.

In the afternoon he had a private inter-
view with the family, from which I was
excluded ; and in the evening he returned
to the city, taking with him Lenore, the
last wave of whose hand was for James,
her last kiss for Miss Argyll.

The next morning Mr. Argyll informed
me that he had resolved to make his ne-
phew his partner in the practice of the
law, and that I was at liberty to take ad-
vantage of any other opportunity I might
have for going into business for myself.
His manner was cold; he expressed no
regrets for my probable disappointment,
caused by his own suggestions; I could
feel myself dismissed from his friendship
as well as his office. I would not ask
why. My tongue grew dry as ashes when
I thought of attempting % Mr. Burton
had given me the clue to the feelings
which prompted this rnpiure of a life-long
friendship—it was such as to forbid any
questions. No explanations could. be
made—nothing could obli.erate the mem-
ory of so deadly a wrong as they were

- committing upon me. The golden bowl

of friendship was bioken at the fountain
—the waters spilled upon the ground.

I told him that I had contemplated a
visit to my mother, which I would take
this o portunity to make. I might find
what. wished for, in the way of business,
in the vicinity of my father’s former
home; when, with formal thanks for his
past kindness (which I was mentally
vowing I would find some means torepay,)
and begging him to trouble himself not
at all about my fortunes, 1 bowed myeelf
from the office where I had spent so
much of the last three years of my life.

Blind, dizzy cold, I went to my board
ing-house to pack my trunks.

efore I wont to bed, my few arrange

1

 

ments were completed. My clothes, books,
the few little articles of taste, or gifts of
friends, allowable in one small rented
room, were easily put away in their trav-
eling receptacle. But, as for the rest!—
for the wealth which my heart had silent-
ly garnered during the golden harvest of
its youth—where was it? Swept away-as
by a mighty wind.

I slept some, for I was thoroughly worn
out by my emotions, no less than by my
recent vigils; but the earliest morning
found me awake. I was to leave at noon;
I had many pleasant acquaintances in the
village, from whom I ought not to have
parted without a farewell call; but all
these small. pleasures and courtesies of
life were swept aside, as sand upon my
path. I had nothing to do, all the tedious
morning, save to pretend to eat my break-
fast, until the hour which I had set in my
‘thoughts for saying good-by to the girls.

I would not go away without seeing
them, if there was any accusation in their
eyes 1 would confront it. And then, I
did not believe that Eleanor would do me
an injustice. Blue-eyed, just, gentle as
was her character, she, at least, was grieved
for me—believed in me. I did not admit
to myself how much comfort I drew from
this faith, until I was startled from it.
My baggage was dispatched; my watch
told eleven; I passed the house 6n the
way to the cars, giving myself afew min-
utes for this farewell. As I knocked at
the door, one of the servants opened it.
[ sent her to ask Miss Argyll if she would
come down to say yooa-by, before I left
on my visit to my mother; and Mary—I
would like to see her also.

While 1 waited for them, I stepped into
the dear, familiar parlors and library,
mutely taking my leave of them, with all
their mingled associations. Presently the
messenger returned :

“Miss Argyll sent her farewell; she
could not see Mr. Redfield that morn-
ing.”

“ Where is she ?”

“Tn the breakfast-room, looking at her
flowers,”

I started for the room in a wild tumult
of anger and passion, resolved to make
her confess the reason of this treatment.
Surely, three years of an intimacy like
ours, gave me the right. In three minutes
I confronted her where she stood, in the
door between the breakfast-room and con-
servatory, like a statue draped in crape.

““Kleanor !”

She shrunk back ; she held up her hands
with an expression of horror. My God!
that look in Eleanor’s eyes was enough
to kill me. I turned away as hastily as I
had come. As I stumbled along the pas-
sage, half blind with the terrible surging
and throbbing of the blood through me,
a soft pair of arms fell about my neck, a
cheek wet with tears was pressed to mine
—it was Mary.

“ Never mind what they say about you,
Richard,” she sobbed. ‘I do not believe
one word of it—not one word! I never
shall. Iam yourfriend. I love you; in-
deed I do. J do not want you to go
away,” and she kissed me twice or thrice,

I took the sweet face in my cold hands,
looked into the brimming eyes, hastily
kissed the blushing cheek—‘ God bless
you, Mary,” said I, and was gone.

END OF PART FIRST.

PART II.

CHAPTER L
THE LETTER.

fg reader can now understand why
it an that I turned cold with excite-
ment as I sat there in the dead-letter
office, holding the time-stained epistle in
my hand. Every word burned itself into
my brain. Obscure as it was—non-com-
mittal—directed to an unknown person
of a neighboring village—I yet felt asswr-
ed that those vague hints had reference
to the sinful oe, which had occurred
October 17th, 1857. Here was placed

 
 

 

 

 

 

 
 
 
 
 
  

 

 

fo si

in my hands—at last !—a clue to that
mystery which I had once sworn to un-
ravel. Yet, how slender was the clue,
which might, after all, lead me into still
profounder labyrinths of doubt and: per-
plexity! As can tbibelods it seemed to
break and vanish in my fingers. Yet,
felt, in spite of this, an inward sense that
T held the key which was surely to wnlock the
anful secret. I can never rightly express
the feelings which, for the first few mo-
ments, 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 the convic-

- tion of a speedy triumph which was to

come after long suffering. Larose, clutch-
ed my hat, and went forth from the De-
partment, to return to it no more, for the
present. Half the night I sat in my
room, at my boarding-place, looking at
that letter, on the table before me.

Before I proceed further with its his-
tory, I will give, in a few words, the
brief, monotonous record of my life, since
I was driven—driven is the word you
must use, Richard, haughty and sensitive
though you may be—from the friendship
and presence of the Argylls, and from
my prospects of a long-cherished set-
tlement in life. I made the visit to my
mother. She was shocked at the change
in iffe, and grieved that I withheld my
confidence from her. But, I did not feel
in a confiding mood. The gentleness of
my nature had been hardened; I was
bitter, sneering, skeptical; nor from my
own mother would I accept the sympathy
which my chilled heart seemed no longer
to crave. Only one thing saved me from
utter loathing of humanity, and that was
the memory of Mary’s face, as she had
sought me at parting. In those sweet
eyes were trust and love; the tears which
streamed down and fell upon her bosom,
the quiver of her lip, the sobs and fond
werdss attested to the sorrow with which
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-
understood partnership was not to be
entered into. But, she did not press me
for explanations. She waited for me to tell
herall, patiently ; ministering to my health
and comfort, meanwhile, as a widowed
mother will minister to 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 mind and
nerves produced its sure result—a reac-
tion took place, and I fell sick. It was
in the softer mood which came over me,
as I was convalescing from this illness,
that I finally told my mother all the
dreadful story of the influences which
had broken up my connection with the
Argylls. Her grief for me, her indigna-
tion against my enemy or enemies, was
what might have been expected. I could
hardly restrain her from starting at once
for Blankville, to stand before her old
friend, the triend of my father, and accuse
him, face to face, of the wrong he had
done her boy. But, out of this i persuad-
ed her. I asked her if she did not see
that the wrong was irreparable? I could
not forgive it. It did not admit of being
talked about; let the cloud drop between
them and us; our paths were henceforth
apart. To this she finally yielded; and, if
there could have been any balm to my
wounded pride and still more deeply
wounded affections, I should have found
it in the enhanced, touching, almost too-
perfect tenderness with which my parent
sought to make up to me that which 1
had lost. e

For a few weeks I abandoned myself
to her healing attentions. Then I set my-
sclt resolutely to find work both for hands
and mind, My mother wag not without
influential friends. As I have said, my
fortunes were somewhat nipped by my
futher’s untimely death, but our family
and associations were among the best.
We had a relative in power at Washing-

ton. ‘To him I applied for a clerkship,

and received, in answer, the situation I
was filling, at the time when that dead-
letter came so strangely into my hands.

 

 

It may be thought improbable that T
should abandon the profession for which
T had studied with so much zeal. But,
the very memory of that zeal, and of the
hopes which had stimulated it, now gave
me a dislike to the law. I required both
change of scene and of pursuits. The
blow dealt at my heart had stunned my
ambition, also. To one of my tempera-
ment, aspiration, acquisitiveness, all the
minor passions and pursuits of life are
but steps leading up the hillside, to the
rose-crowned summit, where love sits
smiling under the eye of heaven. And I,
being, for the time at least, blasted pre-
maturely, was no more myself, but was
to myself like a stranger within my own
sanctuary. I went into the dead-letter
office, and commenced my routine of
breaking seals and registering contents, as
if I had been born for that business. I
was a rapid worker, quiet, and well-
thought of by my associates, who deemed
me a little cold and skeptical, a trifle
reserved, very steady for so young a fellow,
and an efficient clerk who thoroughly
earned my salary. That was all they
knew of Richard Redfield. And in those
days, I did not know much more about
myself. The months had worn away,
one after the other, with a dreary cold-
ness. In the summer I struggled through
the suffocating dust; in the winter I
picked my way through the disgusting
mud, to and fro, from my lodgings to the
office buildings; that was about all the
change which the seasons brought to me,
whom once the smell of spring violets
filled with pungent delight, and the odor
of June roses made happy as a God on
aa

alf the night, I sat brooding over that
brief revelation, so precious to me, yet so
loathsome. The longer I pondered its
words the less vivid grew my hope of
making any triumphant use of it for the
detection of the two guilty persons—the
one who wrote it, and the one to whom
it was addressed. I might lay the letter
before Mr. Argyll, but he might not feel,
as I did, that it had any connection with
the murder, neither was there any thing
to prove but that the missive might have
been directed to me. Indeed, Mr. Argyll
might well inquire how I could pretend
that it should have reached me through
the routine of the dead-letter department,
after all this stretch of time—very nearly
two years!

This was a matter which puzzled me
exceedingly. In the ordinary course of
affairs, it would, if not claimed, have been
forwarded to Washington three months
after its reception at Peekskill, and have
long ago been consigned to the waste-bas-
ket and the flames. The hand of an over-
ruling Providence seemed to be moving
the men in this terrible game. At that
hour I recognized it, and felt a solemn
conviction that, sooner or later, the mur-
derer would be checkmated. It was
this assurance, more than any evidence
contained in the letter, which gave me
hope that it would eventually be the in-
strument of punishment to the guilty. I
remembered the vow I had once made to
my soul, never to rest in the peace of my

- own pursuits, until I had dragged the

slayer of the innocent into the awful
presence of Justice. That vow I had
neglected to fulfill to the uttermost, partly
because of the injury which had been
done to my self-love, and also because
the circumstances which had attached
suspicion to me, in the eyes of those in
terested, had made it dangerous for me to
move in a matter when all my motives
were misconstrued. But now that Fate
had interposed in this singular manner, in
my behalf and in that of Truth, I took
fresh courage. I was fully startled from
my apathy. That night I wrote my resig-
nation to the Department, gathered up my
few effects again, and the next. morning
found me on the way to New York.

My first purpose was to consult Mr.
Burton. I had not seen him since that
day when we parted in Blankville; I
bo knew, by accident, that he was still
a resident of New York, having casually
heard his name mentioned in connection
with a case which had brought some de-

 

tectives on to Washington only a few
weeks previous.

I had never forgiven or understood the
part he had played in that last interview
with the Argylls. I remembered the as-
surance he bad given me of friendship,
but I did not believe that he had shown
any friendship for me, in that consulta-
tion with the relatives, or the results
would not have been so disastrous to me
Nevertheless, I felt a confidence in him
he was the man for the emergency, and
to him I would take the letter. I thought
it quite probable, that in the multiplicit
of new interests, the circumstances which
had once brought us so much together
had faded from his mind, and that I
should have to reawaken his recollection
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, I called at the
house at the earliest admissible hour.

While I was handing my card to the
servant, his master came out of the library
at the end of the hall, and hastening for-
ward, shook me heartily by the hand.
His joyous tones were better evidence of
his pleasure at seeing me, than even his
words, which were cordial enough. —

“T heard your voice, Richard,” he said,
‘and did not wait for you to be ushered
+n with the formalities. Welcome, my
‘riend ;” his expression was as if he had
said— Welcome, my son.’

He led me into the library, and, placing
me in an arm-chair, sat down opposite ine,
looking at me with the well-remembered
piercing shafts of those 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 suppose
you are aware that I have been a clerk in
the dead-letter office for the last eighteen
months.”

“T was aware of it. I never intended
to let you slip out of the numbered rosary
of my friends, and lose you so entirely as,
not even to know your whereabouts.’ i

“ Day-before-yesterday this letter ar-
rived at the office, and I chanced to be
the clerk who opened it.”

I handed him the missive. He ex-
amined the envelope attentively, before
unfolding the sheet within; and as he
continued to hold it in his hand, and gaze
at it, one of those wonderful changes
passed over his countenance that I had
remarked on some previous important oc-
casions. His practiced 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 sat holding
it, gazing at it, lost in thought, and
evidently forgetful of my presence. A
stern pallor settled gradually over his
usually placid face; at last he looked up,
and sceing me, recalled his surroundings
to his recollection :

“Tt is sad to be made to feel that such
creatures live and flourish,” he said, almost
despondingly ; “ but,” as his face bright-
ened, “{ can not say how glad I am to
get hold of this. It partially explains
some things which I have already found
out. The chance which threw this docu-
ment into your hands, was a marvelous
one, Richard.”

“ However simple the explanation may

rove to be, I shall always regard it as
Providential,”

“ All things are Providential,” said my
companion, “ none less, and none more
go. Causes will have their effects. But
now, as tothe writer of this—I am glad
T have a specimen of the villain’s hand-
writing ; it will enable 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. He is
about thirty years of age, rather short
and broad-shouldered, muscular; has
dark complexion and black eyes; the
third finger of his right hand has been
injured, so as to contract the muscles and

 

 
 

leave it useless. He has some education,
which he has acquired by hard study
since he grew up to be his own master.
Wis childhood was passed in ignorance,
in the midst of the worst associations;
and his own nature is almost utterly de-
praved. He is bad, from’ instinct, inheri-
tance and bringing-up; and now, our
blessed Redeemer, himself, would hardly
find good enough in him, to promise a
hope of ultimate salvation. It is curious
that he should ever have seen fit to study,
so as to acquire even the smattering of
knowledge which he has. He must have
been led into it by some powerful passion.
If I could decide what that passion was,
I might have a key to unlock the gate
into some other matters.”

I stared at the speaker in astonishment
as he rapidly pronounced the above
analysis of the personal appearance and
character of the writer.

“Do you know him ?” T asked.

“T do not know his name, and I have
never met him. All the acquaintance I
have with him, I have made through the
medium of his chirography. It is suffi-

-cient for me; I can not mistake,”—then,

observing my puzzled and incredulous
look, he siniled, as he added: “ By the
way, Richard, you are not aware of my
accomplishment in the art of reading
men and women from a specimen of their
handwriting. It is one of 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 unwearied
observation, with naturally quick percep-
tions, are the only witchcraft use. With
moderate natural abilities, I assert that
any other person could equal me in this
art (black art, some of my acquaintances
regard it,) by giving the same time to it
that a musician would to master an in-
strument.”

“T do not know about that, Mr. Bur-
ton. I guess it would take a mind of the
singular composition of your own, to
make much out of an art with no rules
and no foundations.”

“Tt has its rules, for me. But as proof
is better than Senet show me any
letters or scraps of writing you may have
about you. I would like to satisfy you,
before we proceed further, for I do not
wish you to feel that you are working
with a crack-brained individual, who is
riding a hobby at your expense.” }

T emptied my inside coat-pocket of its
contents, among which were several let-
ters—one from my mother, a note from my
unele in Washington, an invitation from an
old college-chum to attend his wedding in
Boston, and two or three business epistles
from casual acquaintances—one, I remem-
ber, an entreaty from a young man, to
get him something to do in that magnetic
center of all unemployed particles—-
Washington. Of these, t veviéslonl to him
only the superscription and signature,
with, perhaps, some unimportant  sen-
tence, which would, in no way, of itself,
betray the characters or pursuits of the.
writers. I need not describe my sur-
prise when, in each instance, he gave a
careful and accurate description of the
age, appearance, habits, profession and
mental qualities of the person whose
handwriting he had examined.

T could hardly credit my own senses ;
there must be some ‘2ecus-pocus’ about it,
as in the tricks which jugglers play with
cards. But my respect for the earnest-
ness of my companion’s pursuits, and the
indubitable nature of his proof, did not
allow me to doubt any length of time. I
became a believer in /is facts, and I give
these facts to my readers, at the risk of
seeing the plain, sensible nose of the ma-
jority turned up with an expression of
skepticism, mortifying to me. Mr. Bur-
ton’s character is a real one, and the truth
of his wonderful achievements will be-
come history.

The terrible interest of the subject
which had brought us together did not
permit us to spend much time in these
interesting but irrelevant experiments.
We discussed the past and present. Mr.
Burton assured me that he had never, for
a day, lost sight of the case—that his in-

 

ee Lees eT

terest in it had deepened, rather than
lessened; that he had not been idle during
all this long period; but that he had
already gathered up a fact or 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 gone with consumption to
exert herself much with the needle. The
child was with her, healthy and pretty.

I made no inquiries after James Argyll,
but he told me that the young man came
frequently to the city; that, for a while,
he had seemed dispirited, and gambled
desperately, but that lately he was look-
ing and behaving better.

“Tt is my impression,” added he, “that
he is about to marry one of his cousins—
probably the youngest. And as to his
bad habits, I caused him to understand,
indirectly, that if they were not reformed,
he should be convicted. of them, before
his uncle. This I did (after I became
convinced that he would marry one of
the young ladies) out of compassion to
the family.” ~ :

My head drooped on my hand. It was
jong since I had any tidings of the Ar-
gylls--death could hardly have created
a more barren space between us. Yet
now ihat I heard the names of the girls
mentioned, a flood of old emotions broke
over me, heneath 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 a man like James. I felt as
if it ought to be prevented, yet how could
l interfere? Why should [ wish to? I
recalled the howr when she had flown
to me—had said, “J believé in you,
Richard, J love you!” and I knew that I
had put a construction upon the tearful,
passionate words of that-last avowal,
which was, after all, not warranted. I
had feared that she did really love me,
and that, in the last moment of sorrow
and trouble, her feelings had betrayed
themselves to her own comprehension—
and I had felt a hope that it was not so.
My own unanswered passion—my lonely,
uumated life—had taught me sympathy ;
and I was not so utterly selfish as to have
my personal vanity tickled with the idea
that this young creature loved me, who
‘did not love her, except truly as a sis-
ter.

Yet now, when hearing that James had
turned from Eleanor to her, I felt a pang
of pity—a wish that she might rather
have loved me than him whose cold, de-
ceitful bosom could never be a safe shelter
for a woman as affectionate as Mary.
With this regret I felt a triumph that
Eleanor had remained unassailable on
the sublime and solitary hight of her
sorrow. It was what I expected of her.
I gloried in her constancy to the dead.
Thad loved her for this noble beauty of
her nature, and should have been disap-
pointed had the test found her wanting
in any of the attributes with which my
worship had invested her. She had done
me a wrong too cruel for me to complain
about; but I would rather, still, that she
should wrong me than herself.

Lastly, Mr. Burtor assured me that he
had tidings of the five-hundred-dollar
bill which had been stolen from Mr. Ar-
gyll’s desk. This was, indeed, important,
and I showed by my looks how deeply
I was absorbed in the particulars. That
bill had come into the hands of Wells,
Fargo & Co., about six months after the
robbery, having been sold for specie to
their agent in California, and forwarded
to them along with the other sums which
they were constantly receiving. At least,
he had taken it for granted that it was
the same bill, it being one 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 possible suspicious circumstances at-
tached to it. 5

Wells, Fargo & Co. had given him
every assistance in their power to dis-
cover who had sold that bill to the Cali-

 

31

 

fornia branch of their house; but an
answer had been returned from there
that the person who disposed of it was a
stranger, on his way to the mining regions,
whom they had never seen before or
since, and whose name they had no
taken, The clerk who transacted the
brief business with him, had no distinct.
recollection of him, except that he was
rather a thick-set man, with an unpleasant
expression—doubtless one of the ‘hard.
cases’ so frequent in the precincts of San
Francisco.

Of course, it was Clear to us two, who
sat in company with the dead-letter, that
the five-hundred-dollar bill was a part of
the sum referred to by the writer; that it
hadcome out of Mr. Argyll’s desk, and that
it was blood-money paid for a murder -
and the receiver was this person who, in
the letter, so explicitly declared his inten-
tion of fleeing to California. We were
much excited in the presence of these
bold facts. In our enthusisam, then, it
seemed easy to stretch a hand across the
continent and lay it upon the guilty.” We
scarcely realized the long and wearisome
pursuit to which we were doomed—the
slight clue which we had to the identity
of the individual whose deeds were yet
so patent to us.

At this revelation of conspiracy, my
mind eagerly searched about for the ac-
cessory, and again settled itself upon
Miss Sullivan. It did seem to me that
she had. thrown a glamour over the
usually clear sight of Mr. Burton; so thai
I resolved to keep a separate watch
which should not be influenced by his
decisions.

While I was thinking of this, M:
Burton was walking about the floo:
Suddenly be stopped before me, and look
ed into mine with fhose vivid eves, sr
fufl of power, and said, as confidently a:
if a vision had revealed it to him :

“T have now made out all the mear-
ing of the letter. In the first place, it is

 

  

ey

written ‘by contraries’—that is, it means |

just the opposite of what it says. The
contract was fulfilled. The price was ex-
ected, the emigration decided upon

he bright day was a rainy night; the
picture taken was a human life. And—
don’t you see it, Richard ?—the old
friend was the hiding-place of the instru-
ment of death, after which the accom-
plice is directed to look. That instru-
ment if the broken tooth-pick. It was
secreted in the. pocket of the old friend.
Now, who or what is this old friend?
Richard, didn’t Leesy affirm she saw a
man descending from the old oak tree at
the right of the Argyll mansion, on the
evening of the murder?”

“She did.”

“Then that is it. I want to know no
more. The arms are the arms of' that
old oak. Unless it has been removed,
which is not probable, since this letter
was never received, the broken knife or
dagger (of which I have the point which
was taken from the wound), will be found
in some hollow, on the left side, of that
oak.”

I gazed at him in astonishment; but
he, unconscious of my wonder, sat down,
with a relieved, almost happy, expres-
sion.

 

CHAPTER IL
OUR VISITS.

So engrossed were we by our plans,
which we were laboring to get into
shape, that we forgot the passing hours
and the demands of appetite. It was
long past the lunch-hour when a servant
appeared to ask if he should not bring in
the way, having waited in vain for the
usual summons. With its appearance
Lenore came in, the same lovely, sylph-
like litt, areature, but looking rather less
fragile t.an when I saw her last. At
the sigh of me, her color went and came
—one instant she hesitated, then ap-
proached and gave me her hand, with a
smile and kiss. Her father had already
told of her having made two or three
visits to the Argyll mansion within tke
time of my absence ; and I attributed her

blushes upon meeting me, to her frank

 
 
 

 

|
|
|
i

|
i

82

 

heart accusing her of the disparaging
thoughts she had entertained of me.
The subtle influence of James had doubt-
jess, without any necessity for putting
the idea into words, warned her against
me ag a bad man; but now, as she look-
«' vt me, she was <orry for what she had
ee and disposed to renew her old friend-
ship.

Before lunch was concluded Mr. Bur-
ton fell into a reverie, which he ended 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 unnatural trance; hut other
considerations were even weiglitier thar
our fears for the shock to her nervous
system; and after she had chatted a
while with us, and had sung for me, Mr.
Burtom subjected her to the experiment.
It had been so long since he had exer-
cised his power over her, that it required
a greater effort than on the former occa-
sion which I witnessed, to place her in
the desired condition. He, however,
finally succeeded perfectly. The dead-
letter was placed in her hands, when we
observed her shrink as if a serpent had
glided over her lap; but she did not
throw it down, as she seemed ‘moved to
do.

“ What do you see, Lenore ?”

“Tt is too dark to see. A lamp shines
across the walk, and I see a man drop-
ping the letter inthe box. He is muttled
up so that I can not tell about his face;
he steals up and goes. off again very
quickly.”

“Follow him, Lenore.”

“Tt is too dark, father. I am lost in
the streets. Oh! now I have overtaken
him again; he walks so fast—he is short
and thick—he looks as 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
the ferry—it is the Fulton Ferry—I know
it well. Oh, dear! the water rises and
the wind blows—it is getting morning,
but it rains so—and the 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 follow him
across the river, and tell me at what
house he stops.”

“The wind blows so,” continued Le-
nore, cp “all is dark and uncer-
tain. 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 re-
peated, in a vague tone.

“ Tt is useless,” exclaimed Mr. Burton,
in a burst of disappointment; ‘it hag
been too long since the letter was penned.
The personality of the writer has depart-
ed from it. Ifshe had only been able to
pursue him to his haunts, our investiga-
tions in that vicinity might have richly
repaid us,”

Finding it impossible to get any more
information from the child, she was re-
lieved from her trance, stimulated with a
glass of cordial, and sent up to take a
siesta before the hour for dinner. Scarce-
ly had she left 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 at Peekskill.
Of course—why, what a fool I am!”

“Tam afraid you will not find it so
easy. People carrying on a correspond-
ence for such a purpose, do not come
forward openly for their letters-—and this
was a good while ago—and it is quite
possible this may be the only missive
ever sent, through the mail, to that ad-
dress—and this, evidently, was never
ealled for.”

“ At least, it is worth inquiring into,”
I added, less triumphantly.

“Of course it is. We wish, also, to as-
certain how the letter came dragging
xlong to Washington two years, nearly,
behind its time. I propose that we start
for Peekskill by the early morning train.”

 

ee ee

To wait, even until morning, seemed too
tardy formy mood. But as it was now
four o’clock, and I had no right to ask
the detective to resign his dinner and his
evening comfort, I made no objection to
the time. And, in truth, the time sped
more swiftly then I expected; we had
still so much to discuss. Dinner came—
and the hour of retiring followed—before
we had matured our course of action.
We were to go to Peekskill and learn all
possible about John Owen. If we gained
no important information there, we were
to go on, in the evening, to Blankville;
to enter, under cover of the darkness, the
lawn of the Argyll house, and secure the
broken knife or dagger, which, we beliey-
ed, we should find secreted in a certain
oak upon the premises. This we wished
to do without the knowledge of the
ramily, for two reasons: the smaller one

of which was, that I did not wish my —

visit to be known, and the larger, that we
both were certain we could prosecute
our plans more successfully if the friends
knew nothing of our efforts. Then, if we
still failed to discover the accomplice,
we were to sail for California.

The reader may see that we were set
upon the accomplishment of our pur-
poses by the willingness with which we
gave time, money, and mind to our ob-
ject. I had first proposed the visit to

alifornia, avowing my intention to make
it, when Mr. Burton had surprised me by
vffering to be my companion. This was
a sacrifice which I could not have asked
or expected of him; but he would not al-
low me to view it in that light, saying,
with pleasant peremptoriness, that Le-
nore needed a sea-voyage, and he had
been thinking of taking one on her ac
count. He would make it a pleasure
tour, as well as one of business, “and
then,” with a laugh which would have
been satirical if it had not been so frank—
“he was afraid my mission would not be
so successful, if undertaken alone.” And
I had answered him that I realized my
own inefliciency, as compared with his
talent and experience—all I had to en-
courage me was the devotion with which
I undertook my work—to ‘that, alone, I
trusted to insure me some reward. But
if he really were willing to go with me,
T should feel almost elated.

We were at Peekskill the next day in
good season. We found the same post-
master in service who had been in the
office at the time the dead-letter arrived
there. When Mr. Burton—I_ loungin
carelessly in the background—showe
the envelope and inquired how it had
occurred that it had been forwarded to
the Department at this late hour, the
official showed a little embarrassment,
as inferring that he was about to be
taken to task fora neglect of duty by
some indignant individual.

“T will tell you how it happened, Mr.
Owen,” said he, “if you’re the person ad-
dressed on that envelope. You never
came for the letter, and before the expira-
tion of the time required by law for for-
warding it to Washington, it got slipped
into a crack and was never discovered
till about a fortnight ago. You see, our
place, here, wasn’t just the thing for an
office ; it never did suit, and this month,
I finally had new boxes and shelves put
in, mre the room fixed up. In tearing
down the old fixings, several letters were
discovered which had slipped into a
crack betiveen the shelf and wall. This
was one of them. I thought, ‘ better late
than never,’ though at first I had a
mind to throw them into the stove. I
hope, sir, the loss of the letter hasn’t
put you to any very great inconveni-
ence ?”

“Tt was of some importance,” answered
my companion, in a commonplace tone,
“and I’m not sorry, even yet, to have re-
covered it, as it settles a matter I had
been in doubt about. My man must
have been very negligent; I certainly
sent, him for the letter. Don’t you re-
member a young man, a coachman, com-
ing for my letters?”

“He never came but twice, to my
knowledge,” answered the postmaster
giving a glance of curiosity at the speak-
er. “I wondered who it was they were

 

Bi:

for—not being any one that I knew—~and
I know mostly everybody in the die-
trict. Traveling through our town, per-
haps ?”

“Yes, I was a stranger, who merely
passed two or three times through your
village, stopping on business. My usual
address is New York. That coachman
was hired at the next village to drive me
about the country a few days. I have
nearly forgotten him. I would like to
eall him to an account for some of his
conduct which was not satisfactory.
Can you describe his personal appear-
ance ?—though, I suppose, you could not
have taken any particular notice of
him.”

“It was evening on both occasions of
his calling. He was muffled up about
the lower part of the face, and his cap
pulled down. I couldn’t tell you a thing
about him, indeed, except that he had
black eyes. If I’m not mistaken, he had
black or dark eyes. I think I remember
of their looking at me very sharp through
the window here. But it was evening,
and I shouldn’t mind the circumstance
at allif I had not wondered, at the time,
who John Owen was. It’s likely the
fellow was a rogue—he looked kind of
slippery.”

I, listening apart to the conversation,
longed to ask if this muffled driver was
small and slender, for I was thinking of
a woman. While I was studying how to
propose the question to Mr. Burton, he
continued :

“A smallish fellow, if I remember
rightly? I really wish I had his name.”

“Can’t say any thing more about it,”
was the reply of the postmaster. “TI
couldn’t answer if he were large or small,
white or black, except as to his eyes,
which were about all I saw of him. If
you want to find out about him, why
(lon’t you go to the livery-keeper who
furnished your team to you? Of course,
his employer could tell you all you want
so know.”

“That would be the most sensible

course,” answered the detective, with a,
jangh. “But, my good friend, it is con- *

siderably out of my way to go to S— ;
an1TI must leave on the train up, in half
an hour. After all, the matter is not of
so much importance. I hada curiosity
to learn 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 in possesison of
a document which had not been returned
from the Dead-Letter Department — at
least, not while we remained with him—
though he may afterward have puzzled
his brains over the affair.

As we did not wish to arrive in Blank.
ville until after dark, we had to leave the
cars once again, and get off at a little in-
termediate station, with half a dozen
houses clistered about it; and here we
whiled away, as we best could, several
tedious hours, whose drear.ness was only
partially soothed by the influences of
such a supper as could be obtained in the
small public-house attached to the depot,

As the sun drew toward’ setting and
the night approached, a fierce restless-
ness thrilled along my nerves, That peace
—if the dullness and sluggishness of my
chilled feelings could be called peace—
into which I had forced myself for many
months, was broken up. The mere fact
of my nearness to the spot which had
once been so dear to me, overpowered
me with strong attractions; the force of
habit and of memory was at work; and
when, at twiligit, the train stopped and
took us up, my mind leaped on before the
iron-horsé, and was at the end of the lit-
tle journey from the commencement
Upon arriving at Blankville, we descend.
ed from the rear car and walked up to-
ward the village without approaching the
depot, as I was afraid the lamps mighi

. betray me to some former acquaintance

It was a mild evening, early in Septem
ber, and T had no excuse for mufiling up;
so I pulled my hat down over my eyes,
quite sure that I should escape recogni-
tion, in the dim moonlight, which, over-
blown by light, thin clouds, transfused
the western sky. We walked about, in
quiet parts of the village, until ten

‘salient a

 

——

 

 
ae ae

 

A Hee DEAD BETTER.

33

 

o'clock; and then, the moon, having set,
we approached the Argyll emansion,
along the well-remembered street.
know not if my companion guessed my
disturbance, as I passed the office and
came up in front of the lawn, black be-
neath the starlight, with the shadows of
its fine old trees. The past was not half
so dead as I had got in the habit of be-
lieving it—life is sweet and strong in the
heart of youth, which will endure man,
blows before it will cease to beat with
the tremulous thrill of hope and passion.
A bright light was shining from the
wiudows of the parlor and several of the
other rooms, but the hall-door was
closed, and every thing so quict about the

 

‘ premises, that I did not believe I ran any

risk in entering the gate and seeking out
the monarch oak—a mighty tree, the
pride of the lawn, which stood quite to
one side from the central avenue which
led up to the front portico, and only some
thirty feet from the left corner of the
mansion, which was, at times, almost
touched by the reach of its outermost
branches. We advanced together through
the darkness, it being the understanding
that, should any accident betray ur
visit, before its purpose was accomplish-
ed, [ was to retreat, while Mr. Burton
would boldly approach and make the ex-
euse of a call upon Mr. Argyll. My
familiarity with the premises and my
superiority in the art of climbing, made
the duty of ascending the tree devolve
upon me. While my companion stood
on guard beneath, I drew myself up,
carefully making my way through the
night, out along the ‘second branch to the
left, feeling for the hollow which I knew
existed—for, in my more boyish days, I
had left no possible point of the grand
old tree unvisited. Not five minutes
had elapsed since I began my search, be-
fore my fingers, pressing into the rag-
ged cavity of the slowly-decaying limb,
touched a cold object which I knew to
be steel. My hand recoiled with an in-
stinctive shudder, but returned immedi-
ately to its duty, cautiously drawing forth
a siender instrument of which I could not
make out the precise character. Upon
raising my head, after securing the ob-
ject of our anxiety, my eyes fell wpon a
scene which held them fascinated for so
ione 9 time that the patience of my friend

at the foot of the tree must have been

sorely tried.

The windows on the side of the parlor
looking to the left were both open, the
chandeliers lighted, and from my airy
eyrio in the tree, [ commanded 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 tbe chandelier, was one of the sis-
ters, reading a book. At first—yes, for a
full minute—I thought it was Eleanor!
—Hleanor as she was, when the homage
of my soul first went out toward her, like
the exhalation of a flower to the sun—
as young, as blooming and radiant as she
was before the destroyer came—the dew
upon the lip, tle light on the brow, the
slory of health, youth and joy upon eve.
eature and in every flow cf her garments,
from the luster of her hair to the glimmer
of her silken slipper.

“Can it be?” t murmured. “ Is there
such power of resuscitation in human
Vitality as this?”

While I asked myself the question, I
was undecided. I saw (and wondered
how I could have been mistaken for an
instant), that this beautiful woman was
Mary, grown so like her older sister, dur-
ing the months of my absence, as to be
the almost counterpart of what Eleanor
had been. When I left her she was a
girl, half-child, half-woman, bright’ with
the promise of rare sweetness; and now,
in this brief summer-time of fifteen
months—so rapid had the magic culmina-
tion been—she had expanded into the
perfection of all that is loveliest in her
sex. A thoughtfulness, caused, proba-
bly, by the misfortune which had befallen
the house—a shadow from the cloud
which enwrapped her sister—toned down
the frolic gayety which had once charac-
serized her, and added the grace of senti-

' 4

API tinted nme eereniey

 

ment to her demeanor. I could not gaze
upon the fair, meditative brow without
perceiving that Mary had gained in depth
of feeling as well as in womanly beauty.
She wore a dress of some lustrous fabric,
which gleamed slumberously in the yel-
low light, like water shining about a lily;
as she bent above her book, her hair clus-
tered ahout her throat, softening its
exquisite outlines; so near, so vivid,
was the unconscious tableau-vivant, seen
through the open frame of the window,
that L imagined I heard her breathe, and
inhaled the fragrance 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, young still, beautiful
still, but crowned, like a queen, with the
majesty of her desolation, which kept her
apart from sympatby, thyugh not from
adoration. Giidins beuind her sister’s
chair, she bent amoment to see what
volume had such attractions, kissed the
fair face turned instantly with a smile to
hers, and passed away, going out into the
hall. Thad heard her low ‘ good-night.’

Then, almost before she had vanished,
came the third figure into the picture.
James, approaching as if trom some sofa
where he had been lounging, took the
book from Mary’s hand, which he held
a little, saying something which brought
blushes to her cheeks. Presently she
withdrew her hand; but he caught it
again, and kissed it, and I heard him
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 business to
be there, spying and eavesdropping. I
had looked at first, unconscious of the
circumstances, like a wandering spirit
lingering by the walls of Eden, gazing
upon the beauty which is not within his
sphere. No sooner did I realize my posi-
tion than I began to descend from my
eyrie; but James had drawn his cousin
from her chair, and the two approached
the window, and stood there, their eyes
fixed, apparently, upon that very point
in the giant oak where I crouched, sud-
denly fear-blasted, with the square of
light from the window illuminating, the
limb where I lay concealed. I had
crawled from my first resting-place, and
was about jumping to the ground, when
their presence transfixed me, in the most
dangerous possible predicament. I dared
not move for fear of being discovered. I
was paralyzed by a lightning conscious-
ness that should I then and there be
betrayed, I would be the victim of a
singular combination of cirewmstantial
evidence. Found lingering at night, like
a thief, upon the premises of those I had
injured; stealthily seeking to remove the
evidence of my guilt—the weapon with
which the murder was committed, hidden
by me, at the time, in this tree, and
now sought for in order to remove it from

- possible ey ey as T tell you, read-

er, had James rgyll sprung upon. me
there, seized the knife, accused me, noth-
ing on éarth would have saved me from
condemnation. The probabilities are,
that the case would have been so very
conclusive, and the guilt so horribly ag-
gravated, that the populace would have
taken the matter in their own haids, and
torn me to pieces, to show their love of
justice. Even the testimony of Mr. Bur-
ton would not have availed to turn the
tide in my favor ; he would have been ac-
ensed of seeking to hide my sin, and his
reputation would not have saved him
from the ban of public opinion. A cold
sweat broke over me as I thought of it.
Not the fear of death, nor of the horror
of the world—but dread of the judgment
of the two sisters took possession of me.
If this statement of my critical position,
when the trembling of a bough might
have convicted an innocent man, should
make my reader more thoughtful in the
matter of circumstantial evidence, I shall
be repaid for the pangs which I then en-
dured.,

The young couple stepped oyt upon
the sward, I did not trouble myself
about what had become of Mr. Burton,

€

 

for I knew that he was in the shadow,
and could retreat.with safety; he, doubt-
less, felt more anxiety about 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 heard it—‘“ the night is sa
warm, it will not harm you to be outa
few moments. 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, she took his
arm, and they walked back and forth,
twice or thrice, in the light of the win-
dow, and paused directly under the limb
of the tree, which seemed to me to shake
with the throbbing of my heart. A
beam of light fell athwart the face of
James, so that I could see its expression,
as he talked to the young creature on his
arm—a handsome face, dark, glowing
with passion and determination, but sinis-
ter. I prayed, in my heart, 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. You
have said that you would be my wife—
now, tell me how soon] may claim you.
I do not believe in long engagements;
I want to make you mine, before any dis-
aster comes between us.”

“Did I promise you, James? I really
did not know that you considered what
I said in the light of a promise. Indeed,
Iam so young, and we have always been
such friends—cousins, you know—that I
hardly understand my own feelings, I
do wish you would not overpersuade me;
we might both be sorry. I never believed
in the marriage of cousins; so I do not
think you ought to feel hurt, cousin
James.”

He interrupted the tremulous voice
with one a little sharper than his first
persuasive tone:

“Tam surprised that you do not feel
that I regard you as already betrothed te
me. I did not think you were a coquette,
Mary. And, as for cousinship, I have
already told you what I think of it. I
know the secret of your reluctance— sha.
I betray it to you?

She was silent.

“Your heart is still set on ‘hat scoun-
drel. One might suppose tha‘ dread and
loathing would be the only sentiment
you could entertain toward a traitor
and—I will not speak the word, Mary.
You took up swords 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 his other
honorable deeds, gained my little cousin’s
heart, for the pleasure of flattering his
self-love. And I shall suspect, if you per-
sist in putting me off, when you know
that your father desires our union, and
that my whole existence is wrapped up
in you, that he still holds it, despite of
what has passed.”

“He never ‘gained’ my heart by un-
fair means,” said the girl, speaking proud-
ly. “I gave him what he had of it—and
he never knew how large a part that was,
I wish he Aad known, poor Richard! for

- I still believe that you are all wrongir

him cruelly. I am his friend, James, and.
it hurts me to hear you speak so of him
But that would not prevent my being
your friend, too, cousin—”

“You_must not” say ‘cousin,’ aguin,
Mary. Im worn out, now, and half mad
with my feelings—and it makes me des-
perate. 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.
shall go away to-morrow, and seek for

If it is unpropitious, I

such poor fortune as may be mine, in ”

some other part 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 Jeans so much upon you—
trusts every thing to you. I am afraid it
would kill him to have all his hopes and
plans again frustrated. He has never re-
cove
and Richard’s—going away.”

from the shock of Henry’s death,

 
 

   

34

 

 

THE

 

| “Tf you think so, Mary, why do you
i any longer hesitate? You acknowledge
{ that 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 ?—the main
burden of which was the welfare and
wishes of her father and sister—mingled
with bursts of tender entreaty—and what
was more powerful ‘than all, the exercise
of that soft yet terrible will which had
i worked its way, thus far, against all ob-
| stacles. Suffice it, that when the cousins
{ at last—after what seemed to me an age,
} though it could not have been twenty
} minutes—returned through the window,
| Thad heard the promise of Mary to be-
| come the wife of James before the begin-
| ning of another year.
| Never was a man more glad to release
{ himself from an unpleasant predicament
j than I was to descend from my perch
i when the two figures had vanished within
J the house. My fear of discovery had be-
|
\
|
Lj

 

come absorbed in my keen shame and
regret at being compelled to play the
eavesdropper to a conversation like that
which I had overheard. Moving a few
paces into the shadow of the trees, I
whispered—“ Burton,”

“Got yourself in a pretty scrape,” was
instantly auswered, in a low tone, as my
friend took my arm and we moved for-
ward to the gate. “I didn’t know but
we should have a tragico-comedy upon
the spot, impromptu, and highly inter-
esting.”

“T almost wonder that you are not too
greatly out of patience with waiting to
| jest about the matter.”

“Pve told you my motto —‘learn to

i wait, Richard. The gods will not be
| hurried ; but have you the knife ?”
“Ay!” was my grim answer; I felt
| grim, as I grasped the treacherous, mur-
erous thing which had wrought such

deadly mischief. The sound of shutters
: drawn together startled us into a quicker
| pace ; we looked back and saw the lower
jpart of the house dark—hurried forward,
and without any molestation, or our pres-
ence in Blankyille being known to a sin-
i le acquaintance, took the night train

ack to New York, which we reached
about two, A. M., and was at Mr. Burton’s
house, ringing up the surprised servants,
shortly after.

It was not until we were in the library,
with the doors closed, and the full blaze
ofa gas-burner turned on, that I took from
my pocket the weapon, and handed it to
my companion. y
| ‘oth of us bent curiously forward to
examine it.
| i “This,” said the detective, n a sur-

‘ prised 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 by a practiced hand—it
has been dealt by one skilled in anat-
omy, There’s another link in my chain.
{ hope I shall have patience until I
bs have forged it together about the
guilty.

“There is no longer any doubt about
the dead-letter referring to the murder.
You see the instrument is broken,” I re.
marked,

“No doubt, indeed,’ and Mr. Burton
went to a drawer of a secretary standing
in the room, and took out the little piece

« of steel which had been found in Henry
Moreland’s. body.

“You see it is the very fragment. 1
obtained this important bit of evidence,
and laid it away, after others had given
up all efforts to make it available. How
fortunate that I preserved it! So, the

edie is to take place within three
‘months, is it? Richard, we must not.
‘rest now. A great deal can be done in
three months, and I would give all the
gold I have in bank, to clear this matter
up, before that marriage takes place.
Should that once be consummated, before
we are satisfied with our investigations,
I shall drop them foreyer. A. doctor—
a doctor”—he continued, musingly—* I
knew the fellow had half-studied some
profession—he was a surgeon-—yes! By
George!” he exclaimed, presently, leap-

 

a

 

FIRESIDE LIBRARY.

 

ing from his chair as if he had been shot,
and walking rapidly across the room and
back.

I knew he was very much excited, for
it was the first time I had heard him use
any expression like the above. I waited
for him to tell me what had flashed into
his mind so suddenly.

“ The fellow who married Leesy’s cous-
in, and ran away from her, was a doctor
—Miss Sullivan has told me that. Rich-
ard, I begin to see light! day is break-
ing !”

t hardly knew whether his speech was
figurative or literal, as day was really
“breaking in upon us two men, plotting
there in the night as if we were the crimi-
nals instead of their relentless pursuers.
“Three months! There will be time,
Richard!” and Mr. Burton actually flung
his arms about me, in a burst of exulta-
tion.

CHAPTER IIT.
THE CONFESSION.

Iw the afternoon we paid Miss Sullivan
a visit. It was the first time I had met
her since that strange night of watching
at the Moreland villa; and I confess that
TI could not meet her without an inward
shudder of abhorrence. Unbounded as
was my respect and confidence for Mr.
Burton, I did think that he had erred in
his conclusions as to the character of this
woman; or else that he concealed from
me his real opinions, for some purpose to
be explained at the proper time. Il he
still had suspicions. it was evident that he
had kepi them from their object as skill-
fully as from me, for I saw, by her man-
ner of receiving him, that she regarded
him as a friend.

Notwithstanding I had been informed
of her rapidly-failing health, I was shock-
ed at the change which had taken place
in Miss Sullivan since I had seen her. It
was with an effort that that she rose from
her easy-chair at our approach ; the full-
ness had all wasted from her naturally
queenly figure; her cheeks were hollow,
and aflame with the fire of fever; while
those black eyes, which had ever seemed
to me to smolder above unfathomable
depths of volcanie passion, now almost
blazed with light. Something like a smile
flitted across her face when she saw my
companion, but smiles were too strange
there to feel at home, and it vanished as
soon as seen. Ido not think she liked me
any better than I did her; each recoiled
from the other instinctively; she would
not have spoken to me had I come alone;
but, out of concession to the presence of
her friend, she bowed to me and asked me
to be seated. A little child in the room
ran to Mr. Burton, as if expecting the
package of bon-bons which he took from
his pocket; but, as he became engaged in
conversation with Leesy, I coaxed her
over to me, where slie was soon sitting on
my knee, She was a pretty little girl,
about three years old, in whose chubby
features I could no longer trace. any re-
semblance to her “aunt.” She prattled
after the fashion. of children, and in list-
ening to her, I lost.a remark or two of
Mf. Burton’s; but soon had my attention
aroused by hearing Miss Sullivan exclaim :

“Going away! Tor how long?”

“ Three months, at least.”

Her hands sunk in her lap and she be-
came pale and agitated.

“Tt is presumptuous in me to dare to be

sorry; I am nothing to you; but you are
much to me. Idon’t know how we shall
get along without you.”
_ “Don’t be uneasy about that, my child.
T shall make arrangements with this same
person who boards you now to keep you
until my return, and, if you should fall
sick, to take good care of you.”

“You are far too good,” she responded,
tremulously. “ You will have the bless-
ing of the friendless. I sey wish it had
power to bring you good luck on your
journey.”

“Perhaps it will,” he said, with a smile.
“T have a great deal of faith in such bless-
ings, But, Leesy, I think you can assist

Bie wpb oe

 

my journey in even a more tangible way
than that.%

She looked at him inquiringly.

“TJ want you tell meall and eve thing
you know about the father of little Nora.”

“Why, sir?” she quickly asked. “T
hope you have not heard from him,” look-
ing over toward the child, as if afraid it
might be snatched from her.

“Your health is very far gone, Leesy
I suppose you hardly hope ever to recovex
it. Would you not be glad to see Nora

under her father’s protection before you
t

9”

were taken away

She stretched out her arms for the child
who slid off my knee, ran and climbed
into her lap, where she held the curly
head close to her bosom for a moment ,
her attitude was as if she sheltered the lit
tle one from threatened danger.

“JY know, much more surely than ee
one else, that my days are numbere”.
believe I shall never see your face again,
Mr. Burton; and that was what grieved
me when you spoke of going away—it

was not that I thought of my comfort so .

much. The winter snow will hide me be-
fore you come back from your journey ,
and my darling will be left friendless. 1
know it—it is my only care. But I would
rather, far rather, leave her to the cold
charity of an orphan asylum—yes, I would
rather turn her upon the street, with her
innocent face only for a protector—than
that her father should have aught to do
with Nora.” t

a Why he

“ Because he is a bad man.”

“ T understand that he is in California ;
and as lam going to San Francisgo, and
shall perhaps visit the mining regions
before my return, I thought you might
wish to send him a message, telling him
the child’s condition. He may have laid
up money by this time, and be able to
send you a sum sufficient to provide for
little Nora until she is old enough to take
care of herself.”

She only shook her head, drawing the
chiid closer, with a shudder.

“T have forgotten his name,” said Mr.
Burton.

“T will not tell you,” answered Miss
Sullivan, with a return of the old fierce-
ness, like that of a hunted panther. “ Why
can I never, never, never be let alone?”

“Do you think I would do any thing
for your injury or disadvantage ?” asked
the detective, in that gentle yet penetrat-
ing voice which had such power to move
people to his will.

“J do not know,” she cried; “you
have seemed to be my friend. But how
do I know that it is not all simply to com-
pass my destruction at last? You have
brought into my house that person,” look-
ing at me, “who has so persecuted me.
You promised me that I should be free
from him. And now you want to set a
bloodhound on my track—as if I must be
driven into my graye, and not allowed to
go in peace.”

“ Tassure you, Leesy, I had no idea that
you regarded Nora’s father with so much
dislike. I have no objectein the world in
troubling you with him, I promise you
that no word of mine shall give him the
clue to your present circumstances, nor to
the fact that he has a child living, if he is
ignorant of it, You shall be protected—
you shall have peace and comfort. What
j would like is, that you shall give me a
brief history of his life, his habits, char-
acter, where he lived, what was his busi-
ness, etc. ; and I will give you my reasons
for wishing the information. A circum-
stance has come to light which connects
him with an affair which I am investigat-
ing—that is, if he is the person I think he
is—a sort of a doctor, I believe ?”

Miss Sullivan did not answer the ques-
tion so skillfully put; she still watched us
with shining, half-sullen eyes, as if ready
to put forth a claw from the velvet, if we
approached too near.

“Come, Leesy, you must tell me what

I want to hear,” Mr. Burton’s air was
now that of amaster, ‘“ Time is precious.
I can not wait upon a woman’s whim.

have promised you—and repeat it, upon

my honor—that no annoyance or injury

shall come to you through what you may
tell me. If you prefer to answer me

{
\

—>-

sees Base

an

 

 
—»

o
|
|

to be.ng compelled to answer be-
a court, all is right. I must know
at I desire about this man.”

“ Man, Mr. Burton! Call him crea-
ture.”

“Very weli— creature, Leesy. You
know him better than I do, and if you sa
he is a creature, I suppose I may take it
for granted. His name is—”

“Or was, George Thorley.”

When the name was spoken, I gave a
start which attracted the attention of both
my companions.

“You probably know something about
him, Mr. Redfield,” remarked the girl.

“George Thorley, of Blankville, who
used to have a little apothecary shop in
the lower part of the village, and who left
the place some three years ago, to escape
the talk occasioned by a suspicious case
of malpractice, in which he was reported
to be concerned ?”

“The same person, sir. Did you know
him ?”

“T can not say that I was acquainted
with him. I donot remember that I ever
spoke a word with him. But Iknew him,
by sight, very well. He had a face whick.
made people look twice at him. I think
I bought some trifles in his shop once.
And the gossip there was about him at
the time he ran away fixed his name ix
my memory. I was almost a stranger
then in Blankviile—had lived there only
about a year.” ’

“ How did he come to have any con-
nection with your family, Leesy ?”

Miss Sullivan had grown pale durin
the agitation of our talk, but she flushe
again at the question, hesitated, and final-
ly, looking the detective full in the eyes,
answered : .

“Since you have promised, upon your
honor, not to harm or disturb me any
further about this matter, and since I am
under obligations to you, sir, which 1 can
not forget, I will tell you the rest of the
story, a part of which I told you that
morning, at Moreland villa. I confessed
to you, there, the secret of my own heart,
as I never confessed it to any but God,
and I told you something of my cousin’s
history to satisfy you about the child. I
will now tell you all I know of George
Thorley, which is more than I wish I
knew. The first time I ever saw him was
over four years ago, a short time after he
set. up his little shop, which, you recollect,
was not far from my aunt’s in Blankville.
My aunt sent me, one evening, for some-
thing to relieve the toothache, and T went
into the nearest place, which was the new
one. There was no one in but the owner.
I was surprised by the great pcliteness
with which he treated me, and by the in-
terest he seemed to take in the case of my
aunt. He was along time putting up the
medicine, pomng the label on and making
change, so that [ thought my aunt would
surely be out of temper before I could
bring her the drops. He asked our name,
and where we lived, which was all, I
thought, but a bit of his blarney, to get
the good will of his customers.” (Miss
Sullivan usually spoke with great pro-
priety, but occasionally a touch of her
mother’s country, m accent or expression,
betrayed her Irish origin.) “That was
the beginnivg of our acquaintance, but
not the end of it. It was but a few days
before he made an excuse to call at our
house. I was a young girl then, gay and
healthy; and the plain truth of it is that
George Thorley fell in love with me. My
aunt was very much flattered, telling me
I would be a fool not to encourage him
—that he was a doctor and a gentleman—
and would keep his wife like a lady—that
there would be no more going out by the
day to sew and slave for others, if I were
once married to him; it was only what
she expected of me, that I would at least
be a doctor’s wife, after the schooling she
had given me, and with the good looks I
had. It is no vanity in me, now, to say
of this clay, so soon to be mingled with
the dust of the earth, that it was beauti-
ful—too much so, alas, for my own peace
of mind—tor it made me despise the hum-
ple and nonest suitors who might have
secured me a lowly, happy life. Yet it
was not that, either, and I'll not demean
myself to say so—it was not because }

 

 

 

THE DEAD LETTER.

85

 

was llandsome that I held myself aloof
from those in my own station ; it was be-
cause I felt that I had thoughts and tastes
they could not undergtand—that my life
was above theirsin hope, in aspiration. I
was ambitious, but only to develop the best
that wasin me. If I could only bea needle-
woman all my days, then I would be so
skillful and so fanciful with my work as al-
most to paint pictures with my needle and
thread. But this isn’t telling you about
George Thorley. From the first, I took a
dislike to him. I’m not good at reading
character, but I understood his pretty thor-
oughly, and I was afraid of him. I was
very cold. to him, for I saw that he was
of a quick temper, and I did not mean he
should say that I had ever encouraged
him. I told my aunt I did not think he
was a gentleman—1 had seen plenty of
real gentlemen in the houses where I
sewed, and they were not like him. I
told her, too, that he had a violent tem-
per, and a jealous disposition, and could
not make any woman happy. But she
would not think of him in that light; her
heart was set on the apothecary’s shop,
which, she said, would grow into q fine
drug-store with the doctor’s name in gilt
letters on the door of his office.

“ George soon offered himself, and was
terribly angry when I refused him. I be-
lieve he loved me, in his selfish way, bet-
ter than he eyer loved any other human
creature. He would not give me up, nor
allow me any peace from his persecutions.
He dogged my steps whenever I went out,
and if i spoke to any other man, it put
him in arage. I got to feeling that I was
watched all the time; for sometimes he
would laugh in his hateful way, and tell
me of things he had seen when I thought
him miles away.

“ Twice, in particular, [ remember of his
being in a savage passion, and threaten-
ing me. It was after here the speak-
er’s voice, despite of her efforts to keep it
steady, trembled and sunk—“ he had seen
me riding out in the carriage with Mrs.
Moreland. He said these people were
making a fool of me—that ri was so set
up, by their attentions, as to despise him.
I told him that if I despised him, it was
not for any such reason. It was because
he behaved so ungentlemanly toward me,
spying around me, when he had no busi-
ness whatever with my affairs. That
made him madder than ever, and he mut-
tered words which I did not like. I told
him I was not afraid of any mortal thing,
and I didn’t think he ead frighten me
into marrying him. He said he wou.a
scare me yet, so that I would never get
over it. think he liked the spirit I
showed; it seemed the more I tried to
make him hate me, the more determined
he was to pursue me. I don’t know how
it was that I understood him so well, for
in those days there had been nothing whis-
pered against.his character. Indeed, peo-
ple didn’t. know much about him ; and he
got himself into the good graces of some
of the leading citizens of Blankville. He
had told me something of his history ;
that is, that his family were English ; that
he, like myself, was an orphan ; that, by
dint of good luck, he had got a place ina
doctor’s office in one of the towns in the
State—one of those humble situations
where he was expected to take care of the
physician’s horse, drive the carriage, put
up medicines, attend upon orders, and be
any thing and every thing. He was
smart and quick; he had many hours of
leisure when waiting behind the little
counter, and these hours he spent in study-
ing the doctor’s books, which he managed
to get hold of one at a time. By this
means, and by observing keenly the phy-
sician’s methods, his advice to patients
who called at the office, and by reading
and putting up prescriptions constantly,
he picked up a really surprising smatter-
ing of science. Making up his mind to
be a doctor, and to keep a drug-store (a
profitable business, he knew), he had the
energy to carry out his plans. How he
finally obtained the capital to set up the
little business in Blankville, I never un-
derstood, but I knew that he attended
lectures on surgery, one winter, in New
York, and was in a hospital there a short
time, All this was fair enough, and

 

proved him ambitious and energetic; but
I did not sike or trust him. There was
something dark and hidden in the work-
ings of his mind from which I shrunk. 1
knew him, too, to be cruel. I could see
# in his manner of treating children and
animals; there was nothing he liked so
well as to practice his half-learned art of
surgery upon some unfortunate sufferer.
The more he insisted on my liking him,
the more I grew to dread him.

“ Affairs were at this crisis when my
cousin came from New York to pay my
aunt a visit. Coming to our rooms al-
most every evening, of course he made
her acquaintance immediately. For the
purpose of making me jealous, he began
to pay the most devoted attention to her.
Nora was a pretty girl, with blue eyes and
fair hair; an innocent-minded thing, not
very sharp, apprenticed to a milliner in
the city ; she believed all that Doctor Thor-
ley told her, and fell in love with him, of
course. When she went away, after her
litt.e holiday, George fouud that, instead
of provoking me to jealousy, he had only
roused my temper at the way he had fool-
ed Nora. I scolded him well for it, and
ended by telling him that I never would
speak to him again.

“Well, it was just after that the scan-
dal arose about his causing the death of a
person by malpractice. He found it was
prudent to run away ; so he sold his stock
for what he could get, and hid himself in
New York. I did not know, at first,
where he was; but felt so relieved to be
rid of him. I had made up my own mind
to go to New York, and get employment
in a fancy-store. You know, Mr. Burton,
for I once laid my heart bare before you,
what wild, mad, but sinless infatuation
it was which drew me there. [ am not
ashamed of it. God is love. When 1
stand in his presence, I shall glory in that
power of love, which, in this bleak world,
has only fretted and wasted my life. In
heaven our whole lives will be one adora-
tion.” She clasped her thin hands together,
and turned her dark eyes upward with
an expression rapt to sublimity. I gazed
upon her with renewed surprise and al-
most reverence. Never do I expect to
meet another woman the whole confor-
mation of whose mind and heart so fitted
her for blind, absolute devotion as Leesy
Sullivan’s.

“When I went to the city to see about
getting a place, I met my cousin, who
told me that she was married to George
Thorley, and had been for some weeks ;
that they were boarding in a nice, quiet
place, and that George staid at home with
her a great deal—indeed, he hardly: went
out at all.

“Tt was evident that she had not heard
of his reasons for leaving Blankville,
and that she did not guess why he kept
himself so quiet. Of course I hadn’t the
heart to tell her; but I made up my mind
that I’d be better to stay where 1 was, for
the present—so I went back to my aunt,
without trying to get a situation in New
York.

“Jt was about six months after this
I got word from Nora, begging me to
come and see her. I Joved my cousin,
and I’d felt grieved that se was married
to Doctor Thorley. I mistrusted some-
thing was wrong ; so I went to the city,
and found her out in the miserable tene-
ment where she was now stopping, starv-
ing herself in a room with hardly a bit of
furniture. She burst out a-crying when
she saw me; and when I’d stopped her
sobbing, she told me she had not seen
George for more than three months ; that
either he’d met with an accident, or he’d
run away from her, leaving her without
a cent of money, and she in such health
that she coud nard.y earn enough to buy
a bit of bread and ‘pay the rent of this
room. :

“*T)o you really think he has left you?
I asked her.

“«Sure, how can I tell? she answered
me, looking at me so pitifully with her in-
nocent blue eyes. ‘He was a fine gentle-
man, and it’s afraid I am that he’s grown
tired of his poor Irish Nora.’

“<«T warned you, cousin, I said, ‘I
knew George Thorley for a villain; but
yon were taken wth his tine words, and

 
 
  

36

 

 

wouldn’t heed. I’m sorry, sorry, sorry
for you—but that won’t undo what’s done.
Are yo sure you are his wife, Nora
dear ?’

“« As sure as I am of heaven,’ she cried,
angry with me. ‘But it’s married we
were by a Protestant clergyman, to please
George—and I’ve got my certificate safe
—ah,yes, indeed.’

'“T could never ascertain whether the
ceremony had been performed by a legal-
ized minister; I always suspected my
poor cousin had been deceived, and it
was because my aunt thought so, too,
and was so sore. on the subject, that she
got so angry with you two gentlemen,
when you went to inquire. But whether
my suspicions were or were not correct,
Nora was George’s wife as certainly, in the
sight of the angels, as woman was ever
the wife of man. Poor child! I no longer
hesitated’ about coming to New York.
She needed my protection, and my help,
too. I paid her board till the day of her
death, which was but a few days after her

_ poor little baby wads born; I saw her de-

cently buried, and then I put out the in-
fant to nurse, and I worked to keep that.
It was a comfort to me, sir. My own
heart was sad, and I took to the little
creature almost as if it was my own. I
had promised Nora that I Wonka bring it
up, and I have kept my word, thus fh

I hated its father for the way he’d treated
Nora, but I loved the child; I took plea-
sure in making its pretty garments and in
seeing that it was well taken care of. I
knew I should never marry ; and. I adopt-
ed Nora’s child as my own,

“Hardly was poor Nora cold in her
grave when I was, one evening, surprised
by a Visit from George Thorley. Where
he had been during his absence I did not
know. He tried to excuse his conduct
toward my cousin, by saying that he had
married her in a fit of jealousy, to which
I'd driven him by my coldness; that he’d
been so tormented in mind he couldn’t
stay with her, for he didn’t love her, and

nt gone out West, and been hard at

ork, to try and forget the past. But he
couldn’t forget it; and when he saw his
wife: death in the papers, he had felt aw-
fully ; but now he hoped I'd forgive it all,
and marry him. He said he had a good
business started in Cincinnati, and I should

' want for nothing, and I mustn't say no to

him again. I stood up, 1 was so indig-
nant, and faced him till he grew as white
as a sheet. I called him @ m rderer—
yes, Nora’s murderer—and ordcred him
never to speak to me nur come near me

rain. I knew he was terribly angry ;
his eyes burned like fire ; but he did not
say much that time; as he took up his
hat to go, he asked about his baby—if st
was living? I would not answer him.
He had no right to the child, and I did
not wish him to see it, or have any thing
to do with it.

“What became of him, after that, for a
jong time, I don’t know. He may have
been in the city all the time, or he may
lave been in Cincinnati. At any rate,
one day, as I was going from my board-
ing-house to the store, | found him walk-
ing along by my side. Nora was nigh a
year old then. He commenced talking to
me on the street, asking me again to
marry him; and then, to frighten me, he
said what a pretty baby Nora had got to
be; and that he should have to find a
wife to take care of his child. She was
his, and he was going to have her, right
away; and if I had any interest in her, |
could show it by becoming her step-
mother. He said he had plenty of money,
and pulled out a handful of gold and
showed me. But this only made me
think the worse of him. He followed me

fhome, and into my room, against my will,

and there I turned upon him and told
‘him that if he ever dared to force him-
self into my presence again, I would sum-
mon the police, and he should be turned
over to the Blankville authorities for the
crime that had driven him out of the vil-
lage.

a After he was gone, I sunk into a chair,
trembling with weakness, though I had
been so bold in his presence. He looked
like an evil spirit, when he smiled at me
us he shut the door, His smile was more

 

THE FIRESIDE LIBRARY.

threatening than any scowl would have
been. Iwas frightened for Nora. Every
day I expected to hear that the little crea-
ture had been taken from her nurse; 1
trembled night and day ; but nothing hap-
pened to the child, and from that day to
this, l have not seen George Thorley. If
he is in California, 1 am glad of it; for
that is a good ways off, und perhaps he’ll
never get track of his daughter. Vd far
rather she’d die and be buried with her
mother and myself, than to live to ever
know that she has sttch a father.

“Tt seems a strange lot has been mine,”
concluded the sewing-girl, her dark eyes

“musing with a far-away look, ‘to have

been followed by such a man as that, to
have set my own heart so high above me,
and then to have fallen, by means of that
love, into such a dreadful pit of circum-
stances—not only to Le so heart-broken,
but so driven and hunted about the world,
with my poor little Jambkin here.”

The pathetic look and tone with which
she said thistouched medeeply. For the
first time, I felt fully the exceeding
cruelty I had been guilty of toward her
if she were as innocent as her words
averred of that nameless and awful crime
which I had written down against her.
At that moment, I did believe her inno-
cent; I did pity her for her own melan-
choly sufferings, which had wasted the
fountains of her life; and I did respect
her for that humble and perfect devotion,
giving all and asking nothing, with which
she had lavished her soul upon him whose
memory called upon his friends for sleep-
less vigilance in behalf of justice. I did not
wonder that she shrunk from me as from
one ready to wound her. But this was
only when in her presence; as soon as I
was away I felt doubtful again.

“Have you any likeness of George
Thorley ?” asked Mr. Burton.

“No. Poor Nora had his ambrotype,
but after her death’ I threw it into the
fire.

“Will you describe him to us ?”

Miss Sullivan gave a description corre-
sponding in all particulars with that given
by Mr. Burton, after reading the dead-let-
ter; he asked her about the third finger
of the right hand, and she said—* Yes, it
had been injured by himself, in some of
his surgical experiments.”

‘We now proposed to take leave, the de-
tective again assuring Leesy that he should
rather protect her against Thorley than
to allow him any chance to annoy her;
he assured her she should be cared for in
his absence, and, what was more, that if
little Nora should be left friendless, he
would keep an eye on the child and see
that it was suitably brought up. This
last assurance brightened the face of the
consumptive with smiles and tears; but
when he gave her his hand at parting,
she burst into sobs :

“Tt is our last meeting, sir.”

“Try to keep as well as you are now
until I come back,” he said, cheerfully.
“I may want you very much then. And,
by the way, Leesy—one question more.
You once told me that you did not recog-
nize the person, you saw upon the lawn,
at Mr. Argyll’s, that night—hbave you sus-
picion who it might be ?”

“None. Ibelieve the man was a stran-

er tome. I only saw him by a flash of
ightning at the instant he was descending
from the tree; if he had been an ac-
quaintance I do not know that 1 should
have known him.”

“That is all. Good-by, little Nora.
Don’t forget Burton.”

We heard the girl’s sobs after the door
was shut.

“Pm her only friend,” said my com-
panion, as he walked away. “No won-
der she is moved at letting me go.
think, with her, that it is doubtful if she
lasts until we get back. Still, her disease
is a lingering one—I hope I shall see her
live to witness the sad triumph of our in-
dustry.” 3

“You speak as if the triumph were

already secured.”

“Tf he’s on the face of the earth, we'll
find Doctor George Thorley. It is no
longer possible that we should be on the
wrong track. You know, Richard, that
I have not confided all my secrets to you,

 

 

 

There will be no one more astonished
than yourself when I summon my wit-
nesses and sum up my conclusions. Oh,
that the hour were come! But I forget
my motto—‘ learn to labor and to wait.’”

 

CHAPTER IV.
EMBARKED FOR CALIFORNIA.

We were on our way to California by
the next steamer. By the advice of Mr.
Burton I purchased my ticket under an
assumed name, for he did not wish to ex-
cite the curiosity of the Argylls, who
might happen to see.the passage-list, and
who would be sure to suspect something
from the contiguity of our names. To
his friends, who chanced to know of his
sudden intentions, Mr. Burton represented
that the health of his daughter demanded
a Change of climate, and business matters
had led him to prefer California.

It was fortunate, since the expenses of
such a trip had become so unexpected a

necessity, that I had lived in the plain, re- .

tiring manner which Thad done in Wash-
ington. I had wasted no money on white
kids, bouquets, nor champagne-suppers ;
I had paid my board and washing-bills,
and a very moderate bill to my tailor,
the rest of my salary had been placed in
a New York bank to my account. My
scorched soul and withered tastes had de-
manded no luxurious gratification—not
even the purchase of new books; so that
now, when this sudden demand arose, I

had a fund sufficient forthe purpose. Mr. |

Burton bore his own expenses, which, in-
deed, I could not help, for I had not the
means of urging a different course upon
him.

We had a very definite object, but no
definite plans; these were to be formed
according to the circumstances we had to
encounter after our arrival in El Dorado.
Of course our man was living under an
assumed name, and had traveled under an
assumed one; we might have every diffi-
culty in getting upon his track. At the
time the detective had discovered the re-
turn of the five-hundred-dollar bill from
San Francisco, he had, with great perse-
verance, gained access to, and “ made a
note of” the passengers’ lists of all the
steamers which sailed, at or about the
time of the murder, for California. These
he had preserved. Out of the names, he
had chosen those which his curious sa-
gacity suggested were the most likely to
prove fictitious and if no quicker method
presented itself, he intended to trace out
one and all of those passengers, until he
came upon the man. In all this I was
his assistant, willing to carry out: his di-
rections, but trusting the whole affair to
his more experienced hand. ,

During the long, monotonous days of
our voyage I seemed to have

‘Suffered a sea change”

into something quite different from the
wooden sort of being into which I had
gradually been hardening. With the dull
routine of my office-life was broken up
also many of the cynical ways of think-
ing into which I had fallen. I felt as if
the springs of youth were not quite dried
up. The real secret of this improvement
was in the eager hope I entertained that
the real criminals were soon to be brought
to light, and the Argylls made to realize
the cruel wrong they had done me, ‘Al-
ready, in imagination, I had accepted
their regret and forgiven them their in-
jestice. It seemed as if every breath of
the sea-breeze, and every bound of the
sparkling waves, swept away a portion of
the bitterness which had mingled with
my nature. The old poetry of existence
began to warm my chilled pulses and to
flush the morning and evening sky. For
hours most melancholy, yet most. deli-
cious, I would climb to some lonely post
of observation—for I was a perfect sailor
among the ropes—and there, where the
blue of heaven bent down to meet the
blue of the ocean, making an azure round
in which floated only the ethereal clouds,
all the sweetness of the past would come
floating to me in fragments, like the odor

 

 
 

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Seca Soaaee

 

THE DEAD LETTER.

 

 

 

 

of flowers blown from some beloved and
distant shore.

The most vivid picture in my scene-
dreams, was that of the parlor of the old
Argyll mansion, as I had seen it last, on
the night of my excursion to the oak-tree.
Mary, in the rosy bloom of young woman-
hood, the ideal of beauty to the eye of a
young and appreciative man, whose stand-
ard of female perfection was high, while
his sensitiveness to its charm was intense
—Mary, reading her book beneath the
rich light of the chandelier—I loved to
recall the vision, except always that it
was marred by that shadow of James
coming too soon between me and the
light. But that flitting vision of Eleanor
was as if the face of a saint had looked
down at me out of its shrine. I saw
then, that she was no longer of this
world, as far as her hopes were concerned.
My once strong passion had been slowly
changing into reverence; I had grieved
with her, with a grief utterly self-abne-
gating, and when I saw that her despair
had worked itself up to a patient and
aspiring resignation, I now felt less of

ity and more: of affectionate reverence.
fraould have sacrificed my life for her
peace of heart, but I no longer thought
of Eleanor Argyll as of a woman to be
approached by the loyes of this world.
Still, as I mused, in my sea-reveries, I be-
lieved myself to haye exhausted my
wealth of feeling upon this now dead and
hallowed love. I had given my first of-
fering at the feet of a woman, peerless
amid her compeers, and since she had
chosen before me, I must needs live soli-
tary, too honored by having worshiped
a woman like Eleanor, to ever be satisfied
with a second choice. Jor Mary I felt a
keen admiration, and a brother’s fondest
love. The noble words she had spoken
in my favor had thrilled me with oo
tude, and increased the tenderness I had
always cherished toward her. When I
thought of her approaching marriage. it
was not with jealousy, but with a certain
indefinable pain which came of my dis-
like to the motives and character of James.
I did not believe that he loved her. Elea-
nor he had loved; but Mary was to him
only the necessary meaifs of securing the
name, property, respectability, etc., of his
uncle’s family. As I recailed that visit to
the guming-table, I felt, at times, as if I
must get back from this journey in time
to interfere, and break up the marriage.
I would run the risk of again being
treated as before—of being misunder-
stood and insulted —I would run any
risk to save her from the unhappiness
which must come from such a partner
ship! So I thought one hour, and the
next I would persuade myself that I could
not and must not make such a fool of
myself; and that, after all, when once
“ married and settled,” James might make
a very good husband and citizen.

Little Lenore was the light and glory
of the steamer. People almost fancied
that, with such a good angel aboard, no

harm could come to the ship. And indeed”

we had a speedy, prosperous voyage.

Yet it was tedious to Mr. Burton. J
had never seen him so restless, I used to
tell. him that he made the hours a great
deal longer by counting them so often, It
was evident that he had some anxiety
which he did not share with me, A fe-
verish dread of delays was upon him.

After we had crossed. the isthmus, and
were fairly embarked the Pacific, his
restlessness abated. .Yet it was just. then
that a small delay occurréd, which threat-
ened to irritate him into new impatience.
It was found thatthe captain had taken
on board quite a company of passengers
Whom, he had promised to land at Aca-
pulco. It was a beautiful, sunny day,
early in October, that our ship steamed
into the little bay. Nearly all the passen-
gers were on deck, to iake a look at the
country and harbor as we approached.
I was upon the hurricane-deck with Le-
nore, who was delighted with the warm
air and green shores, and whose hair
streamed on the fresh yet delicious breeze,
like a golden banner. She observed the
distant mountains, the sunny haze, the

Jimmering water of the bay, with all the
telltneped of a woman ; while I could not

 

but» be: more pleased. with the roses blow-
ing.on, her cheeks and the tricks the wind
was playing with her hair, than with all the
scenery about us, The child’s attendant,
a steady, careful, matron, who had. Jong
had the charge of her, was likewise on
deck, chatting with some of her new ac-
guaintances, and she could. not refrain
from coming to us, presently, on the pre-
text of wrapping Lenore’s. shawl closer
about her.

“ Do look at her,’ Mr. Redfield, said the
good woman, “did you ever see her look-
ing so bright and healthy, sir? The mas-
ter was right, sure enough—it was a sea-
voyage she needed;.above all things. Her
cheeks are like pinies, and if I do say it,
who shouldn’t, it’s the opinion of the com-
pany that you’re the -best-lookin’ couple
on the decks. DPve heard more’n one
speak of it this pas half-hour.”

“That’s half-true, anyhow,” I answer-
ed, laughing, and looking at Lenore,
whose modest, quiet. mind was never on
the alert for compliments. She, laughed
because I did, but remained just as un-
conscious of her pretty looks as hitherto.

“There’s papa coming,” she said, “ some-
thing has happened to him.”

With her marvelous quick discernment,
so like her father’s, she perceived, before
J did, that he was excited, although en-
deavoring to appear more calm than. he
really felt.

“Well, Richard, Lenore,” he began,
drawing us a little apart from the others,
speaking in a low voice, “what,do you
say to my leaving you?”

“ Leaving us!” we both very naturally,
exclaimed.

It would be rather sudden, that: is
truce,

“Where would you go? Walk off on
the water, or betake yourself to the val- .
leys and mountains of Mexico ?”

“There’s no jest about it, Richard. © In-
formation, which has come to me in the
strangest, most’ unexpected manner, ren-
ders it imperative that I should stop at
Acapulco. I. am as much surprised as
you are. I have not even time to tell you
the story; in twenty minutes the ship will
begin to send of her passengers in a
small-boat ; and if I decide to remain
here, I must go to my state-room for some
of my clothes.”

“Are you in earnest, father?” asked
Lenore, ready to cry.

“ Yes, my darling. I am afraid I must
let you go on to San Francisco without
me; but you will have Marie, and Rich-
ard will take just as good care of you as
I would. Twant you to enjoy yourselves,
to have no cares, to take the second. re-
turn steamer, which will give you a fort-
night in San Francisco, and J will meet
you at the isthmus. As you will have no-
thing to do, after your arrival, I will ad-
vise you to explore the country, ride out
every pleasant day, etc. The time. will
soon pass, and in five weeks, God willing,
we shall meet and be happy, my dear lit-
tle girl. Run, run to Marie, and tell her
what I am to do; she will-come and get
my orders.” "

Lenore moved away, rather reluctantly,
and Mr. Burton continued to myself, who
was standing silent from mere stupidity
of astonishment :

‘“ By the merest chance in the world I
overheard a conversation between the
people about to land, which convinces me
that George Thorley, instead of being in
California, is not thirty miles: from Aca-
pulco. If I were not positive of it, I
should not run the risk of experiment,
now, when time is worth every thing.
But Lam so certain of it, that I do not
see as there is any thing for you to do
in San Francisco, but to help little Le-
nore pass the time pleasantly. I have
thought, as calmly as I could under the
pressure of much haste, whether you had
better stop with me, and await, at some
hotel in Acapulco, the result of my visit
into the interior, or go on to the end of
your journey, and returning, meet me at
the isthmus. On the child’s account, 1
think you had better finish the voyage, as
expected. The sea-air is benefiting her
greatly; and, unless you fret too much,
there is nothing to prevent your enjoying
the trip.” r

 

=

“T shall do just as you advise, Mr. Bur-
ton ; but, of course, | shall be intolerably
anxious. For my own part, I would
rather keep with you; but that must be
done which is best for all.”

“You could do me no good by remain-
ing with me; the only thing to be gained
is, that you would be out of your suspense
sooner.. But, I assure you, you ought to
rejoice and feel light-hearted in view of sat
soon learning the one fact most important’
to us—the hiding-place of that. man.
Think you I would wish delay? No.
Pm sure of my man, or I should not take
this unexpected step. How curious are
the ways of Providence! It seems as if
I received help outside of myself. I was
vexed to hear that we were to be delayed
at Acapulco, and now this has proven our
salvation.” :

“God grant you are in the right, Mr.
Burton.” ,

“God grant it. Do not fear that I
shall fail, Richard. You have. reason
to be doubly cheerful. Don’t you trust
me?”

“As much—more, than any person on
earth.”

“Be true to your part, then; take good
care of my child—meet me at the isthmus
—that is your whole duty.”

“But, Mr. Burton, do you not place
yourself in danger? Are you not incur-
ring risks which you ought to share with
others? Can I go on, idle and prosper-
ous, leaving you to do all the work, and
brave all the dangers of a journey like
yours ?”

“T wish it. There may bea little per-
sonal risk ; but not more, perhaps, than I
incur every day of my life. Perhaps

ou do not know,” he added, gayly, “ that

lead a charmed life. Atalice and
reyenge have followed me in a hundred
disguises—six times I have escaped pois-
oned food prepared. for me ; several times,
infernal machines, packed to resemble
elegant presents, have been sent to me;
thrice I have turned upon the assassin,
whose arm was raised to strike—but I

have come unscathed out of all danger, |

to quietly pursue the path to which a vivid
sense of duty calls me.. I do not believe
that I am going to fail in this, one of the
most atrocious cases in which I have ever
interested myself. No, no, Richard; I
enjoy the work—the sense of danger adds
to its importance. I would not have it
otherwise. As I have said, God willing,
I will meet you at the isthmus. If Ido
not keep my appointment, then. you may
know that harm has come to me; and
after providing for the safe passage home
of my little family, you may, if you please,
come back to look after the threads of the
history which I have. dropped. The
steamer bas cast anchor; I must. get my
luggage in shape to go ashore.”

He turned away ; but presently paused
and returned, with an air of perplexity :

“There will be something for you to do,
Richard. _ Lhad forgotten about that five-
hundred-dollar bill, which certainly went
to California within a short time aiter the
robbery. If I should be mistaken, after
all—but no! my information is too con-
clusive—I must take the course, now, and
if Iam.on the wrong track, it will bea
bad business. However, I will not allow
myself to think so,” he added, brighten-
ing again; “but it will do no harm for
you to take a lesson in my art, by exercis-
ing your skill in tracing the fortunes of
that banknote. In doing that, you may.
come upon evidence which, if I fail here,
may be turned to use.”

With a foreboding of evil I looked after
him as he descended the ladder to the
cower deck—form, face and movements
expressing the indomitable energy which
made him the man he was.

When the sun sunk, that night, into
the molten waves of the Pacific, Lenore
and I paced the deck alone; and as she

quietly wiped away the tears which fell,

at the sense almost of desertion which her
father’s sudden departure caused, I could
bardly cheer her, as he had bidden me,
for I, too, felt the melancholy isolation of
our position—voyaging to a strange land
in the wake of an awful mystery.

 

 

ee

se

ee

————

earns

—

A

ns
  

 

 

 

CHAPTER VY.
ON THE TRAIL.

] NEED not dwell at much length upon
our visit to San Francisco, since nothing
important to the success of oar enterprise
came of it. From the hour we entered
the Golden Gate until we departed through
it, L was restless with a solicitude which
made me nervous and sleepless, destroyed
my appetite,and blinded me to half the
novelties of San Francisco, with its un-
paralleled growth and hybrid civilization.
I gave the most of my time to two objects
—looking, by night, into all the bad, popu-
lar, or out-of-the-way dens, haunts, sa-
loons, theaters and hotels, scanning every
one of the thousands of strange faces, for
that one sinister counte;ince, which I felt
that I should know at a giance—and in
the endeavor to identify the man who had
disposed of the Park Bank bill to the Ex-
press Company.

I was rewarded, for days of research,
by ascertaining, finally, and beyond doubt,
that a gentleman of respectability, a
Spaniard, still residing in the city, had of-
fered the bill to be discounted at the time
it had been accepted by the company. I
made the acquaintance of the Sp:nish ¢en-
tleman, and, with a delicacy of address
upon which I flattered myself, I managed
to learn, without being too impertinent,
that he had obliged a fellow-passenger,
two years previously, who was getting off
at Acapulco, and who desired gold for his
paper money, with the specie, and had
taken of him some two or three thousand
dollars of New York currency, which
he had disposed of to the Express Com-
pany.

Burton was right, then! My heart
leaped to my throat as-the gentleman
mentioned Acapulco. From that moment
I felt less fear of failure, but more, if pos-
sible, intense curiosity and anxiety.

It had been my intention to proceed to
Sacramento in search of the haunting face
which was forever gliding before my
mind’s eye; but after this revelation, I
gladly yielded to the belief that Mr. Bur-
ton would find the face before I did; and)
in the relief consequent upon this hope,
I began to give more heed to his injunc-
tion to do my part of the duty by taking
good care of his child. :

Lenore was in rising health and spirits,
and when I began to exert myself to help
her pass away the time, she grew very
eae The confiding dependence of
childhood is its most affecting trait. It
was enough for her that her father had
given her to me for the present; she felt
safe and joyous, and made all those little
demands upon my attention which a sis-
ter asks of an older brother. I could
hardly realize that she was nearly thirteen
years of age, she remained so small and
slender, and was so innocently childlike
in hermanners and feelings. Her attend:
ant was one of those active women wl.
like nothing so much as plenty of busi-
ness-responsibility . the trip, to her, was
full of the kind of excitement she pre-
ferred; the entire charge of the little
maiden intrusted to her care, was one of
the most delightful accidents that ever hap-

ened to her; I believe she rejoiced daily
i the absence of Mr. Burton, ee be-
fause it added to the importance o
duties.

But I was glad when the fortnight’s
jong delay was over, and we were re-em-
barked upon our pee . My mind
lived in advance of the hour, dwelling
upon the moment when I should either
see, awaiting us on the dock, where he
had promised to meet us, at the isthmus,
the familiar form of the ae genius of
our party, or—that blank which would
announce tidings of fatal evil.

We glided prosperously over the round-
ed swells of the Pacific, through sunshiny
days and nights of brilliant moonlight.
Through the soft evenings, Lenore, well
wrapped in shawls and hood by her faith-
ful woman, remained with me upon deck,
sometimes until quite late, singing, one
after another, those delicious melodies
never more subtly, understandingly ren-
dered, than by this small spirit of song.
Rapt crowds wonld gather, at respectful
distances, to listen; but she sung for my

her

 

 

sake, and for the music’s, unheeding who
came or went. Sometimes, even now, I
wake at night from a dream of that voy-
age, with the long wake of glittering sil-
ver following the ship, as if a million
Peris, in their boats of pearl, were sailing
after us, drawn on by the enchantment
of the pure voice which rose and fell be-
tween the stars and sea.

The last twenty-four hours before reach-
ing the isthmus witnessed a change in the
long stretch of brilliant weather common
at that season of the year. Torrents of
rain began to fall, and continued hour
after hour, shutting us in the cabin, and
surrounding us with a gray wall, which
was as if some solid world had closed us
in, and we were nevermore to see blue
sky, thin air, or the sharp rays of the
sun.

Lenore, wearied *of the monotony, at
last fell asleep on one of the sofas; and I
was glad to have her quiet, for she had
been restless at the prospect of seeing her
father early the nextmorning. It was ex-
pected the steamer ‘would reach her dock
some time after midnight. Asthe hours
of the day and evening wore on, I grew
so impatient as to feel suffocated by the
narrow bounds of the ship, and the close,
gray tent of clouds. Lenore went early
to her state-room. I then borrowed a
waterproof cloak from one of the officers
of the vessel, and walked the decks the
whole night, in the driving rain, for I
could not breathe in my little room. It
was so possible, so probable, that harm
had befallen the solitary detective, setiing
forth, “a stranger in a strange land,” up-
on his dangerous errand, that I blamed
myself bitterly for yielding to his wishes,
and allowing him to remain alone at Aca-
pulco. In order to comfort myself I re-
called his ability to cope with danger—his
physical strength, his unshaken coolness
of nerve and mind, his calmness of pur-
pose and indomitable will, before which
the wills of other men were broken like
reeds by a strong wind. The incessant
rain recalled two other memorable nights
to me; and the association did not serve
to make me more cheerful. There was
no wind whatever, with the rain; the
captain assured me, after I had asked him
often enough to vex a less question-inured
officer, for the twentieth time, that we
were “all right”—‘‘not a half-hour after
time ”—‘ would arrive at the isthmus at
two o'clock, A. M., precisely, and I might
go to bed in peace, and be ready to get
up early in the morning.”

I had no idea of going to bed. The
passengers were not to be disturbed until
daylight; but I was too anxious to think
of sleep; I said to myself that if Mr.
Burton was as impatient as myself, he
would, despite the storm and the late
hour, be upon the dock awaiting our ar-
rival; and if so, he should not find me
slumbering. As we neared our landing,
I crowded in among the sailors at the for-
ward part of the boat, and strained my
eyes through the gloom to the little twinkle
of light ee out by the lamps along the
quay. s usual, there was considerable
stir and noise, upon the arrival of the
steamer, shouts from the ship and shore,
and a bustle of ropes and swearing of sail-
ors. The passengers generally were snug
in their berths, where they remained un-
til morning. In a few moments the ropes
were cast ashore and we were moored at
our dock. I leaned over the gunwale and
peered through the mist; the rain had
kindly ceased descending, for the time;
various lamps and lanterns: glimmered
along the wharf, where some persons
were busy about their work, pertaining to
the arrival of the ship; but I looked in
vain for Mr. Burton.

Disappointed, despondent, I still recon-
noitered the various groups, when sud-
denly a loud, cheery voice caJled out:

“Richard, halloo !”

I experienced a welcome revulsion af
feeling as these pleasant tones startled me
to the consciousness that Mr. Burton had
emerged from the shadow of a lamp-pos
against which he had been leaning, an
was now almost within shaking-hands
sistance. 1 could have laughed or cried,
whichever happened, as L recognized the
familiar yoice and form, Presently he

 

38 _______ THE FIRESIDE LIBRARY.

was on the vessel. The squeeze I gave
his hand, when we met, must have been
severe, for he winced under it. I scarcely
needed to say—‘* You have been success:
ful!” or he to answer; there was a light
on his face which assured me that at least
he had not entirely failed.

“JT have much, much, to tell you, Rich-
ard. But first about my darling—is she
well—happy ?”

“ Both. e have not had an accident.
You will be’surprised to see Lenore, she
has improved so rapidly. My heart feels
a thousand pounds lighter than it did an
hour ago.”

“Why so?” a)

“Oh, I was so afraid you had not got
away from Acapulco.” ;

“You do look pale, that’s a fact, Rich-
ard—as if you had not slept for a week.
Let your mind rest in quiet, my friend.
All is right. The trip has not. been wasted.
Now let God give us favoring breezes
home, and two years of honest effort shall
be rewarded. Justiceshall be done. The
wicked in high places shall be brought
low.’

He always spoke as if impressed with
an almost solemn sense of his responsi-
bility in bringing the iniquities of the fa-
vored rich to light; and on this occasion
his expression was unusually earnest.

“ Where is my little girl? What is the
number of her state-room? I would like
to steal a kiss before she wakes; but I
suppose that careful Marie has the door
bolted and barred; so I will not disturb
them. It is three whole hours to daylight
yet. I can tell you the whole story of my
adventures in that time, and I suppose
you have a right to hear it as soon as pos-
sible. I will not keep you in suspense.
Come into the cabin.”

We found a quiet corner, where, in the
“wee sma’ hours,” by the dim light of the
cabin-lamps, now nearly out, I listened,
it is needless to say with what painful in-
terest, co the account of Mr. Burton’s visit
in Mexico. I will give the history here,
as he gave it, with the same reservations
which, it was evident, he still made in
talking with me.

These reseryations—which I could not
fail to perceivé he had frequently made,
since the beginning of our acquaintance,
and which, the én fed will recollect, had at
times excited my indignation — puzzled
and annoyed me; but there was soon to
come a time when I understood and ap-
preciated them. ’

On that day of our outward voyage,
when the ship was detained to land a por-
tion of her passengers at Acapulco, Mr.
Burton, restless at the delay, was leaning
over the deck-rails, thrumming impatient-
ly with his fingers, when his attention be-
came gradually absorbed in the conver-
sation of a group of Mexicans at his el-
bow, several of whom were of the part,
about to land. They spoke the corrupte
Spanish of their country ; but the listener
understood it well enough to comprehend
‘the most of what was said.

One of their number was describing a
scene which occurred upon his landing at
this same Ron some two years previous.
The ship, bound for San Francisco, met
with an accident, and put into Acapulco
for repairs. The passengers, knowing
that the steamer would not sail under
twenty-four hours, the most of them broke
the monotony of the delay by going on
shore. A number of rough Aaa) York-
ers, going out#to the mines, got-into a
quarrel with some of the natives, during
which knives, pistols, etc., were freely
used. A gentleman, named Don Miguel,
the owner of a large and valuable hacienda
which lay about thirty miles from Aca-
pulco, and who had just landed from the
steamer, attempted, imprudently, #0 inter-
fere, not wishing his countrymen to be so
touchy with their visitors, and was re-
warded for his good intentions by receiv-
ing a severe stub in the side from some
one of the combatants. He bled profuse-
ly, and would soon have become exhaust-
ed, had his wound not been immediately
and well dressed by a young American,
one of the New York passengers, who
had Janded to see the sights, and was
standing idly to one side, viewing the
melee at the time Don Miguel was injured,

 

 

 

 

 
3 :

Sn ener NRRL a

The Don, exceedingly grateful for the
timely attention, conceived a warm liking
for the young man, whose “ Yankee”
quickness and readiness had already at-
tracted his attention while on board the
steamer. Having given such proof of his
fitness for the place as he had done by
dressing the Don’s wound, that gentle-
man, in the course of the two or three
hours in which the young stranger re-
muined in attendance upon him, offered
him the situation of physician upon his
immense estates, with the plain promise
that he should receive benefits much
more important than his salary. This
offer, after a short hesitation, was accept-
ed by the doctor, who stated that he was
out in search of his fortune, and it made
no difference to him where he found it,
whether in Mexico or California, only that
he should be assured of doing well. This
Don Miguel, in his sudden friendship,
was prompt to promise. The Don, be-
sides vast grazing farms, had extensive
interests in the silver mines, which bor-
dered upon his actenda. Doctor Seltzer
was deeply interested in an account ot
these, and returned to the ship for his
baggage, bidding his fellow - passengers
good-by, in excellent spirits. “ And well
he might consider himself fortunate,”
went on the narrator, “ for there are none
of us who do not feel honored by the
friendship of Don Miguel, who is as hon-
orable as he is wealthy. For my part, I
do not understand how he came to place
such confidence in the ‘ Yankee’ doctor,
who had to me the air of an adventurer ;
but he took bim to his home, made him a
member of his family, and before I left
Acapulco, I heard that Don Miguel had
riven him for a wife his only daughter,
nez, a beautiful girl, who could have had
her choice of the proudest young bloods
in this region.” : :

It may be imagined with what interest
Mr. Burton, listened to the story thus un-
consciously revealed by the chatty Mexi-
‘an. He at once, as by prescience, saw
his man in this fortunate Dr. Seltzer, who
had registered his name Mr., not Ur., on
the passenger-list, and which name was
among those whom the detective had se-
lected as suspicious. ;

(Linterrupted my friend’s narrative here
to explain the matter of the bank-notes
which he had exchanged for specie with
a passenger, but found that Mr. Burton
already knew all about them.) ;

Edging gradually into the conversation,
Mr. Burton, with his tact and experience,
was not long in drawing from the group
a description of the personal appearance
of Dr. Seltzer, along with all the facts and
conjectures relating to his history since
his connection with Don Miguel. Every
thing he heard made “assurance doubly
sure ;” and there was no time to be lost in
deciding upon the course to pursue under
this unexpected doubling of the chase.
To get off at Acapulco was a matter of
course; but what to do with the remainder

of his party he could not at first deter-..

nine. He knew that I would be eager to
accompany him; yet he feared that, in
some way, should we all land and take
rooms at any of the hotels, the wily Doc-
tor Seltzer, doubtless always on the alert,
might perceive some cause for alarm, and
secure safety by flight. To go alone, un-
der an assumed name, in the character
of a scientific explorer of mines, seemed
to him the surest and most discreet
method of nearing the game; and to this
resolve he had come before he sought us
out to announce his sudden intention of
atopping at Acapulco, while leaving us to

Pursue our voyage without him.

i CHAPTER VI.
AT LAST—AT LAST.

As our ship steered away ont into the
open sea, Mr. Burton walked up into the
ruinous old Spanish town, and stopped at
the hotel, in whose breezy corridor he
found several of his navel companions,
who had preceded him. These persons
had been somewhat surprised at his de-

THE DEAD LETTER.

sertion of the rest of his party for a visit
to their decayed city; but when he ex-
plained to them his desire of visiting some
of their deserted mines, and examining
the character of the mountainous region,
a little back, before proceeding to similar
investigations in California, their wonder
gave place to the habitual indolence of
temperaments hardly active enough even
for curiosity. There were two or three
persons from the United States stopping
at the hotel, who quickly made his ac-
quaintance, eager for news direct fron.
home, and while he conversed with these
the four o'clock dinner was announted.
He sipped his chocolate leisurely, after the
dessert, chatting at ease with his new
friends; and upon expressing a desire to
see more of the old town, one of them
offered to accompany him upon a walk.
They strolled out among cool palm
groves, and back through the dilapidated
streets, made picturesque by some pro-
cessions of Catholics, winding through the
twilight with their torches, until the mocn
arose and glimmered on the restless
ocean.

Mr. Burton’s, would have gone at. once to
the American consul for his assistance ;
but he felt himself fully equal to the
emergency, and desired no aid in the en-
terprise which he was about to prosecute.
Therefore he refused the invitation of his
companion to call upon the consul; and
finally returned to his hotel, to sit awhile
in the open, moonlit corridor, before re-
tiring to his room, where he lay long
awake, pondering upon the steps to be
taken next day, and somewhat disturbed
by the open doors and windows, which
were the order of the establishment.

He was awakened from his first slum-
ber by the cold nose of a dog rubbed in
his face, and from his second by a lizard
creeping over him; but not being a ner-
vous man, he contrived to sleep soundly
at last. He was served, early in the morn-
ing, with a cup of coffee in his apartment,
and before the late breakfast was ready,
he had been abroad and concluded his
arrangements for a visit to the estates of
Don Miguel. Everybody knew that gen-
tleman by reputation; and he had no dif
ficulty in securing the services of two
half-naked, lazy-looking native Indians,
to act as guides, who, with three forlorn
mules, destined to carry the party, were
at the door when he finished his morning
repast. He was warned to go well-armed,
us, though the route to Don Miguel’s was
an old one, often traveled, there was
always more or less danger in that
country. A pistol or two would not be
out of place, if only to’ keep his shiftless
guides in order. Mr. Burton thanked his
advisers, told them he feared nothing,
and set out upon his long, hot and tedious
ride —thirty miles on muleback, under a
southern sun, being something more of a
task than he had ever known a journey
of that length to be hitherto. At noon
he took a rest of a couple of hours at a
miserable inn by the wayside, and a din-
ner of fried tortillas, rendered tolerable by
a dessert of limes, bananas and oranges.
With a supply of this cooling fruit in his
pockets, he braved the afternoon sun, de-
termined to reach the hacienda before
dark. As he neared his destination, the
character of the country changed. The
broad road, cut through groves of palm,
and fields of corn, with orchards of figs
and peaches, grew more narrow and un-
even, and the surface of the ground more
broken. Before him loomed up hills,
growing higher’as they retreated, some
of the glittering peaks of the more remote
seeming to elisten with snow. A cool,
refreshing air swept down from them ;
the scenery, although wilder, was beauti-
fal and romantic in the extreme. Wea-
ried as he was with the conduct of a mule
which was no disgrace to the reputation
of its species, Mr. Burton enjoyed the
magnificent scene which opened before
him, as he approached the hacienda of
Don Miguel. It lay at the foot of a low
mountain, first of the brotherhood which
overtopped it, and stood looking over its
shoulder. Rich plains, some of them

 

highly cultivated, and others covered with

Most persons, on business similar to -

 

|

39

 

the grazing herds of a thousand cattle, lay
at the foot of the hill, which was ‘heavily
timbered, and down which leaped aspark-
ling cascade, not more beautiful to the eye
than promising of freshness to the pas-
tures below, and of “ water-privileges ” to
the mines understood to lay somewhere
in the canons of the mountain.

Before entering upon the estates which
he had now reached, Mr. Burton secured
a night's lodging for his peons, at a hovel '
by the roadside, and having abundantly
rewarded them, dismissed them from his
service, riding forward alone along the
private carriage - way, which, through
groves of flowering trees and fragrant
peach-orchards, led up to the long, low,
spacious mansion of Don Miguel.

By the servant who came forth to re-
ceive him he was informed that the master
of the place was at home, and was soon
shown into his presence, in the cool, tile-
floored sitting room, in which he was
lounging, waiting for the supper-hour.

Mr. Burton’s powers of pleasing were
too great, and his refinement too real, for
him to fail in making the impression he
desired upon the gentleman into whose
house he had intruded himself. The cold
courtesy with which he was at first re-
ceived soon took a tinge of warmth, and
it was with sincere cordiality that Don
Miguel offered him the hospitalities of his
home, and full liberty to make all the re-
searches he might desire upon his estate.
The habitual dislike of the Spaniard for
“los Yankees,” seemed quite overcome in
the case of Don Miguel, by his friendship
for his son-in-law, of whom he soon spoke,
anticipating the pleasure it would give
Dr. Seltzer to meet a gentleman so re-
cently from his old home, New York.
On this account he made the stranger
doubly welcome. Mr. Burton was inter-
ested in his host, and liked him, perceiv-
ing him to be intelligent, generous and
enthusiastic ; his heart rebuked him when
he thought of the mission upon which he
had come into this little retired Paradise,
so remote from the world and so loyely in
itself that it did seem as if evil ought to
have forgotten it.

The two had conversed nearly an hour
when Don Miguel said : ’

“Tt is now our supper-hour. Allow a
servant to show you to your apartment,
where we will give you time to at least
bathe your face and hands after your
weary ride. I was so entertained by the
news you bring me from the States that I
have neglected your comfort. Dr. Seltzer
went up on the mountain, to-day, to look
after our mining interests a little, but I
expect his return every moment. He will
be charmed to meet a countryman.”

This last assertion Mr. Burton doubted,
for he knew that the remorse of a guilty
conscience stung the possessor into a rest-
lessness which made any unexpected event
a matter of suspicion. As the door closed
upon him in the large, airy chamber into
which he was ushered, he sunk, for a few
moments, into a chair, and something like
a tremor shook his usually steady nerves.
He stood so close upon the probable ac-
compshment of the object he had kept
in view for two years, that, for an instant,
excitement overcame him. He soon ral-
lied, however, and at the end of fitteen
minutes, when the peon came again to an-
nounce supper, he had toned up his cour-
age with a plentiful dash of cold water,
and was never more his own peculiar self
than when he set foot in the supper-room.
A glance told him that the absent mem-
ber of the family had not yet returned;
only two persons were present, his host,
and the beautiful woman whom he intro-
duced as his daughter, Mrs. Seltzer. The
three sat down to the table, which was
covered with an elegant repast, the first
dish of which was a fine-flavored roast
wild-turkey.

There was a plentiful supply of porce-
lain and silver-ware; it did not take five
seconds for the guest to decide that the
quondam druggist of Blankville—if this
were indeed the person, as he assumed
with such certainty—had gotten himself
into enviable quarters.

As his penetrating glance rested on the
exquisite face which confronted him

tN IIS

ee

eter one

i cere

 
  

 

across the “pale specter of the salt,” he
kept. asking himself, with inward an-
guish, why it was that he had not cir-
cumvented this adventurer sooner, before
the young, girlish creature he saw before
him had involved her fate with that of
the guilty.

Beautiful as our dreamiest fancies of
Spanish women she was, according to the
report of Mr. Burton, and he was no en-
thusiast. He saw that she was as uneasy
as a bird which misses its mate, her black
eyes constantly wandering to the door,
and her ear so pre-occupied with listen-
ing for the expected step as scarcely to
take note of the remarks made to her by
the stranger. Once she asked him, with
much interest, if he had known Dr. Selt-
zer in New York, but upon his answer-
ing in the negative, he could guess that
he had fallen in her esteem, for she im-
mediately withdrew her attention from
him.

The senses of the guest were all keenly
on the alert; but it was by the sudden
fire which leaped and melted in the eyes
of the Donna and the rich color which
shot into her hitherto olive cheek, that he
was informed of the approach of her hus-
band. She had heard the rapid gallop of
his horse afar off, and now sat, mute and
expectant, until he should arrive at the
gate, cross the veranda and enter the
room. In three minutes he stood in the
supper-room. The visitor met him just
in the manner he would have most de-
sired—when the man was entirely un-
warned of company, and had no chance
to put onamask. Outwardly Mr. Burton
was serene as asummer day, but inwardly
his teeth were set upon each other to
keep his tongue from crying out— This
ts the man |”

When Dr. Seltzer first perceived a
stranger in the room, and heard his father-
in-law say :

“A countryman of yours, from New

York, doctor,’—
His slight start of surprise would, to
most persons, have appeared no more
than natural; but the person whose cour-
teous eye met his, saw in it the first im-
pulse of an ever-ready apprehension—an
alarm, covered instantly by a false warmth
of manner which caused him to greet the
stranger with extreme friendliness,

The new-comer retired for a moment
to his room to prepare for the meal; upon
his taking his place at table, hot dishes
were brought in; the Donna seemed also
to have recovered her appetite, which had
been spoiled by his absence; a gay and
social hour followed.

Doctor Seltzer might have been good-
looking had his eyes not possessed the
shifting, ameertain glance that plays be-
fore asoul which dares not frankly meet its
fellows, and had not an evil expression pre-
dominated on his features. His face was
one which would have been distrusted in
any intelligent company of our own peo-
ple; but the Spaniards, with whom he
was now associated, were so accustomed
to treachery and untruth among their
race, and so familiar with kindred features
and subtle black eyes, that he, doubtless,
had never impressed them unfavorably.
A Spaniard he was at heart, and he had
found, in his present hfe, a congenia
sphere. Not that all Spaniards are neces-
sarily murderers—but their code of right
and wrong is different from ours. Don
Miguel was an excellent gentleman, hon-
orable, to an unusual degree, for a Mexi-
can, real and sanguine in his feelings, and
thoroughly deceived as to the character
and acquirements of the person to whom
he had confided so much. It was the bit-
ter flavor in the cup of his assured triumph
that Mr. Burton, in bringing the villain
to bay, must shock this amiable host,
and ruin the happiness of his innocent
child.

After supper, they sat on the veranda a
couple of hours. The half-filled moon
sunk down behind the groves of fragrant
trees; the stars burned in the sky, large,
and, to a Northern eye, preternaturally
bright; the wind was luscious with

warmih and sweetness ; and the beautilu
woman, whose soft eyes dwelt ever on the
face of her husband, looked
lovely in the clear moonlight,

et more
Through

 

 

THES FPIREBSIDS clued BRARY.

all the earnestness of his story, my friend
dwelt a little on these details, because he
observed them at the time, and they
became a part of the narrative in his
mind.)

The conversation was principally upon
mining. Mr. Burton had sufficient scien-
tific knowledge to make it apparent that
his exploring expedition was for the pur-
pose of adding to that knowledge. Be-
fore they separated for the night, Dr.
Seltzer had promised to escort him, on
the following day, over all the mountain-
ous portion of the ranch.

The visitor retired early, being fatigued
with his journey ; but he did not sleep as
quietly as usual. He was disturbed by
the onerous duty to which he had devoted
himself. Visions of the face of the Donna,
pale with grief and reproach, and of the
interview which he had resolved upon
with the murderer, alone on the mountain-
side, when, by the force of will, and the
suddenness of the accusation, he expected
to wring from him the desired confession
—kept him long awake. Once he half-
rose in his bed ; for, lying in that feverish
condition when all the senses are exalted,
he heard, or fancied he heard, the handle
of the door turned, and a person step
silently into the apartment. Knowing the
thievish propensities of the Spanish ser-
vants, he had no doubt but one of these
had entered for purposes of robbery; he
therefore remained quiet, but ready to
pounce upon the intruder should he detect
him approaching the bed. The room was
entirely dark, the moon having set some
time before. Whether he made some
sound when rising on his couch, or whe-
ther the visitor gave up his purpose at
the last moment, he could only conjec-
ture; after some moments of absolute
silence he heard the door drawn softly to-
gether again, and was conscious of being
alone. Soon after this he dropped asleep,
and awoke in the dawn to find his purse
and garments undisturbed. He was sum-
moned to an early breakfast, which was
partaken of by the two excursionists
alone; his companion was, if possible,
more social and friendly than on the pre-
vious evening. It was yet hardly sunrise
when they arose from the table to mount
the horses which awaited them at the
door. <A basket of lunch was attached to
the pummel of Dr. Settzer’s saddle, whose
parting injunction to the servant. was to
have dinner at four, as they should stand
in need of it upon their return. Then,
through a world of dew, coolness and per-
fume, glittering with the first rays of the
sun, the two men rode off toward the
mountains,

After following a good road some five
or six miles, they commenced climbiug
the first of the series of hills of which
mention has been made. The road here
was still tolerable; but when they ad-
vanced into the immediate regions of the
mines they were compelled to abandon
their horses, which were left at a small
building belonging to the ranch, and to
proceed on foot into the mountain gorges,

The scenery now became wild beyond
mere picturesqueness—it was startling,
desolate, grand. Traces of old mines,
once worked, but now deserted, were
everywhere visible. Finally they came
to a new “lead,” which was being suc-
cessfully worked by the peons of Don
Miguel. There were some forty of these
,saborers at work, under an overseer. Dr.
Seltzer showed his companion tie recent
improvements which had been made; the
machinery which he himself had iniro-
duced, and a portion of which he had in-
vented; stating that, under the system
which he had introduced, Don Miguel
was growing a rich man faster than he
had previously had any idea was possible.
The mountain-stream, spoken of as being
visible at a great distance, glittering from
hight to hight, was here made to do the
unromantic work of washing the ore and
grinding it. The overseer was called up-
on by the host to give every desirable in-
formation to the traveler, and here a Jon
visit was made, Lunch was partaken of
beneath the cool shadow of a ledge of
rock; and then Dr. Seltzer proposed, if
his visitor was not already too much
fatigued, to take him higher up, to a spot

which he had discovered only the day
before, and which he had every reason to
believe contained a richer deposit of sil-
ver than any vein heretofore opened—in
fact, he thought a fortune lay )1idden mn
the wild gorge to which he referred, and
he anxiously invited the scientific obser-
vation of his guest.

This was just the opportunity for being
alone with his man that Mr. Burton de-
sired. It may seem strange that, he pro-
posed to confront the murderer with his
guilt in this solitary manner, with no wit-
nesses to corroborate any testimony he
might wring from the guilty ; but the de-
tective knew enough of human natirre to
knowthat the confronted criminal is almost
always a coward, and he had no fear that
this person, if guilty, accused of his false
name and falser character, would refuse
to do what he demanded of him. Again,
his principal object, more important by
far than the discovery of the actual hired
assassin, was to gain from the frightened
accomplice a full, explicit confession of
who had tempted him to the crime—who was
the really most guilty murderer—whose
money had paid for the deed which his
own dastardly hand had shrunk from.
Strong in resources which never yet had
failed him, Mr. Burton was anxious foi
the singular encounter he had devised.

Leaving all traces of man behind them,
the two climbed a rugged path, and en-
tered a canon, through the center of
which roared a foaming torrent, and
which was so deep and sheltered that
even at this noon-hour the path was cool
and the sunlight tempered. As they walk-
ed or clambered on, both men gradually
grew silent. Of what Dr. Seltzer might
be thinking Mr. Burton did not know—
his own mind was absorbed in the scene
which he was awaiting the earliest fitting
moment to enact. The doctor, who shoul
haye acted as guide, had, somehow,
chanced to lag behind.

“Which direction shall I take ?” asked
Mr. Burton, presently.

‘Ascend the narrow defile to the right,”

A misstep may hurl you upon the rocks
below. In three minutes we shall be ina
safe and beautiful region, with our feet,
literally, ead ing, a silver floor.”

As he spoke thus, he drew nearer, but
the path was. too narrow to allow him to
take the advance, and Mr. Burton contin
ued to lead the way. 7

The subtle perceptions of the detective,
a magnetism which amounted almost te
the marvelous, I have so frequently refer-
red to, that my reader will understand
how it was that Mr. Burton, thus in the
yan, and not looking at all at his compan-
ion, felt a curious, Feckly sensation run
along his nerves. He came to the nar-
rowest part of the dangerous path. An
immense rock reached up, a mighty wall,
upon the right, and to the left, far below
the uneven, stony and brier-grown ledge
along which he was picking his steps,
foamed and roared the torrent, over rocks
which thrust themselves here and there
above the yeasty water. Directly in front
arose an obstacle in the shape of a projec-
tion. of the rock some three or four feet in
hight, covered with tough little bushes,
one of which he took hold of to draw
himself up by.

However, instead of pulling himself up,
as his action seemed to indicate that he
was about to do, he turned and grasped
the arm of Dr. Seltzer. His movement
was rapid as lightning, but it was not
made a second too soon. Thearm which
he held in a clasp of steel was raised to
strike, and a Spanish dirk was in the
hand.

A stealthy, murderous light, almost red
in its intensity, burned in the eyes which
now sunk before his. An instant the foil-
ed assassin stood surprised; then com-
menced a struggle between the two men.
Dr. Seltzer made desperate efforts to hurl
his antagonist into the torrent beneath;
but, though frantic with rage and hate
his violent exertions did not effect their
eet On the contrary, Mr. Burton,
calm and self-possessed, despite an in-
stant’s astonishment, pressed his adver-

 

sary backward along the narrow path —

 

called out his companion, pressing after ,
him, “but be cautious of your footing. *

|

 

 

 

 
— > ———

 

 

 

until they were both on safe ground, in
the iniddle of a little grassy plateau,
which they had lately traversed, where
he held him, having disarmed him of his
knife: --

What had caused his momentary aston-
ishment, was the fact’ that Dr. Seltzer

new his and suspected his‘object, which
‘truth he instantly comprehended, upon

turning and reading the murderous eyes

‘that met his. Now, as he held him, he

remarked :
“ Another stab in the back, George
Thorley.”

“Well, and what did you come here,

for, you accursed New York detect-
ive ?”

“T came to persuade you to turn State’s
evidence.” :

-“What about?”—there was a slight
change in the voice, which told, against
his will, that the adventurer felt re-
Heved,. :
."Towant you to give your written and
sworn testimony as to who it was hired
you, for the sum of two thousand dollars,
to murder Mr. Moreland, at Blankville,
on the 17th of October, 1857.”

“ Who said Lmurdered him ?. Humph !
rou. raust think I’m decidedly simple to
te coaxed or frightened into committing
myself,”

Tye not waste words, Thorley. I
know you, all your history, all your bad
deeds—or enough of them to hang you.
f have a warrant for your arrest in my
pocket, which I brought from the States
with me. I could have brought an escort
from: Acapulco, and arrested you at once,
without giving you any chance for ex-

ldnation. But Ihave my own reasons
‘or desiring to keep this, matter quiet—
one of which is that Ido not wish any
premature report to alarm your accom-
plice, man or woman, whichever it is,
until I can put my hand on the right per-
gon.” :

“What makes you think that I did
it?” ‘

“No matter what makes me think so—
I don’t think, I know. T have the instru-
ment with which you committed the
act, with your initials on the handlé. “I
have the lettér you wrote to your accom-

lice, claiming your reward. In short,

ve. proof enough to convict. you twice
over. The only hope you have of any
wercy from me is in at once doing all

that ask of you—which is to give a full, |

written statement, over your real name,
of all the circumstances which led to the
murder.” 7

“Tm not such a fool as to tie the rope
around my own neck.”

As he made this answer, he gave a
powerful jerk to extricate himself from
the unpleasant position to which he was
held. Mr. Burton drew a reyolver from
his breast-pocket, remarking :

“ JT will not hold you Thorley ; but just
ag sure as you make an attempt to get
away, I will shoot you. Supposing you
succeeded in getting free from me—what

ood would that do you? Your prospects
rere would be ruined; for I should ex-

se. you to Don Miguel. You would
Bird to flee from wife, country and _for-
tune; all you would preserve would be
your rascally life, which I do not propose,
at preseut, to take,”

“A man’s life is his best possession.”

“A truth you would have done well to
remember before you took away the life
‘of another. I can’t talk to such a scoun-
tirel as you, Thorley ; I fairly ache to in-

flict upon you the punishment you deserve. —

It is for the sake of otliers, in whom I am
interested, that I give you this one chance
of mercy. Here is paper, pen and ink ;
sit down on that stone there, and write
what I asked of you.”

“ What security do you offer me against
the consequences of criminating myself?
I want you to promise I shall be none the
worse off for it.” i

“You are too fully in my power to de-
niand promises of me. Yet this 1 will
consent to, as I said before, for the sake

‘ef others—to let you go unprisoned by

the warrant I hold against you, and
neyer to put the officers of justice on your

track. One thing, however, I must and

shall do. I can not leave this Paradise,

 

THE DEAD

 

 

into which you have crept like the ser-
pent, without warning Don Miguel what
manner of creature he is trusting and
sheltering.” ts

“Oh, don’t do that, Mr. Burton! He’ll
turn me off on the world again, and I
shall be exposed to the same temptations
as ever—and here I was leading a better
life--I was indeed—reformed, quite re-
formed and repentant.”

“So reformed and repentant, so very ex-
cellent, that you were only Titty enitead but
now, from killing me and tumbling mc
into tliis convenient ravine, by my own
prudence.”

‘“EHyery thing was at stake, you know.
I was desperate. You must forgive me
It would not be natural for me to submi
to see all I had gained snatched away
from me—my life periled. I recognized
you within'five minutes after sitting down
to the supper-table Jast night.”

“T had no idea you had ever seen me,”
said Mr. Burton, willing to hear how it
was that this man knew him, when he
was perfectly certain that he had never
met Thorley until yesterday.

“T was interested, once, in a forgery
case in which you were employed to de-
tect the criminals, by the exumination of
several handwritings which were giyen
you. You accused a highly respectable
tellow - citizen, to the astonishment of
everybody, and conyicted him, too. I,
whom he had employed as an agent in
some transactions, but who did not ap-
pear in any manner in the case, saw you
in the court-room once or twice. I acei-
dentally found out that you were a secret
agent of the detective police. When I
saw you here, playing the scientific gen-
tleman, my,conscience,was not so easy as
to blind me. TI saw the game, and what
was at stake. I:had) the choice between
my own safety or yours. I wasn’t so self-
denying as to decide in your fayor, and
so—

“You visited my room last night,”

“Yes. But, on second thought, I de-
cided that to-day would give me the
better opportunity. Had you waited a se-
cond longer, your friends would have had
a hard time tracing your fate. An excuse
to my father-in-law, that you had return-
ed to Acapulco without stopping, by a
nearer route, would have ended inquiry
here.” He set his teeth, as he concluded,
unable to conceal how much he regretted
that this conyenient denouement had been
interrupted. “ Wasit chance caused you
to turn?” he continued, after a moment’s
silence.

“Tt was watehfulness. I thought I
saw murder in your eyes once’ before to-
day, when I met them suddenly ; but asI
believed myself unknown to you, I could
hardly credit my own impression. It

grew upon me, however, as we proceeded, ~

and ‘by the pricking of my ribs, I turn-
ed in time to prevent the compliment you
were about to pay me. But this is wast-
ing time. Write what I expect of you.

.I shall permit no lies. I can tell when I

see one, or hear one, If you say any
thing which is not true, I shall make you
correct it.”

Coerced by the eye which never ceased
to watch his slightest movement, and by
the revolver held in range of his breast,
the reluctant doctor took the sheet of pa-
per and the fountain-pen which were of-
iered him, sat down on the stone, and,
with the top of his sombrero for a desk,
wrote slowly for ten or fifteen minutes.
Then he arose and handed the document,
which was signed with his real name, to
the detective, who, with one eye on his
prisoner, and one on the paper, continued
to read the evidence without giving his
companion a chance to profit ‘by any re-
laxation of his vigilance.

“You have told the truth, for once in
your life,” was his remark, as he finished
reading the paper. “I had found this
out myself, fact for fact, all but one or
two facts which you give here; but I pre-
ferred having your testimony before I
brought the matter before the proper par-
ties, therefore I came here after it”—
speaking as if a trip to Acapulco were
oue of the easiest and most commonplace
of things.

“You're d—d cool about it,” remark-

 

  
 

At

ed the adventurer, eyeing his adversary
with a glance of hate, with which was
mingled a forced admiration of a “ sharp-
ness” which, had he, himself, possessed
it, he could have used to such advantage.
“And now, maybe, you'll be good enough

to tell me if the affair kicked up much of

@ row.”

“T can not talk with you. I want you

to lead the way back to our horses, for
since my business with you is finished, I
may say that I do not fancy your com-
pany. You must go with me before Don
Miguel, and we will enlighten him as te
your: true character, since, with, him, tobe
‘forewarned, may be forearmed.’”

“Oh, don’t do that! I beg of you to
spare me, for my. wife’s sake—it. would
kill her; she loves me.so much.!’’ and the
creature dropped on, his knees.

“T would, indeed, rather than, blast, her
innocent heart with such, knowledge, al-
low you still to Play, your part-in that, lit-
tle family; but I, know, that, sooner, or
later, you will contrive to break. the heart
of that confiding woman, and it might. be
worse in the future than.even,now:, She
has yet no children; she, is. young, and
the wound mayheal. It is an unpleagant
oui which I must perform.”

Then followed ascene of begging, pray-
ers, even, tears, upon one. side, and relent-
less purpose on the other.

CHAPTER VIL.
NOW FOR HOME AGAIN.

Dr. Seurzmr and his scientific friend
returned down the mountain, reaching,the
flowery. carriage-way. which led up to the
mansion about four P. M,; but. here, the
former suddenly, whirled. his horse. and
set off toward Acapulco, at his, utmost
speed. Mr. Burton did not fire at him, to
stop him ; if he wished to run away from
the horrible exposure which he had not
the courage to face, it was no longer.any
business. of the detective. This very
flight would prove his guilt the more in-
contestably, It was with a pang of pity
that he noticed the Donna, coming fort!
on the piazza witha face illumined with
expectation of meeting her husband; he
replied to her inguiry, that the doctor had
gone down the road without saying, how
long he expected to be. gone; and asking
a private interview with Don Mignel, he
at once, without circumlocution, laid. be-
fore him the painful facts,

Of course the Don. was, shocked aud
grieved beyond expression, more on, his
daughter’s account than his own; and
blamed himself severely for haying intro-
deced a stranger, without proper creden-
tials, into his confidence. If the murder
had been committed from jealousy, anger,
or upon any impulse of passion, he would
not have thought so badly of the. young
man; but that it should have been done for
money was to him an irreparable crime
and disgrace. :

Mr. Burton had thought of returning to
Acapulco that afternoon and evening,
considering that his presence could not be
welcome to the family under such cir-
cumstances; but Don Miguel positively
forbade him to attempt the journey. at
that late hour, as it might be. dangerous
at any time, and now, if the dector wish-
ed to revenge himself upon his betrayer,
no better opportunity could occur than oa
this lonely road, where he might linger in
the expectation of his passing. From the
interview which followed eee the
father.and his child, Mr. Burton was ab-
sent; he saw no more of the beautiful
young wife, for he left the hacienda early
the following morning; but her father in-
formed him that she bore the news better
than he, expected—simply, because she
refused tu believe in the guilt of her hus-
band ! ,

Don Miguel and two of his seryants
accompanied Mr, Burton all the way back
to town; the Don affirming that he had
some business requiring a visit to the city
sooner or later; though his guest knew
very well that his real object was, to pro-
tect him from any danger which might
threaten. For this he was. grateful,

4
]
j
|

 
 
 

ot JHE _FIRESIDE “LIBRARY.

 

though his courage did not shrink, even
from the idea of secret assassination.
He was detained in Acapulco several
days before he had an opportunity of
‘leaving for the isthmus. During that
time he learned, by a messenger whom
Don Miguel sent him, that, during the
Don’s absence from the house in the two
days of his journey to town and back,
Dr. Seltzer had returned there, possessed
himself of every article of value which
he could carry away upon his person, in-
cluding the Donna’s jewels, which she
had inherited from her mother, and a
largé sum in gold, and had persuaded his
wife to accompany his flying fortunes to
“gome unknown region. In the letter
which Don Miguel wrote to the stranger,
he expressed himself as one robbed and
left desolate. It was not the loss of
ynoney or jewels, but the loss of his poor,
~ confiding, loving child, that he dwels up-
on. The Donna’s was one of those im-
are impassioned natures which must
ve, even if it knows the object un-
“worthy. No deed which her husband
eould commit could make him otherwise

'’ to her than the man with whose fate her

‘own was linked for “ better or worse.”
Mr. Burton folded up the letter with a
sigh ; no power of his could amend the
‘fate of this young creature, which pro-
mised to be so sad.
While he remained in the ruinous old
place he used extraordinary precautions
to insure his own safety ; for he believed
that Dr. Seltzer, or George Thorley, would
seek revenge upon him, not only for the
sake of the revenge, but to silence the ac-
cusation which he Hol! carry back to
)the States. It was well that he was thus
careful, as, among other proofs that he was
“thus pursued, was the following. One
afternoon, as he sat in the great, breezy
corridor of the hotel, an old woman came
in with a basket and offered to sell him
some particularly fine Sa He bought
a couple of the largest, and was about to
eat one, when he observed that she did
‘not offer the fruit to any other customer ,
upon this, he regarded her more closely,
and was satisfied that all was not right.
When she had lingered a time to notice
if he ate the fruit, he strolled out to the
street, and in her presence called up a
stray pig, to which he fed pieces of the
orange. When she saw this, the old hag,
who was an Indian, quickly disappeared,
and shortly after the pig died.
It was, therefore, with feelings of satis-
faction that the detective finally bade
farewell to Acapulco on a return steamer.
He had waited some time at the isthmus,
where the days had hung heavily, but he
‘had comforted himself with his motto
about patience; and now, as he assured
“me at the close of his narrative, “if heaven
"would give us a propitious passage home

we should be zn time-—all would be right.”

Day was breaking when Mr. Burton
finished his narrative ; the rain had ceased,
but a thick fog hung over sea and land,
making every thing gloomy and disa-
greeable. ;

“T must go now, and awaken my little

rl,” he said, rising.

“ But you have not read me the written
confession of that Thorley.”

“Richard, you must forgive me if I do
not see fit to allow you to read it at pre-
sent. I have a purpose in it, or I should
not keep back from you any of my own
information. That confession did not
surprise me; I knew the murderer souk
ago, but I could not prove it. You sha
soon be at rest about this affair. I only

“pray, now, for a speedy voyage, and that

Sullivan may be alive when we
reach New York. Richard!” he added,
with a passionate gesture, “you do not
dream what a constant fever I am in—I
am so afraid we shall be too late. I can
not bear the horror which that would be
to me.”

And indeed, it did seem, at that time,
as if my own engrossing interest was
searcely equal to that of my companion,
who, yet, had nothing at all at stake,
while E bad somuch. Not only then, but
at various other times during the remain-
der of our voyage, he expressed so much
anxiety lest Miss Sullivan should be dead
before we arrived home, that I, who was

SR Veron A tarot HO PPT OO

4

 

yo oy Ne ey ema

always torturing myself with conjectures,
again revived my suspicions that she was
connected with the murder.

In the mean time, the sun rose upon the
bustle of disembarking from the steamer
to the cars. Fortunately, the fog lifted
by eight o’clock, and we could enjoy the
magnificent scenery through which the
cars whirled us—scenery so at variance, in
its wildness and the exuberance of its
foliage, and the secluded aspect of its
beauty, with this noisy wonder of civili-
zation which scattered its fiery deluge of
sparks along the path of gorgeous tropical
flowers waving at us, sometimes, in long
streamers of ico from the topmost
branches of gigantic trees.

Nothing occurred to mar the tranquil-
lity of the passage home. At the expect-
ed day, we sanded at the dock in New
York, and I stepped upon the earth with
a curious, excited feeling, now that we
drew so near to the close of our efforts,
which made me almost light-headed. We
took a carriage and drove to Mr. Bur-
ton’s; he was expected by the house-
keeper, so that we found the house pre-
pared for our reception. A fine dinner
was served at the usual hour—but I could
not eat. Appetite and sleep fled before
my absorbing anticipations. My host,
who noticed my intense, repressed excite-
ment, promised me, before | retired tor the
night, that to-morrow, God willing, the
seret places of the wicked should be laid
bare—that myself and all those interested
should witness the triumph of the inno-
cent and the confusion of the guilty.

 

CHAPTER VIII.
THE RIPE HOUR.

I anos from my sleepless bed to face
this, the most memorable day of my
life. Whether I ate or drank, I know not ;
but. I noticed that Mr. Burton’s counten-
ance wore a peculiar, illuminated look, as
if his soul was inwardly rejoicing over a
victory gained. However, there was still

re-occupation in it, and some perplexity.

mmediately after breakfast, he proposed
to go out, saying: :

“Richard, remain here a couple of
hours with Lenore, untill find out wheth-
er Miss Sullivan is dead or alive. I
should not have gone to bed last night
without knowing, had I not been troubled
with a severe headache. This is now the
first step in the day’s duties. As soon as
possible I will report progress ;” and he
went out.

The time of his absence seemed very
long. Lenore, sweet child, with much of
her father’s perception, saw that I was
restless and impatient, and made many
pretty efforts to entertain me. She sung
me some of the finest music, while I roam-
ed about the parlors like an ill-bred tiger.
At the end of two hours my friend return-
ed, looking less perplexed than when he
went out. ,

“God is good!” he said, shaking my
hand, as if thus congratulating me.
“ Leesy Sullivan is alive, but very feeble.
She is scarcely able to undertake a jour-
ney; but, since I have explained the ob-
ject, she has consented to go. She says
she is so near death’s door, that it matters
not how soon she passes through ; and she
is ie for the sake of others, to endure
a trial from which she might naturally
shrink. So far, then, all is well.”

_ Was this trial, of which he spoke, that
pang which she must feel in confessin

erself implicated in this matter? Di
he think, and had he persuaded her, since
she was too far ane for the grasp of the
law to take hold of her, she might now
confess a dangerous and dark secret ?

I could not answer the questions my
mind persisted in asking. “It will be
but a few hours,” I whispered to my-
self. :
“ We are to go up to Blankville by the
evening train,” he continued, “ Leesy
will accompany us. Until that time, there
is nothing to do.”

I would rather have worked at break-
ing stones or lifting barrels than to have
kept idle; but, as the detective wished me
to remain in the house as a matter of cau-

 

' trial will seon

 

sob acm. SR seiptatiges Sco bace-ne canpomniel ntit

=

tion against meeting any prying acquaint-
ance upon the streets, I was forced to that
dreariest of all things—to wait. The
hours did finally pass, and Mr. Burton set
out first with a carriage, to convey Miss
Sullivan to the depot, where I was: to
meet him in time for the five o’clock. train.
When I saw her there, I wondered how
she had strength to endure the ride, she
looked so wasted—such a mere flickering
spark of life, which a breath might extin-
guish. Mr. Burton had almost to carry
her into the car, where he placed her on
a seat, with his overcoat for a pillow.r. We
took our seats opposite to her, and as
those large, unfathomable eyes met mine,
still blazing with their old iuster, beneath
the pallid brow, I can not describe the
sensations which rushed over me. All
those strange scenes through which I had
passed at Moreland Villa floated up and
shut me in a strange spell, until I forgot
what place we were in, or that any other
persons surrounded us. When the care
moved rapidly out of the city, increasing
their speed as they got heyon@ the pre:
cincts, Leesy asked to have the window
open.

The air was cold and fresh ; her fever.
ish lips swallowed it as areviving draught.
I gazed alternately at her and at the land-
scape, already flushed with the red of
early sunset. It was a December day,
chill but bright; the ground was frozen,
and the river sparkled with the keen blue-
ness of splintered steel. The red banner
of twilight hung over the Palisades. 1
lived really three years in that short ride
—the three years just pasi—and when we
reached our destination, I walked like one
ina dream, It was aun evening when
we got out at Blankville, though the moon
was shining. A fussy little woman pass-
ed out before us, lugging a large band-
box; she handed it to the town express,
telling the driver to be very careful of it,
and take it round at once to Esquire
Argyll’s.

“J suppose it contains the wedding
bonnet,” he said, with a laugh.

“That it does, and the dress, too, all of '

my own selection,” said the little woman,
with an air of importance. “Just you
carry it in your hand, sir, and don’t you
allow nothing to come near it.”

When I heard these words, a hot flush
came to my face. That Mary Argyll
was already married, or expected to be
very soon, I knew; but I could not hear
this reference to the wedding, nor see this

artiele of preparation, without keen pain. |

Yet, what business wasit of mine? |

Mr. Burton had also heard the brief col-
loquy, and I noticed his lips pressed to-
gether with a fierce expression as we pass-
ed under the lamp which lighted the cross-
Ing. He took us into the hotel by the
depot. Oh, how suffocating, how close,
became memory! Into this building poor
Henry had been carried on that wretched
morning. It seemed to be but yesterday.
I think Leesy was recalling it all, for
when a cup of tea was brought in for her,
at Mr. Burton’s bidding, she turned from
it with loathing.

“ Leesy,” he said, looking at her firmly,
and speaking in a tone of high command,
“T don’t want you to fail me now. The
e over. Brace yourself
for it with all the strength you have.
Now, I am going out a few momente—
perhaps half an hour. When I return,

you will both be ready to go with me to —

r. Argyll’s house.”
I was nearly as much shaken by this
pepe as the frail woman who sat trem-
ling in a corner of the sofa. To go into
that house from which I had departed with
such ignominy—to see Eleanor, face to
face—to meet them all who had once been
my friends—to greet them as strangers, for
such they were—they must be, to me !—
to appear in their midst under sach strange
circumstances—-to hear, I knew not what—
to learn that mystery—my heart grew as
if walled in with ice; it could not halt
beat, and felt cold in my breast.

Both Leesy and myself started when —

Mr. Burton again appeared in the room.

“All is
clear, cheery yoice, which, nevertheless,
had the high ring of excitement, “ Come,

right, thus far,” he said, in a.

 

Se

 
 

 

 

Lg

 

* pow, let us not.waste the golden mo-
“ments, for now the hour-is-ripe.”

We had each of us to give an arm to
Miss Sullivan, who could scarcely put one
_ foot before the other. We walked slowly
along over that path which I never had
trodden, since the night of the murder,
without a shudder, A low moan came
‘from Leesy’s lips, as we passed the spot
_ where the body of Henry Moreland had
“peen. discovered. Presently .we came to
the gate of the Argyll place, and here
Mr. Burton again left us. . “Follow me,”
be said, “in, five niinutes.. Come, to the
library door, and knock; and, Richard, |

“particularly desire you to take a seat by
the bay window.”
_. He went up the walk and into the house,
without seeming to ring the hall door-
- hell, leaving thé door open.as he passed
in. I looked at my watch by the moon-
‘light, forcing myself to count the minutes,
, by. way of steadying my head, which was
all in a whirl. hen the time expired, I
: helped Leesy forward into the dim hall,
on to the library-door, where I knocked,
“according to directions, and was admitted

y Mr, Argyll himself. aa

“There was a bright light shining from
the chandelier, fully illuminating the
room. In the midst of a flood of recollec-
tions, 1 stepped within; but my brain,

* which had been hot and dizzy before,
‘grew suddenly calm and cool. When
Ir. Argyll saw that it was me, he slightly
penciled and gaye me no greeting what-
ever. A
member of the family was present. Elea-
nor sat in an arm-chair near the center-

table; Mary and James occupied the same
‘sofa. Eleanor looked at me with a kind
‘of white amazement ; James nodded, as
my eye met his, his face expressing sur-
prise and displeasure. Mary rose, hesi-
“tated, and finally came forward, saying :

“How do you do, Richard ?”

I bowed to her, but did not take her
outstretched hand, and_she returned to
her place near James. In the mean time,

- Mr. Burton himself placed Leesy Sullivan
in an easy-chair, I walked forward and
took a seat near the window. I had time
to observe the faces of my whilom friends,
and was calm enough to doit. Mr, Ar-
gyll had grown old much faster than the
time warranted ; his form was somewhat
bent, and his whole appearance feeble ; I
grieved, as I noticed this, as though he
was my own father, for I once had loved
him as much. Mary looked the same as
“when I had ‘seen her, three months since,
in that surreptitious visit to the oak, bloom-
ing and beautiful, the image of what
“Bleanor once was. Eleanor, doubtless.
was whiter than her wont, for my ap-
pearance had startled her ; but there was
the same rapt, far-away, spiritual look
‘upon her features which they had worn
since that day when she had wedded her-
‘self to the spirit of her lover. .

Mr. Burton turned the key in the lock
f the door which opened into the hall;

then crossed over and closed the parlor- .

door, and sat down by it, saying, as he
did so :
- “Mr, Argyll, I told youa few moments
ago, that I had news of importance to
¢ommunicate, and I take the liberty of
‘closing these doors, for it would be very
- unpleasant for us to be intruded upon, or
for any of the servants to hear any thing
of what I have tosay. You will perhaps
suess the nature of my communication,
Fein my having brou, ht with me these
. two persons. I would not agitate any of
you by the introduction of the painful
subject, if I did not believe that you would
rather know the truth, even if it is sad to
revive the past. But I must beg of you
to be calm, and to listen quietly to what
T have to say !”

“T will be very calm ; do not be afraid,”
murmured Eleanor, growing yet feebler,
for it was to her he now particularly ad-
dressed the injunction.

_ Twas so occupied with her that,I did
“not notice the effect upon the others.

' “Mr. Argyll,” continued the detective,
“YT have never yet abandoned a case of
this kind until I have unraveled its mys-
tery to the last thread: Nearly two years
‘have passed since you supposed that I
ceased to exert myself to discover the

lance assured me that every:

 

 

THE DEAD LETTER.

ae

 

murderer of Henry: Moreland, But 1
have never, fora day, allowed the case to
lie idle in my mind. Whenever | have
had leisure, I \have partially followed
every clue which was put in my hands at
the time when we first had the matter
under discussion. It was not alone the
sad circumstances of the tragedy which
gave it unusual interest to me. I became

_warmly attached to your family, and as,

from the first—yes, from the very first
hour when I heard of the murder—I_ be-
lieved I had discovered the perpetrator,
| could not allow the matter to sink, into
silence. You remember, of course, our
last interview. Some ideas were there
preesaer which I then opposed. You
<now how the discussion of all the facts
then known ended. Your suspicions fell
upon one who had been an honored and
favored member of ‘your family — you
eas although you were not certuin, that
tichard Redfield committed the deed.
You gave me all the reasons you had for
your opinions—good reasons, too, some
of them were; but I then combated the
idea. However, I was more or less affect-
ed by what you said, and I told you, be:
fore parting, that, if you had such fee.-
ings toward the young man, you ought
not to allow him to 43, any longer, «
member of your family. I believe he
came to understand the light in which you
regarded him, and shortly after left the
place, and since has been most of the
time, in Washington, employed there as
a clerk in the dead-letter office. I believe
now, Mr, Argyll, that you were not far
wrong in your conjectures. I have discov-
ered the murderer of Henry Moreland, and
can give you positive proof of it!”

This assertion, deliberately uttered,
caused the sensation which might be ex-
pected. Eleanor, with all her long habit
of self-control, gave a slight shriek and
begun to tremble like a leaf. Exclama-

_tions came from the lips of all—I believe

James uttered an oath, but I am not cer-
tain; for I, perhaps, more than any other
in the room, was at that moment con-
founded. As the idea rushed over me
that Mr. Burton had been acting a part
toward mé, and had taken these precau-
tions to get me utterly in his power, where
i could not defend myself, I started to my
eet. oe

“Sit still, Mr. Redfield,” said the detec-
tive to me, sternly. “There is no avenue
of escape for the guilty,” and rising, he
took the key of the door and put it in his
pocket, giving me a look difficult to un
derstand.

I did sit down again, not so much be:
cause he told me, as that I was powerless
from amazement; as I did so, I met the
eyes of James, which laughed silently
with a triumph so hateful that, at the mo-
ment, they seemed to me the eyes of 8
devil. All the feelings which, at various
times, had been called up by this terrible
affair, were nothing to those which over-
whelmed me during the few moments
which followed. y thought tracked
many avenues with lightning rapidity ;
but I could find no light at the end of
any of them. I begun to believe that
George Thorley, in his confession, had
criminated me—who knew him not, who
never had spoken with him—and that
this was the reason why Mr. Burton had
withheld that document from me—falsely

rofessing friendship, while leading me
into the pit! If so, what secret enemy
had I who could instruct him to lay the
murder at my door? If he had accused
me, I was well aware that many little cir-
cumstances might be turned so as to
strengthen the accusation.

I sat there dumb. But there is always
strength in innocence—even when betray-
ed by its friends! So I remained quiet
and listened.

“ When a crime like this is committed,”
procee led the detective, quite calm in the
midst of our excitement, “ we usually
look for the motive. Next to avarice come
the passions of revenge and jealousy in
frequency. We know that money had
nothing ‘to do with Henry Moreland’s
@eath—revenge and jealousy had. There
lived in Blankville, three or four years
ago, a young fellow, a druggist, by the
name of George Thorley—you remember
him, Mr. Argyll?”

 

Mr. Argyll nodded his head. és

“ He was an adventurer, self-instructed
in medicine, rather talented, and wholly
without principle. Shortly after setting
up in your village, he fell in love with this
woman here— Miss Sullivan. She_re-
jected him; both because she had a dim
perception of his true character, and_be-
cause she was interested in another. She
allows me to say, here, what she onge be-
fore confessed to us, that she loved Henry

. Moreland—loved him purely and unself-

ishly, with no wish but for his happiness,
and no hope of ever being any thing more
to him than his mother’s sewing-girl, to
whom he extended some acts of kindness.
But George Thorley, with the sharpness
of jealousy, discovered her passion, which
she supposed was hidden from mortal
eyes, and conceived the brutal hate of a
low nature against the young gentleman,
who was ignorant alike of him and his
sentiments, So far, no harm was done,
and evil might never haye come of it, for
Henry Moreland moved in a sphere dif-
ferent from his, and they might neyer
have come in contact. But another bosom
was also possessed of the fiend of jeal-
ousy. An inmate of your family had
learned to love your daughter Eleanor—
not only to loye her, but to look forward
to the fortune and position which would
be conferred by a marriage with her, as
something extremely desirable. He would
not reconcile himself to the engagement
which was formed between Miss Argyll
and Mr. Moreland. He cherished bad
thoughts, which grew more bitter as their
happiness became more apparent. Once,
he was standing at the gate of this lawn,
when the young couple passed him, going
out for a walk together. He looked after
them witha dark look, speaking aloud, un-
consciously, the thought of his heart ; he
said: ‘Ihatehim! I wish he were dead!”
Instantly, to his surprise and dismay, «
voice replied: ‘I’m with you there—you
don’t wishit so much as Ido!’ The speak-
er was Thorley, who, passing, had been
arrested by the young couple going out
of the gate, and who had remained, also,
gazing after them. It was an unfortu-
aate coincidence.. The first speaker look-
ed at the second with anger and chagrin ;
but. he had betrayed himself, and the
other knew it. He saughed impudently,
as he sauntered on; but, presently, he re-
turned and whispered: ‘I wouldn’t, ob-
ject to pins him out of the way, if I
was well paid for it’? ‘What do you
mean ?’ inquired the other angrily, and the
response was: ‘Just what Isay. I hate
him as bad as you do; you’ve got money,
or can get tt, and I can’t. Pay me well
for the job, and I’ll put him out of your
way so securely that he won’t interfere
with your plans any more.” The young
gentleman affected to be, and perhaps
was, indignant. The fellow went off,
smirking; but his words left, as he
thought they would, their poison behind.
In Jess than a month from that time, the
person. had sought Thorley out, in his
lurking-place in the city—for he had, you
recollect, been driven from Blankville by
the voice of public opiniun—and had con-
ferred with him upon the possibility of
young Moreland being put ont of the
way, without risk of discovery of those
who hada handin it. Thorley agreed to
manage every thing without risk to any
one, He wanted three thousand dollars,
but his accomplice, who was aware that
you were about to draw two thousand
trom a bank in New York, promised
him that sum, with which he agreed to
be satisfied. It was expected and planned
that the murder should be committed in
the city; but, as the time drew nigh for
accomplishing it, opportunity did not
present. Finally, as the steamer upon
which Thorley wished to flee to Califor-
nia was about to sail, and no better thing
offered, he concluded to follow Mr. More-
land out in the evening train, and stab
him, under cover of the rain and darkness,
somewhere between the depot and the
house. This he did; then, afraid to take
the cars, for fear of being. spepeclete he.
went down along the ducks, took posses-
sion of a small-boat which lay moored
by a chain; broke the chain, and rowed
down the river completely protected by

a ee erie rem

*
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AA

a a oe

 

the storm from human observation. The
next morning found him in New York,
dress, complexion and hair changed, with
notliing about him to excite the least sus-
*picion ‘that he was connected’ with the
tragedy which was just becoming known.
However, he wrote a letter, directed to
John Owen, Peekskill, in which he stated
in obscure ‘terms, that the instrument with
which the murder was committed would
be found secreted in a certain oak tree on
these premises, and that it had better be
taken care of. I have the letter and the
broken instrument. The way it came to
be concealed in the tree was this: After
the murder, being so well sheltered by the
storm; he was bold enough to approach
the ‘house, in hopes of communicating
- with his accomplice, and receiving the
money directly from his’ hands, which
would prevent the latter froni the neces-
sity of making a trip to Brooklyn’ to pay
it He saw nothing of him, however ;
perceiving’ that, he could look into the
parlor throngh the open upper half of the
shutter by climbing the large oak at the
corner, he did so; and was looking ’at you
all for some minttes’ on that evening.
Perceiving by the light which shone from
the window that the instrument’ was
broken at the’ point, he at once compre-
hended how important it was to get rid
of it, and chancing to’ discover a hollow
spot’ in the limb he stood on, he worked
it well into the rotten heart of the wood.
He it was whom Miss Sullivan detected
descending from the’ tree, on that awful
night when she, alas! led’ by a hopeless,
though a pure love, passing the house on
her way to her aunt’s, cout not deny her-
self a stolen look at the happinéss of ‘the
two. beings so soon, she’ thought, to be
made oné. She! never expected’ to see
them again until after their marriage, and
a wild, foolish impulse, if I must call it
‘so, urged her into the garden, to look
through the open bay-window—a folly
which came near having serious conse-
quences for her. Well, George Thorley
escaped; and fulfilled the programme so
far as to sail for San’ Francisco; but, the
boat stoppiag at Acapulco, he received an
offer there, from a Spanish gentleman, of
the position of doctor, on his immense
estates. It was just the country for a
character like that of Thorley’s to prosper
in; he accepted. the proposition, wormed
himself into the esteem of’ the Spaniard,
married his daughter, and was flourishing
- to his heart’s content, when I came sud-
den} oa him/and disturbed his serenity.
Yes! Mr. Argyll, I started for California
after the villain; for I had‘traces of him
which ‘led me to take the journey, and it
was by a providential accident that I as-
eertained he was near Acapulco, where I,
also, landed, sought: him out, and’ wrung
a confession from him, which I have here
in writing. He has told the story plainly,
and I have every other evidence to con-
firm it which ‘a court of law could pos-
sibly require. I could hang his accom-
plice, without doubt.”

At the first mention of the name of
George Thorley I chanced to be lookin
at’ James, over whose countenance pass
an indescribable change; he moved un-
easily, looked at the closed doors, and
aed riveted his gaze on Mr. Burton, who
did not look at him at al) during the nar
tative, but kept steadily on, to the end, in
a firm, clear tone, low, so as not to be
overheard outside, but assured and dis-
tinct. Having once observed James, 1
could no longer seé any one else. [ seem-
ed to see the story reflected in his coun:
tenance, instead of hearing it. Flushes
of heat passed over it, succeeded by an
ashy paleness, which deepened into a
sickly blue hue, curious to behold; dark
passions swept like shadows over it; and
gradually, as the speaker neared the @li-
max of his story, I felt like one who gazes
into an open window of the bottomless

t.

“Have I told you who it was that hired
George Thorley to murder Henry More-
land ?” asked Mt Burton in the pause
which followed.

Tt had been taken for granted who the
person was, and as he asked the question
the eyes of all turned to me—of all except
James, who suddenly sprung with a

separ. some > semper on

 

fe ES SL BARY,

 

bound against the door opening into the
parlor, which was not locked. But an-
other was too quick for him; the power-
ful hand of the detective was on his
shoulder, and as he turned the attempted
fugitive full to the light, he said, in words
which fell like fire :

“Tt was your nephew—James Ar-
gyll.”

For a moment you might have heard a
leaf drop on the carpet; no one spoke or
stirred. Then Eleanor arose from her
chair, and, lifting up her hand, looked
with awful eyes at the cowering murderer.
Her took blasted him. He had been
writhing under Mr. Bnrton’s grasp; but
now, as if in answer to her gaze, he
said ;

“Yes—lI did it, Eleanor,” and dropped
to the floor in a swoon.

 

CHAPTER IX,
JOINING THE! MISSING! LINKS,

Tue scene which transpired in the next
few minutes was harrowing, ‘The revul-
sion of feeling, the shock, the surprise and
the horror were almost too much for hu-
man nature to bear. Groan after groan
burst from. Mr. Argyll, as if his breast
were being rent in twain. Mary tottered
to her, sister and threw herself at her
feet, with her head buried in ber lap; if
she had not been so healthily organized,
and of such an even temperament, I know
not how: she would have survived this
frightful check to her hopes and affections.
It seemed as if Eleanor, who had lived
ony to suffer for so’'many weary months,
had now more self-possession than any of
the others ; her thin, white hand fell soft-
ly onhersister’s curls with a pitying touch;
and, after a time, she whispered to her
some words, My own surprise was zear-
ly as much as any one’s; for, althcugb
many times I had felt that James was the
guilty one, I had always tried to drive
away the impression, and had finally. al-
most succeeded.

In the mean time no one went to the

unhappy man; who had found a tempor- _
ary relief from shame; and despair in in- |

sensibility. All recoiled from him, as he
lay upon the floor. Finally, Mr. Burton
forced himself to raise him; conscious-
ness was returning, and he placed him on
the sofa, and gave him a handkerchief
wet with cologne.

Presently Mary arose from her kneeling
position, and looked around. the room
until her glance’ fell on me, when she
came toward me, and grasped both my
hands, saying :

“Richard, J never accused you—I al-
ways felt that you were innocent and al-
ways said so, You must forgive the others
for my sake. My father and sister will
bear me witness that I always defend-
ed you from the accusations of one who,
it is now proved, sought with double, with
inconceivable baseness, to divert suspicion
trom himself to another ”—her voice trem-
bled with scorn, “I never wanted. to
marry him,” she added, bursting, inte
tears, “ but they overpersuaded me.”

“ Quiet yourself, sister,” said Eleanor,
gently, arising and approaching us. “ We
have all wronged you, Richard—I fear
beyond forgiveness, Alas! we can now
see what a noble enemy you have
been !”

In that moment I felt repaid for all I
had suffered, and I said with joy:

“ Neyer an enemy, Miss Argyll; and I
forgive you, wholly,”

Then there was another stir; James
had risen to slip away from the company,
now so distasteful tohim; but Mr. Burton
again stood between him and egress; as
he did so, he said:

“Mr, Argyll, it is for you to decide the
fate of this miserable man.. I have kept
all my, proceedings a secret from the pubr
-ic; Leven allowed George Thorley. to re-

main. in Mexico, for I thought your family

had already..suffered, enough, without
loading it down. with the infamy, of your
nephew. If you say that he shall go un-
punished by the law, I shall abide by
your wish ; this matter shall be kept by
the few who now know it, For your

4 oneeeenn maT eerer res ce ssnnme women

 

 

os 8 reas

sakes, not for his, 1 would spare him the
death which he deserves; but he’ must
leaye the country, at once and for-
ever.”

“Let him go,” said the uncle, bis back
turned upon the murderer, toward whom
he would not look. “Go, instantly and
furever, And remeniber, Janies Argyl,
if I ever see your face again, if I ever
hear of your being anywhere in’ the
United States, I shall at once causé you
to be arrested.”

“ And I, the same,” added Mr. Burtoa,
“@Qod knows, if it were not for these
young ladiés, whose feelings are sacred
to me, I would not let you off so ‘eas-
ily.”

ite opened the door, and James Argyll
slunk out into the night, and away, none
knew whither, branded, expatriated, and
alone—away, without one look at the fair,
beautiful girl who was so soon to have
been his bride—away, from the home he
had periled his soul to secure.

hen he had gone, we all breathed
more freely, Mr. Burton had yet much
to say, for he wished to close this horrible
business forever, He took the surgical
instrument which we had found in’ the
tree, and fitted it to the piece which had
been extracted from the body of the mur-
dered man, and showed the family the in-
itials of George’ Thorley upon’ it. He
then produced the written confession of
Thorley, which we all read for ourselves
ut as it contained only, in a plain state-
ment, the facts already given, I will not
repeat them here. He then proceeded
with the history of the Drab. Lerrir,
which, also, he had with him, and which
proved to be in the same handwriting as
the confession. In speaking of thé cu-
rious manner in which this document had
been lost, to be recovered in the right
time “by the night person, he seemed to
consider it almost awfully providen.
tial. ,
From this he went on with’ a minute
history of all the steps taken by both of |
us, our journey over the ocean, the won-
derful success which waited upon pa-
tience, Parasersaneg and energy, secuting
the final triumph of justice ; and to con-
clude with, he said:

“T owe, still, a good many explanations
both to. you, Mr. Argyll and to Mr. Red-
field. I can not lay efore you the thou-
sand subtle threads by which I trace the
course of a pursuit like this, and which
makes me successful as a detective; but 1
can account for some things which at
times have puzzled both of you, In the
first place there is about re a power not
possessed by all—call it instinct, mag-
netism, claifvoyancy, or remarkable ner-
yous and mental perception. Whatever
it is, it enables me, often, to feel the, pre-
sence of criminals, as well as of ver
good persons, poets, artists, or markeéc
temperaments, of any kind. The day: on
which this.case was placed before me, it
was brought by two young men, your
nephew and this person iow present. I
had not been ten minutes vith them when
I begun to perceive-that,%e murderer was
in the room with me ; and before they had
left me, I had decided which, was’ the
guilty man. Butit-would have been un-
pardonable rashness to denounce him
without proof; by such ¢ course I would
throw him on the defe sive, defeat the
ends of justice, and overwhelm. myself
with denunciation. 1 w: ited and watch-
ed—I put him under surveillance. That
night upon which he crossed over the
Brooklyn, ferry.to- pay, t.1e money to the
hired assassin, I was uy on his track; I
heard the angry dismay with which he
accused Richard of follo ying him, when
the other met him at tie ferry.on this
side, It was not very loag after I begun
to investigate the case, b fore he cautious-
ly approached me, as h2 did you, with
hints of the might-be-ruilty. party ; he
made me see how much 0 the interest of
his friend Richard it would be, if rivals
were out of the way, anil how desperate-
ly that person loved Mijs Argyll. (For;
give me, friends, for nag plain language
—the whole truth must be told.) But 1
need not dwell on his method, for you
must be familiar with it. I confess that

 

4
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THE! DEAD: LETTER:

45

 

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he used consummate tact; if I had not
read him from tie first, I, too, might have
been misled. Ele was not over-eager in
the search for suspected persons, as the
guilty almostalwvays are. Hedid not sus-
pect Miss Snilivan, as Richard did. I
favored the pursuit of Miss Sullivan for
two reasons; the first was to conceal m:
real suspicions ; the next was, after find-
ing her handkerchief in the garden, after
the flight, and all those really stron
grounds for suposing her connected wit
the murder, I begun to think that she was
connected with it, through some interest
in James Argyll. I did not know but
that she might have been attached to
him—that the child she cared for might
be his—you see I was totally in the dark
as to all the details. I only took it for
granted that Jemes was guilty, and had
to gather my proofs afterward. It was
not until after my interview with Leesy,
at Moreland Villa, that I became con-
vinced she had nothing to do with the
murder, and that all her strange proceed-
ings were the result of the grief she felt at
the tragic death of one whom she secretly
loved. When I had an interview with
you. on that same afternoon, I saw that
ames had poisoned your mind with sus-
picions of Mr. Redfield; for the same rea-
son which had kept me silent so long—
that is; that 1 should eventually undeceive
you—I did not defend him, as I otherwise
should. Apparently, I allowed the case
to drop. It was only that I might follow
it undisturbed. I had already fixed upon
California as the retreat of the accom-
plice, and was about to start off in search
of him when Richard appeared upon
the scene with the Dead Letter in his
hand.

“Pyom that hour I felt sure of perfect
success. My only anxiety was that the
matriage shonld not be consummated
which would seal my mouth; for, if Mary
had been married on my return, I should
have considered it too late to reveal the
truth, This made me very uneasy—not
only for her sake, but because then I
could not clear Mr. Redfield’s character
to those friends who had cruelly wronged
him. I kept my suspicions from him,
although he was the partner of my in-
vestigations, for I was afraid that his im-
petuosity might cause him to do some-
thing indiscreet, and I did not want the

ilty one alarined until the net was
Spread for his feet. To-night, when I
tame here, I still further carried on my
plan of allowing you to remain undecided
until the last moment, for I counted on
the sudden, overwhelming accusation
having the effect to make the murderer
confess—which it did. I wished Miss
Sullivan to be present, not only to corro-
borate any points of my testimony m
which she might be concerned, but that
reparation might also be done her, for we
have troubled and frightened her a great
deal, poor thing, when her only fault has
been too keen a perception of the nobility
of that departed martyr, whose memory
his friends cherish so sacredly. She has
put a brief space to dwell on earth, and I
thought it would comfort her to know
that no one blames her for the pure devo-
tion which has lighted her soul and con-
sumed it like oil which burns away in

mie.”

“My, Burton never meant to be poetical,
but his perceptions were of that refined
kind that he could not withhold from
poor Leesy this little tribute to her noble
folly. His words touched Eleanor; she
was too high-minded to despise the fruit-
less offering of another and an humbler
woman at the shrine before which she was
Roe ee to minister; I believe in that
our she felt a sister’s interest In poor,
lowly, but. love-exalted Leesy Sullivan,
She crossed over, took the wasted hand
in her own, and pressed. it tenderly,
We all now perceived how much this
ee evening had fatigued: the inva-
tid.

“She must go to bed at once,” said
Bloanor; “I will call Norah, have.
her placed in the. room which, opens, ov,
of ours, Mary.” A :

The young ladies retired” to! give their
Rentle eg to the sick girl ; and both,

 

before they went out, pressed my hand as
they said good-night.

We three men remained long, talking
over each particular of our strange sto:y,
for we could not feel like sleeping. And
betore we parted for the night, Mr. Argyll
had humbled himself to confess that he
was led to condemn me without sufficient
cause.

“JI loved you as a son, Richard,” he
said, in a broken voice, “better than I
ever loyed James, for I was aware that he
had many faults of heart and head. And
when I was induced to believe you the
author of the crime which had broken
all our hearts, I was still further down-
cast. My health has failed, as you see;
and I was urgent upon Mary to marry her
cousin, for I felt as if she would soon be
left fatherless, and I wanted the girls to
have a protector. I might better have
left_ them to the care of a viper,” he add-
ed, with a shudder. “ Poor Mary, dear
girl! she was right all the time. She
never did love. that man—though, of
course, she had no idea of the truth.
Thank God, it is no worse!”

_I knew he was thinking of the mar-
Ps and I, too, murmured, “ Thank

“Mr. Argyll,” said Mr. Burton, lay-
ing his hand on that of the other,
“this terrible affair is now brought to a
close, ds.fur as if can be. Let me advise
you to.brood over it as little as possible.

out health is already affected. I acknow-
ledge it is enough to shake one’s reason ;
but, for that, I would bid you to drop, it
all from your mind—to banish the thought
of it—mnever to’refer to it again. You
can yet be tolerably happy. A fair future
lays before all of you, except dear Miss
Eleanor. Adopt Richard as your son;
make him your partner, as you first in-
tended. I wili give you my warrant for
what it is worth, that he will relieve you
both of business and household cares—
and that you will feel, during your declin-
ing years, as if you, indeed, had a son to
comfort you.”

“But I do not believe that Richard
would take such a place, after what has
passed,” said Mr, Argyll, doubtfully.

T hesitated ; for amoment pride rebell-
ed; but since all was forgiven, ought it
not to be forgotten? When I spoke, it
was with heartiness :

“Tf you need a partner in your office,
and wish me to take the place, I will do
80.”

“Then the compact is signed,” said
Mr. Burton, almost gayly. “ Andnow I
will try to find a bed at the hotel.”

“ Of course you will not,” said our host;
“this house is yours as much as mine,
Mr. Burton, always. How much I thank
you for all the time, money and thought
you have lavished in our behalf, I will not
try to say to-night. Our gratitude is un-
spoken because it is boundless.”

“Don’t thank me for following out the
instincts of my nature,” said the detective,
affecting carelessness; and with that we
shook Mr. Argyll’s hand, and retired to
the rooms assigned us. Sy.

In the morning Miss Sullivan was found
to be much worse, the journey and the
excitement had made her very ill, so that
it was impossible for her to return to the
city with Mr. Burton. A physician was
sent for who said that she could not live
over two or three days. She heard the
sentence with apparent joy; only she
begged Mr. Burton to send little Nora
up-to her, on the evening train, that she
might see the child before she died. This
he promised to do, and to have always an
isterest in her welfare. She was much
affected when he bade-her farewell, fur
he had gained her love and confidenve by
his manner of treating her. —

The child came and was tenderly re-
wived by the sisters. They were un-
wearied in their attentions to the sufferer,
whose last hours were soothed by their
earnest wor.ls of hope and comfort.
Leesy died with a smile on her face, going
out of this world, which had-boen so col
to one of her impassioned nature, with
pov. When [ looked at the:wasted corpse,

could hardly realize that the fire was
out forever which hadso long burned in

 

4

those wonderful eyes—it was not quench-
ed, it had only been removed to a purer
atmosphere. She was buried, very. quiet-
ly, but reverently, on a beautiful winter

ay. Her little charge was much petted
by the young ladies; and as a lady who
chanced to see her, learning that she was
an orphan, took a fancy to adopt her,
they, with Mr. Burton’s consent, resigned
her to a new mother. I have seen e|
Nora lately; she is a pretty child, and
well cared for.

CHAPTER X.
THE NEW LIFE.

THE winter passed away quietly. The
sudden absence of James Argyll caused
much harmless oni in the village. It
was reported and generally believed, that
he had gone abroad, on a tour to Egypt,
hecause Miss Mary Argyll had jilted him.
Fortunately, the arrangements for the
wedding were known to but few, the feel-
ings of the family having inclined toward.
a very quiet affair. The little woman who
had prepared the wedding-dress was a -
New York milliner, who probably never
learned that the wedding was not con-
summated. é

I was very busy in the office. Mr.
Argyll’s health was poor, and business
had accumulated which took the most of
my time. He wished me to board in his
house, but I declined doing so; though,
as in the old happy times, I spent nearly
all my evenings there.

Beyond the first shock, Mary did not
seem to suffer from the abrupt termina-
tion of an engagement into which she
had entered reluctantly. I even believed
that she felt very much relieved at not
being compelled to marry a cousin for the
suke of securing a protector. Her gay
laugh soon resumed its sweetness; her
bright loveliness bloomed in the midst of — ~
winter, making roses and sunshine in the
old mansion. Eleanor seemed to love to}
sce ber sister happy, gently encouraging:
her efforts to drive away the shadow
which lingered about the house, Her
own sad life must not be permitted to
blight the joy of any other. 1 have said
that my feelings toward her had changed
from passionate love, through intense
sympathy, into affectionate reverence. 1
think, now, that I felt toward her a good
deal as Mary did—that nothing we could
do for her, to show her our silent love and
sympathy, could be too much—a tender
regard for her wishes and habits—a deep
respect for the manrer in which she bore
her loss. We did not expect that she
would ever again be gay or hopeful; so
we did not annoy her with trying to make
her so.

In the mean timea great change was
taking place in my own nature, of which
I was but faintly aware. I only knew
that I enjoyed my hard work—that I felt
resolute and strong, and that my evenings
were pleasant and homelike. Further, I
did not question. . I wrote to my mother
a guarded account of what had occurred ;
but I was obliged to pay hera flying visit
to explain all the facts, for I dared not
trust them to paper. Thus the winter
glided away into sunshine and spring
again.

It was the first day which had really
seemed like spring. It was warm and
showery ; there was a smell of violets and
new grass on the air. I had my office-
window open, but as the afternoon wore -
away, and the sun shone out after an
April sprinkle, I could not abide the dull-
ness of that court of law. I felt those,
‘blind motions of the spring,” which}
Tennyson attributes to trees and jants|
And verily, I was in sympathy with na-
ture. I felt verdant—and if the reader... -
thinks that to my discredit, heis at liberty
to cherish his opinion. I felt young and
happy—years seemed to have dr
away from me, like a mantle of ice, leav-
ing the flowers and freshness to appear.
Not knowing whither my fancy would
lead me, I walked toward. the mansion,
and again, as upon that autumn afternoon
upon whieh I first saw Eleanor after her

 
  
 

——$__-__ arena

 

calamity, I turned m ibe to the arbor which
crowned the slope at the back of the lawn,
Thinking of Eleanor, as I saw her then, I enter-:
eJ the place with a light step, and found Mary
t siting oring off on the river with a dreary

ce. She blushed when she perceived who had
iateaded upon her reverie; I saw the warm col-
er sweep, Wave after wave, over the lovely
cheek and brow, and I knew instantly the se-
eret it betrayed. Iremembered the arms which
had peed f es about my neck, the tears. which
had n my cheek from. the eyes of a
zat ae t e ea ar voice which had said: “I
love you, Richard! J will believe nothing
pent st you!”

, how sw eetly the revelation came to me
ities’ My own heart was fully prepared to re-
esive it. Through months I had been transfer-
ring the wealth of young, woh ne love, which
eraves the bliss of being shared, from the sister
who was raised so far above mortal passion, to this
dear semblance of her former self. My face must
have expressed my happiness, for when I stood
over Mary, as she sat, and turned her sweet
face up foward my own, she gave but one
glance, before her eyes fell to hide their
thouzht.

I kissed her, and she kissed me back again,
shyly, timidly. She loved me; I was no longer
mateless, but drank the cup of joy which is fill-
ed for youth. What bappy children we were,
when, late enough after sunset, we  stro'led
back to the house and went to receive the pater-
nal blessing.

I believe that hour when our betrothal was
known was the best which had blessed the
household since the shadow descended upon it.

In June we were married; there was no ex-
euse for delay, and all the friends expressed
themselves urgent to have the matter settled.
We went, on our wedding tour, to see my mo-
ther, with whom we had a long, delightful visit.
Three years have passed since then, and in that

time there have been chen aoae of them very
sad. Mr. Argyll died about two years since,
his health ae er rallying from the shock which
it received during those trying times. Since
then, we have resided in the old mansion, and
Eleanor lives with us. She is a noble woman—
one of Christ’s anointed, who puts aside her
own sorrow, to minister to the griefs and suffer-
ings of others. Both Mary and myself defer a
great deal to her jue ent, which is calm and

ear, never clouded passion, as ours will
asciehiotee be. We feel as if nothing evil could
live where Eleanor is; she is the light and bless-
ing. of our household.

he saddest: affliction which has fallen upon
us since the loss of our father, is the death of

r, Burton. Alas! he has fallen a victim, at
Tat to the relentless pursuit of enemies which
his course in life raised up about him. The
wicked feared him and compassed_ his destruc-
tion. Whether he was murdered by some one
whom he had detected in guilt, or by some one
who feared the investigations he was making,
net known; he died of poison administerec "to
him in his food, It eat my heart to think -
that great and good soul is no more of this
world. He was so active, so powerful, of such
a genial temperament, it is hard to conceive
him dead. all Joved him so much! Oh, if
we could discover the cowardly assassin!
Som times I wonder if it may not have been tho
man who he once so mercilessly exposed.
God imows-—I do not. Attempts upon his life
were many times made, but his acute percep-
tions had always, hitherto, warned him of dan-
Ber.

Lenore is with us. We shall keep her until
eome Jover comes in the future to rob us of her.
She is a rare child—almost a woman now—as
talenteti as her tather, and exceedingly lovely.
At present she is overwhelmed with rief, and
cogs to Eleanor, who is her best com orter. In
our love for her, we try to repay some of the
debt we owe her father.

THI END.

 

 

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